“I did once hear that three young bullies – or should I say, little thugs – gave him a beating in the playground, over something and nothing. He exacted his revenge in a variety of ways. He wasn’t a violent child, gentlemen. No, he wouldn’t lay a finger on anyone. Didn’t like fighting. He always said: ‘You could solve anything by talking.’ So, he set a number of puzzles, and ran them all over town for no reward whatsoever, just for the sake of seeing those young men frustrated. To my knowledge, they never found out who was responsible for running them ragged.
“His mother used to bring him to work in the school summer holidays, after school, or on a weekend. He was here more than most people we employed. He’d spend hours in the creative department. Proper little puzzle setter was our Robert. Oh, I remember him well. Always wanting to know about the puzzles in the games and how they were set, and what kind of a mind had created them. He even helped develop some of our commercial games. He couldn’t get enough of it.”
I bet he couldn’t, thought Gardener.
Chapter Forty-seven
Gary was feeling pretty edgy as he drove his car into the car park at the Ross & Sinclair Foundation. He pulled it to a stop two spaces away from where Mr Sinclair normally parked his sports car, surprised to see it wasn’t there.
Gary switched off the engine and, as usual, it ran on for a few seconds. He hadn’t a clue what was wrong with it, apart from the fact that it was bloody old. Someone had mentioned valve timing, but he had no idea about things like that. He was a copper.
The car was a thirteen-year-old Vauxhall Corsa, and it was all he and his mother had been able to afford. They had both realized that as her condition worsened – and it inevitably would – he would need a car to ferry her around. Eventually she may become housebound, and very probably more dependent on it.
But according to Mr Sinclair, she was on the mend. Her dependency might be a lifetime away. At least far enough away for him to consider having something of a normal life with his mother for a while longer.
Gary had not seen her for a couple of days, and he was pretty nervous about doing so now. He glanced at the passenger seat of the car, where he had a fresh bunch of flowers. He wasn’t sure what they were, but the colours were nice. He’d also bought Thornton’s chocolates. She loved those. She would probably scold him for that. But not for the latest Tom Jones CD.
The Voice from the Valleys had been her favourite singer for years. Gary thought back to when he had first started working at the police station. He’d saved up his wages for a number of weeks to send her down to London to The Wembley Arena to see him live. She hadn’t stopped going on about it for three months. How happy she’d been. It was some time since he’d seen her like that.
He’d spoken to Mr Sinclair twice yesterday, and had been told that her condition was stable. Or was it comfortable? He couldn’t remember, but suspected they both meant the same thing. He’d also had a word with him earlier today. Mr Sinclair had said that she was still not up to visitors, that his mother was still sedated, and that it would probably be of no benefit to either of them if he called.
But Gary felt he could not go another day without seeing her, whether she was awake or not. At least if he paid a visit and she was not conscious he could leave the gifts, and when she woke up she would know he’d been. She would know he cared. Not that he doubted that for a minute. He knew if the position were reversed that she would probably never leave his hospital bed whether he was awake or not.
He jumped out of the car, and as he brought his foot down, a severe pain flared up the entire length of his leg, leaving Gary momentarily grounded on his knees at the side of the car, struggling for breath.
He twisted around so his legs were straight out in front of him. He rubbed the back of his left leg and suddenly felt something. The young PC located the object and pinched his fingers closer t
ogether. It was small, perhaps an inch long, narrow, with a metallic feel to it, almost like a capsule. He had absolutely no idea what it was; neither could he work out why he hadn’t come across it before. Unless, of course, it was something that had only recently surfaced. He would have to ask Mr Sinclair.
He stood up, limped around to the passenger side, collected the gifts, and locked the vehicle. As Gary walked into the building, he breathed in the rich aromatic scents of wood, leather, and beeswax. It spoke of the volumes of money that had been spent on the place. The blonde receptionist at the desk smiled as he walked past. She didn’t say anything, but he figured she knew him well enough by now. He didn’t need directions.
As he walked down the corridor to his mother’s side ward, the only thing he could hear was his own footsteps. The mood in the clinic was sombre and hushed. He couldn’t even hear a conversation. He’d expect a radio, or a television at the very least, or even catch a glimpse of the odd nurse walking around. Today seemed very different. Still, everyone had off-days, he supposed.
Outside his mother’s room, he composed himself. Why was he so nervous? He guessed it was because he had no idea what he would find. The last time he saw her – two days ago – she was being carted off in an ambulance after nearly screaming the house down. At least there was no pain at the moment.
But he didn’t like the thought of her wired up to all those machines. There was something final about seeing a person in that situation, as if somehow they were never coming back from the world they were inhabiting. It was hard to imagine where they were, and what they were experiencing. Could they see, hear, or feel anything at all? In their world, were they talking to their friends? Did they think they were with you? What did they think? Did they feel lost and isolated and desperate to return to what they knew?
Gary put the thoughts at bay and stepped inside. His mum wasn’t there. The bed was empty. The room was bare. None of her belongings were evident.
Gary couldn’t work it out. He stepped back out of the room and checked the number, to see if he had somehow entered the wrong one. No, it was definitely his mother’s.
He walked back in, laid his gifts on the bed and checked the cupboards. There had to be something wrong. It was as if she had never been here.
He checked the bathroom. It was the same. Had they taken her home? He couldn’t see how that was possible.
As Gary turned and glanced around, his stomach started swelling. His vision narrowed, making the room appear smaller.
He walked towards the door when a nurse in white uniform entered. Her hand went to her mouth and she gave an involuntary shriek, not loud, but enough to show he had startled her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
He could see from her name badge that she was called Carla, and she had a north-eastern accent. She was small. Her short black hair was tied up in a bun.
Gary apologized as well. “I’m sorry. I was looking for me mum.”
“Your mother?” she questioned.
“Yes. Christine Close. She was admitted on Monday. Mr Ross was looking after her.”