Authors: Cassandra Chan
Trick of the Mind (3 page)
And he might be right at that, thought Carmichael glumly to himself. He suspected he had suggested it merely to leave no stone unturned rather than out of any real hope of a clue. Detective Inspector Davies, after all, had been with the Arts Theft Division for several years and presumably knew his own business. If he said there was no violence connected to the robbery of a fortune’s worth of antique jewels, he was most likely correct.
That left Detective Constable Lemmy, who had stopped loitering in the doorway and taken a seat just inside it, in which he was now dozing. Sleeping, thought Carmichael wrathfully, was about the only thing Lemmy had shown any talent for since he had been visited on by the chief inspector.
His mobile rang and Carmichael pounced on it, hoping for a report from O’Leary. But it was his wife.
“How is Sergeant Gibbons, dear?” asked Dotty Carmichael, her voice without the faintest accusation despite the fact that Carmichael had promised to ring her with news and had completely forgotten.
“He’s still alive,” said Carmichael. “I’m sorry I haven’t rung. I should have.”
“I’m sure you’ve had a very busy night,” said Dotty. “Do you know anything yet? Is Gibbons going to be all right?”
“I don’t know,” replied Carmichael. “They took him into surgery
a half hour or so past, but I’ve not heard anything since. I suppose it’s going well enough.”
a half hour or so past, but I’ve not heard anything since. I suppose it’s going well enough.”
“Are you still at the hospital?” she asked.
“Yes. There didn’t seem to be much point in leaving—I’ve got everyone out trying to find out what happened, but so far there’s no one to interview, or even any suspects. And although the doctors said Gibbons wouldn’t wake up, well, you never can tell, can you?”
“But surely someone else could have stayed,” suggested Dotty.
“Well, yes,” admitted Carmichael. “In fact, I’ve got some armed uniforms here just to be safe. But Gibbons doesn’t know them.”
“That’s a good thought,” she agreed. “He ought to have someone he knows there when he wakes up. Would you like me to come down and wait for him?”
Carmichael was startled. “Down here? You mean the hospital?”
“Well, yes, dear. That does seem most practical if one’s waiting for somebody to come out of surgery.”
She was teasing him now, gently, but teasing nonetheless. Despite himself, Carmichael smiled.
“Well, it’s likely to be a long wait,” he said.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I can’t sleep anyway, not without knowing Sergeant Gibbons will be all right. And that way if you’re called away, he’ll still have someone who knows him there, won’t he?”
“Yes,” said Carmichael. “Yes, he will. If you truly want to, Dotty, I won’t say no.”
“Then I’ll come down,” she said firmly. “I should be there in forty-five minutes or so.”
Bethancourt flicked his cigarette butt out the window, and took a drink from the bottle of Evian he had taken from the hotel. He badly wanted a coffee, but time was running on, and making the three o’clock ferry would be a close thing at this point.
He checked the time yet again and found it was past 2:30 A.M. A half hour ago he had reluctantly decided that ringing Carmichael on an hourly basis for updates would probably be overly onerous to
a busy and distressed policeman who had work to do, but it had, by his calculations, been more than ninety minutes now; surely in that amount of time there should be news. He picked up the phone.
a busy and distressed policeman who had work to do, but it had, by his calculations, been more than ninety minutes now; surely in that amount of time there should be news. He picked up the phone.
Unexpectedly, Carmichael sounded pleased to hear from him. “Bethancourt?” he said. “They’ve taken him into the operating theatre at last—not quite half an hour ago. I’ve left the hospital, but Mrs. Carmichael is there and will ring me the moment she hears any thing.”
“That’s good news, sir,” said Bethancourt, hoping it was.
“I wanted to ask you,” continued Carmichael, “what time it was when he rang you this evening?”
“At six thirty-five,” answered Bethancourt, wondering why this should matter.
“And when was the last time you spoke to him before that?”
“The day before yesterday,” said Bethancourt. “I rang him to say I’d be back in London on Thursday.”
“But he gave you no hint that anything was up?” asked Carmichael anxiously.
“Not especially,” replied Bethancourt. “He told me about his transfer to Arts Theft and about how different it was from what he was used to, but nothing about any specific case. We talked about gambling.”
“Gambling?” said Carmichael, sounding startled.
“I was in Monte Carlo at the time.”
“Ah,” said Carmichael, apparently dismissing this bit of information. “You said you’re on your way back now?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bethancourt. “I’m on the road as we speak—just passing Béthune. I’m hoping to make the three o’clock ferry.”
“Good, good,” said Carmichael. “Make sure you let me know once you’re here.”
“Of course, sir,” said Bethancourt, wondering why Carmichael seemed so eager to speak with him, but forbearing to ask, given the chief inspector’s distracted tone.
Carmichael rang off and Bethancourt tossed his phone back into the passenger seat thoughtfully. Carmichael often permitted Bethancourt to look in on Gibbons’s investigations, this having
been mandated by the chief commissioner of Scotland Yard, who happened to be an old school fellow of Bethancourt’s father. But Bethancourt had always done his best to keep a low profile and certainly Carmichael had never sought out his thoughts before. Perhaps, thought Bethancourt, the chief inspector believed this shooting had to do with Gibbons’s private life rather than his professional one, although Bethancourt had difficulty believing this could be true.
been mandated by the chief commissioner of Scotland Yard, who happened to be an old school fellow of Bethancourt’s father. But Bethancourt had always done his best to keep a low profile and certainly Carmichael had never sought out his thoughts before. Perhaps, thought Bethancourt, the chief inspector believed this shooting had to do with Gibbons’s private life rather than his professional one, although Bethancourt had difficulty believing this could be true.
But it gave him something else to think about on the long drive north. Heretofore, his only thought had been to pray for his friend’s life; he had given no thought at all as to why or how he had been shot. He mulled this over now as he lit yet another cigarette and let the car gather speed.
Hollings had at last managed to roust Constable Jacob Clarkson out of his no doubt well-deserved bed. Constable Clarkson was the local man in Lambeth who had been on duty that evening, and who, on hearing that a fellow officer had been shot, professed himself only too happy to return to the station to speak to Chief Inspector Carmichael about it. Clarkson was the salt of the earth, an experienced man who knew his patch like the back of his hand. He was also, however, one of those people who is not much good when awakened in the middle of the night, and although he did not actually fall asleep on the ride to the station, Hollings still thought it prudent to stop and procure the man a coffee before they arrived and had to face the chief inspector. Hollings had worked with Carmichael several times in the past and had generally found him to be an even-tempered man, but he could clearly see that was not the case tonight. Not that Hollings could blame him, but on the other hand, he didn’t see why Constable Clarkson should suffer for it.
Carmichael had made it to the station well ahead of them, Clarkson living quite distant, out in Orpington, and was waiting impatiently. Hollings was very glad he had stopped for the coffee.
“There were reports of gunshots,” Clarkson told them. “I reported it, but nearly everyone who had heard it thought it came
from a different direction. I did look, sir. I’m mortal sorry I didn’t find your man.”
from a different direction. I did look, sir. I’m mortal sorry I didn’t find your man.”
“But you didn’t hear the shots yourself?” asked Carmichael.
“No, sir. Best I could figure, I was inside a shop at the time, sorting out a bit of trouble between the owner and one of his customers.”
Carmichael waved this away. “We have your report, Constable,” he said. “What I want is a blow-by-blow description. Here—show me where this shop is.”
He slapped an open London A to Z onto the desk and Clarkson obligingly bent over it, yawning prodigiously. Carmichael scowled and Hollings, who was tolerably familiar with the area from a recent murder investigation, leaned in to point out where Gibbons had been found. Clarkson, it evolved, had been some distance away when the shots had been fired. He had already left the shop when he received word of the gunshots and the information that backup was en route to him from the station.
“It’s that kind of neighborhood,” he said with a shrug.
“But you didn’t wait for your backup to arrive, did you?” said Carmichael.
“Well, no.” Clarkson slurped at his coffee and blinked before realizing the chief inspector was waiting for more. “It didn’t seem too likely that the gunman would still be about by the time I got there,” he explained. “I mean, they hardly ever are. If you shoot someone, you don’t wait about for the police, do you?”
Carmichael admitted this was so.
Clarkson traced his route on the map for them, and described the residents he had interviewed. They had all heard the shots, but none of them could pinpoint from whence the sound had come, nor did they report hearing any other signs of conflict.
“And that was a bit odd,” said Clarkson. “Usually, there’s some other disturbance connected with gunfire, like an argument, or at least the sound of a car speeding off. In any case, it didn’t give us much to go on.”
Backup having arrived, they had proceeded to take a look around the area, but had found nothing amiss, and given the wide
divergence of opinion as to how many shots there had been, they had concluded that the noise might have been something else altogether. Clarkson had kept an eye out for the rest of his shift, but it had been an otherwise quiet evening and he had at last gone home, satisfied that nothing much was wrong in his district. He was more than chagrined to discover he had been quite wrong.
divergence of opinion as to how many shots there had been, they had concluded that the noise might have been something else altogether. Clarkson had kept an eye out for the rest of his shift, but it had been an otherwise quiet evening and he had at last gone home, satisfied that nothing much was wrong in his district. He was more than chagrined to discover he had been quite wrong.
It was raining heavily in Calais, just as the radio had predicted. Bethancourt had been on the road for close on three hours and was beginning to feel it; he had missed rue Chevreul and had had to backtrack, but he had still managed to get onto the 3:15 A.M. ferry to Dover, if only just. The seas were heavy, not unusual for the Channel during a storm, but Bethancourt luckily had a strong stomach. He stretched and then lit a cigarette, leaning on the deck railing as the ferry pushed out into the sea, leaving Calais behind.
If Gibbons had not been shot, Bethancourt would likely still have been out at a nightclub at 3:15 A.M., thoroughly enjoying himself and in no way ready for bed. As it was, he felt dull and tired, and knew he was not thinking very clearly anymore. He had been going over in his mind all he knew of Gibbons’s personal life, trying to find anything that could explain the attack on his friend, but he had come up with nothing. Gibbons’s life was very much caught up in his work, the more so since he had had his heart broken last summer. He had not yet recovered sufficiently to be interested in dating, much less any kind of full-blown affair that might lead to jealousy and gunshots.
Bethancourt did not know all of Gibbons’s other friends well, but he could not see any of the younger police detectives or, still less, Gibbons’s old friends from Oxford, resorting to firearms. The other detectives, he concluded, might at least be accused of jealousy, since Gibbons was well ahead of his peers on their chosen career path.
With that absurd thought, he stubbed out his cigarette and abandoned the deck in favor of a comfortable chair inside. He had barely got himself settled, stretching out his legs and leaning his head back,
before he fell fast asleep, worn out with worry and the tedium of the road.
before he fell fast asleep, worn out with worry and the tedium of the road.
Dotty Carmichael had come prepared for a long wait with a paperback romance novel, a pack of cards with which to play Patience if, as seemed likely, the book failed to hold her attention in the current circumstances, and a large thermos flask of tea. She had also brought a cushion from her sofa at home, an acknowledgment that at her age one could not sit for long on institutional chairs without becoming uncomfortable.
She did not anticipate having any difficulty in staying awake, despite the fact that she had not been up much past eleven since the birth of her second grandchild some three years ago, and in fact she did not feel in the least sleepy. She was the more nettled, therefore, to find that Detective Constable Lemmy was fast asleep. Carmichael had left him behind with orders to “see to Mrs. Carmichael,” and Dotty could not help but feel Lemmy was not making much of a job of it. Over the last fortnight, she had heard any number of complaints from her husband about his new constable, and she had kept to herself the opinion that poor Detective Constable Lemmy’s worst fault was to have supplanted the brilliant Sergeant Gibbons as her husband’s assistant. As the night wore on, however, she was rapidly revising this estimation of the constable’s character.
After about an hour, she decided to stretch her legs and find the WC. Lemmy was still asleep, sprawled across the row of chairs opposite her, so she told the uniformed men standing guard where she was going, instructing them to call her if the doctors should reappear. But when she returned, having worked the kink out of her hip, she found everything quiet and a glance at the uniformed men told her there was no news. She sat back down with a sigh, settling herself as comfortably as she could, and wishing that the waiting was over, whatever the outcome.
She poured herself another cup of tea, offering some to the policemen, but they declined, being well supplied with coffee by the nurses. So she dealt herself a hand of Patience, laying the cards out
carefully on the little side table, grateful at least that the waiting room was not crowded with sneezing, coughing people. She had rather expected it would be at this time of year.
carefully on the little side table, grateful at least that the waiting room was not crowded with sneezing, coughing people. She had rather expected it would be at this time of year.
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