Dick Francis - Under Orders

I looked at my watch. Unbelievably it had been only fifty-five minutes since Rosie had rung me in the sandwich bar. It felt like hours.

I thought about Marina’s parents. I had only met them a few times. They had stayed with us in London last year at Easter, and we had been over to stay with them in Holland during August so Marina could show me where she was brought up. I should give them a call. I ought to let them know that their daughter was fighting for her life. I hoped she was still fighting. But it would have to wait. I didn’t have their number with me and I wasn’t leaving to get it.

Who else should I call?

Perhaps I should tell Charles. I’d welcome his support.

Charles! For God’s sake! If they, whoever ‘they’ might be, were trying to pressurise me into stopping my investigation by shooting Marina, they might try and shoot Charles, too. Marina was shot a little over an hour ago. Lincoln’s Inn Fields to Aynsford takes about an hour and a half by car, maybe less by a traffic-weaving motorbike.

‘I’ve got to make a phone call,’ I said to the policeman. ‘Now! It’s urgent!’

There was a big ‘No Mobile Phones’ sign on the door to the unit.

Too bad, I thought, this is an emergency.

I moved down to the end of the corridor next to the window and switched on my mobile. Come on, come on. SIM not ready.

At last it was and I dialled Charles’s number. Thankfully he answered at the fourth ring.

‘Charles,’ I said, ‘this is Sid. Marina’s been shot and I’m frightened that you might be next. Get out of the house. Take Mrs Cross with you and then call me.’

‘Right, on our way,’ he said. ‘Call you in five minutes.’

Thank goodness for military training. But it was not the first time I’d had to do that and, on the previous occasion, I had been right to warn him. I remembered and, apparently, so had Charles.

I waited near the window and the five minutes seemed to be an eternity.

He called.

‘We’re safely in the car and well away from the house,’ he said. ‘Is Marina…?’ He couldn’t finish.

‘I’m at St Thomas’s Hospital,’ I said. ‘It’s touch and go. She’s in theatre but it’s not too good.’

‘I’ll drop Mrs Cross and then come on.’

‘Thanks, I’d like that.’

‘I think I’ll call my local bobby and get him to watch the house.’

I didn’t think anyone had a local bobby any more.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’m in the Intensive Care Unit waiting for Marina to come out of the operating theatre. It says ICU on the hospital notice boards.’

‘I’ll find it,’ said Charles, and I was sure he would.

I went back to sitting with my shadow.

Where had Marina got to? She should have been here by now. Had something gone wrong with the operation? Was she not coming to Intensive Care because she was already dead? Should I go to the morgue? Oh God, what should I do?

I played things over and over in my mind. I was becoming convinced that she had died. What was I doing, sitting here on a chair next to a policeman?

One of the lifts opened. I jumped up but it wasn’t Marina. It was Superintendent Aldridge and Rosie. The poor girl looked about half her normal tiny self and absolutely exhausted.

‘I’ve spoken to the hospital,’ the Super said to me. ‘Miss Meer is still in surgery but she should be coming here shortly. I was told to tell you that nothing’s changed.’

I was hugely relieved.

My shadow had stood up on the arrival of his boss, and Aldridge sat down next to me on one side with Rosie on the other.

‘Now, Mr Halley, I know all about you.’

I looked at him quizzically.

‘There’s not a copper alive who doesn’t, not a detective anyway.’

I wasn’t sure whether it was flattery or not. Every detective also knew all about the Kray twins.

‘So?’ I said.

‘Was this shooting of Miss Meer anything to do with your investigations?’

I knew it was a question I would be asked. But I hadn’t expected it to be asked quite so soon.

I was saved from the immediate need to answer by the appearance through the door of another dishcloth-wearing medic.

‘Mr Halley?’ he asked.

I stood up. My heart was thumping in my chest.

‘My name’s Mr Pandita,’ he said. ‘I’ve been operating on the lady with the bullet wound in her leg.’

‘Marina van der Meer,’ I said.

‘Quite so,’ he replied. ‘She’s now been transferred here.’ He cocked his thumb towards the double doors behind him.

‘How is she?’ I asked.

‘The operation went well. Now it’s a matter of time.’

‘What chances are we looking at?’ asked the Superintendent.

‘Reasonable,’ said Mr Pandita.

‘How reasonable?’ I asked.

‘She’s a fit young girl and obviously a fighter, otherwise she would have died in A amp; E, or even before. I give her a better than fifty-fifty chance. I don’t think there will be any brain damage.’

Brain damage!

‘Why would there be?’ I asked numbly.

‘If there was a lack of oxygen to the brain for more than a few minutes,’ he said, ‘then there would be damage. Even though her body was very short of blood for a while, her heart didn’t stop at any stage so she should be all right in that department. But her heart must have been pumping next to nothing round her so there’s always a risk.’

‘Can I see her?’ I asked.

‘Not just yet,’ he said. ‘The nursing staff are with her, making her comfortable and setting up all the monitoring equipment. Soon. But she’ll be asleep. We’ve given her a sedative to keep her blood pressure low. I’ll tell the staff you’re here and they’ll come and get you when they’re ready.’

I nodded. ‘Thank you.’

He disappeared back through the door and I sat down.

I looked again at my watch. It was only three thirty. How could time pass so slowly?

‘Where were we?’ said Superintendent Aldridge. ‘Ah, yes, did this shooting have anything to do with any of your investigations?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I am presuming this wasn’t a random shooting,’ he said, ‘and that Miss Meer was specifically targeted by the gunman.’

‘But he would have had to wait there for ages,’ I said. ‘It was only by chance that Marina came out when she did.’

‘Assassins can wait for days or weeks to get a single opportunity if they are determined enough,’ he said.

And, I thought, if it was the same person who had attacked Marina in Ebury Street, he had had to wait for her then, too.

‘So, I ask again,’ he said, ‘do you think this has anything to do with your investigations?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘If you mean do I know who did this, then the answer’s no. If I did, I’d tell you, you can be sure of that.’

‘Do you have any suspicions?’

‘I always have suspicions,’ I said, ‘but they’re not based on anything solid. They’re not actually based on anything at all.’

‘Anything you say might be useful,’ he said.

‘Do you remember the jockey who was murdered at Cheltenham races two weeks ago?’

‘I remember that horse — Oven Cleaner — died,’ he said. ‘Now, that was a shame.’

‘Yes, well, a jockey was murdered on the same day. Then a racehorse trainer appeared to kill himself. Everyone, and especially the police, seem to think he committed suicide because he’d murdered the jockey.’

‘So?’ he said.

‘I believe the trainer was in fact murdered by the same man who killed the jockey and that it was made to look like suicide so that the police file on the jockey’s death would be conveniently closed. And I’ve been saying so loudly and often for the last ten days to anyone who’ll listen.’