The deadliest legacy, p.21
The Deadliest Legacy, page 21
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure it will,’ Jenny called back over her shoulder. She was already half out of the hotel.
Bob liked her. And respected her. Jenny knew that. She couldn’t believe what she was doing. Lying to an employer who had always treated her well. Abandoning her post. And, of course, what she had already done was even worse. She was complicit in two attempts on Delia Day’s life. Isn’t that what the police would say? She ran to her car, tears trickling down her cheeks. She felt like scum. She was a wreck.
However, she had no intention of going home. She was going to see the person who had landed her in this mess. The person she had been beholden to for so long, and who had always made her very aware of that. The person who had told her coldly when asking her to deliver those notes that it was payback time. The person she now believed might be responsible for those attacks on Delia. And she was going to confront that person.
The thought occurred to her that this could be a dangerous course of action. She didn’t care. Jenny was quite religious in her way. A Baptist. She didn’t go to church every week, or anything like that, but she believed in God and considered herself a Christian. She always tried to live a Christian life and believed totally in the concept of sin. She now almost welcomed retribution. The person she was going to see was not going to get away with what they had done. Not if Jenny had anything to do with it. And whatever the consequences might be for her, well, she deserved everything she got.
But gradually it became apparent to Jenny, as she approached Bideford, that she was going to have problems completing her short journey. Something was very wrong indeed. There was a strong military presence. She found herself in an unexpected traffic jam. It seemed that the road ahead which led to her destination was blocked.
She switched her car radio from the music channel she usually listened to on to the local news station. Her timing could not have been more apt. A special news bulletin covering the press conference at Bideford Police Station was just beginning.
As she listened, Jenny grew more and more distraught. James Harding had been murdered, she learned. And by an exotic deadly toxin, traces of which could still be a public risk. Much of the district was trapped in a kind of siege situation. The two attempts on Delia’s life were mentioned. As were the notes Jenny had delivered. And they were both highly threatening, as she had come to suspect.
Jenny was horrified. She could have unwittingly played a part in all of it. Even James Harding’s death and the use of the deadly toxin.
She had to confess; she had to tell the authorities everything she knew. She no longer intended to even try to reach the person who had forced her to deliver those notes to Delia.
She was going to the police. As soon as this traffic jam moved, she would drive to Bideford Police Station which was, she had heard on the radio, the headquarters of the entire investigation. And she would tell them everything.
She had to. Whatever the consequences.
The Tucker twins knew nothing of any events beyond James Harding’s death and Delia Day having fallen from Appledore Quay until they too tuned in, by chance, to news reports of what was regarded as a quite sensational press conference, on the TV in their Airbnb.
The twins were a little late on parade as the shock of all that had happened the previous afternoon had led to them consuming even more cannabis and whisky than they would on a normal night. Theirs had been a slow start, and they had decided not to bother with the late-morning panel at the festival for which they had already bought tickets. It was not of particular interest to them. Indeed, nothing was of particular interest to Tilly and Tina unless it featured Delia Day. Neither had they yet bothered to look at their phones. They didn’t even know that the festival had been suspended.
They watched the coverage of the press conference in total horror. They had previously told themselves that Delia’s fall must have been an accident. Any other possibility had been unthinkable to them. Also that James Harding’s death was not in any way connected.
Now they had learned that there had been two attempts on Delia’s life, that James Harding had been murdered – by a deadly toxin derived from a killer Colombian frog – and that all three violent incidents could well be linked. Also that their beloved Delia was probably still in great danger.
‘We have to go to her,’ said Tilly.
‘Yes.’
‘We have to tell her now, we must,’ said Tilly.
‘I told you we should have told her, before,’ said Tina.
‘No, you didn’t. I told you that,’ said Tilly.
‘You didn’t.’
‘I did,’
‘It was me.’
‘No, it was me.’
‘Look, we mustn’t quarrel.’
‘We never quarrel.’
‘We’re quarrelling now.’
‘No, we’re not.’
‘Yes, we are.’
There was a pause.
Tilly spoke first.
‘All right, look, all that matters is what we should do now.’
‘I agree with that,’ said Tina.
‘We both agree on that.’
‘Yes.’
‘So let’s go to her.’
They were still in their pyjamas.
‘We need to start getting ready,’ said Tina.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Tilly.
She was looking at her phone.
‘I’ve just googled, there’s only one big hospital around here – the North Devon District Hospital in Barnstaple,’ she said.
‘She’s probably in intensive care, though,’ said Tilly. ‘And she’s under police protection. They won’t let us see her, surely.’
‘Well, we can try.’
‘All right, let’s try.’
‘As soon as we’re ready, let’s call for a taxi and go to the hospital. That has to be the right thing to do.’
‘Oh, yes, it has to be the right thing to do.’
Less than an hour after the press conference finished, Vogel felt his phone vibrate in his pocket again. The caller was DC Perkins. He had just arrived at the N.D.D.H to relieve Docherty on guard duty. And he’d walked straight into a crisis.
‘Boss, Delia’s much better. Her blood pressure, oxygen level and temperature are all normal. They want her out of ICU now, and they want to send her home. She wants to go back to the Imperial.’
‘For God’s sake, Perkins, only six hours or so ago, they behaved as if they thought she was still at death’s door and sent us packing!’
‘Yes, boss, but they say she’s recovering better than expected and is out of danger, and don’t forget the hospital has just been put on alert for a major incident.’
‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ muttered Vogel grudgingly. ‘But she certainly can’t return to the Imperial. I thought the plan was to move her into a general ward after ICU.’
‘They don’t have any beds, apparently. You know the state hospitals are in at the moment. Even without the major incident.’
‘OK, OK, have you told them Delia is a special case, that she could still be in grave danger of attack – almost certainly is, in fact – and they really must keep her until we have sorted something out.’
‘Yes, boss, the doctor I’ve been dealing with is called Garvey, and I understand you had a bit of a run-in with him this morning. When I said he really mustn’t discharge Delia until I’d at least reported back to you, he said, “I don’t take orders from DCI Vogel, even though he seems to think I do. In this hospital, I give the orders.” He just won’t listen to reason.’
‘That sounds like him all right,’ said Vogel glumly. ‘Look, every Tom, Dick and Harry will know Delia’s been staying at the Imperial, including whoever attacked her and the entire great British press corps, I should imagine. We haven’t done a very good job of protecting her in hospital; it would be considerably more difficult in a hotel. We have to find an alternative. We could put her in a car back to her home in London, but whatever Garvey says, from what I’ve seen of her, she wouldn’t be up to the journey, and I need to talk to her properly before she leaves our patch. Stall as much as you can. We need to go over this idiot doctor’s head. Don’t worry, Perkins, I’ll sort this out somehow, and get back to you soonest. But if necessary, keep Delia in a bloody corridor. Do not let her out of that hospital until we’ve organized somewhere for her to go.’
‘Right, boss,’ said Perkins. He really was a stalwart, thought Vogel.
The DCI quickly explained the situation to Clarke and asked her if she would approach the hospital at the highest level. She was extremely good at that sort of thing. Always knew somebody at the top, and always seemed to get her own way. Arguably, her greatest talent, thought Vogel.
Clarke started making calls immediately. Vogel thought she was rather enjoying herself.
He turned to Saslow, who had overheard both his half of the phone conversation with Perkins and his subsequent conversation with Clarke.
‘We need to move Delia somewhere we can protect her, Saslow, and quickly,’ he said.
‘Yes, boss, what about another hotel, somewhere a bit smaller and more discreet?’ queried Saslow.
‘Wouldn’t do,’ responded Vogel. ‘She’s too readily recognized, and once the press we’ve just been talking to have done their damnedest all over every possible form of media, if anybody gets even the smallest glimpse of her, it’ll spread like wildfire. She’s bound to be spotted in a hotel.’
‘A safe house then, boss?’ Saslow suggested.
‘A safe house?’ repeated Vogel. ‘This isn’t Moscow in the 1960s, Saslow. And you and I aren’t Burgess and Mclean. This is Bideford in 2023. And we’re a pair of English coppers.’
Saslow giggled.
‘Yes, boss, sorry, boss,’ she said. ‘What about an Airbnb, then?’
‘Still too public. Delia would still be likely to be recognized, wouldn’t she?’
‘Not if we get a self-contained flat or a studio,’ countered Saslow. ‘I could book it and arrange payment and pick up the keys and all that sort of thing. We just have to take her in discreetly.’
‘All right, Saslow, that could work. Well done. Do you think you’ll be able to find somewhere for tonight?’
‘You often can, boss.’
‘OK. Get on to it, will you?’
‘Straight away.’
‘Good. And I’ll let Perkins know. We’ll keep him on nursemaid duty for as long as possible, I think. Just one last thing, Saslow …’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Good luck with the “discreetly”.’
TWENTY-TWO
Within the hour, Delia Day was moved into a side ward. Dr Garvey, who had been so curt with Vogel, and who she didn’t think was her greatest fan either, was nowhere to be seen.
Perkins, whom she now called ‘Shadow’, but not really in a derisory way as she had taken quite a shine to him, hadn’t moved from her side since coming on duty, and was still there, sitting very upright in a rather uncomfortable-looking chair.
‘Well, that was quick,’ she commented.
Delia had been well aware of the kerfuffle about what to do with her. Dr Garvey had a very loud voice which he seemed to use at full volume most of the time. Not ideal for a doctor, Delia thought, but she had rather enjoyed the cabaret.
Garvey had also shouted earlier at Perkins, who seemed to be an unflappable sort of chap, a quality Delia rather admired. Perkins had taken it on the chin and refused to budge, or allow Garvey to budge, until he had spoken to his superior officer.
And the superior officer – Vogel, she assumed, as she didn’t yet know about Detective Chief Superintendent Clarke’s involvement in anything – had not messed about. Obviously. It appeared that there would be no further suggestion of her being asked to leave the hospital until she could be relocated to somewhere the police felt she would be safe and where they could continue to protect her.
Delia hadn’t protested the way she normally would have done. What had happened to her over the last twenty-four hours or so was, after all, totally abnormal. She had at first convinced herself that her fall must have been accidental, but there was nothing remotely accidental about being half smothered by a pillow. Whilst lying in a hospital bed, too. That had been exceptionally disconcerting. Nonetheless, she was still undecided about whether or not she would comply with what Perkins had told her was now the police plan – that she should be moved to some Airbnb of yet-to-be-revealed quality. Or no quality at all, she feared. Or whether she would do her own thing, as she usually did, and get Michael to drive her back to her comfortable accommodation at the Imperial. With excellent room service.
She was still pondering this when her phone, which had been in her bag and had somewhat miraculously survived her fall, bleeped. It had run out of juice whilst she’d been in ICU, but, after Perkins found a charger, was now signalling its return to life. It then bleeped again, and several more times, indicating that she had received a number of news alerts.
Idly, she reached for the phone, put on her purple-framed glasses and began to read.
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
‘Top scriptwriter killed by lethal poison dart frog.’ ‘Delia Day in murder riddle – is she too in danger from killer frog?’ ‘North Devon holiday hotspots closed down.’ ‘Devon in the grip of a terror attack?’ ‘One death already – when will the poison frog strike again?’ ‘North Devon in poison panic – is this Salisbury all over again?’
The headlines and slogans leapt at her off the screen.
There were numerous pictures of the poison dart frog, one captioned: ‘He may look pretty, he may seem harmless – but is this the most dangerous creature on earth?’
There were also pictures of quite sinister-looking military men and women clad in camouflage gear and full PPE, including futuristic breathing apparatus, swarming all over Appledore.
‘They look like invaders from outer space – but they’re only here to help,’ read one extended caption.
Delia dropped her phone as if it was too hot to handle. Which, metaphorically speaking, she rather thought it was.
‘For God’s sake, DC Perkins,’ she cried. ‘Poison frogs, terror attack, invaders from outer space, Delia Day in murder riddle? What the fuck is going on?’
Perkins coloured slightly.
‘I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to you about it, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Do you not, my dear boy?’ enquired Delia, her voice dangerously gentle. ‘Well, it’s quite simple. Either you talk, starting right now, or I get up out of this bed and walk straight out of this hospital, and the only way you would be able to stop me would be by using physical force. Which would be police brutality. Or it would be by the time I’d finished with you. So it’s up to you, DC Perkins. Talk or I walk. And you can explain that to your boss.’
Perkins talked.
Meanwhile, Saslow had arranged to rent a studio flat in nearby Braunton for three nights. She picked up the keys and drove there to check the place out.
The little studio was perfectly acceptable, although not, Saslow thought, anything like the standard of accommodation Delia was accustomed to. But at least there seemed to be a fairly good chance that she would not be attacked again whilst staying there.
It fitted certain non-negotiable criteria. It had its own front door, albeit accessed through a communal hall, and the landlord did not live on the premises. Once safely installed, Delia would be reasonably hidden away from the world and hopefully not bothered by any unexpected callers.
Perkins called to say that Delia had asked if some fresh clothes could be brought to her from the Imperial. Everything she’d been wearing had been pretty much ruined by her fall to the muddy riverbed, and she was still clad in only a hospital gown. She wanted her laptop, too, of course, her hair-wand, some nightwear and her makeup bag. He also said he thought he’d got her on board concerning the move to Braunton, which would be one hell of an achievement in Saslow’s opinion. In fact, Perkins still wasn’t sure about that. And Delia, perhaps significantly, hadn’t asked for all her luggage to be brought to her. It seemed she remained under the impression that she would be returning to the Imperial at some stage. The way things were going, Saslow didn’t think that was very likely.
Saslow called Vogel, who cleared it with the hotel manager for Saslow to be let into Delia’s room. The DCI also instructed his sergeant to have a good dig around whilst she was there. Saslow couldn’t imagine what she might find that would be relevant to the case. Surely nothing that might incriminate Delia. There could be no doubt now, could there, that she, just as much as James Harding, was a victim of the extraordinary scenario that Devon and Cornwall Police, aided and abetted by a substantial contingent of the British army, were now faced with.
Saslow was rather more anxious about what she was likely to find in Delia’s wardrobe that wouldn’t at once scream out to the world that this was Delia Day. Something inconspicuous they could ask her to wear if she did agree to be moved to Braunton.
To her relief, she quickly came across a plain dark-grey tracksuit – with a hood, which was a real bonus. In its pocket, there was a black beanie. And a pair of black gloves. And there were three pairs of trainers lined up behind the door – two pairs were purple and black with silver and white flashes, the Delia Day trademark. But the third pair was plain black with just a single white streak along each side.
The tracksuit, its accessories and the black trainers would do nicely, thought Saslow. You couldn’t get anything much more inconspicuous. Fleetingly, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, Delia occasionally dressed in this ordinary and anonymous outfit in order to slip out into the world unnoticed. And if so, she couldn’t help wondering, what would her motives be? Was she like the late Princess Diana and just wanted to occasionally go incognito in a crowd? To be a nobody for a few hours. Surely even Delia Day might enjoy a rest from being recognized sometimes.
Or did these clothes indicate something more sinister? Possibly something connected with the murder and mayhem which had just struck North Devon with a vengeance.
