Cherringham--Snowblind (8 page)

But Jack was sure that the figure was Craig.

The care assistant had pushed open the exterior door and stood in the shelter of the porch smoking a cigarette.

Then Jack saw him turn and talk to someone in the doorway.

“You got no other angle on this?” he said to the sister. “Who’s he talking to?”

“This is all there is,” said Shirley. “It must be Ania, the nurse.”

“Could be you,” said Jack.

Jack peered at the screen. Craig reached into his pocket and handed the mysterious figure a cigarette, then appeared to light it for them.

“I don’t smoke, Mr. Brennan,” said Shirley.

So maybe it is the young nurse,
thought Jack.

But his instincts said the other smoker was a male — something about the way they stood, moved …

Jack watched for ten minutes, but not once did the mystery figure emerge clearly. All he could see was a shape in the doorway. Finally Craig flicked his butt-end away and the two smokers slipped back into the building.

“See the door?” said Jack. “He didn’t shut it properly. Archy and Reg could have easily slipped out that way.”

“People aren’t perfect,” said Shirley. “Anyone can make a mistake.”

“Even a fatal mistake?” said Jack.

He fast forwarded again — and sure enough, just twenty minutes later into the tape, the door swung open and he saw a man in a robe and pyjamas walk out into the billowing snow.

“That’s Archy,” said Shirley, over his shoulder.

Jack heard a slight tremble in her voice. Maybe the sister wasn’t quite as tough as she made out?

It was chilling to see the old man, in just slippers and a flimsy robe standing in the blizzard.

Jack watched carefully, straining to interpret what he was seeing in the grainy, snow-blown images. There had to be clues in here. Had to be …

Archy shifted right and left, looking lost and confused in the courtyard. He then turned back to the door as if he might go in again.

But then he started talking — Jack could just see his mouth moving rapidly.

Who was he talking to?

Jack watched the tape: another resident now stepped out of the doorway into the courtyard. The camera now gave a full view of both men.

“Reg,” he said.

He saw Reg catch up with Archy and talk briefly.

Then the two old men just walked off together, disappearing from the frame.

Jack looked at the time on the clock — nine-thirty. He’d had his accident at around ten p.m. Just time for them to walk through the snow into the village. It all made sense.

He turned away from the monitor — he knew the two residents wouldn’t be coming back into shot.

Ever.

He looked at Shirley. She was still staring at the monitor.

“Where were you at nine-thirty that night Shirley?” said Jack.

“I, er—” She hesitated. Seeing the escape had obviously rattled her. “Um, up on the top floor, looking after a ninety-eight-year-old lady who was having a panic attack,” she said. “S-so don’t tell me I should have been here looking at these damned screens. Don’t you tell me I’m responsible for Archy’s death.”

Jack could see that in spite of her protest, Shirley Woods
did
feel responsible for Archy’s death.

But he also felt that she shouldn’t. Tough she might be — but from what he’d seen, maybe this woman was the only thing holding the whole place together.

And the real guilt lay elsewhere.

He got up.

“I get that, Shirley. Lot of people here needing help that night.”

“Yes.”

“Least now we know … how they got out.” Jack stood up. “Thanks for the tea,” he said. “I know it hasn’t been easy, but you’ve been helpful.”

He watched as she put his mug in a small sink, then went to the door and opened it wide for him to leave.

“That may be. But I’d rather you didn’t waste any more of my time — or that of my staff — Mr. Brennan,” she said. “I’ve still only got half my rota back on duty and whatever you may think, I do care about the residents here.”

Jack nodded as he left, and said nothing.

But as walked down the long dark corridor towards the front door, the image of Archy standing bewildered in the thick snow of the courtyard wouldn’t go away.

Whoever was responsible for his death wasn’t going to get away with it …

Sarah stood in the hallway, putting on her coat and watched Jack walking grimly down the long corridor towards her. She’d spent the last half hour talking to some of the other patients. Residents? Was that the word she should use?

Or prisoners?

And now she wanted out. The whole building felt too grim and soulless to bear any longer. And now they’d got full power back on, the neon lights in the high ceilings just served to show how Spartan the whole place was.

She handed Jack his coat and hat as he reached her.

“You find Reg?” he said.

She nodded.

“No use, huh?”

“He remembers he was trying to escape — and that’s about it,” she said. “How about you?”

Before he could answer, Ania and Craig emerged through a door at the side, pushing a small trolley. Sarah realised that she and Jack were in their way, and moved to one side — but she saw Jack not budging.

Something’s happened,
she thought …

“Well,” said Jack. “If it isn’t my favourite Healthcare Assistant. That’s what you are, Craig, isn’t it?”

“Please, we have to make the drugs round,” said Ania, looking frightened by the situation.

“I’ve just been watching you on TV, Craig,” said Jack.

Sarah could see Craig’s eyes flicking from her to Jack to Ania. He’s nervous, she thought.

Craig licked his lips.

“Oh yeah?” said Craig. “Can’t have been me. No bloody way!”

“Oh, it was,” said Jack. “CCTV footage from the other night.”

Sarah watched Jack, confident, knowing — and then looked at Craig, thirty years his junior probably, but clearly scared. Even in the cold hallway, she could see beads of sweat forming under his lank hair.

He looks guilty as hell,
she thought.
But guilty of what?

“You just let us through now,” said Craig with an artificial grin that nearly made Sarah laugh out loud. “You see, we … we, er — got patients to look after.”

“Really?” said Jack. “I’ve seen the way you look after patients, Craig. Give them cigarettes—”

“That’s not a crime — letting ’em have a fag now and then.”

“Maybe not. But — selling them cigarettes, that’s gotta be, no?”

“No way, and look, they can smoke outside if they want; it’s not a prison—”

“Outside, sure. But in a freezing blizzard?” said Jack. “Interesting take on the notion of ‘care’ there, Craig. And leaving doors open so the residents can just walk out and die in the snow — that part of your job description too?”

Sarah watched Craig’s eyes go wide — like he was trapped. For a second she thought he was going to throw a punch at Jack.

That would have been interesting to see.

Jack would see it coming from a mile away.

But Craig obviously thought better of the idea and transferred his energy to the drugs trolley, pushing it hard towards Jack’s legs to get by.

“Just get the hell out the way, will you?” said Craig, as he shot off down the corridor. Then he called over his shoulder: “Ania, get your arse down here, I can’t do this on my own.”

Sarah gently reached out a hand towards Ania, but the young nurse pulled back, offered a muttered “sorry” and then caught up to Craig.

“Poor girl,” said Sarah, watching Ania disappear. She turned to Jack: “What was that all about, Jack?”

“I have an idea. Tell you in the car,” said Jack, putting on his coat. “You know, the only thing that surprises me about this place is that it survived its last inspection. House of horrors. Come on, let’s go. I can’t stand another minute here.”

“Me either,” said Sarah.

She pulled open the front door and they went out into the never-ending blizzard; into the clean, white, snowy landscape.

A guy could get used to this,
thought Jack, settling back into the deep sofa and stretching his legs closer to the open fire.

Richard Leacock’s house had been hard to find — especially in the snow — but Jack had finally pulled up in front of the eighteenth-century mansion in his little Sprite and he had to admire Leacock’s taste.

What would the Cherringham real estate experts call the house, with its tall curved ground-floor windows, wisteria growing around the front door, fountains, weeping willows?

Charming, discreet, refined, elegant …

Hey, the guy even has a butler.

Now
that
I gotta write home about,
thought Jack.

Not in a coat and tails, but nevertheless — a real live butler.

He poured himself another coffee from the little cafetiere on the table by the sofa and popped another almond biscuit into his mouth.

Very comfortable.

And all of it created out of the exploitation of vulnerable old folk and hard-pressed carers and nurses …

He checked his watch — he’d been here twenty minutes and still no sign of the man himself, apart from an apology from the butler and an instruction to make himself comfortable.

As if on cue, the door opened and Jack readied himself to meet the mysterious owner of Broadmead Grange.

“Mr. Brennan, I am
so
sorry to have kept you.”

Jack stood up and took in the man walking towards him.

Leacock was tall, greying, in a checked shirt and maroon v-neck jumper. A broad smile, warm eyes and a firm handshake — followed by a sociable pat on the shoulder.

“Unforgivable of me — conference call, I’m afraid, simply had to take it. Would you like more coffee? Wonderful biscuits, aren’t they? Home-made, right here in our kitchen, cook’s a marvel …”

Jack watched as Leacock settled himself into an armchair by the fire and gestured for him to sit back in the sofa too.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, Mr. Brennan,” said Leacock.

“Oh really?”

“Absolutely. I assume you are here to talk about Broadmead?”

“Broadmead, yes. And the death of Mr. Archy Fleming.”

“Mr. Fleming, yes, of course. God. Terrible. Tragic. Awful — we were all so upset to hear about that …”

“I bet.”

Jack watched Richard Leacock as he finally picked up on Jack’s attitude.

A little light bulb going off.

“Mr. Brennan — am I right in thinking that you hold me — or perhaps my company — in some way
accountable
for the desperately sad events of the last few days?”

Jack shrugged.

“You’re the boss of Hearthstone. Hearthstone owns Broadmead. Broadmead is so badly staffed and resourced that a vulnerable old man was allowed to leave the house in the middle of a blizzard, and his absence was only noticed when police reported they’d found his body.” Jack shook his head. “And you
don’t
feel responsible, Mr. Leacock?”

“I feel desperately sorry, of course. And angry about the death—”

“But not responsible?”

Jack watched Leacock get up from the sofa and walk to the windows, where he stood for a few seconds, then turned.

“I hadn’t expected you to be so hostile, Mr. Brennan.”

“Are you kidding me? You living up here, like this — and the people in that home in the cold, the dark, no heating, no light …”

“I had no idea — no one told me that they lost power. I pay people—”

“Pay them a ton, do you?”

Again Leacock stopped. “I … did not … know.”

“You know, if I hear that one more time — ‘had no idea,’ ‘not my responsibility.’”

Jack was getting angry.

He’d like to deck the guy, right here in his cosy living room.

Instead, he took a breath. Anger would not be helpful here.

“Okay, Mr. Leacock — you said you were glad to see me. Now why would that be?”

Jack watched Leacock as he walked back to the armchair and sat down.

“Well, to be honest, I thought you were here to help me.”

“Help? Interesting. Why the hell should I
help
you?”“Perhaps if I explain the … architecture … of all this, it might be clearer?”

“Architecture? Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“I own Hearthstone — right? Or rather, there’s a trust in my name which owns Hearthstone—”

“In the Cayman Islands, let me guess …”

“Channel Islands, actually, but yes — anyway that’s a side issue — so Hearthstone has a portfolio of investments and one family of those is healthcare — expanding sector you know, very good yields — and a small part of that family is Broadmead Grange.”

Leacock now sounded like he was sitting in a board meeting somewhere, rattling off information.

“Broadmead is one of ten homes across the UK all owned and run by Broadmead Enterprises which has its own management structure, or rather it did until half way through last year when the homes were split into two smaller groups under different management teams—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa — Mr. Leacock, you’re losing me with the ‘who owns what’. Just what is your point?”

“Sorry, sorry. Okay, here’s the point. Theoretically, I own Broadmead. But I have no involvement. I’ve never even
been
there. There’s supposed to be a management team — but half of them were … asked to resign about six months ago and apparently they’ve not been replaced.”

“So you’re telling me that nobody’s running the place?”

“As far as I know, the senior nurse—”

“Shirley Woods?”

“Yes, that’s her. Though apparently she is also taking legal action against Broadmead on various counts—”

“What? The person running things is suing the people who own it?”

“Least that’s what I hear from the board of Broadmead.”

“She didn’t tell me that.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s probably in her interest if the place gets into trouble again with the CQC.”

“Care Quality Commission? The regulators?”

“They were all over Broadmead last year. Pages of recommendations and warnings.”