Murder Club - Mark Pearson [53]
The man blinked his haunted eyes for a moment or two. ‘I can’t remember anything!’ he said finally.
Dr Lily Crabbe came into the room, followed by a nurse. ‘I am not sure this is the right time to be interrogating him, Sergeant,’ she said, with the kind of voice a teacher might reserve for an unruly child throwing litter in the playground.
‘I’m simply asking some questions, Doctor. A woman did die, you know.’
‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant, I am well aware of that!’
‘It was nothing to do with me,’ said Bible Steve, shaking his head.
‘Nobody is saying it was, Steve.’
‘I want to leave,’ said the homeless man, pulling at the tubes still attached to him.
Dr Crabbe rushed over. ‘Try not to get excited, please. You will hurt yourself.’
‘But I want to leave, I don’t belong here.’
‘You are still a far-from-well man. You need to stay here, so that we can take care of you.’
‘Listen to the doctor, Steve. She’s trying to help,’ said Dave Matthews.
Bible Steve looked up at him angrily. ‘Stop calling me that. Why are you calling me that?’
‘It’s what everybody calls you, Steve. Bible Steve, that’s your name.’
‘Isn’t that your name?’ asked the registrar as Steve’s eyes darted wildly.
‘No,’ he said.
‘What should we call you then?’
Steve screwed his eyes shut. When he opened them there were tears on his cheeks. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
The registrar held out her hand. ‘It’s okay. Really, it’s okay. You have had a blow to the head.’
‘I know he is your patient,’ said Laura Chilvers to Dr Crabbe, speaking for the first time, ‘but he is clearly still in shock. Maybe a mild sedative?’
Dave Matthews turned to the registrar. ‘I’d like to talk to him a little first, if that is okay?’
‘He’s had a head injury. We need to check his consciousness levels before we can sedate him.’
Bible Steve was swivelling his head like an audience member at Wimbledon.
‘Of course,’ said Laura, feeling the colour rise into her cheeks a little. ‘I meant a painkiller.’
‘Who are you? Who are you all?’ Bible Steve cried.
‘I’m Sergeant Dave Matthews,’ said the policeman. ‘Don’t you remember me, Bible?’
‘Don’t call me that! And no I don’t remember you.’ His gaze flicked from person to person, coming to stop as he stared at Laura.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. Laura looked away. ‘Who am I?’ he said in a hoarse whisper.
Geoffrey Hunt sat in the snug that lay just off the kitchen. They called it a snug, a small affectation, but one that amused them. A smallish lounge, but cosy, with an open log fire opposite a comfortable sofa and a wide arched opening to the kitchen beyond. On the left was a pair of leaded-light windows that looked out to the front garden.
There were logs burning in the firedog and the crackle and spit of the flames seemed to add to the festive decorations that bedecked the walls and beams overhead. There were more than a hundred Christmas cards displayed. In the corner stood a small tree: a six-foot-high Norwegian Blue. Patricia always insisted on a Norwegian Blue, as it didn’t shed needles into every nook and cranny, and take a month to clean up after Twelfth Night when it was carried into the garden. Geoffrey usually laughed and made a joke about the old Monty Python sketch featuring a Norwegian Blue parrot, but this year he hadn’t laughed when he made the joke, and neither had his wife. They were saying things to each other but half the time they weren’t really listening. He supposed a lot of old couples got like that. They didn’t really need language to communicate their thoughts, their feelings. In the background the radio was playing some classical Christmas carol. Geoffrey always had the radio on. Hated the television. Always had. Patricia occasionally insisted they watch some programme or other, but it never held his attention. He’d rather listen to his record collection or read a good book. Not that he had done that recently either.
He took out his handkerchief and coughed into it, then coughed again uncontrollably.
Patricia came through from the kitchen where she had been making a hot-drink remedy and waited for him to stop. After