In Cold Daylight Read online

  'He's still unconscious.' Simon moved away, running a hand through his hair. He was going grey at the temples, I noticed. There were no preliminaries; no 'how are you' and 'it's good to see you.' I hadn't really expected them. If we'd been reunited after thirty years instead of fifteen Simon would still have dispensed with the small talk.

  'God knows when or even if he'll ever come round,' he continued. 'I'm waiting for the doctor but you know what these places are like, we could be here all night.' He began to pace the room and his presence seemed to take up all the space and air, making me feel insignificant. I wasn't, I told myself, but couldn't believe it. Not here.

  Simon had put on weight and had acquired an extra layer of sleekness to go with it. The well-cut and expensive light grey suit fitted him to perfection. His black shoes were polished to within an inch of their life and his jewellery, a wedding ring and Rolex were discreet. He exuded confidence, wealth and power. He wasn't at all what you expected from the traditional image of a scientist. With a first class honours degree in Molecular Science, Simon had followed in Father's footsteps. Next had come a PhD in Biomedical Sciences and then a Member of the Royal Society of Chemistry. Simon had been an expert in DNA technology at a young age, which had made his name in scientific circles and had helped him to build up a substantial biotechnology company and a considerable amount of money if the broadsheets were to be believed.

  'Who found him?' I asked, unzipping my leather jacket and pulling it off.

  'His housekeeper, this morning.'

  'You've been here all day?'

  Simon shook his head and frowned at my apparent stupidity. 'Of course not. She discovered him at the bottom of the stairs this morning when she arrived for work and thought at first he'd had a fall, or a heart attack. I didn't get the message until I returned to the laboratory after lunch. I came straight up from Bath. Had to cancel God knows how many meetings.'

  Inconvenient, I felt like saying dryly, but sarcasm had been my father's trait not mine. I wondered what I was doing here. I felt no affection for my father. There was too much in my past that I couldn't forgive him for: the hurtful words, the disdainful looks, the sneers, and put downs, the lack of love. But here I was.

  Simon said, 'I've spoken to someone who called herself a doctor, looked more like a child on work experience to me. I said I wanted to speak to the consultant or the senior physician at least but that was hours ago, and this is the NHS, so goodness knows when that's likely to be.'

  I hoped Simon hadn't made his feelings that plain. It seemed that age hadn't mellowed him, quite the opposite. All the way up here I'd wondered if he would have changed. And Father? If he was conscious and I was to see him, how would he react to me? Would he have changed? I wasn't counting on it, in my experience people rarely did. I sat down, which seemed to goad Simon further.

  'I suppose you're just going to wait for someone to show up,' Simon scoffed. 'I'm not. I've already wasted half a day and I'm damned sure I'm not going to waste a complete evening.'

  'Simon…' But he was heading out of the door just as a man with a stethoscope draped around his neck was entering. They almost collided. The doctor stepped back but I was pleased to see he didn't flinch under Simon's hostile glare.

  'Mr Greene?'

  'Dr Greene,' Simon corrected. 'How is he? What's the prognosis?'

  'I'm Dr Newberry, the senior physician in charge of the Intensive Care Unit and looking after your father,' he announced, seemingly unfazed by Simon's domineering behaviour. I warmed to the man. He was in his mid forties, about the same age and height as Simon, but slender and balding, and where Simon looked the picture of affluence and health Dr Newberry looked as if he was on his last pair of trainers and trousers and wouldn't be able to get through the night without falling asleep on the job. Simon refused to sit and loomed over us.

  Dr Newberry addressed us both, his eye contact flicking between us. 'Your father is unconscious but he is comfortable. We're arranging for a scan, which will give us a clearer image of the blood flow, and of how much damage there is. Then we will be able to give you a better prognosis.' His voice was gentle but firm. 'If it's any consolation he's not in pain. You can see him if you wish and of course you are welcome to stay as long as you want but there really is very little you can do. If you return tomorrow you should be able to see the consultant who will be in a better position to give you more information.'

  'And that's it?' Simon declared.

  Dr Newberry remained silent but held Simon's stare, which seemed to infuriate him. In order to prevent another outburst I rose and surprised myself by saying, 'I'd like to see him.'

  With a grunt Simon followed as Newberry led us along a short corridor and into an open plan intensive care unit. It was dimly lit and hushed save for the bleeping of machines and the swish of uniform as the staff went about their business. The heat clawed at my throat and I tried not to look at the comatose figures on the beds either side of me. At the far end of the room the nurse rose as we reached the last bed and stepped away to allow us privacy.

  I felt my body tense and hoped that Simon hadn't noticed it. I silently urged myself to breathe steadily and to keep calm. As my eyes fell on the motionless figure lying on the hospital bed I experienced a shock. Surely this wasn't the man who had bullied me for most of my childhood, who had made me feel so inadequate? There were no clear blue eyes boring into me accusingly, no sardonic smile, no disdainful or pitying looks. It was fifteen years since I had seen my father and it was that final image that had stayed with me. Here in front of me now was a frail body, the grey face lined, the thin, wispy white hair flattened against a narrow egg-shaped head, bristle on the chin, chest skeletal.

  I turned away feeling angry, not that my father should end up like this but for all the years I'd wasted being afraid of him, of living in awe and terror of him, yet he was nothing but flesh and blood after all, just like the rest of us.

  I heard Simon hurrying after me. 'You're leaving?'

  'There's nothing I can do here.'

  'I'll have to come back tomorrow to hear what this consultant has to say unless you…'

  'I can't,' I said sharply, feeling the panic rising. I didn't want to be with my father. I didn't want to be in London. There were too many memories here for me. This was where Alison was buried and this was where I had experienced my mental breakdown after her death.

  'I don't see why not. I'm very busy, Adam.'

  'So am I,' I retorted, and I was. Jack was relying on me to get to the truth. When I had needed a friend he had been there. I wasn't going to let him down.

  Simon said, 'At least have a drink. After all we haven't seen each other for years.'

  I stared at him for a moment wondering what had brought about this volte face. Simon, like father, had been unsympathetic over my breakdown. As far as they had been concerned I had shamed the family name. Curiosity got the better of me and I said, 'OK.'

  We found a wine bar around the corner from the hospital in Belvedere Road. It was already fairly crowded with people getting into the Christmas spirit. There was little chance that Faye would come here; the office and flat were in Convent Garden. If Father died I would have to tell her about him and Simon. Just one more secret I had kept from her and one more lie. As far as Faye was concerned I had no family. And I had never breathed a word to her about Alison or my breakdown. From the beginning of our relationship I had known that Faye wouldn't understand. It wasn't until now though that I admitted it to myself. I felt the stirrings of unease where my feelings for Faye were concerned. Over recent months we had drifted apart. I told myself it was because of her working in London and the demands of her new job, but I knew it had nothing to do with that.

  Simon returned from the bar with a bottle of wine and a coke. I took the coke. We found a table in a dark corner near the gents' toilet as more people came in shaking out umbrellas and pulling off raincoats.

  'You realise he might not be able to return home,' I said. 'He'll probably h
ave to go into a nursing home.' And how he would hate that, I thought. He'd always despised illness of any kind seeing it as weakness and often self-inflicted.

  'That will cost a bloody fortune,' grumbled Simon. He poured himself a large glass of red wine and drank almost half of it in one go.

  'You can sell the house. It should fetch quite a price.'

  'You haven't seen it. It's falling to pieces.'

  And I didn't want to see it, ever.

  Simon sniffed. 'I suppose you'll leave all that to me to arrange?'

  His eyes bored into mine. If he was trying to intimidate me then he was failing. I remained silent. I guessed this was the purpose behind Simon's invitation. He wanted to dump all this on me. After a moment Simon was forced to continue.

  'Harriet will have to see to it. She's got plenty of time now the children are at boarding school.'

  I had scored a minor victory. 'How is Harriet?' I had vague recollections of a tall, slim girl with an oval face, perfect complexion and long straight blonde hair. I had no recollections of her personality.

  Simon helped himself to another large glass of wine. 'She's all right.'

  The conversation ground to a halt. I didn't know what to say to him. We were like strangers. What was I doing here wasting time? Into my mind flashed those seven letters SIEDNGO. What other words could I get out of them apart from GOD and DIES? SIGN? SIGNED? Why had Jack signed it 4 July 1994? That must have some significance. What had happened on that date? Perhaps I should look it up in an almanac or on the Internet?

  Someone laughed uproariously at a nearby table startling me out of my reverie. I saw Simon's disapproval. I guessed this wasn't his sort of place.

  'Are you still involved in research?' I asked. I knew he was but if I could keep him talking about himself it wouldn't give him time to pry into my affairs.

  'Don't you ever read the newspapers?'

  'Not unless I have to.' I said evasively, taking a swig of my coke.

  'We're working on a number of projects: treatments for osteoporosis, obesity and cancer. That's why I can't spare the time up here, Adam. It's a race against the clock to develop the vaccine or drug before anyone else does and before the money runs out.'

  I thought of that charity cycle ride photograph and Rosie's words. Three of the fire fighters in the photograph had died of cancer.

  'You really think you can come up with something to help cure cancer?' I asked.

  'Cure? No. Treat, yes, or perhaps a vaccine for certain types. And that's the trouble there are so many different forms of cancer and so many different causes. It's not just down to genetics; the environment is to blame for many cancers.'

  'How?'

  'Exposure to synthetic chemicals, natural toxins, industrial processes, drugs, and viruses not to mention sunlight. Twenty to thirty percent of all cancers are caused by occupational exposure.'

  Could those fire fighters have been exposed to something during the course of their jobs? Is that why they had contracted cancer? Or was it a matter of bad luck.

  'What are the statistics for contracting cancer?'

  'One in three.'

  That high! Out of eight men on that bicycle three had contracted cancer, slightly higher than Simon's statistics but not so unusual.

  'There's money in research, Adam. You should have finished your degree. Nothing was ever proven over Alison's death.'

  I felt myself tense. I had wondered how long it would take Simon to remind me of my failure. Perhaps that was why I hadn't wanted to come here. I knew it was one of the reasons I'd cut myself off from my family. Alison's death had been an accident I told myself. She had fallen from that window. Only trouble was I couldn't remember a thing about it. The first I could recall was sitting in a police interview room.

  Simon said, 'You shouldn't have let it ruin your career.'

  'I didn't,' I replied tersely.

  'You call painting a career?' Simon said, with barely disguised contempt.

  I stiffened. His tone reminded me of Father's taunts to Mother over a hobby that had given her so much pleasure, and for which she'd had a talent. As far as my father was concerned art was futile. Simon clearly was of the same opinion even though he'd married an art historian.

  'How did you know?' I asked. I hadn't told him or Father.

  Suddenly Simon looked ill at ease. 'Harriet saw something about you in one of her art magazines,' he said, airily. 'Do you make any money out of it?'

  'We get by.'

  'We?'

  'I'm married.'

  Simon arched his eyebrows but I was spared his cryptic remark by the arrival of our meal.

  After the waiter had left us I asked a question that had been bugging me almost since he had called me. 'How did you find me?'

  'Your number was in Father's book?' he said a shade too quickly.

  'It couldn't have been. Father doesn't have it.'

  'Then you must have given it to me at some time,' Simon dismissed impatiently.

  'Hardly.'

  'Does it matter?' Simon said in exasperation. I held his stare, and I could see apprehension. 'Look, I got my secretary to track you down. She must have found your number in the telephone book, or through directory enquiries. Harriet said the article mentioned you were living on the coast, in Portsmouth, so it wasn't that difficult to run you to earth. I thought you ought to know about Father even though you and he didn't hit it off.'

  I let it go. We were ex-directory, so why had he lied and so obviously? Maybe he didn't care? Maybe he thought his younger brother dull and stupid? But then, I thought, I was being paranoid and overly suspicious. Jack's death and the subsequent events were making me see hidden motives where there was none.

  I gazed across the restaurant and with a shock found myself staring straight into the eyes of the young motorbike rider whom I'd seen on the seafront yesterday. This time there was no mistaking it, he was looking right at me and it wasn't with affection. I held his intense and hostile glare as best I could. He didn't flinch or glance away. He was dressed in the same red and black leathers as yesterday, his lean face was unshaven. I had been right the first time: there was something familiar about him but it eluded me. Why was he so interested in me? Why didn't he approach me? He must have followed me here. This couldn't be a coincidence. Did he have something to do with Jack's death? Only one way to find out.

  I scraped back my chair. Simon looked up at me in surprise. 'Gents,' I said, but the people at the table in front of us decided to leave at the same time blocking my path and when it was clear the young man had gone. I crossed to the toilet scanning the bar and the restaurant but there was no sign of him and neither was he inside the gents.

  'I must be going,' I said abruptly on my return. Perhaps I could catch up with him outside.

  Simon shrugged. He seemed to have lost interest in me, probably because he could see that I wasn't going to play his game. He said, 'I'll call you tomorrow to let you know how he is.'

  It was my turn to shrug. I stepped outside and peered down the street. There was no motorbike and no young man. Damn!

  I turned up Chicheley Street towards the river my mind full of questions. It had stopped raining. I came out by Waterloo Pier; behind me the lights glowed on the London Eye. The grinding of the London traffic mingled with the screeching of the trains as they shunted across the bridge from Waterloo to Charing Cross station. I turned left towards Westminster Bridge with the River Thames on my right. A boat hooted, someone laughed and I could hear a flute playing, a busker by the bridge I guessed.

  The Thames made me think of the postcard Jack had sent me. I pulled it out of my pocket. The picture was one of the most famous in the world and one of my favourites. Turner had captured the warship, Temeraire, as it was being towed up the Thames to be broken up. She had fought so bravely at the Battle of Trafalgar and in Turner's picture she looks naked without her sails, suffering the humiliations of being shepherded up the river by a squat tug belching orange from its thin dark funnel.
Had Jack meant anything by sending me this particular postcard or was it one he just happened to buy? Until I cracked that code I wouldn't know.

  I turned my thoughts to the motorbike rider. Had he broken into Jack's house? Had Jody Piers' landlady seen him? Jody hadn't called me so I guessed not. I felt a stab of disappointment before I told myself not to be so stupid. I had met her once. I knew nothing about her. I was married.

  Maybe I should report the motorbike rider to the police? Maybe I should tell Steve Langton about Jack's fears? Questions, questions and I should be in Portsmouth finding the answers not here staring over the murky waters of the Thames towards to the illuminated Houses of Parliament opposite.

  I threw a couple of quid into the busker's cap, got a nod of thanks from the man and the lift of an eye from the dog and headed back home.