‘And money makes money. Always has done. What about them?’ She pointed towards a cluster of youths who were gathered outside a local off-licence. ‘Nothing, no hope. Even in the thirties there was hope, the belief that things could change. Now…all this talk about moral standards and the fabric of society. A return to Victorian values. Huh,’ she snorted, ‘Victorian values were savage, smothered in hypocrisy.’
I was fazed at her outburst and I’d no idea what had set her off. I said nothing. We arrived at the hospital.
The curtains were still drawn round Lily’s bed and no sooner had we sat down at her bedside than a junior doctor arrived. She introduced herself and explained that they were using intravenous antibiotics to try to fight the infection that had raised Lily’s temperature. The saline drip was to prevent dehydration.
‘Has she been awake?’ asked Agnes.
‘She’s been sleeping. That’s no bad thing, rest can help a great deal.’
‘Is she going to be all right?’
The doctor didn’t give her a straight answer, she probably couldn’t. ‘If we can get her over the infection there’s no reason why she shouldn’t make a complete recovery from the haematoma.’ She left.
Agnes slid her hand under Lily’s. The face on the pillow was peaceful enough but her breath was harsh and ragged, painful to listen to.
‘I’ll wait in the lounge for a bit,’ I offered. ‘Don’t want to give her this cold on top of everything else.’
Half an hour later I returned. I was ready to go. The heat on the ward was making me sweat, my head had started pounding and I was beginning to feel unsteady, slightly dizzy.
As I slipped behind Agnes and touched her shoulder, Lily woke. She stared at Agnes, then blinked slowly.
‘Lily. Lily, it’s Agnes. You’ve not been well, you’re in the MRI.’ Lily blinked. I wondered how much she could see without her glasses on.
‘Olive,’ it was a hoarse whisper, ‘my Olive.’
‘Oh, Lily.’ Agnes stroked her hand.
Lily closed her eyes again and soon the noisy, dragging breath returned. Persistent but irregular. Gently Agnes released her friend’s hand.
‘Olive was her daughter,’ she said. ‘She died a week after her third birthday. Milk sickness, TB.’
She stood up. We made our way slowly and in silence past the bright murals down the long corridor to the exit.
‘MAN CHARGED IN ACHEBE SLAYING. HUSBAND RELEASED,’ brayed the evening paper. Front-page news. Complete with one of the shots I’d taken of the man I’d seen at the hotel with Tina Achebe.
I sank into the chair, my coat still on, and scanned the text. He was named as Bill Sherwin, forty-two, a local businessman. There was nothing about why he might have murdered Tina, though much was made of the fact that they were both married. A police spokesman was quoted as saying forensic reports were still being prepared. No further details could be released at present. The paper rehashed details of Tina’s death, included quotes from neighbours and family about their response to both Jimmy’s release and Sherwin’s arrest, and showed a photo of the terraced house complete with police tape across the gate.