Last Detective (16 page)

Father Harvey went to visit Davies in Park Royal Hospital, three days later when they had completed pumping him through, stitched his wounds and opened his eyes as far as possible.

‘It's no wonder the water went straight through you,' remarked the priest eyeing him. ‘You're full of bloody holes.' He glanced guiltily sideways down the ward because of his swear-words.

‘I leak all over,' agreed Davies dreamily.

‘Ah, you're a strong, tough man, I'll give you that,' said Father Harvey. ‘I thought we would be preparing for your wake. Even on the canal bank I got to wondering what religion you pursued. I didn't know, but I gave you the last rites in case. One thing about us men of God, we know our rites.'

Davies attempted a smile. ‘It would have been more to the point if you'd tried the kiss of life,' he remarked.

‘Every man to his calling,' replied the priest, unruffled. ‘It's fine to see you're still with us on this side, anyway. I wouldn't guarantee you much of a future over there, beyond, you know. Not being a policeman!'

‘If it wasn't for you happening to be out swimming at that time of night I would be most certainly beyond,' said Davies. He moved his hand gratefully towards the priest who, glancing privily around the ward first, patted it with his own.

‘A very nasty business,' said Father Harvey. ‘I suppose the police force must be combing the area, whatever that may mean.'

‘They'll hardly think to give it a scratch,' said Davies with certainty. ‘An attack on a copper—particularly
this
copper—is nothing special. The Inspector, Yardbird, probably had a good laugh and asked the lads to watch for anything suspicious on their way home from work.'

‘Charity rarely begins at home,' agreed the priest. ‘Do you know who might have done it?'

‘I've got a fair idea,' said Davies, a light coming from his reduced eyes. ‘All I have to do is find them…him.'

‘It's a wonder they didn't crack your skull even before drowning you. It must be even thicker than I thought.'

Davies tried a bigger smile but it hurt him all over his face. ‘One of my copper colleagues tells me the bin came from the Indian Restaurant,' he said. ‘It had a lining of dried curry. Tough stuff that curry, especially from that dump. It saved my life.' He regarded Father Harvey through his bruises and stitches. ‘You're a good bloke,' he said genuinely. ‘Thanks. When I've got this lot over with I'll find out who burned down your confessional box.'

‘I'm thinking of building a temporary structure,' the priest told him. ‘There's a nasty backlog of unforgiven sins piling up, and my superiors are not being very sympathetic, nor is the insurance company. If you happen to know of any reasonable wood lying around that I might make some use of perhaps you'll tell me. I saw some very decent planks in the yard of Swindell's the undertakers, but I'm not sure that would morally be quite correct. Sitting there tight surrounded by the best cedar, would make me feel uncomfortable. I'll be long enough in my coffin when I truly get there.'

‘Better than being scuttled in a refuse bin,' said Davies. ‘Did you run up any expenses, by the way? You know, with your clothes being waterlogged and everything?'

The priest shook his head. ‘My underwear was dry by the morning. I put it over the church boiler. The only charge will be for the dry cleaning of my clerical gown which I threw off before throwing myself into the canal. Unfortunately I tossed it into a particularly filthy puddle. I'll send you the bill. At the cleaners they always charge it as a maxi-coat.'

Mrs Fulljames and Doris came through the door of the ward and stood there in plastic truculence; one pink and one sky blue crinkly and crackly raincoat with transparent overshoes of the same synthetic material tied about their ankles, imprisoning their feet like specimens. They remained stiffly at the door, the raindrops dripping from their gulleys and gutters like melting ice. They examined Davies at that distance, squinting their eyes and screwing up their faces, backing their heads away, as though trying to get a true perspective of his injuries. He sat taut and propped in bed, wondering why they had come.

‘Fine bloody mess you look,' snorted Mrs Fulljames from the door.

‘Yes, a fine mess,' confirmed Doris loyally.

Davies believed he heard Mrs. Fulljames snap her fingers and the two plastic dragons advanced on him, their scales creaking as they strode. But he was spared.

A voice croaked at the distant end of the room and caught his landlady's attention. ‘Oh, just look, Doris,' she said in a pleased way. ‘There's that polite Mr Wellington, who used to be our milkman.'

‘So it is. Mr Wellington,' agreed Doris. When she smiled Davies sometimes thought he caught a distant glimpse of her youth. But it was soon gone. ‘Wonder why he's in?'

‘Let's go and see the poor soul,' said Mrs Fulljames. She wheeled stiffly, luffing like a sea-soaked sailing barge and made for the extreme end of the ward. Doris, with not so much as a splintered glance at her husband, followed obediently. They waved wet waves to Mr Wellington as they went. Davies astonished himself by experiencing a touch of jealousy. He eased himself up in his bed and saw the milkman sitting up in real excitement and anticipation.

It was almost ten minutes before they returned. ‘Such an interesting man, that,' chuffed Mrs Fulljames, as though that was an entire and acceptable excuse for their divergence. ‘He's so polite, isn't he, Doris? And he's been everywhere.'

‘Milkmen usually have,' observed Davies painfully.

Doris stared at her husband's dented and stitched countenance. ‘He's eaten your Smarties,' she said bluntly, as though wanting to get it over with. ‘I brought you some Smarties, but Mr Wellington's had them.'

Once more Davies felt illogically hurt. He scowled and the pain told him not to do it again. ‘Thanks for bringing them anyway,' he muttered. ‘It's the thought, really, I suppose.'

‘Of course it is!' interpolated Mrs Fulljames extravagantly. She hovered across his sheets now as though enjoyably anticipating performing an operation on him.

‘And he's
so
interesting,' echoed Doris, still with a hint of guilt. ‘He's done
so
many things.'

‘He's eaten my fucking Smarties for a start,' grumbled Davies bitterly.

Mrs Fulljames held a restraining arm like a point duty policeman. Some rain, as if retained by capillary action in the creases of her pink plastic sleeve, now drizzled on to his sheet. ‘We will send some more,' she said in her final way. ‘So stop being a misery. You don't look as though you could manage a Smartie anyway.'

‘I expect they feed you by tubes, don't they?' agreed Doris. ‘You'd never get a Smartie down a tube.'

‘Anyway, you know what
you
did, don't you?' asked Mrs Fulljames.

‘I gather,' said Davies wearily. ‘That I got a dustbin put over my head, was then bashed about something fearful, and finally knocked in the canal.'

‘You also left the front door open,' said Doris frostily. ‘Your key was in it.'

‘Oh?'

‘And somebody walked in and stole the hallstand.' Mrs Fulljames finished it for her, perhaps afraid Doris might not achieve the right emphasis. ‘My antique hallstand.'

‘Antique?' queried Davies. ‘That object was antique?'

‘It belonged to Mr Fulljames,' muttered Doris, indicating that was a mark of authenticity. ‘The late Mr Fulljames.'

‘Perhaps that Persian bloke—the one who nicked the bed—has been on the prowl again,' suggested Davies dismally.

‘You're being frivolous,' said Mrs Fulljames haughtily. ‘I'll bet you're laughing all over your face behind that mess. Anyway we didn't come here to argue. How long will you be in?'

‘Christ knows. The embroidery class is coming back tomorrow. I reckon they're going to try and keep me as a demonstration model or something.'

‘How long?' insisted Doris. ‘Tell Mrs Fulljames.'

‘I don't know!' He managed that most difficult of all vocal achievements, a quiet shout.

‘Do you want your room kept? That's the point.'

Davies was horrified. ‘My room? You
wouldn't
let my room?'

‘It's economics, Mr Davies. That's how we have to live. Surely even you know that.'

‘Jesus wept. Don't let it. I'll keep paying.'

‘In that case, all right,' sniffed Mrs Fulljames indicating a load had been taken off her mind. ‘We'll discuss the hallstand at some other time. I don't feel up to it now.'

‘Nor me,' muttered Davies trying to slide under the sheet.

She produced a newspaper from her plastic folds. ‘I brought you this,' she said as though they had reached a truce. ‘
Evening News
. Last night's. But in here it makes no difference, I suppose.'

‘None at all,' he agreed defeatedly. ‘The world hardly exists.'

They backed towards the door. Then Doris, unexpectedly, gave a little birdlike dart forward and kissed him on his sore cheek. A final minor cascade of trapped rain escaped from her hat on to his face. ‘Bye, then,' she said, then anxiously: ‘You've, you've got your insurances all paid up, haven't you?'

Mod Lewis came through the door like a felon. ‘I'm not all that keen on this place,' he explained on tiptoe when he reached to the foot of Davies's bed. ‘I was a porter here once, you know, during the crime wave. Someone kept stealing the patients' false teeth. By night, see.'

He rolled his eyes melodramatically. ‘Everybody was suspect, boy. Even the consultant surgeons. Everybody got left with a nasty taste in their mouths. Especially the patients.' He advanced around the side of the bed to Davies, as though his experience as a porter had given him some professional knowledge. ‘Aye, that's better,' he said, surveying the swollen face approvingly. ‘Nice job they've done there, those sutures. It'll all go back in place eventually. It's subsided even now.'

‘You've been in to see me before?'

‘Oh yes, man. Course I have. The first morning, as soon as I heard. It was a good excuse for not going to the library. But you looked very poorly, Dangerous. Never saw a face like it. Your head was all swelled up. Reminded me of the old globe of the world we had at school. That was knocked about too. I sat with you for an hour or more. You were right out and since I had nobody to talk to I amused myself by tracing the major rivers, sea and air routes on your face—and the railways, of course, most interesting.'

‘That's one thing about me, I'm never boring,' said Davies. ‘Do you think you could get a message to a young woman for me.'

‘Josie,' said Mod confidently. ‘She's coming in tonight. She read it in the local paper and she came into The Babe in Arms. Nice little girl. Bit skinny. Bit young for you. She wanted to come this morning but I said I'd come first. Just to see you were passable.'