Tom Cain - Carver

‘You’ve heard about what happened at Rosconway this morning?’

Fenwick grimaced impatiently. ‘Yes. What of it?’

‘We believe the woman in that room there may be able to give us vital information about who was responsible. The death toll’s over two hundred, in case you hadn’t heard. Hundreds more injured. So if patient welfare is your concern, perhaps you’d like to tell all the people who are sitting in hospitals all over Wales, waiting to discover if the men and women they love are going to be all right, why this woman is so bloody precious. I was at Rosconway, Dr Fenwick. I saw it happen. So please, do me a favour… don’t talk to me about patient welfare.’

It might have been Carver’s oratorial skills that did the trick, or just the intensely intimidating coldness of the gaze he fixed on Fenwick. But in any event, the doctor briefly relented: ‘All right, but make it quick. Now,’ he went on, regaining a little self-confidence and looking right back at Carver, almost daring him to try something, ‘I’m going to observe you. If you are in any way hostile or threatening to this patient — if you so much as raise your voice — I’m ending it, immediately. And I’m her doctor. So I don’t care who you are, or what you’re really up to. As long as you’re in my hospital what I say goes. Got it?’

‘Absolutely. Let’s do it.’

Fenwick opened the door, and led Carver into the room. Deirdre Bull was lying with an arm and a leg in traction. Her head was bandaged. She had an oxygen mask on her face and a drip attached to her right arm. A monitor beside her bed tracked her pulse, blood pressure, temperature and respiration. She looked at them blearily through heavy, barely open lids, spaced out on painkillers that would be making it almost as hard for her to think straight as to move.

Carver’s spirits sank. The woman was even more wrecked than he had feared. But she was the only surviving member of the terrorist gang that anyone had been able to find, so if he couldn’t get anything out of her, there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

Fenwick took up station at the head of Bull’s bed and motioned to Carver to sit in a chair positioned halfway down the mattress. Carver was about to speak, but Fenwick raised a hand to stop him. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said.

Fenwick bent closer to Bull’s head. ‘Hello, Deirdre, there’s a gentleman here who’d like to have a word with you,’ he said, in an unexpectedly gentle voice. ‘You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. But if you do, don’t worry, I’ll be here all the time to make sure you’re all right.’

Bull tried to focus on Carver. ‘Uh… who are you?’ she asked, sounding as though each word was an effort.

‘My name is Andy Jenkins,’ Carver replied, with what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. ‘I work for the Ministry of Defence. I’m not a policeman. I’m not interested in collecting evidence against you. I just want a quiet, private chat — off the record. Do you understand?’

‘Not sure. Why d’you want to chat?’

‘It’s a matter of national security. You’d be helping us keep people safe. And I’m sure you want to help…’

She looked uncertain. ‘Well, yes, suppose so.’

‘Good. Well, then, when they found you this morning, you told the paramedics, “You’ve got to stop the attack”…’

Bull looked at Fenwick for confirmation. ‘Did I?’

‘I believe so,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Carver underlined, wondering when exactly Fenwick had known about a possible attack, and hoping for his sake that it hadn’t been before ten thirty. ‘So were you talking about the attack on Rosconway refinery — the one that happened today?’

‘Dunno…’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

Bull struggled to formulate the words. ‘I’ve never heard that name

… what was it?’

‘Rosconway.’

With more certainty she said: ‘No, I’ve never heard that before.’

‘But you knew there was going to be some kind of attack somewhere?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t know where it was going to be,’ Bull argued, finding it a little easier, now, to talk. ‘All Bryn told us was that the target was a place that was harming Mother Earth.’

‘I see. Who’s Bryn?’

She sounded surprised he didn’t know. ‘Bryn Gryffud, of course. He’s… well, not the leader, because we don’t believe in that kind of hierarchy… but he’s the founder of the Forces of Gaia, our group. It was his farm we were staying at.’

Carver caught Bull’s eye and held it as he said, ‘Did Bryn get you all to fit up a Toyota Hiace camper van with a dozen home-made mortar tubes, firing explosive shells, set on some kind of timer fuse?’

Bull nodded, too ashamed to acknowledge what had happened in actual words, and Carver saw Fenwick frown as he looked at her, the reality of what she’d been involved with starting to sink in.

‘I was there when the mortars went off, Deirdre,’ Carver said. ‘Right there, standing by the van. Couldn’t do anything to stop it. I don’t feel too good about that. Thing is, I saw what those shells did. They killed two hundred people, Deirdre: innocent people, just going about their lives, doing their jobs, loving their families. Did they all die for the sake of the planet?’

She’d been biting her lip as he spoke, trying to retain some self-control. Now her face crumpled, and tears filled her eyes as she sobbed. ‘Oh God… oh God… I worried something bad might happen… I prayed to Gaia because I was worried we were doing the wrong thing. But Bryn sounded so convinced, and I, well, we all, we just believed him, and-’

‘Because he’s a good man. Yeah, I get it.’

‘Where is he? Is he all right?’

Carver shrugged. ‘How should I know? He’s not exactly advertising his whereabouts.’

Bull sniffed, and then muttered, ‘Thanks,’ as Fenwick pulled some tissues from a box by her bed and handed them to her. ‘It’s all that bloody woman’s fault,’ she continued, wide awake now, wiping her face with her working hand. ‘She’s the one who put the idea into Bryn’s head…’

‘What woman?’ asked Carver, frowning.

‘Uschi… Uschi bloody Kremer…’ Bull’s voice rose in intensity, filled with bitterness and pain that had nothing at all to do with her physical wounds. ‘It was so obvious — the men only went along with her because they wanted to get into her knickers.’

The last thing Carver wanted was to be diverted by an angry woman’s sexual jealousy. ‘OK… take it easy. I know you didn’t want anyone to get hurt.’

‘No! I don’t believe in violence! I-’ Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain. ‘My chest hurts so much,’ she whimpered, her eyes filling with tears again as she slumped back against her pillows. ‘Everything hurts…’

Fenwick turned to Carver. ‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t doing her any good at all. If you carry on like this, I’m pulling the plug.’

‘Just give me a minute,’ Carver pleaded. ‘This won’t take long…’ He took a second to gather his wits, then focused on Deirdre Bull once again. ‘I’m sure you’d like a chance to make things better. To try and put things right… as much as they can be put right, obviously.’

She nodded miserably. ‘Yes… please… I never meant to do any harm.’

Carver glanced across at Fenwick, and was relieved to get a nod of approval. ‘All right…’ he continued. ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Malachi Zorn?’

Bull looked puzzled. ‘No… should I?’

‘I don’t know… He’s an American, works as a financier.’

‘Well, no wonder I’ve not heard of him. He’s obviously the kind of man I despise. I don’t want to know about people like that.’