Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

The lift was full of people. They all seemed to be going to the ground floor; Mary thought she might as well go there too. She wandered round the foyer for a bit, looking at all the fortunate people who could go out into the street at will without getting permission or signing forms, and then saw a Costa café outlet; it looked rather cheerful and normal, and she was tempted to go in, but there really wasn’t anything she wanted. She decided to go back to the lift, and on her way, she passed a sign to ICU; she knew what that meant: intensive care. Presumably that was where the lorry driver lay, poor man. As she stood there, looking down the corridor, a young woman, clearly absolutely exhausted, walked towards her, her eyes blank and unseeing, and then passed on and into the café, where she sat down at one of the tables, slumped over her handbag.

Without stopping to think, Mary followed her and sat down opposite her.

“Hello,” she said, and smiled at her encouragingly. “You can tell me to go away if you want, but you look to me as if you could do with some company.”

The woman stared at her, then shook her head.

“Can I get you a cup of tea then?”

“No… that is… well, yes. Thank you. Good and strong. With sugar.”

She was obviously far too exhausted and distressed to wonder why a strange old lady in a dressing gown might be bothering with her; Mary went over to the counter, paid for the cup of water and tea bag, and carried it over to the table, together with several minicartons of milk and packs of sugar.

“There you are. I should leave the bag in for a bit longer.”

“Thank you for that. I will.” She looked at Mary, then managed a very faint smile. “Are you a patient here, then?”

“I am indeed. Only until the end of the week, thank God. Then I’m going home.”

“Well, you’re a lucky woman.” She had an Irish accent and was young and rather pretty, Mary thought, in spite of the exhaustion… She dunked the tea bag up and down in the cup, then fished it out and added the milk. “That’s great. Thank you.”

“That’s all right. You look terribly tired.”

“I am. I feel I’ve been here forever. My… my husband’s in intensive care.”

“Oh, how terribly worrying for you. Has he had surgery?”

“He has indeed. A great deal. But that’s only the beginning.” And she started to cry then looked back at Mary and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mary, rummaging in her dressing gown pocket for a tissue. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Mr. Fraser? Sergeant Freeman, CIU. And this is Constable Rowe.”

“How do you do?” said Barney. “Come into the sitting room. This is my fiancée, Amanda Baring.”

“How do you do, Sergeant,” said Amanda. “I was wondering… is there any reason why I shouldn’t sit in on the interview? I wasn’t there, of course. But I thought it would be nicer for Barney if I was with him while you talk to him. I promise not to interrupt or anything, but…”

She smiled at Sergeant Freeman, who smiled slightly foolishly back.

“That’s perfectly all right,” he said, “if that’s what you want.”

“It is. Thank you. Now, can I get you a cup of tea?”

“That would be very welcome,” said Sergeant Freeman.

“Certainly would,” said Constable Rowe.

They were an odd pair, Barney thought; Freeman was thin, almost gaunt, while Rowe was plump and rosy, and looked like an Enid Bly-ton policeman. They settled side by side on the sofa, and Freeman took out a large pad of paper and a pencil. Barney half expected him to lick it…

“Before we start, sir, how is Mr. Weston?” Freeman asked.

“Not very well, I’m afraid. A bit better in himself today, but his leg was very badly mashed up.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. Now, I realise he was driving, but it’s your recollection, interpretation of events that’s important…”

They began with the basics: name, address, profession, when and why he had been on the M4 that afternoon.

“The wedding was at four thirty, which would mean that by leaving when you did, you were cutting things a bit fine.”

“Yes, it was rather… late,” said Barney.

“Any particular reason?”

“Er… yes. Mr. Weston was… was unwell. He had a stomach upset.”

“Would that be a euphemism for a hangover, sir? Forgive the assumption, but-”

“No,” said Barney firmly. “He did have a few drinks the night before, but I do assure you, as we didn’t leave until around lunchtime the following day, he would have been absolutely fine. No, he was extremely sick several times during the morning.”

“And could you tell us exactly how much he drank, sir? Very important, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

Barney fought down his irritation; he really hadn’t expected this. “I suppose… maybe half a bottle of wine with dinner, certainly no more-and a couple of glasses of whisky afterwards.”

“Were you also drinking, sir?”

“Well, yes.”

“So what else did you do in the evening? After dinner?”

“Oh… we swam in the pool. Talked. Played some music.”

“Now, let’s get on to the journey. Why did you choose the M4 route?”

“The other way involves endless back roads and narrow lanes, and we needed to get some petrol. We thought it would be easier to go to the service station, fill up there. The tank was practically dry.”

“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I’d have thought that would be part of the best man’s duties to get that sort of thing done in good time.”

“Well, I assumed Toby would have done it. He’d been at the house all the day before,” said Barney. He felt edgy suddenly and under threat. “But I should have checked; you’re right. Er… is that really relevant?”

“Probably not, sir, no. Now… his parents, as I understand it, were at the house? When did they leave?”

“Oh… about ten thirty. They were having lunch with friends in Marlborough.”

“Weren’t they worried about their son’s condition?”

“We… managed to keep it from them. They would have been very worried.”

“I see. And when you left the house, who was driving the car?”

“I was.”

“So… you stopped at the service station and filled up the tank. Did anything of note happen on your way there?”

“Yes, we were stopped by the police.”

“For speeding?”

“Yes. And, of course, that made us later. Much later.”

“Presumably you were Breathalyzed then, sir?”

“Yes, of course.” He was beginning to feel beleaguered. “And it was absolutely fine.”

“Right. Well, we can check on that, of course. May I ask what speed you were travelling when you were stopped?”

“Er… ninety-eight,” said Barney with an apologetic look at Amanda.

“A little over the speed limit, sir. Well, we don’t need to waste time on that now.” He made a separate note. “And then you proceeded on your way? To the service station?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And… you filled up with fuel. Anything else?”

This was it. No need to mention it, though. Completely irrelevant. Red herring.

“No, nothing else.”

“You didn’t need oil, or windscreen wash?”

“No, we didn’t. And then we went on our way.”

“And were you still driving?”

“Well… no,” said Barney. “Toby took over.”

“Why was that?”

“He just wanted to. I think he felt less stressed if he was behind the wheel.”

“I see. And presumably you were going more slowly by then.”

“Yes, of course. No more than seventy-five, eighty, max.”

“Right. So… were you aware of any other cars at this point, or indeed earlier, driving erratically ahead, overtaking you…?”