Fear of the Fathers (12 page)

“Are you going to answer me?” Oggi persisted. But Stratton was deep in thought, and Oggi knew that he would get no more out of him tonight.

Diana Stokes sat on her bed and fumbled with the letter in her hand. It had been playing on her mind constantly for the last two days. She wished that she'd been able to save Mr Abebi. She wished that she could just give the missive back to him and wash her hands of the situation. Naturally, the hospital was holding an enquiry, but it looked like the police would be involved as well, and that was something she didn't want to deal with.

As if answering her fears, there was a loud knock at the front door. She looked at her watch, it was 10pm. Who the hell would be calling at this hour? she wondered. She hid the note under her mattress and descended the stairs to the hallway. After securing the chain, she opened the door slightly and peeked round to see who her mystery caller was. A man and a woman, both in suits, stood on the step.

“Good evening,” said the woman. “Mrs Diana Stokes?”

“Yes.”

The woman produced a warrant card. “I'm Detective Sergeant Mills, and this is DC McCormack. Sorry it's so late, but we'd like to ask you a few questions about a patient from the hospital – a Mr Abebi. We believe that you were on duty the other night when he died.”

Diana scrutinized the warrant card and, satisfied that it was genuine, released the chain and opened the door. She led them through to the living room. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” she asked. “I was just going to put the kettle on.”

“Why not,” said Mills. “I'll have a coffee please – milk, two sugars.”

“I'll have the same please,” said McCormack.

Diana left them on the sofa and went to the kitchen. The kettle shook in her hand as she filled it. What had she gotten herself into now? Who was Mr Abebi? Was he some sort of terrorist? All sorts of horrible circumstances flashed through her head. Perhaps she should give them the letter and have done with it. But then, would they believe her story? They might implicate her with Abebi. After the business last year with her husband she was on very thin ice. She decided to keep the letter hidden, and her mouth shut.

She carried the tray of drinks into the living room. “There you go,” she said. “I've put out some biscuits as well, just in case you're peckish.”

“Thanks very much,” said Mills. “You shouldn't have gone to so much effort.”

Diana sat down in the armchair and sipped at her tea. The detectives maintained an eerie silence.

After what seemed like ages, Mills finally spoke: “The reason we're here Mrs Stokes, is because Mr Abebi's post-mortem has thrown up – how should I say this…certain irregularities.”

“Oh,” said Diana. She didn't like the intonation.

Mills produced a notebook from her jacket pocket. “Your account says that you walked into Mr Abebi's room and found the monitor switched off, and Mr Abebi without a pulse. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what you were doing in Mr Abebi's room in the first place?” asked Mills.

“I'm a nurse, he was one of my patients.”

“Yes, he was,” said Mills. “But not on Sunday evening. He was on somebody else's round then. Your evening duties were elsewhere in the hospital.”

Diana remained calm and took another sip of tea. “Yes, they were. But I had been chatting to Mr Abebi in the afternoon. He was a very nice man, and I wanted to pop in and see him before I went home. It's not unusual for a nurse to have a soft spot for certain patients.”

“I'm sure it isn't,” said Mills. “It just seems a bit convenient, that's all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you turning up just at the right moment to try and save him.”

Diana felt her chest tighten with anger, but she kept on deter-minedly. “Look, it just happened that way. I wish I'd got there sooner, then he'd still be alive.”

Mills nibbled at a biscuit. “Oh, I doubt that,” she said. “Not with all the morphine he'd been given. Enough to kill the proverbial rhinoceros by all accounts.”

Diana's anger turned to fear, she didn't like the way the conversation was headed. She put down her mug and reached for the cigarettes and lighter on the coffee table. She sparked up a Marlboro Light.

“Do you have access to morphine at the hospital?” asked McCormack.

“Of course I do,” Diana said sharply. “But everything's regulated and accounted for. Anyway, the guy was on a morphine drip for Christ's sake.”

“Yes, he was. But someone must have altered the flow.”

“You can't alter it to that extent, there are safety measures in place.”

McCormack gave her a hard stare. “Well, someone must have overridden them then.”

Diana took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Look! I didn't do anything to Mr Abebi. I tried to save him. Why don't you just listen to me!”

McCormack put up his hands. “It's alright Mrs Stokes, there's no need to get worked up. We're only asking questions. We have to check everything out.”

Diana sighed. “Yes, I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just my life seems to be spent answering…” She stopped suddenly.

Mills tried to finish the sentence for her. “Answering what? Police questions?”

“Yes.”

“It's alright Mrs Stokes, we know all about the situation with your husband. We haven't come to dig that up, it's not our case.”

At the mention of her husband Diana flinched. She had spent most of the last year trying to block him out, which was a parlous task when the police were knocking on your door every five minutes. Wherever he was, she hoped that he and his little floozy would be caught soon, and that she could get on with her life.

“Mrs Stokes? Are you alright?” Mills asked.

“Yes, I'm fine. I just want to forget about all that.”

Mills gave McCormack a look and he nodded. She finished her coffee and got out of her seat. “Well then,” she said. “That'll be all for now. But we might have some more questions for you at a later date. In the meantime, if you think of anything pertinent to the investigation then give me a call.” She handed her a business card.

“There was one thing,” said Diana.

“What was that?” Mills asked.

“Just before I got to Mr Abebi's room, I bumped into someone in a doctor's coat hurrying down the corridor. At the time I thought he was one of the juniors, but I suppose he could have been anybody.”

“Could you describe him?”

“Not really…I only saw his back. Probably about five-foot-ten, dark hair, maybe Asian.”

Mills noted the description on her pad and walked to the front door. McCormack followed. They said their goodbyes and left.

Diana shut the door with relief. She knew it wasn't over, but for now she could breathe a little more easily. She returned to the living room and poured herself a large whisky and soda. She lit another cigarette and contemplated what to do with the letter.

Stella sat in the armchair, sipping her coffee in an uncomfortable silence. Her efforts to make peace had been ill-received. Stratton's brother, Andrew, was just not the forgiving type. She had been for dinner and was trying to persuade him to attend the memorial, but all her talk of burying the past had been swept away by a hurricane of hate.

Andrew paced in front of the fireplace. He was in his early forties and prematurely grey. He was a broker in the city and he dressed and acted like one. Pomposity was his byword. “What you fail to understand Stella, is the enormity of what's happened,” he said. “That boy has completely destroyed this family. My parents had at least another twenty years of good life ahead of them, if not more. My father had sweated to earn his retirement. He worked sixty- to seventy-hour weeks for over thirty years. He gave everyone, including my brother, a privileged lifestyle. And what did the little shit ever give in return? Nothing, that's what. Unless you count headaches and stress as gifts.”

Stella put her mug down carefully on the table, using the coaster she had been so thoughtfully supplied with. “Like I said before Andrew, I can understand your anger. But their death wasn't Stratton's fault. Yoshima was systematically working his way through a list of people. If you have to blame anyone it should be Augustus Jeremy, he was the one who instigated it.”

“So you keep saying,” Andrew grunted dismissively. “But the fact is, my brother had blighted their lives constantly before that. He brought them nothing but anguish.”

“That's rubbish,” said Stella defensively. “Just because he didn't do what was expected of him? Just because he wasn't a little sheep following daddy into the brokerage? I spoke to them Andrew, I know what they thought. Sure, he was wayward, but even when they'd fallen out, they never saw him as a failure or a burden. All this is in
your
head. You're the one who hated him. What is it? What's your problem? Were you jealous of him? Jealous of his freedom whilst you'd condemned yourself to a life of fiscal servitude?”

Andrew's eyes blazed with fury. “How dare you speak to me like that!” he shouted. “This is my house and I will not be spoken to like…like some backward child. They were my parents! I knew them! I could see how hurt they were! How dare you assume to know what they thought!” He took a breath to calm himself. “I think you'd better leave Stella.”

Stella almost leapt out of her seat. There was no point trying to reason with him any longer. It was patently clear that the twat was not for turning. She grabbed her coat from the hallway and left. Andrew stayed in the living room.

Once inside the car she reached into her handbag and pulled out her cigarettes. She lit one, started the engine, and drove off.

It had been a mistake visiting Andrew on her own. She wished that she had taken up Father Cronin's offer to accompany her. He would have provided a rational voice, and Andrew would not have dared to explode in front of a man of the cloth. Perhaps Cronin could have made him see beyond his petty, long-harboured malice. Instead, she had made everything worse. She slammed the steering wheel in frustration.

She turned on the stereo and selected
Guns N' Roses': Appetite for Destruction
. She had found the album in a forgotten cupboard a few days before, and was enjoying revisiting it. It took her back to her rebellious teenage years when she did the ‘wrong' things and hung around with the ‘wrong' people. At least that's how her parents had seen it. In her mind it had been quite different. Life had been new and exciting, every day fresh and wondrous. Older boys with sleek motorbikes had shown her a faster way to live. She skipped to track six
Paradise City
, sped up the car, and started head-banging to the music. For a while she felt alive again.

Being nearly 11pm the M25 was fairly clear and she wasted no time putting pedal to metal. She sped along happily with the music pumping from the stereo.

After about ten miles she became suspicious of a pair of headlights that seemed to be keeping a uniform distance of two hundred yards. She slowed down from one hundred mph to seventy, hoping that the car would catch her and pass. The car slowed with her.

She pulled over to the inside lane and gradually decreased her speed until she was at a crawling forty, cars flashed past her at regular intervals, but not the one she was watching. She kept her eyes fixed on the headlights behind and slowed again to thirty. This time the car sped up and within twenty seconds had overtaken. It was a silver Vectra. This was not paranoia, she was being followed.

It was 5am, Tuesday morning, and the corridors of 10 Downing Street were silent. Outside the Prime Minister's bedroom Jennings strained to keep awake. His eyes were closing involuntarily at regular intervals. A sharp pain in the shin woke him from yet another snooze.

“Come on sleepy head!” said a voice. “The PM's just been stabbed! We need to get the paramedics!”

Jennings opened his eyes and jumped up in a fluster. “What?! What's going on?” he stammered, shaking his head to clear the haze.

In front of him Appleby was sniggering. “It's alright mate, you can calm down. I'm only pulling your leg.”

Jennings clicked his tongue. “Very fucking funny,” he said. “Sorry about that, I just drifted off.”

Appleby smiled. “Don't worry about it mate, it happens to us all. I've been out for hours before. You'll get better with experience. I'll take over for the last couple of hours if you like. I'm wide awake.”

“Are you sure?” said Jennings.

“Of course. You may as well go upstairs and have a kip. After you've done a sweep of the building, of course.”

Jennings thanked his colleague and hurried along to complete his sweep. He was grateful that it was Allenby who had caught him napping, and not the PM. Who knew what would have happened in that situation? His secondment to Downing Street might very well have been over before it had properly begun.