Хилари Боннер - Wheel of Fire

There was a Marks and Spencer up the road, and he was just thinking about buying himself some clothes which fitted, when he spotted two police officers on the corner. He suddenly became convinced that one of them was staring at him. He was, of course, being paranoid, wasn’t he? Surely it was unlikely that any sort of alert would have been put out for him yet. On the other hand, he must look bad enough to attract attention. He had noticed in the mirror in the hospital toilet that his face seemed drained of all colour, and, however hard he tried, he could not help walking with a limp.

He decided to forego the opportunity to buy some new clothes and to get out of Taunton as quickly as he could.

The journey had not been a comfortable one. Every jolt the train made reverberated right through George’s body. From the buffet car he bought a bottle of water and a couple of miniature bottles of whisky with which he washed down the co-codamol. First two of the small white pills, then another two. He read the label. Mostly paracetamol. Just eight grams of codeine. The pills didn’t touch the sides. He took a couple more, and, by the time he reached Paddington, wasn’t entirely sure how many he’d taken. They still didn’t seem to have helped much, though. As he stepped off the train he could feel the stitches in his thigh pulling and a sharp pain darted up and down his leg.

He winced as his feet hit the platform, then he made his way towards the underground still trying, without success, not to limp. He was sweating, even though it was a cool day, and he felt quite faint.

In spite of his continuing efforts not to draw attention to himself, he was sure people were staring at him. He could feel a wetness around the injured area of his leg. He glanced down. To his dismay there was a growing blackish-red patch on the pale blue jeans. His thigh was bleeding again.

As quickly as he could manage, he took the escalator down to the Tube station. He leaned against the wall next to the ticket office for a few seconds, struggling to maintain control and keep calm.

It wasn’t just his physical discomfort and the combined effects of painkillers and alcohol which were causing George Grey to sweat. He was becoming more and more frightened by the minute. He could see no way out of the situation he had found himself in.

‘This wasn’t supposed to happen, nobody was supposed to die,’ he repeated under his breath for the umpteenth time. ‘Nobody was supposed to die.’

He shook his head in a desperate attempt to clear it, before approaching the ticket office, acquiring an Oyster card and putting twenty pounds on it. He didn’t know how long he would be in London, nor how much he would need to use public transport.

He took the District line to Earls Court, then changed onto the Piccadilly line. He alighted at Boston Manor, the nearest Tube station to Brentford, a West London suburb he had only ever visited once before, for much the same purpose as on this occasion. As instructed, he made a call from his new pay-as-you-go phone.

‘I’ve just got out of the Tube,’ he said. ‘I’m calling like you said. Look, I’m not feeling all that hot. Can you come and get me? Or send somebody.’

‘What makes you think I have anyone to send,’ said the voice at the other end of the phone sharply. ‘No. Make your own way to the pub, like we said.’

‘I can’t walk very far,’ said George. ‘I should be in hospital, remember? I’m afraid I might pass out.’

‘Try not to. There’s a taxi office next to the Tube station. Get a cab.’

‘I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I, uh, I think I’m bleeding.’

‘For God’s sake, George,’ said the voice. ‘Get a grip. It’s dark. Don’t be paranoid. As long as you hold yourself together no taxi driver is going to take any notice of you. You’re just a fare.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that—’

The interruption was loud and authoritative. ‘George. Have you got money?’

‘Yes, well, some...’

‘Right, that’s OK then. And you’re soon going to have an awful lot more. Just get in a cab.’

George was beginning to feel increasingly woozier. Nonetheless he wanted that money. He was owed it after all. And he needed reassurance and instructions. He needed to know what he should do next. George Grey had never been very good at making his own decisions in life. Most of the trouble he’d got into over the years had been down to unwisely following the lead of others. Even in severe pain and half out of his head on a cocktail of drugs and alcohol he was starkly aware of that. But, as ever, he was unable to do anything other than acquiesce to someone, almost anyone, stronger than himself.

‘All right,’ he said.

‘Good. Uh, just one thing, George, you are sure you haven’t been followed, aren’t you?’

‘Now you’re being paranoid,’ said George. ‘Of course, I haven’t been followed. The filth wouldn’t even have known I’d left the hospital before I got the London train.’

‘You can never be sure,’ said the voice. ‘Just be careful, George.’

‘I was being careful,’ muttered George into his phone. Then he realised nobody was listening any more.

‘Right, Saslow, I think we’d better interview the Kivels tomorrow, don’t you,’ said Vogel, as they were about to head back to Bristol after leaving Bella Fairbrother at the Mount Somerset.

‘Yes, boss,’ said Saslow.

‘OK, get on to Kenneth Steele and ask someone to find a phone number for them. Arrange a meet for us as early as possible in the morning, will you?’

Saslow winced. She didn’t fancy another early start.

‘Don’t you think we should stay over in the Blackdowns, boss?’ she asked hopefully. ‘I mean, the Wellington incident room will be fully operational by tomorrow. Shouldn’t we be on the spot.’

‘We are on the spot, Dawn, not much more than an hour’s drive away anyway,’ said Vogel.

Depending on the traffic, it could easily be an hour and a half in the holiday season and at peak times considerably more, thought Saslow. It had actually taken an hour and a quarter from Sea Mills that day, and only that because they’d left in the middle of the night. Or it had felt like the middle of night to her anyway. Saslow was not naturally an early riser, and in order to pick Vogel up at whatever time he decreed she had to rise considerably earlier than him. But she said nothing.

‘Anyway, don’t know about you, but I’d rather spend an hour less in my own bed any time than two hours more in a bed in some darned hotel,’ Vogel continued.

‘Yes, boss,’ said Saslow resignedly.

Everybody knew that David Vogel was a devoted family man. His family was even more important to him than the job with which he was also obsessed, something Saslow suspected not to be the case with a number of the gnarled old detectives she had already encountered in her short career. Rumour even had it that Vogel had resigned from his top job as a senior officer with the Met’s prestigious Major Investigation Team, and asked for a transfer to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary, entirely for the sake of his fourteen-year-old daughter Rosamund.

Rosamund, whom Saslow knew Vogel adored, had cerebral palsy. Swimming was her great love, and, Vogel had confided in Saslow, although he rarely spoke about his private life, that when his daughter was swimming she seemed able to forget the limits her condition inflicted on her body and revelled in the freedom of movement the support of water gave her. The otherwise very ordinary and quite small bungalow which was the Vogel home, had one rather extraordinary feature. The previous owner had built a fairly luxurious mini spa, equipped with an endless pool, in the overly large garage, and Rosamund was able to swim whenever she wanted. Vogel would never have been able to afford anything like that in the London area.