Stone Killer (25 page)

‘And is that it?' Beresford asked, somewhat relieved. ‘Is that as bad as it gets?'

The doctor shook his head. ‘I'm afraid not. As the disease progresses, she may neglect to do simple everyday things.'

‘Like what?'

‘Comb her hair or brush her teeth, for example. Beyond that, she may take to wandering away from home with no fixed purpose. And she will almost certainly become unreasonably aggressive.'

‘Is there nothing you can do about it?' Beresford had asked, anguished. ‘No medicine? No injections?'

‘Nothing at all, I'm afraid. The disease will simply run its course.'

‘Is it … is it my fault?' Beresford had asked.

The doctor frowned. ‘How could it possibly be your fault?'

‘My mum … my mum had me late in life. She was nearly forty when I was born.'

‘I suspect that has nothing to do with her present condition,' the doctor told him. ‘Many women have babies in middle age, but very few of them are struck with Alzheimer's, as your mother has been.'

Beresford should have left it at that – but he couldn't.

‘Are you saying you could definitely rule it out as a reason, then?' he persisted.

The doctor hesitated – as if considering whether or not to tell a kindly lie – then said, ‘Quite frankly, Mr Beresford, we know so little about the disease that we can't rule anything out.'

So that had been it. Beresford had gone straight round to the estate agent's office and told him he was no longer interested in taking the flat he had already put a deposit down on.

He had lost the deposit, but he didn't mind that.

He had lost his freedom – and he tried not to mind that, either.

Beresford dressed quickly, and went downstairs. His mother was standing in the kitchen. She was holding the kettle in her hand, but seemed uncertain about what to do with it.

‘You're wearing your best suit,' she said, when she saw him. ‘Why aren't you wearing your … your …'

‘My uniform, Mum,' Beresford said patiently. ‘Why aren't I wearing my
uniform
.' He paused, giving time for the word to sink into his mother's increasingly confused mind, then continued, ‘Do you remember what I told you the day before yesterday, Mum?'

‘The day before yesterday?' Mrs Beresford repeated.

‘I said I'll be working with the CID for a while, didn't I? That's why I'll be wearing my suit instead of my … Instead of my
what
?'

‘Instead of your … your uniform,' his mother said.

Beresford smiled. ‘Good girl! I'll fix you your breakfast, then I'll have to go out. But don't worry, Mrs Watkins from across the road will pop in to see if you're all right in about half an hour.'

His mother looked at him blankly. ‘Who's Mrs Watkins?' she asked.

Time had no real meaning in the vault of the Cotton Credit Bank, Major Maitland thought. Down here there were no shades of light and dark – no early mornings or late evenings.

And it was not only time which had gone awry. The whole world beyond the vault had ceased to be real to him. He could hardly conceive of buses and postboxes, of trees and flowers. He even found it difficult to picture Woodend – up there somewhere on the surface – conducting an investigation which just might clear his wife of murder charges.

He had experienced feelings like this before – on missions in the Middle East and in the Malayan jungle. Then, as now, the universe had contracted until it contained only the small area which was his immediate responsibility.

He looked down at his hostages. He had seen to it that they always had plenty of water. He had fed them with combat rations which, while being virtually tasteless, had been nutritious enough. When they had wished to go the toilet, he had granted them as much privacy as was possible in the circumstances. He had not physically abused them, nor – apart from the implied menace of the weapons he was carrying – even threatened to do so. He could justly claim that – according to the standards set by the rules of warfare – he had treated his prisoners well.

But all that would count for nothing once his world had expanded again, and he was on the outside once more. Nor, he admitted frankly, should it. He had done wrong – even by his own lights – and if he was picked off by a sniper's bullet, he would have no complaints.

He only hoped that it had not all been for nothing. That all the suffering he had put these people through – and the pain that was yet to come – would at least result in his darling wife gaining her freedom.

A new feeling began to creep through his body, making his nerve-endings tingle.

He recognized it for the warning it was.

It had always been like this, he reminded himself.

After days in the jungle – when nothing much had happened or even seemed likely to happen – he had known, instinctively, when violent confrontation was not far away.

Entering a probable enemy safe house in Aden, he had sensed the enemy lurking long before the first shot had been fired.

So that was it, then. This was the day that the siege would finally be ended – one way or another.

It was now twenty-four hours since Judith Maitland had first requested an interview with the Governor – and what a long, frustrating and agonizing twenty-four hours it had been.

She had expected the warden to say he was too busy to see her at first, but what she had not anticipated was how that same warden would react to her repeated requests.

‘You're becoming hysterical again, Maitland,' Miss Donaldson had told her, when she'd made her second request an hour later.

Again? Judith thought. What does she mean – again!

‘I've never been hysterical,' she said.

Miss Donaldson looked sceptical. ‘And I suppose you think you never tried to kill yourself, either. Well, just look down at your wrists.'

‘I'm fully aware I tried to kill myself, and I know what mental state I was in when I made the attempt,' Judith countered. ‘I wasn't hysterical then, and I'm not hysterical now. And I demand to see the Governor!'

‘Any more of this, and I'll call the nurse and have you sedated,' Miss Donaldson threatened.

Judith had waited a full two hours before she tried again. ‘What I have to tell the Governor will end the siege in the bank in Whitebridge,' she said.

‘Talk about delusions of grandeur!' Miss Donaldson scoffed.

‘It's true! The man who's holding the hostages is my husband.'

‘So criminality runs in the family. I can't say I'm surprised.'

It was not until late in the afternoon that Judith hit on the right approach.

‘I know I've been difficult today, and I'd just like to thank you for the sympathetic way you've dealt with me,' she told the warder.

‘Sympathetic?' Miss Donaldson repeated, mystified.

‘I've been thinking about how to show my appreciation, and I've decided that the best way would be to make a donation to your favourite charity,' Judith continued. ‘A hundred pounds seems just about right. You do have a favourite charity, don't you, Miss Donaldson?'

‘Never really thought about it,' the warder confessed.

‘Well, do think about it,' Judith urged her. ‘And the next time my partner comes to see me, he'll bring the money in a plain envelope, so you can make the donation yourself.'

‘All right,' the warder agreed. ‘And about that other matter, Maitland? Your request to see the Governor?'

‘Yes?'

‘I'll see what I can do.'

Even with the bribe, she hadn't been granted an appointment that day, but she had been promised one for early the next morning. And now the morning had come!

So it will soon be over, Judith thought. I'll confess, and that will be the end of it.

Unless it was already too late! Unless Thomas had already gone off the rails, and hurt – perhaps even killed – one of the hostages.

They wouldn't tell her about it, even if he had. They'd listen to her confession – listen to her giving up all hope of ever getting a retrial – and say nothing to indicate that she was making a pointless sacrifice.

So perhaps she shouldn't do it at all!

Perhaps she should just keep quiet.

But she knew she couldn't do that – knew that even if there was the slightest chance of getting Thomas and his hostages out alive, she must grasp that chance wholeheartedly.

M
olly Ryder, who worked as a management trainee at Élite Catering, was a 23-year-old brunette who was nicely rounded – without being overblown – and had the most sparkling green eyes that Constable Colin Beresford had ever seen.

She was the sort of girl that any well-intentioned young man would want to take to meet Mother, Beresford told himself.

But how could he introduce
his
mother to anyone? How could he possibly start a relationship with a girl while knowing that, because of his mother's condition, they would have to do most of their courting at home – and that, as her condition gradually worsened, home would become an increasingly difficult and unpleasant place to be?

‘I thought you were here because you wanted to ask me some questions,' Molly Ryder said.

‘What?' Beresford asked, startled.

Molly laughed. ‘You were miles away, weren't you?'

‘Yes,' Beresford admitted. ‘I was.'

‘Then why don't we go right back to the start,' Molly suggested. ‘Here I am in the kitchen, my only company the two dozen chickens that Mr Keene has told me to cook for the Rotary Club's monthly lunch. Right?'

‘Right.'

‘Then in walks a handsome young policeman – only I don't know he's a policeman at first, because he's wearing his Sunday suit. “Can I ask you some questions?” this handsome policeman asks, and I reply with a breathless, “Yes.” I'm naturally disappointed when he reveals these questions are not on the lines of, “Do you come here often?” or “How about a dance?” Still, I agree. I abandon my chickens without a moment's regret, and we come into the office. But once we're here, I don't get the third degree, as I'm expecting – and almost looking forward to. Instead, the handsome young policeman – who should, by rights, have been
very
interested in me – falls into some kind of trance.'

‘Sorry,' Beresford said.

‘So you should be,' Molly Ryder told him – and laughed again, to show she wasn't really offended.

‘I wanted to ask you about Mrs Maitland,' Beresford said, trying his best to inject gravity into his tone.

‘Yes, I thought that might be what this was all about,' Molly Ryder said, suddenly growing more serious. ‘We all went into shock when we learned she'd been arrested. To tell you the truth, I think most of us are
still
a little bit in shock, even after all these months.'

‘You got on well with her, then?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘Try an' find out what Judith Maitland was really like, lad,'
Woodend had advised Beresford.
‘See if you can build up an accurate picture of her. That won't prove her innocence – if, indeed, she
is
innocent – but it might just give us somethin' to build on.'

‘How would you rate Mrs Maitland as a boss?' Beresford asked.

‘Rate her?'

‘Yes. You must know the sort of thing I'm after. How does she compare to the other people you've worked for?'

‘I couldn't really say. I came here straight from catering college, so I haven't got anyone else
to
compare her and Mr Keene with. But I will say this – if all my future bosses measure up to them, then I'll have no complaints.'

‘Did you notice any change in her state of mind in the weeks leading up to Mr Burroughs' murder?' Beresford asked.

‘I did, as a matter of fact,' Molly Ryder said. ‘Up until those last few weeks, she'd always been a very positive person. You know what I mean – lively, energetic, unflappable, even-tempered.'

‘I get the picture.'

‘But she suddenly became the opposite of all those things. She was moody, and irritable. She didn't really seem to care whether the job got done or not – and that was just not like her. At first, I put it down to nothing more than women's problems. We can all get a bit difficult at a certain time of the month. But it all went on a little too long for that.'

‘And she was like this – you know, difficult – right up until the time she was arrested?'

‘No, actually, she wasn't. She seemed much happier during the last few days. Maybe it was her brush with death that did it. You know how it is – you think all your problems are enormous, then you go through something like that, and it puts everything in perspective. Anyway, she—'

‘Hang on a minute!' Beresford interrupted. ‘What was that you just said about a brush with death?'

‘You mean you don't know about it?'

‘Obviously not.'

‘She had a crash in her van.'

‘The one she was arrested in?'

Molly Ryder laughed again. ‘You'd not have needed to ask that question if you'd seen the van.'

‘Messed up, was it?'

‘It was a complete write-off. Anybody looking at it, without knowing the circumstances, would have thought the driver must have been killed. But Mrs Maitland came out of it with hardly a scratch. She was lucky that day. She's not been very lucky since, has she?'

‘How did the crash happen?' Beresford wondered. ‘Was she in a head-on collision or something?'