Small Mercies Page 6

  ‘I might get a sandwich.’ Clive picked up the menu, mainly as an alternative to staring at Rowan Wiseman. He hadn’t previously registered the extraordinary emerald green of her eyes. ‘Are you having something?’

  ‘They do a hummus thing that’s very good. I’m a vegan,’ she added, as if some justification was required for her choice. ‘This is one of the few places round here that does a decent vegan selection.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ he said. He’d been considering a salt beef sandwich, but that suddenly seemed inappropriate. ‘I’ll give it a try.’

  He was about to ask about the paperback, but was interrupted by the waitress coming to take their order. He’d been intending to order a cappuccino with the hummus wrap but again found himself echoing her order of a large espresso. ‘Anyway,’ he said, once the waitress had departed, ‘what can I do for you?’

  ‘It might be more a question of what I can do for you.’

  There was no edge of innuendo in her voice, but he realised he was blushing anyway. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I told you that Charlie and I are both big fans of your work?’

  Her words did nothing to lessen his embarrassment. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’m just a beginner, really.’

  ‘No, you’re very good. We read an awful lot of stuff about the subjects you cover, and you’re really one of the best.’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘No, seriously. I mean, you’re very knowledgeable and you do your research. Your interest in the material shines through, but you’re objective and balanced in the way you write about it.’

  He was saved further embarrassment by the waitress arriving with their coffee. He took an immediate sip of the coffee to buy himself some time before he had to respond. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he offered finally.

  ‘Like I said, it’s one of the reasons we came along to the group. I was going to say something at the time, but thought it might be a bit awkward with the others there.’

  Clive really wasn’t sure where this was going, although he felt content enough for it to continue. ‘I hope the meeting wasn’t a disappointment. We were all just getting to know each other, really.’

  ‘Things like that always need a bit of time to bed down. I’m sure you can make it work.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, Charlie and I heard on the grapevine that you were doing some work on the “left-hand path” religions. Is that right?’

  Clive looked up at her, slightly startled. ‘Yes. Well, sort of. Where did you hear that?’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. Just something someone said to me when I was enthusing about one of your articles, I think.’

  Clive knew he’d been phoning around fairly indiscriminately trying to find contacts prepared to assist him with his research. That was the difficulty of researching an area like this. The organisations involved tended to be highly secretive and to lack any kind of conventional management structure. It was difficult to identify the key players, so all you could do was keep throwing out feelers in the hope they’d eventually reach the right people. On reflection, he supposed it wasn’t surprising that word of his interest might have spread more widely, though It left him feeling slightly uneasy.

  ‘I’m looking at doing something along those lines,’ he said. ‘I thought I could maybe add something new, especially on more recent developments. But it’s not proving easy to research.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. That’s where we may be able to help you.’

  ‘Any help gratefully received. I’m just hitting dead ends.’

  ‘It’s an area where Charlie and I have developed our own interests,’ she said. She smiled and tapped the paperback book. ‘Part of our continuing search for spiritual enlightenment.’

  For the first time, it occurred to Clive that Rowan and Charlie might be an item. He hadn’t really thought about it at the meeting, and they somehow hadn’t seemed like a couple. But there seemed to be something between them that was more intense than mere friendship.

  ‘I thought what they offered was the opposite of enlightenment.’ He’d intended the words as a joke. As Clive understood it, one of the characteristics of the so-called ‘left-hand path’ religions was a willingness to embrace the darker, less positive aspects of humanity in their quest for salvation. Almost at once, though, he regretted his flippancy.

  She gazed at him for a moment, and he found himself struggling to meet those emerald eyes. He felt like a schoolboy caught out by the teacher in a very basic error. ‘You know better than that,’ she said. ‘It’s much more complex and nuanced.’

  ‘I was just playing, well, I suppose devil’s advocate might not be exactly the most appropriate phrase here. I realise that we’re not just talking about satanism.’

  She laughed and he felt himself forgiven for his previous words. ‘There are certainly satanists among the left-path followers, though not all of us are satanists. And the meaning of satanism is much more subtle than most people appreciate. Most so-called satanists don’t believe in a literal Satan, but more in recognising the realities of the world we inhabit.’

  Some of this sounded like part of a standard speech. Clive wondered how often she might have delivered these words, or something like them, and to what audience. ‘That’s exactly what I want to understand better. I’ve read plenty about Aleister Crowley and those historical occultist types, but I get the sense those are just the tip of the iceberg, and that there are many more recent developments.’

  ‘That’s very much the case. That’s what attracted Charlie and me to the field, really. There are some genuinely innovative and creative spiritual ideas emerging.’

  ‘It sounds fascinating.’ Clive was never really sure what the word ‘spiritual’ meant, and he suspected many of those who used the word would have struggled to define it for him. But he was quite happy to go along with whatever Rowan Wiseman might have to tell him. ‘I’d love to be able to talk to a few people, get a better understanding of what it’s all about. That would help me to focus my research more effectively. At the moment, I feel as if I’m just blundering about trying to get someone to talk to me.’

  ‘People tend to be wary of talking because they think their words will be misconstrued or misrepresented. People think we’re all devil-worshippers prancing about naked in covens, but of course it’s nothing like that. That’s why Charlie and I thought it would be worth talking to you. We know your work and we trust you.’

  ‘I should warn you, if I were to write something, it wouldn’t just be a whitewash. I don’t do PR. I try to be objective and to tell it as I see it.’ Clive had a sudden unease that he was being set up, that they might be trying to exploit what little reputation he had for their own ends. But that sounded absurd. He was a nobody. He had no reputation to exploit, other than among a tiny band of followers.

  ‘That’s the point,’ she said. ‘We don’t want someone to do a PR piece. All we want is for someone to understand what we do, what we’re about, and to represent it accurately. If you have doubts or reservations about what you hear, then we’d want you to express those. But equally if you see some value in our ideas, we’d hope you’d say so.’

  The waitress interrupted them briefly to deliver their wraps, giving Clive a few moments to collect his thoughts. He’d finished his espresso and was wishing he’d ordered a longer drink. ‘That’s how I try to work. I aim to be as objective as possible. I think it’s important to express an opinion where appropriate, but only on the basis of the evidence.’ He was conscious he was drifting into pomposity, but Rowan seemed enthused by what he was saying.

  She took a bite of her wrap. She did so very elegantly, he thought, by contrast with his own undignified struggles with the sloppy filling. She chewed for a moment before responding. ‘That’s exactly what we’re looking for. Somebody who’s prepared to listen properly to what we have to say, and to think about its meaning and its implications.’

  ‘There are too many so-called commentators who allow their own pre
judices and preconceptions to influence their thinking.’ This was something of a hobby horse for Clive, one of the topics he and Greg Wardle debated endlessly. ‘We need to be critical, but keep an open mind. Not simply dismiss approaches or concepts because they don’t fit with our predetermined ideas.’

  ‘That comes across in your writing. That’s why we thought you were the right person to talk to.’ She was smiling now, and he realised he’d been actively seeking her approval, wanting her to be impressed by his intelligence and expertise. He wondered again whether she might be playing with him, but he couldn’t help feeling gratified. ‘That’s much appreciated.’

  ‘You’re exactly what we need.’ She smiled at him, and once more he felt the force of those emerald eyes.

  ‘What would be the next step?’

  ‘I think the next step is for us to effect some introductions for you. Arrange for you to meet some of the right people.’

  ‘You could do that? That would be enormously helpful.’

  ‘Charlie and I are just small fry, you know, so I can’t make any promises. But I think we can open a few doors. Obviously, it’ll be up to you how you handle it from there.’

  ‘That’s very good of you.’

  She smiled at him in a manner that made him wonder once more about the nature of her relationship with Charlie. He told himself it was really none of his business. He was probably ten years her junior and well out of her league anyway, though in fairness he might have thought the same about Charlie. ‘I’d better run, actually. Got some things to do this afternoon. But really glad I was able to catch up with you, Clive. I’m sure you’re exactly the man we need.’

  As far as he could recall, it was the first time she’d called him by his name. It felt as if he’d been inducted into her inner circle. ‘I hope we can make this work.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch in the next few days. See you soon.’

  Almost instantaneously, even before he could offer a response, she was gone, striding towards the door of the cafe. Clive blinked, slightly taken aback. Her hummus wrap still sat, uneaten beyond that first bite, on the table in front of him. Her coffee looked almost untouched.

  For a moment, he sat wondering quite what had just happened. After a minute or two, it occurred to him that, whatever else Rowan Wiseman might have done, she’d been smart enough to leave him with the bill.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘I can walk, you know.’

  ‘You heard the nurse,’ the hospital porter said. ‘More than my job’s worth.’

  ‘We’re only going to the back entrance,’ Sheena Pearson said. ‘I don’t need a wheelchair.’

  ‘Anyway,’ the porter went on, ‘I thought you were supposed to be a socialist. You wouldn’t want to put me out of a job.’

  ‘I am a socialist. That’s why I don’t want to exploit my fellow worker.’

  ‘Fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay, and all that. And if I’m just pushing you along a corridor, I’m not being asked to do something more difficult, am I?’

  ‘Okay, you win. I’ll let you push me.’

  Annie Delamere watched the exchange with relieved amusement. She’d been anxious to see Sheena all day. The nagging fear that had woken Annie in the early hours was soothed now by the sight of her partner’s bright smile. Aside from the bandage, Annie thought Sheena looked pretty much herself. It would be good to get her home.

  A gaggle of TV and newspaper reporters had been stationed outside the main entrance for most of the morning, and the police had decided to take Sheena to a rear entrance where Annie had left her car ready. Annie knew that Sheena’s preference would have been to chat to the reporters, but she’d been persuaded by the powers-that-be that it was better to avoid what might turn into a media circus. There’d be plenty of time to talk to the media later.

  Annie still wondered whether Sheena should have been provided with more public protection. Everyone from the Prime Minister downwards had publicly expressed their shock at what had happened and there was a substantial police presence here at the hospital, but Annie still felt concerned that the risks were being underplayed. The tacit assumption seemed to be that yesterday’s incident had been a one-off, just the action of some trigger-happy halfwit. That might well be true, Annie thought, but it did little to relieve her own fears.

  As it was, the plan was simply to slip quietly out of the back door. A single uniformed officer had been stationed there, but to Annie that felt like little more than a token gesture. Still, Sheena would be left exposed only for a few seconds, with Annie’s car waiting in the pick-up bay just ahead of them. As the porter pushed Sheena out, Annie opened the rear door, ready to usher her into the car. ‘Come on, missie. Let’s get you home.’

  ‘This must be what it’s like to be a minister. Getting transported and chauffeured everywhere.’ Sheena eased herself up from the wheelchair, giving the porter a friendly glare that clearly dared him even to think about offering to help.

  ‘Only a matter of time before you find out, I imagine,’ Annie said. She nodded to the porter and the waiting police officer. ‘Thanks, both. I can take care of her from here—’

  Even as she spoke the words, she felt as if she was tempting fate, but she hadn’t expected her claim to be tested so immediately. The blast of the gunshot was deafening, echoing between the surrounding hospital wings. It was followed almost at once by the sound of shattering glass, and the shrill wailing of an alarm.

  Almost before the echoes had died away, Annie was already beyond conscious thought, acting on instinct and training alone. As far as she could see, no one out here had been struck by the shot, but there was no way of knowing what might have happened once the bullet had passed through the shattered hospital window. Not pausing to reflect, she bundled Sheena into the rear of the car. ‘Lie down. As low as you can.’ For once her partner put up no argument.

  The uniformed officer and the porter were both standing frozen, both clearly at a loss how to respond to what had happened. Annie gestured for them to get back into the hospital. ‘Get hold of whoever’s supposed to be in charge of this show,’ she shouted. ‘Tell them to organise backup. And to have the area sealed off. No one to come in or out. Go quickly!’ She crouched down behind the car, trying to calculate where the shot had come from. The smashed window was behind to her right, which suggested that the shot had been fired from somewhere in the car park ahead. She peered over the roof of the car, squinting for any sign of movement.

  A fine rain was still falling and visibility was limited, but she was confident that there was nothing there, other than an occasional passing car. Somewhere behind the hospital building, she could hear the rising wail of police sirens. At least the cavalry was on its way. She remained crouching by the car for another minute, her eyes fixed on the car park ahead of her, but could still see nothing. She took several deep breaths to calm her nerves, scrambled round to the driver’s door and threw herself into the car, keeping her head low.

  ‘You okay?’

  Sheena was half-lying on the rear seat, her face ashen. ‘I’ve been shot at twice in as many days. What do you think?’

  ‘I know. Look, we’re too vulnerable here if there is still anyone out there. I’m going to pull up on the pavement, get us as close to the door as I can, then we can both get inside and find out what the hell’s happening.’

  ‘You think anyone’s likely to know what’s happening?’ Sheena was looking more shocked than Annie had ever seen her, her usual bravado for once absent.

  ‘They might have more of a clue than we do. Though I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Annie peered through the rear window of the car, still alert for any sign of movement. She felt absurdly exposed, conscious that the gunman could be anywhere out there, that the gunsights could still be trained on them. She started the car and manoeuvred it into a spot immediately adjacent to the rear entrance. ‘Okay, Shee. I’ll go first. When I open your door, don’t hesitate. Just keep your head down and get your backside into the hospital.’


  She scrambled out of the car and pulled open the rear door, using it to shield Sheena as, head down, she clambered on to the pavement and into the hospital entrance. Annie paused briefly for another scan of the car park – there was still no sign of movement – then she followed, leaving her car abandoned on the pavement outside.

  ‘Serve you right if you get a ticket. I believe they’re very strict.’ Sheena was waiting inside. The flippancy of her words was belied by the still-horrified expression on her face.

  ‘Come on. Let’s see what’s going on.’ Annie led them down the hospital corridor past a waiting area for one of the outpatient departments. This was where the bullet had ended up. The room was deserted, the cold wind and rain blowing in through the broken window.

  It took them another few minutes to find their way through the maze of corridors to the main foyer. A cluster of uniformed officers was gathered inside the entrance, in the middle of a briefing from the officer in command. As they approached, one of the officers moved to intercept them. ‘I’m sorry, madam. Can I ask you either to return to your ward or department or, if you’re a visitor, to join the group in the cafe down there? There’s been an incident outside, and we’re keeping everyone in here as a precaution until we’ve resolved the situation.’

  Annie took a breath, trying to contain her anger and frustration. ‘Yes, I’m only too aware of that, funnily enough.’ She brandished her warrant card. ‘DI Annie Delamere. This is Sheena Pearson MP.’

  The officer looked as if he’d been caught out in some moderately serious misdemeanour. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…’

  Annie was tempted to vent her fury on the man in front of her, but managed to control her temper. ‘No reason why you should have. Can I speak to whoever’s in command here? I might be able to offer some information.’