Booked for Murder (25 page)

She switched off the computer and gathered her papers together, making sure she had left only the materials she wanted the investigators to unearth all by themselves. Then she let herself out of Stella's office and headed for the exit. There, she consulted the note Helen had given her and set the alarm as she opened the door to the car park. As Watergaw's door closed behind her with a sharp click, Lindsay was uneasily aware of how dark the car park was. She could have sworn she'd previously noticed security lights mounted on the side of the building, angled to shine across the car park, but now the only light came from the distant streetlights, reduced even further by the bulk of the Watergaw building.

Swallowing her apprehension, Lindsay walked boldly along the side of the building to the place where she'd left her car. Suddenly she was aware of glass crunching under her feet and she stooped to look more closely. As she registered the broken glass of the security lights, she heard the soft footfall of running sneakers on asphalt. Startled, Lindsay jumped up and swung round to face the direction of the sound. As she turned, she saw outlined against the pale orange of the sodium streetlights the unmistakable shape of a baseball bat. It was heading straight towards her as if she was the pitcher's finest curve ball.

Chapter 18

U
sing the momentum she'd gained straightening up from her crouch, Lindsay pushed off from the ground and veered out of the way of the bat, stumbling backwards as her assailant continued towards her, drawn forwards by the follow-through of that first vicious swipe. Her feet scrabbled against the asphalt of the car park, the grip of leather sandals puny in comparison with her attacker's sneakers. She could make out only the vague outline of a medium-sized frame with a head sleek as a seal, but that was enough to see that already the shoulders were tensing to lift the bat in a second backswing, aimed straight at her head.

With no time even to think, Lindsay acted on pure instinct. As he swung the bat from above his left shoulder, she leapt forwards and to the side, so that she undercut the arc of the blow. Then, hitting the ground running, suddenly she was past him, sprinting for the street with a turn of speed she had no idea she possessed. Faster than she'd ever run along the beach at Half Moon Bay, she headed across the car park at the angle that would bring her to the street most quickly.

Her blood thudding in her ears and her own breathing sounding loud as a steam engine to her heightened senses, Lindsay pounded the asphalt, aiming for the light. So obsessed was she with reaching the relative safety of a street with traffic and other human beings that she completely failed to register the low wall that bordered Watergaw's unit until it was too late. Like a badly prepared showjumper, she tried to adjust her stride to take the wall, but mistimed it completely.

The sandal on her trailing leg caught the top of the foot-high wall, catapulting Lindsay into a scrappy somersault. She flew over the pavement, landing in an awkward sprawl a yard into the road. White light bathed her as a taxi's brakes screeched in a screaming swerve, bringing it to a juddering halt in a stutter of diesel engine mere inches from where she lay groaning in the road.

The taxi driver jumped out and ran round to the front of the cab, his “What the fuck?” strangled at birth when Lindsay lifted a face that was a Janus mask half blood, half green-tinged flesh. “Jesus Christ,” he gasped instead.

Lindsay pushed herself on to her knees, then, using the cab's radiator as a prop, to her feet. Casting a desperate glance behind her that seemed surprisingly agonizing, she stuttered, “A bloke. With a baseball bat. Chasing me.”

“I can't see nobody, love,” the cabbie said. “Whoever he was, he must have legged it when he saw you flying through the air with the greatest of ease. He's gone, love. You're all right.” He reached out a hand. “Well, when I say all right . . . maybe we should get you to hospital.”

Lindsay shook her head. Again pain shot along her jaw. But she couldn't work out why. She must have scraped her face on the asphalt when she hit the ground. Bruises and a nasty graze, that's what it would be. “I'm just a bit bruised. Nothing broken. I'll be fine,” she said, her voice clear with the disengaged calm of deep shock.

The cabbie put a firm arm round her shoulder. “Hospital, love. You can't see what I can see. You must have hit a bit of broken glass in the road. Look, you can see it shining there. A broken milk bottle, it looks like. Whatever, that face of yours is gonna need more than an Elastoplast, believe me.”

Lindsay frowned, bewildered. What was he talking about? She put her hand up to the side of her neck that seemed to be causing her most pain. There was something warm and wet all over her jawline. Along the bone, it didn't feel like skin. It felt like raw meat. And it hurt. As she took her hand away and saw it was covered in blood, she started to shake. It began as a slight quiver, but by the time the cabbie had virtually carried her into the back of his taxi, she was
shaking from top to toe like someone on the edge of hypothermia, her teeth chattering and her hands twitching.

All the way to the Royal Free's casualty department, the cabbie talked reassuringly to her. He talked about his wife and his two teenage daughters, about their forthcoming holiday in Turkey, about his hobby, angling, and how it wasn't a hardship to work nights on account of the rubbish they put on the telly. And all Lindsay could think about was how near she'd come to something far worse than whatever it was that had happened to her.

By the time they reached the hospital, the worst of the shakes were behind her and she could just about manage to climb out of the taxi unaided. The cabbie took a clean, soft handkerchief out of a satchel on the floor by the driver's seat and folded it into a long pad. “You just hold that against it,” he said, sounding nervous as he demonstrated what he meant. “It'll stop the flow of blood.” Numb now, she did as she was told. He helped her out and led her into the reception area, where a man who looked less healthy than she felt started to take her details. When she turned to thank her rescuer, he was gone.

“I didn't even pay the fare,” she said vaguely to the receptionist, who looked blankly at her and said, “GP?”

Unable to bear the complication of explaining that she lived in America, Lindsay gave the name of the woman who had been her doctor seven years before, when she'd lived with Cordelia in Highbury. It seemed to satisfy the receptionist. It clearly wasn't his job to care why she was giving an address in west London and a GP in north London. Telling her to take a seat, the receptionist turned back to stare at his computer screen.

Feeling more disoriented than jet lag had ever left her, Lindsay walked slowly towards a bank of pay phones on the far wall. Her legs felt out of her control, as if her knees had been replaced with some flexible rubbery solid which left her out of touch with her feet. Every step was tentative, in case the place where her knees used to be suddenly rebelled and deposited her in a crumpled, helpless heap on the floor. But she made it to the phone without incident.

By some miracle, she still had her backpack. Awkward fingers fumbled some change out of her wallet and she punched in Helen's number. It rang five or six times without reply, then the answering
machine clicked in. Lindsay leaned against the wall and waited for Helen to stop giving her instructions. She couldn't understand why no one was picking up the phone. She knew it was late, but there was an extension in the bedroom, right next to Helen's bed. They couldn't sleep through this, could they?

The machine beeped and Lindsay said, “Helen? Kirsten? Is anybody there? Can you pick up? It's Lindsay? Hello? . . .” She waited for a moment, but no one answered. She sighed. “Bit of a problem. Um . . . I'm at the Royal Free. In casualty. Had a bit of an accident. Nothing to worry about, but if you get this message, can you come? I'll . . . I'll speak to you later,” she ended up, unable to think straight.

She replaced the receiver and wobbled over to the nearest vacant chair. She slumped into it and looked around vaguely. There seemed to be a lot of people here, considering it was nearly one in the morning. They mostly looked stunned with pain or indifference, especially those who were only accompanying someone more obviously damaged. Lindsay closed her eyes and sighed. Where could Helen and Kirsten be? Helen hadn't said anything about plans for the evening, and she'd have been too desperate to hear Lindsay's report on her mission to consider going out on the spur of the moment. She couldn't believe they'd turned off the phones and gone to bed either. Helen's eagerness to hear that Stella and Guy had been stitched up would never have allowed her to go to sleep. Besides, Helen would be conscious of the possibility that things might go wrong. She wouldn't leave Lindsay hanging on the telephone needing help.

It was a mystery, but right then it seemed to Lindsay about as intractable as Penny Varnavides' murder. Before she could worry about it too much, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes to see a nurse's uniform containing a stocky redhead who looked about twelve years old. “I'm the triage nurse,” she chirped cheerily in a harsh Belfast brogue. “If you'd like to come through to a cubicle, I can assess your injuries there.”

Lindsay got to her feet and followed the nurse past the reception desk and into a curtained cubicle. “Up we get,” the nurse said, helping her on to an examination table and gently removing hand and handkerchief pad from Lindsay's now throbbing jaw. “My, we have been in the wars, haven't we? That's some mess you've got yourself into there.
Never mind, we'll soon have you cleaned up and good as new.” Lindsay could see why the woman had become a nurse; with that degree of insensitive exuberance, she wouldn't dare work with the able-bodied and expect to live.

The next hour was a blur. No, she hadn't lost consciousness. No, her shoulder and knee didn't hurt any more than she'd expect from grazed skin. Yes, she could see how many fingers the doctor was holding up. No, she wasn't allergic to penicillin. Eventually, a softvoiced Asian man with cool, gentle hands cleaned up her face, stitched the long cut that sliced up the line of her jaw, reassured her that the scar would be virtually invisible and fetched her a cup of tea. As she struggled to swallow it without losing half out of the side of her mouth that felt numb, Lindsay heard a familiar voice.

“I told you, soft lad, we're the nearest she's got to family, that's why she phoned us to come and get her. How else do you think we knew to come here?” Helen announced. A man's voice mumbled something in response. “Cubicle three? Right, come on, girls.”

“Girls?” thought Lindsay, vaguely wondering who else Helen had in tow. She didn't have to wonder for long. The curtain parted and Lindsay had her second shock in the space of a couple of hours. “Sophie?” she said, not entirely certain whether she was hallucinating. “Is it really you?”

Sophie crossed the cubicle in two strides and gripped Lindsay's shoulders, her expression a mixture of relief and affectionate exasperation. “What am I going to do with you? I turn my back for five minutes, and look at you!”

Lindsay felt her eyes film over with tears. “This is a nice surprise,” she said, her voice shaky. “You'll have to forgive me if I don't kiss you just yet.”

Sophie crouched down and stared intently at her lover's battered face. “Whoever stitched you did a good job. You'll not have much of a scar.”

Lindsay dropped her head so it rested on Sophie's shoulder. “I'm so pleased to see you,” she said. “How come you're here?”

“I managed to get away from work a few days early. The housesitter was delirious to swap her parents for Mutton this soon. Changing the flights was slightly more difficult. But I missed you, and
besides, I didn't like the idea of you chasing a killer on your own. Looks as if I was right to be worried, doesn't it?”

“I don't think it was anything to do with Penny,” Lindsay sighed. “Can we get out of here now? You know how much I like hospitals.”

“Sure,” Sophie said, gently stroking Lindsay's head.

“Oh, my God, look at the state of you. This is all my fault! What happened? Was it Guy or was it Stella?” Helen demanded, unable to contain herself a moment longer.

“Later, Helen,” Sophie said. She kissed the top of Lindsay's head and tenderly extricated herself from her lover's embrace. “Go and find someone in authority, tell them we're taking her home.”

Before Helen could leave, a white-coated doctor whom Lindsay had a dim recollection of seeing earlier appeared at Kirsten's shoulder. “What's going on here?” he demanded. “This patient has had a head injury. The last thing she needs is crowds of people around her. I could hear the shouting half-way down the corridor.” Helen had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Doctor,” Sophie said. “The very person I wanted to see. We're taking Ms. Gordon home now.”

“Oh, no, you're not,” he said obstinately. “Ms. Gordon is my patient and we're keeping her in overnight for observation. It's standard procedure in cases of head trauma.”

Sophie ran a hand through her silver curls. “I'm a doctor myself. I know what the symptoms of concussion look like, I know the procedures. I'm prepared to take responsibility for her.” She pulled her wallet out of the back pocket of her jeans and gave him a card that announced she was Dr. Sophie Hartley, consultant obstetrician and gynecologist of the Grafton Clinic, San Francisco. He looked slightly dazed as he read it, then looked at this tall woman wearing a T-shirt that read “Netheads do IT better.” Sophie grinned disarmingly. “So, we'll be leaving shortly,” she said with all the authority of half a dozen years as a consultant.