Keith Ridgway - Hawthorn & Child

— I was shot.

One of the nurses laughed.

— Do you know who shot you?

They were moving around him faster now, taping things to his arms, cleaning, wiping patches of his skin with pads and cloths. A nurse was cutting away his underpants. On his hips there was padding, bandages, a hand holding things in place. There was a smell of sweat and blood and piss. They covered his lower body with a sort of paper sheet.

— A car. Shot me.

— What kind of car?

— Old car.

His voice was full of hard breathing but it was clear. His hair was damp. One of his eyes was bloodshot. His skin was a horrible white. There was a dark bruise coming up on his left shoulder. He looked around them, around their heads and at the ceiling behind them. Then his eyes fixed on Hawthorn’s eyes and stayed there.

— Daniel? What do you mean old? Like an old banger?

— No. Old-fashioned.

He looked at Hawthorn. As if he thought it was Hawthorn who was talking to him.

— Do you mean a vintage car?

— Vintage. Yeah. OK. Came along. Side me.

— Did you see who was driving?

— No.

— Did you see anyone in the car?

— No.

They took the brakes off the trolley.

— That’s all I’m afraid. We have to get him to surgery. Right now.

— What colour was it, Daniel?

— Dark. Black or … dark. Sideboards. Not sideboards. At the side …

— Running boards?

— Running boards.

They began to move him. He looked straight up. At the ceiling and the lights.

— A beautiful old car came out of nowhere and shot me.

Hawthorn called in. Frank Lenton was running the office.

— A vintage car?

— With running boards. Dark. Possibly black. Dark, anyway.

— Number plate?

— No.

— Model?

— No.

— A black vintage car with running boards.

— There can’t be very many driving around at 5 a.m. on a Monday morning, Frank. Don’t sound so glum.

They had the place to themselves. Child had put on a pair of latex gloves. He opened the wallet that sat beside the clothes. Hawthorn held the phone out towards him.

— Credit card, Daniel Field. F-I-E-L-D. Debit card. Work photo ID. IFM Banking. City. 38 Cellar Street. Echo charlie 3. 4 yankee delta. Oyster card. Nectar card. Tesco Club card. Virgin Active gym card. Boots card. Café Out loyalty card. Tea Smith loyalty card. Two twenty-pound notes and one ten. Three first-class stamps. Business cards, various, blah blah, not his. No driver’s licence. No address.

There was silence on the phone. Hawthorn put it on speaker and set it down on the table. Child was going through the clothes, shaking his head. Charcoal suit, white shirt, tie, light raincoat, black shoes.

— There’s no phone here.

— No phone, Frank.

There was a pause, then a crackle.

— There’s one at the scene.

— Whose scene?

— Rivers is on his way. Lowry and Clarke are there now. Give me one of the numbers. The credit card.

Hawthorn leaned over the card and called out the numbers.

— Is he dead then?

— He’s gone to surgery.

— Right. Daniel Field. 16 Nestor Lane, N-E-S-T-O-R. L-A-N-E. November 4, 4 echo alpha. D.O.B. twenty-eight, nine, nineteen eighty-seven.

Hawthorn wrote. A nurse came back into the room.

— Where do you want us, Frank?

— No idea. Hang on.

The nurse started cleaning up. She ignored them. Child looked at her.

— Will he make it?

She shook her head.

— Don’t know. Depends what they find in him. How much blood he lost.

Hawthorn picked up his phone, took it off speaker, held it to his ear.

— Looked like he lost a lot.

— Nah. Internal bleeding will kill him, you know? But maybe. From the way he was talking, moving, that’s a good sign. He was not very weak.

Frank crackled back in his ear.

— You were at the … Mishazzo thing. You on that?

— Yeah.

— Hang on.

— How long will he be in there?

— I don’t know. A long time probably.

He looked at her hands.

— OK, Mishazzo is covered, said Frank. You stay there. Wait to hear from Rivers.

They went looking for the paramedics who had brought him in. They were mopping out the back of the ambulance.

— Did he say anything?

— He said ‘What the fuck happened?’ a couple of times. He kept on saying ‘I’ve been shot’ like he couldn’t believe it. And he mentioned a car.

— Did he say what kind of car?

— No. I asked ‘Who shot you?’ and he said ‘A car’.

— Nothing else?

— Nope.

— Do you think he’ll make it?

— Nope.

They went to the hospital café. It was too early apparently for anything hot to eat. They had cling-filmed sandwiches and risked the coffee. They sat against a wall, side by side, Child between tables with his legs crossed. He cleaned his glasses and watched Hawthorn.

— Sandwich is yesterday’s. Dry.

— Try the coffee.

Hawthorn tried the coffee.

— It’s all right.

Child took a sip and made a face.

— Café Out, he said.

— Yeah.

— Is that a gay thing?

— Yeah.

— So he’s gay?

— It’s a café. They do nice cakes. I wouldn’t assume.

— Well, did that look like gay cock to you?

Hawthorn looked at Child seriously for a moment, and said nothing. Child chewed and looked back.

— Who drives vintage cars? he asked, firing crumbs at the air. I’ll tell you who. Creepy old queens in cravats. Living in creepy old mansions in Hampstead. You know, with the dungeon.

Hawthorn smiled.

— Young Daniel’s broken someone’s heart, said Child.

— The dungeon?

— The dungeon.

Hawthorn shook his head.

They watched a man wipe tables. He wore his hair in a net.

— When he wakes up, Hawthorn said. He watched himself use his fork for emphasis. If he wakes up. We need to get a better description. We need to get an artist in. Do we have a car artist?

Child laughed.

— Do we have a car artist?

— Yeah.

— I don’t know. We’ll find that out. Tell Rivers we need a car artist.

Hawthorn yawned and his eyes filled up. He stopped. Stared at the table. He carefully closed his eyes. Opened them again. It was just the yawn. He thought. After a moment. He blinked a couple of times. Cleared his throat. Sipped the coffee. Child was talking.

— Rolls Royce Silver Shadow. An actor or something. Sixties pop star. I should have had juice. I feel like a bag of shit. You need to watch that eye rubbing thing. You already look like someone’s poked you with a pair of fingers. I want a bed. You think they have empty beds here somewhere? Unlikely, isn’t it? Unlikely.

*

Hawthorn called John Lowry.

— Do you have his phone?

— Yeah. What’s all this about a vintage car?

— Vintage car. It’s what he said. Old car. With running boards. Pulled up beside him. Shot him. That’s all he knows.

— Is he sober?

— He’s a banker. On his way to work. What’s it look like there?

Child was at the counter negotiating free coffee refills. Hawthorn watched him.

— Useless. It’s towards the end of the road, where it meets the main road. He’s been walking on the footpath, left hand side of the road, coming up to the crossroads, he’s passed the parked cars, into the clearway. There’s a bullet in the wall, they’re getting that now. Very small calibre, looks like. So we have … at least two shots. We have ear witnesses going up to five, but you know what that’s like. No eyes. He’s left a shoulder bag, with a computer and stuff in it. So, it’s no robbery. He’s dropped the phone as he fell, either out of his hand or his pocket. No weapon, no shell cases. Cold road. Looks light to me, apart from the bullet. A banker?