The Celibate Mouse (24 page)

I hear the firescreens clang as he parks them across the front of the grate and his footsteps as he checks security, the way he used to do years ago. His mobile rings as he walks along the hallway to his room. I hear him say the name, “Leanne” and then laugh just before he goes inside.

Shit shit shit shit shit. How many more females has he got hanging around?
My pathetic little victory with the Archdeacon has back-fired.

I bury my face in Albert’s fur and cry myself to sleep.

CHAPTER 34

Bon Voyage

Senior Constable Glenwood

Saturday: mid-morning.

H
e opened his eyes and checked the wall. He couldn’t tell what time of day it was, but before he could ask, a nurse loomed over him. ‘Good morning, John! It’s almost 10 o’clock. You didn’t have a very good night, did you, luv? So we let you sleep a while longer.’ She whipped the bedclothes off him. He cringed, as her professional eye swept over his naked body, now minus the catheter. The IV line had been removed from the back of his hand.

‘We’re going to give you a bed-bath,’ she chirped. His eyes widened, but before he could protest, another nurse, who he was sure couldn’t have been more than fifteen, swayed into the room. Snapping her fingers to a hidden beat, she pulled the curtains around his bed and beamed at him.

‘No, no. I don’t want ... a bath ...’ he croaked, making a pathetic attempt to claw the sheet back. The girls laughed and tugged it out of his hand.

‘Don’t be embarrassed, John, we’ve seen it all!’ they trilled happily, setting up a basin and towels. The teenager took a container of talcum powder out of his locker.
Where did that come from? The woman they said was his wife?

Knowing it was futile to argue, he resigned himself to their ministrations. If he closed his eyes, perhaps he wouldn’t see them eyeing his ‘equipment.’
Who am I kidding?
Well, at least it’s presentable, he comforted himself. ‘They called me ‘Donk’ in the soccer locker ...’ Where did that come from? His eyes flew open and he looked straight into the girl’s face. ‘I remember–’

‘What, John? You
remembered
something?’ she squeaked.

He blushed all over. He could tell this fresh-faced child what actually surfaced. ‘Just a personal thing,’ he muttered.

‘I’m sure that yummy Inspector will be happy to know you’ve remembered something!’ she said eagerly, running a sponge gently around his genitals. He could feel them shrivel and discarded the equine memory for the time being.

He couldn’t get used to the undeniable fact of his profession. The cops, his colleagues. ‘I still can’t remember anything important. I suppose they’ll be back to bully me today. ’He knew he was being unfair to Harris and the city Inspector. That set up another train of fear in his mind. He couldn’t even remember the DI’s name after one night. Would this be the pattern of his future?

The nurses rolled him gently from side to side as they wiped him over with warm, wet face flannels and sprinkled powder into his armpits and groin. They skilfully manoeuvred him into a clean hospital gown and cheerfully informed him breakfast would be soon. ‘We told the kitchen to save it for you. Doctor’s coming to do your dressings after that. If you’re well enough, they might even move you out of ICU.’
Is that where I am?

They emptied the basin in his bathroom and put fresh towels behind his locker, then with cheery calls of, ‘Bye, mate!’ left the room. John felt abandoned. He looked around and spotted a newspaper on the chair by his bed, just out of reach. ‘If I can just–’ he leaned across and tried to snag the corner with his fingers.

‘John! You shouldn’t be doing that!’

Brisk feminine fingers whipped the paper out of his hand. The top half of his body lurched over the side of the bed. He slung his arm around the woman and clutched her backside to keep from falling out of bed.

‘John! What
are
you doing?’ she shouted, trying to spring away, but effectively trapped by his grasp.

‘Sorry, sorry ...’ he gasped, using her as leverage to heave himself back into bed. The headache, which had blessedly receded until that moment, returned full force. Sweat broke out all over his newly washed body; the cotton gown clung to his heaving chest. He lay back, panting, trying to calm himself.

Nola, for of course it was she, stared down at him, perplexed. ‘What were you trying to do? You can’t read anyway, it’s not good for you,’ She thrust the newspaper into a nearby wastepaper basket.

‘I want to read it!’ John snapped. He didn’t know why he would have married this woman in the first place and didn’t want to be tied to her now.

Nola, trying to keep the news of the murders and second attempt on him secret, as advised by the medical profession, was furious because someone left the paper where he could get it. She wondered if the husband she knew might return and whether he would be ‘normal.’ Unable to put her fears into words, she took refuge in a carefree, practical attitude. ‘It’s old. We’ll get you tomorrow’s when it comes in. Here, you’ve got a lovely lot of cards!’ She laid a pile of mail on the top of his table-trolley. ‘Do you want to open them yourself, or shall I do it for you?’

‘I’m not entirely helpless. I’ll do them myself,’ he growled, fighting to keep the pain in his head at bay. Being a woman who had always found it hard to keep quiet, Nola ‘bit her tongue,’ picked up the remote attached to the bed mechanism and pressed ‘up.’ Slowly his torso travelled upward, until he attained a sitting position.

‘That better?’ she asked, warily.

Curtly, he nodded his thanks, aware he was being a bastard, but unable to help himself. What he felt could be his normal persona remained hidden under a mass of fears and pain. He looked at the pile of cards and reached for the top one, a cream-embossed envelope with his name printed on the front. Carefully, he brought his bandaged hand up to hold it, while he awkwardly tore the flap open. Nola reached over and tried to help, but a hard glance from her husband sent her into retreat.

He drew out the card, examined the pansy–a real one–stuck inside the card. Purple, almost black, it glistened in the light from the top of his bed. He squinted at the computer generated letters. “ALL THE BEST ON YOUR NEXT TRIP BON VOYAGE.”

He couldn’t breathe.

All the oxygen had left the room.

His chest heaved. His hands flew to his throat; the card fell to the floor.

‘John!’

Piercing screams filled his head. His nails raked over his mouth; great gasping wheezes forced air past what little space remained in his throat. The inside of his nasal and throat passages swelled. He coughed, but only succeeded in losing the minute amount of air left in his labouring lungs. His heart felt as though it would leap out of his chest. As he dropped into full blown anaphylactic shock, his last sight before he lost consciousness, was of people all around, filling the room with energy.

He was unaware of the oxygen mask placed over his face, or 0.5 mg adrenalin and hydrocortisone injected directly into his bloodstream.

‘Tracheotomy,’ snapped Hardgreaves, snatching the scalpel, as nurses took the pillows from under John’s head and tilted it to expose his throat. Within seconds, a tube was inserted in the hole in his windpipe and an oxygen line attached.

No one saw the weeping Nola pick the card and envelope off the floor, tuck them into her bag and stagger out into the passageway. The young constable on guard, ashen with fear, put his arm around her and eased her into the chair on which he’d been sitting. ‘Mrs Glenwood, what happened? Is John all right?’

‘I don’t know, Ron.’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘He collapsed. He couldn’t breathe. He was reading his cards–he’d only just opened the first card!’ She closed her eyes and leaned back into the chair. Her handbag dropped onto the floor.

The constable glanced down. The card and envelope were poking out of the open zip section. The card had fallen open, exposing the black pansy. Curious, he reached over and picked it up. ‘Nothing strange about this,’ he thought, puzzled. ‘Funny inscription, no signature.’ He turned the card over to see if anything was written on the back. A flash of red caught his eye. He turned it back, but could see nothing, turned it again, then realised there was something stuck in the card. He looked closer. Whoever sent it had put a false cover on ... he gently prised the two pieces of paper apart ... a poinsettia flower!

Understanding dawned.

He grasped the paper by the edge, picked up the envelope by one corner and rushed into ICU. ‘Latex poisoning!’ he shouted above the hubbub. ‘It was in the card!’ He waved the offending items in the air.

‘Let me see that!’ Hardgreaves, who was watching the monitor beside the patient, reached to take the card and envelope from him, but the officer backed away.

‘I have to keep these for forensics, but you can see it. Look!’ He held out the card, revealing a glimpse of red petals to the shocked medical staff. They all knew of John Glenwood’s acute latex allergy; only rubber gloves were used in his care. Everyone in the room realised the significance of the card’s intended purpose.

The young constable hurried out of ICU, placed the card and envelope carefully on a trolley in the corridor and called Senior Sergeant Harris on his mobile phone. His voice rose with agitation, as he advised his superior officer of another attempt on Senior Constable Glenwood’s life.

Nola watched him dully, too shocked to react

CHAPTER 35

Déjà Vu

Susan

Saturday: mid- morning.

I
’d never imagined sitting drinking coffee with my ex-husband, but I am and moreover, enjoying his company. We’re not talking, just gazing at the mountains, half-shrouded in mist. His face is inscrutable, but I am well aware he’s plotting his day. He could well be thinking about the woman who phoned last night, but I refuse to allow thoughts of her to mar my equilibrium.

Eloise’s hens sail by like little red-feathered yachts in the cold, stiffening breeze. The dogs are lying in heaps on the lawn in front of us and the cows are standing by the fence, waiting for someone to bring them bread treats. In front of us, the huge granite rocks on the mountain glisten with moisture from overnight rain. In the distance, the escarpment wall is deep grey-blue against the green, brown and yellow paddocks of crops. Rain is gathering in the west again. How can this splendid landscape form a backdrop to the ugliness of murder?

Who was it said, ‘Most folks are happy as they make up their mind to be?’ I don’t know, but if I follow the advice,
forgive yourself,
I shall recover. No more agonising over what I deem my part in Danny Grey’s death. I need to accept, as even his widow has, that the shooting was the fault of the criminal. And there are other things to focus on now, like the funeral of Edna Robinson later today.

David is still worrying about John Glenwood and what he might know. ‘He can’t remember his wife, anything about his life.’ His voice rings with frustration. ‘I think you’re right about the laser. Glenwood was a very experienced driver, it would be hard to force him off the road, but if he’d been blinded, then it’d be another story. But anyone could have forced him off the road. It could have been a simple road-rage incident, but someone followed him down to the wreckage and hit him with something like a tyre lever ...’ David scrubbed his designer-stubbled jaw with the back of his hand. ‘We’ve established that he wasn’t attacked in his car by a passenger, by the way the blow landed.’

We mull this over in silence for some time, gazing at the mountains. Then I become aware his focus has changed.

‘You look great this morning!’ David is eyeing me with appreciation. A little squiggle of happiness trills through me.

‘Thank you. I feel good.’

‘What time do you leave for the funeral?’ he asked.

‘Half-past one, the service starts at two,’ I reply, glancing at my watch. It’s seven now. David is dressed in a smart T-shirt, the inevitable black jeans, boots and a blue cable sweater which matches his eyes. He’s gorgeous, damn him. I’m still married to Harry and will be for over another twelve months at least, but David has Miss Blondie, whether he wants her or not, it seems. A very possessive madam from what I saw at lunch yesterday. After last night’s self-induced disappointment, I tell myself to forget my ex-husband. Susan,
who are you kidding?
I quell my libido ruthlessly.

‘The girls will be home soon. What are we going to say to Brit about Harry?’ David asks, after draining the last of his coffee.

‘I think the best way is to tell the truth.’

He gapes at me, horrified, and I understand where he’s coming from. Our daughter is a monster when upset. I know this from years of experience, David from one night in her company. ‘Can’t we simply tell her we want her to stay with us? Beg her to, if necessary. Not even mention Harry?’

My heart leaps. He doesn’t seem to realise he’s coupled us and I am not about to comment on what may be a casual remark with no substance. The thought of him setting up campsite with yesterday’s blonde, is appalling.
Do you really need to get entangled with another man, especially this one, after only two months of freedom?

Yes. Shit, no. Yes. I sigh, and try to apply my mind to the matter in hand. ‘I don’t think there’s any other way than to tell her the truth, David, because sooner or later she’s going to find out we lied.’ I pick up my empty coffee cup and march inside. I need to get my head around the coming funeral and wake and the people I’m going to meet there. Arthur’s ex-wife, Lily for sure, Daniella says, not to mention the unspeakable Jack Harlow’s send-off.

David comes into the kitchen behind me, and starts washing up the breakfast dishes. Without thinking, I grab a tea towel and get ready to dry. Suddenly he looks into my eyes, smiling, and I know a memory of when we were first married springs into both our minds. David always liked to plunge his strong, brown hands into the suds and methodically wash each dish, then flick suds down the front of my shirt, laughing as I jumped back.

I flush, remembering the next part of the game, where those gorgeous, strong hands open the buttons, dive after it, followed very quickly by his mouth. Heat rises from my breasts, melts the skin of my throat, skitters along my jaw line and floods my cheeks.

‘We had a lot of fun, didn’t we?’ he says softly, watching my face, ‘Before. I wish it had turned out differently, Susan.’ His expression lapses into regret.’

Tears well into my eyes, spill over and trickle down my face. An exclamation and David gently wipes them from my cheeks, and then crushes me against his broad chest. His heart thuds against my ear. Inhaling the warm, male smell of him, I press closer, seeking comfort and affection. His arms tighten, he rests his cheek on the top of my head, and one hand trails down my back and cups my bum. I feel definite evidence of his state of mind.
Damn it, I was married to him, I can
–

David sighs, sending shivers of lust through me. Old memories surface; need for him ignites a furnace inside. The way he used to hold me, the feel of his powerful, well-honed body pressed against mine, the hard ridge of his erection and his warm male aroma is driving me insane.

No matter the consequences, I want him.

Now.

I disengage myself from his shirt to look into his face and meet his mouth descending. His tongue skims my mouth, searching for a way inside. I part my lips; he dives in. I can hardly breathe. My heart is pounding. My hands find their way inside his shirt, smoothing over his hot skin, pressing the powerful muscles. We can’t get enough of each other. He steps back, grabs my woollen sweater, rips it over my head and pulls at the front of my shirt, sending buttons flying. My bra slips up. Miraculously, his hands find their expert way underneath. My breasts ambush his hands, responding to the excitement of his eager fingers.

Somehow we are in the hall, working our way to the bedroom, kicking our shoes off as we go. My hands are in the front of his jeans–my God he’s gone commando!
No, I’ve bypassed his underdaks
–something bounces off my head and thuds into the wall.

‘You again! How dare you. Let go of him!’

Oh shit.

The voice is strident and coming closer with each footstep. David lurches away from me, we’re leaning against the wall, staring at the blonde virago confronting us, hands on hips. Her face tells the tale; she wants to kill me.
You and whose army, dearling?
Hysterical giggles work their way up my throat. She is standing lopsided, with one shoe on. The other connected with my head, but the throes of lust ensured I barely felt it. For a very long moment, we gape at each other, a triad of shock.

I am the first to break the impasse. I pull my shirt across my breasts and stalk into my bedroom, leaving David to ‘fight zee bull’–in this case,
cow
. I’m shaking all over; I wonder if I’m coming down with something. Well, I almost came down with David. A battle is raging out in the hallway. I slink over to the door to listen, not sure who is winning. The sounds of conflict are drawing closer.

A body rams up against the other side of the door. She is screeching like a steam-kettle, something about he broke up with her when he left Cairns, then he’d broken up with her again last night. But he was laughing with her. I heard him. Perhaps they’d argued later in the conversation? Or was it someone else phoning him? Just how many women has he got on a string?

One thing is clear from the dialogue outside the door; he hasn’t slept with this one since he came back from up north and isn’t pleased about her being in Emsberg. He’s furious with her for coming into the house. She replies that the door was open, so why shouldn’t she? They move away, still arguing. I change my shirt, put on another sweater and follow their voices to the lounge.

‘You! You. You–’ Incoherent with rage, her eyes bore into mine like the spikes on a corn cob holder.

‘Yes?’ I am now in my Senior Sergeant Prescott persona.

‘What are you doing with my boyfriend?’ she demands, in stereophonic surround sound.

‘I might ask you what you’re doing with the father of my children? And from what I heard,’ I jerk my head toward the bedroom, ‘he is no longer your concern.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny smile quirk the corner of David’s mouth, as he acknowledges my prevarication. I want to thump him. ‘And
what
are you doing in my house? As a police officer, I could have you for assault, unlawful entry and possibly intent to commit a crime. I’m sure I can think of a few other charges as well.’

Her mouth opens for another torrent of abuse, but she obviously thinks better of it. She picks up her shoe and backs away, shooting venomous glances at David, who appears sheepish, as well he might. The dogs barking out the front of the house herald the arrival of another car. I catch a glimpse of red as she reaches the door and fires a parting shot.

‘You were never much chop in bed anyway, David. She’s welcome to you!’

The sound of her high heels clacking down the stone steps is followed by a yelp from one of the dogs. David curses and races for the front door, followed closely by myself. The old spaniel is limping. The harridan’s car scatters gravel as she charges down the driveway, forcing Brit’s red car off the track. The vehicle slews across the lawn in an effort to dodge, straightens and lurches to the bottom of the steps.

‘Who the hell was that? She kicked Henry!’ snaps Marli, as she climbs out, pup clutched protectively in her arms. Brit stands by the car door, staring narrow-eyed at David and me. Is my bra hanging out of my pants? I reach behind my back and surreptitiously feel around. Henry, expecting sympathy, which of course he will get, throws himself on his back, legs in the air. I examine his paw, but find nothing obviously wrong with it. I pick him up, stagger up the steps and plonk him on the verandah.

‘Only someone we know,’ David offers smoothly. I’m careful not to look at him as he goes to the car and starts to unload their bags. I go back to help, while Brit storms toward the house and Marli hovers uncertainly.

‘Brittany!’ roars her father. She stops, shocked and then surges forward again.

‘Get back here now.’

It’s the Detective Inspector’s turn. Brit turns and stares at him. His face is grim and uncompromising; hardened criminals have not been able to withstand it. For a moment, I think his daughter could be the exception, leading me to wonder how far her depths are hidden, but she stamps sullenly back, snatches the lightest bag she can find and marches back to the house. David frowns; I shrug. It’s a victory of sorts.

Once we’ve settled the girls back in their room, fed the puppy and made morning coffee, it is time to tell Brit about Harry’s phone call. Wishing I didn’t need to disturb the rare moments of peace, I sit beside Brit and take a deep breath.

‘Darling, I’ve got something to tell you–’

‘Don’t tell me, you’re going to marry
him
again!’ she screeches, jumping up, sending the cat racing up the shelves and setting the dogs barking on the side verandah.

‘No, actually.’ I daren’t look at David who looks shell-shocked. ‘The fact is ...’

Quietly, I tell her about Harry’s edict, ending with the wish that she will move in with Marli and me.

‘What about him?’ she snaps, stone-faced.

David stares impassively at her. Marli wraps her arms around herself and leans possessively against her father. Wisely, he makes no move to hold her.

‘That’s not an issue,’ I state firmly.
Yet.

‘You all hate me. I know when I’m not wanted! Even my dad doesn’t want me! I thought Sharon liked me, but she was just pretending! Like you all are,’ cries Brit, trying to hide her pain. Throwing caution to the winds, I wrap my arms around her and rock her gently. She stiffens and tries to push me away, then as her sobbing gets out of control, snuffles into my shirt, shoulders heaving. Another pair of arms surrounds us–Marli–and then David encircles the three of us.

‘I do, Brit. I want you,’ he murmurs into her hair, and means it. We’ve a lot of fence-mending to be done, but it will take time.

Brit and Marli have gone to bed, apparently having been up partying all of last night. I am settling at the computer, when the Skype phone rings. Eloise is calling from the UK, this time with momentous news. She and James are staying on; the Wiltshire estate has been left to James by his brother. They are going to sell the property in Emsberg, complete with livestock, but she’s concerned about transporting the elderly spaniel to the UK. Of course, ‘big-mouth’ me offers to keep him. She is delighted and offers me first “dibs” on the property.

I tell her I will think about it and that I’m attending Edna’s funeral and the family wake later. After promising to give her condolences to the family and a hug for Daniella, I say goodbye.

David is ready to leave for his appointment with the upper echelons of the police force in the city, when his mobile rings.

‘Maguire. Yes.
What?
What’s going on? You mean he got to Glenwood again? Oh, for chrissakes, how? His face sets into grim lines, the expression in his eyes is arctic. He snaps the phone shut and tells me about the latest attempt on Senior Constable Glenwood’s life.