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‘No, I’m fine, thanks, Mum.’
‘Well, eat some fruit – it will do you more good than any of the medication they’re giving you in here. You’re so pale, I worry about you. You need lots of vitamins and anti-oxidants.’
When she had gone, Miranda slid into sleep and the old dream about Tom and the sea and the angel of death. She had endured it so often, yet it was always as frightening; her own emotions as powerful as the rush and violence of the dark green waters.
She woke up with a start to find the ward in silence. All the visitors had gone; the other women lay in their beds, staring at her in a strange way.
The woman next to her, Joan Patterson, leaned over and said, ‘Having a nightmare, weren’t you, dear?’ She had made up carefully before visiting time; the yellow foundation and bright red lipstick looked bizarre on a woman lying in bed, in a hospital-issue nightdress, made her clownish, ridiculous, but her face was serious and concerned.
‘What?’
‘You were making pretty scary noises. Sounded as if you were crying in your sleep.’
Desperately embarrassed, Miranda flushed, knowing all the other women were listening, but somehow forcing a smile. ‘I must have been dreaming about hospital food.’
Mrs Patterson laughed obligingly. ‘Ugh . . . don’t even talk about it! I hope to God we don’t have that stew again, it was disgusting. I’d swear it was dog meat.’
The others all joined in, then, with comments of their own about the food they were given, making it possible for Miranda to shut her eyes again. She would give anything to go home soon, she hated living in public, cheek by jowl with strangers, who could watch her when she was in pain or dreaming or even just thinking. There was no privacy in here. Even if you had treatment and the curtains were drawn the others could all hear what was going on.
Sergeant Neil Maddrell slowed down as he drove through the gates of Blue Gables, Terry Finnigan’s big house in Sussex, ten miles from Horsham.
He gave a low whistle. ‘Not bad! A bit flash for my taste, but spacious and the gardens are gorgeous.’
Detective Constable Haddon made a face. ‘Bet he had it built – it doesn’t look that old. It must have cost a fortune, too. He could have bought an Elizabethan mansion for what this must have cost him.’
‘Some people prefer new houses.’
‘Some people have no taste. If I was as rich as Finnigan I’d buy something old.’
They parked on the gravelled terrace outside the front door. A girl in a dark blue dress with white cuffs and collar opened the door and invited them inside.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘We rang to tell Mr Finnigan that we would be coming.’
‘Please wait here, I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.’
Jim Haddon walked around, inspecting the gilt-framed sporting prints hanging on the wall. ‘Bought down Hoxton Market,’ he muttered.
‘No, actually I got them from Sotheby’s, they’re the real thing,’ Terry Finnigan said behind him.
Jim Haddon went red, mumbling, ‘Oh . . . sorry . . . I’m no art expert.’
‘They’re boxing prints over here. Very early ones. Worth quite a bit.’
The three men solemnly inspected the four prints of naked-chested men squaring up to each other in pairs.
‘No gloves, notice,’ Terry said. ‘In the eighteenth century fighters didn’t wear them. They fought bare-knuckled, and there were often nasty injuries to the face, which was why boxing was banned at times.’
Neil pointedly glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry to hurry you, Mr Finnigan, but we have to get back to town by six. Can we talk somewhere private? Is your son here?’
Terry’s face stiffened. ‘Yes, come into my office. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, or something stronger?’
‘Tea would be nice, thank you.’
Sean was standing by the window in the square room they went into. He turned to nod coolly.
‘Sit down, officers,’ Terry said, gave his son a look. ‘And you, Sean.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Ellen? Tea for four, in my office.’
