7 June 1990
The Intensive Care Unit, with its bleeping machines and quiet, sombre atmosphere, was unnerving. She felt as though she dare not even breathe lest she set off some alarm or cause some sort of panic to start. As she sat looking at her husband, hooked up as he was to various machines, she felt her body shake slightly, the shock and fear of the events of the past few hours coming home to roost.
The doctors had encouraged her to go home whilst Stewart was in surgery, telling her that there was nothing she could do and that she needed to get some rest, but she had refused. Even when Gordon had tried to gently persuade her, she had said no, preferring to remain in the relatives' room, on site in case anything should change. If the worst was going to happen, she knew she needed to be there for it.
Frank had offered to stay with her, though he had deliberately avoided her gaze whilst making the suggestion and she had said no. The atmosphere between them had been strained since she had told him not to touch her and though she wanted to speak to him about it, wanted to apologise for how her words had sounded, she hadn't felt as though she had the strength. He hadn't pushed the point, simply nodded and accepted her answer and then disappeared, leaving her alone in the room. At some point, she had fallen asleep on the couch, only to be woken by the doctor who told her that Stewart had survived the surgery and was being moved to Intensive Care, where she could sit with him for a short period of time.
Seeing him for that first moment had almost broken her and it had been an effort to stay on her feet. He was unconscious, an oxygen tube down his throats, various leads and wires attached to his body, and he was lying to one side, the wound from his surgery clearly visible when she had ventured to look at his back. The surgeon had spoken to her, telling her that the surgery had gone well, that the injuries had been repaired and they were confident that, in time, he would fully recover from them. When she has asked about his spine, the answer had been less clear cut, time being needing to evaluate any long-term damage and what it might mean.
She had found her mind racing over so many different possibilities. If he was paralysed, how would they cope? The house wasn't equipped to take a wheelchair and how would he get upstairs? What about his job? Could they manage on her salary alone? Would he need care? What about the future? It had reached the point where she could no longer focus and so she had tried to bury all the unanswered questions in her mind and focus only on him waking up and coming back to her.
"I think it's probably time to go now," one of the nurses said, touching her gently on the shoulder. "He needs his rest, and so do you."
"Can't I stay?"
"No, I'm sorry. But you can come back first thing."
She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was almost three in the morning. By the time she got a taxi home and got into bed, it would be nearly four. What if she overslept and wasn't here first thing?
"Don't worry," the nurse said, as though reading her thoughts. "He'll likely be out until at least the afternoon. It's strong medication he's on. Just come back when you can."
She nodded and then turned back to look at him, the long lashes lying softly against his skin, his hair, slightly too long and flopped to one side, his body so strong and yet now potentially so broken. Leaning over, she brushed her lips against his forehead. "I'll be back tomorrow, darling. I love you."
As she left the unit and made her way back down to reception and out into the mild evening air, she felt the tears come again. She was a terrible person, a terrible person for thinking about someone else, a terrible person for worrying about what was going to happen if Stewart couldn't walk, a terrible person for thinking about how it was going to affect her life. She said nothing to the taxi driver, other than her address and, laying her head back against the seat, she found her thoughts straying once more to Frank. Would he have kissed her? Would she had wanted him to? Did he suspect how she felt about him, and did he feel anything for her?
"Here we are," the driver announced, pulling her back into reality.
The silence inside the house was deafening, more so than it ever was when she was alone. It was different kind of silence, as though the very fabric of the building was telling her, 'nothing is ever going to be the same again,' She locked the door and then slid down it onto the floor, sobbing amongst that days unopened mail.
XXXX
He barely slept, seeing every hour as he turned over in bed and looked at the clock. It wasn't that he didn't feel tired, but his body just wouldn't let him rest, his mind fixated on only one thing. One person. Her.
"Don't put your hands on me."
Her words burned into his brain and he found his emotions at odd with one another. Part of him felt angry, as though she had suggested that he had done something improper, touched her without her consent, molested her even. Another part of him couldn't help but think back to the moment when he had wiped away her tears, when her gaze had locked with his, and he had felt, for the briefest of moments, that she might understand, might see how he felt. Of course, it had been lost the moment Tosh had come through the door, and maybe that had been a good thing. What might have happened if he hadn't? If he had kissed her, as he had wanted to, what would she have done? Reciprocated? Hit him? Accused him of assault?
As the clock hit five-thirty, he gave up on any prospect of sleep and got out of bed to make himself some coffee and listen to the radio. The flat was warm, the air outside already heating up with the prospect of another beautiful day and as he pottered around the kitchen, his mind turned back to the day ahead and the continuing investigation into the security van robbery. Jim and Viv had tried to speak to Brian Quinn's wife, but she had been so overcome with emotion at his death that they had got nothing useful from her. Peter Simpson, it turned out, didn't have a wife, only a sister in Florida. His injuries had been fairly minimal, but the doctors had asked them to wait before questioning him, which had only made Frank suspicious. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure what role he had to play in the investigation, given that Gordon had asked him to stay with Christina the day before. Would he still want him to do that, or did her dismissal of him mean that support was no longer required?
He got in early, before seven, the quiet of the office allowing him to catch up on his paperwork, the things that had been pushed to one side at news of the robbery, the unexciting part of the job. He knew that if he ever ascended to the lofty heights of DCI, such paperwork would only increase, taking him further away from the streets. Although he knew he didn't want to end his career at inspector level, maybe he wasn't quite done with 'on the ground' work yet.
"You're in early," Gordon's voice broke into his reverie and, looking up, he saw the other man standing in his office doorway. "It's only just gone eight."
"Yeah well, I couldn't sleep," he replied honestly. "Too much on my mind."
"I can imagine," Gordon replied cryptically yet failing to expand. "I had a phone call from Christina. Apparently, Stewart survived the surgery."
He felt a wave of relief wash over him, more for her sake than for her husband's. "Well, that's good news."
"He's not completely out of the woods yet, but it's a positive sign. He's in intensive care and they're still not sure about the potential effect on his mobility. Only time will tell, I would imagine."
"How did she seem?"
"Christina? Exhausted. I doubt she's had much sleep either."
"No," he agreed, though he couldn't help but wonder what her thoughts might have been.
"In any event, I've obviously granted her compassionate leave for the next few weeks until such time as we know more. Can you ensure that her jobs are redistributed amongst the others?"
"Yes, of course." He hesitated. "In terms of support for her…"
"Yes?"
"Well, I just wondered if you'd given any thought to it."
"In what sense?"
"Well, it might be a good idea to have someone from the department officially liaise with her, keep updated on how she's doing and how Stewart's doing, and assist with any issues she might have. I mean, there might be things that she needs to consider, depending on how he turns out to be."
Gordon eyed him. "And are you suggesting yourself for the job?"
"I am her line manager."
"Yes…so perhaps not the best person. We wouldn't want her to think that she was being put under any pressure to return to work perhaps before she was ready or had things in place, would we?"
"I wouldn't do that," Frank replied. "That's not what I'm suggesting. I just think that she'll need some support, personally."
"I don't disagree, but perhaps a more informal managing of that support might be better. Perhaps Jim or Viv?"
He fought to keep his temper. Before Gordon Wray had arrived, a quick nod to Derek and it would have all been squared. This constant back and forth only served to irk him. "Well, with all due respect, sir, I think I would be better placed. You did tell me to stay with her at the hospital, to the detriment of my involvement in the security van investigation."
"Yes, but I got the distinct impression when we left her last night that there had been words between you."
"A misunderstanding. It's no secret that I've never gotten on with Stewart. I just said the wrong thing, that's all. She knows I didn't mean it." It was a variance of the truth, but one he hoped Gordon wouldn't query him further on.
"All right Frank, I'll trust your judgement on this one. But I would bear in mind your professional obligations and if you think Christina is struggling in any way, needs further assistance or, indeed, female assistance, then you let me know, ok?"
"No problem, Gordon," he replied, feeling a sense of satisfaction as the other man walked back towards his own office. Perhaps it wouldn't be so difficult to keep getting his own way after all.
XXXX
Though now conscious, it was clear that Stewart was in a lot of discomfort. His face would screw up and he would shift on the bed and press the button for his automatic medication far more often than it was designed to be used. The fact that he could move at all, though only slightly, gladdened Christina, in that she couldn't help but think that the gloomy predictions of him being unable to walk might have been misplaced.
"Try and lie still, darling," she said encouragingly.
"It hurts."
"I know it does, but…" she broke off as he hammered the button again, seeming unable to comprehend that it was designed to only release so much medication at a time. "You need to give it time to work."
"It's all just…. I don't know, the flowers are red, and I don't know why…"
She sat back in her chair as his mind soared off on a flight of fancy. When she had returned, the nurse had warned her that the medication was of a strength liable to make him say or do things that seemed out of character, but that in time, he would settle down. Whilst she was relieved to see him, conscious and alert, it was disconcerting to watch him be so confused, as though partaking in some sort of acid trip. It was going to be a while before he could return home and obviously dependent on his recovery and she had been relieved when Gordon had said she could take all the time she needed without question.
"There's someone here to see you," the nurses came up to the bed and checked Stewart's catheter. "I think this needs changing anyway."
"Who is it?"
"He said his name's Frank?"
"Oh…ok, thanks." Her stomach flipped over as she got up from the chair and moved back from the bed, the curtain swishing around it to protect her husband's modesty. Turning, she walked slowly towards the doors of the ward, catching sight of him through the glass before she pushed them open and stepped out into the hallway.
"How is he?" he asked by way of greeting.
"Well, he came through the surgery and he's awake, but still in a lot of pain and not making much sense because of all the drugs they've given him. Hopefully there should be an improvement over the next few days."
"Any indication of how he'll be, physically, I mean?"
"Not yet, but he does have some movement so that seems positive."
"I'm glad."
For a moment, he held her gaze and she felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her. There were things she wanted to say and yet she wasn't quite sure how to say them. "Listen, Frank…I wanted to apologise."
"What for?"
"For what I said to you yesterday, in the relatives' room. I know that you were only trying to help me, support me and…well…I shouldn't have said what I did. I know how it must have come across and I really didn't mean to suggest that…that you were going to do anything inappropriate. I don't think that, not for one minute."
"That's all right. You were upset."
"I know, but still…I don't want you to think…" she paused, "I don't want you to think that I didn't appreciate you being there for me."
"I don't think that. In fact, I probably shouldn't have touched you at all. This is the nineteen nineties and they're cracking down on that sort of thing apparently."
"What sort of thing?"
"Inappropriate behaviour in the workplace. Soon, nobody will be able to shake hands without fear of a complaint being made."
"I didn't…" she broke off, trying to make sense of how she felt. "I didn't think that you were inappropriate, not at all and I would never…a complaint, I mean…I wouldn't…"
"I know that," he interrupted hurriedly, "that's not what I'm saying. But I suppose us men just have to get used to the fact that we need to keep our hands to ourselves nowadays, in every situation."
She felt her cheeks burn at the memory of him wiping away her tears and she shuffled her feet in an attempt to distract herself. "Wray said I could have as much time off as I needed."
"I know he did. I'm here as your official liaison."
"My what?"
"Your official liaison from the department. Here to provide support and assistance where required. Non-tactile, of course."
She smiled, "Whose idea was that?"
"Mine, actually. Gordon would have preferred Jim or Viv for the job, but I persuaded him that I was best placed, being your DI and all. So…is there anything you need?"
She paused, wondering what it was she needed. Someone to tell her that everything was going to be all right? Someone to reassure her that life wasn't going to change? Someone to make it all go away? Someone to hold her? Could he, would he, should he do any or all of those things? She found herself shaking her head, "I think I'm all right just now, thanks."
"Well, as long as you're sure. You've got my number, call me anytime."
"Where have I heard that before?" she said without really thinking.
"I don't know, where?"
"When I was undercover at Patterson's club. You told me I could call you anytime."
"So I did," he nodded in remembrance. "In the end it was just easier to come down there myself though, wasn't it?"
"I suppose so." A long silence stretched between them before she remembered about her husband and gestured back towards the unit. "I should…"
"Yeah, get yourself back to him. I'll let Gordon know that you're holding up all right for now. And don't worry about anything to do with the job. It's all under control."
A sense of relief washed over her, "Thanks Frank. I really do appreciate it."
"I know. Remember, any time."
She nodded and then turned away from him, pushing open the doors of the unit and hurrying back to her husband's bedside. By the time she arrived, he was sleeping peacefully again and, sitting back down beside him, she took his hand in hers and stroked it gently. "I'm here, darling. I'm here."
XXXX
"So," Gordon surveyed the room. "What do we know?"
"Well, Simpson was a bit cagey when we spoke to him," Jim said, "but the impression Viv and I got was that there had been, at some point, something going on between him and Brian Quinn's wife, Shirley. That would explain the falling out between the pair and them not wanting to work together."
"What does that have to do with the robbery?"
"Possibly nothing, but Simpson wasn't meant to be on that run. If Quinn's usual partner, Nicky Dempsey, hadn't been on holiday, he would have been on the run with Quinn."
"Do we have any evidence to suggest that either Quinn or Simpson knew there was going to be a raid?"
"Simpson said that when the masked men attacked the van, they really went for Quinn but when they saw him, they hesitated. He said he was expecting the same treatment, only it didn't come."
"Which lends possible credence to the theory that Quinn was involved somehow, and the gang had been told to either shut him up, or make it look good," Frank said.
"But why wouldn't they do the same to Simpson?" Gordon asked.
"Maybe they weren't expecting him. Maybe they were expecting this Nicky Dempsey character. It turns out, Dempsey only went on holiday the day before the raid and gave very short notice for it. Maybe he knew it was coming and got cold feet about taking a beating."
"When's he due back?"
"Saturday."
"Right, well I want him questioned the second he gets off that plane," Gordon said. "What else?"
"The route the van took wasn't one of the regular routes, but it had been taken before," Tosh said.
"Yeah, Simpson said that Quinn liked to take short cuts," Jim added, "and taking that road would be quicker than going the safer route."
"So, we're still working on the premise that this is an inside job then?" Gordon asked.
"It looks that way to me," Frank said.
"Only we really don't have very much evidence to back that up, do we?" Gordon said tightly. "What have forensics come up with?"
"Very little," Tosh said. "No fingerprints other than Quinn and Simpson's."
"CCTV?"
"There's footage from another warehouse nearby that shows the van leaving and turning down onto the road, but it doesn't capture any of the actual incident."
"Witnesses?"
"Nobody really saw anything, Guv," Frank said. "We've drawn a total blank so far."
"And you think that's good enough, do you?" Gordon rounded on him. "A man is dead, Frank!"
"I'm aware of that, sir, but we are trying our best here."
"Well, I'm not convinced your best is good enough. I want another briefing at five and I expect better information!"
"He doesn't ask much," Tosh commented when Gordon had left the room.
"No, but he is right, annoyingly," Frank replied. "I want to speak to this Simpson bloke myself. Jim, bring him in."
"For what? Failing to give us the answers we think he should?"
"Exactly," Frank turned back into his office and sat down at his desk. The early start was beginning to catch up with him and a snooze would definitely have been most welcome, preferably in the park, with the warm sun on his face.
"Guv?" He looked up to see Viv in the doorway. "How's Chris? I heard you went back down the hospital."
"She's bearing up. Stewart seems to be improving so that's something at least."
"She'll be relieved."
"Of course, she's his wife." As Viv walked away and he was left alone again, he couldn't help but feel those few words reverberate around his brain.
She's his wife.