Warhol's Prophecy

84

‘NOTHING WAS TAKEN,’ said DC Tate. ‘Not even your husband’s wallet. So the motive obviously wasn’t robbery.’

Tate and Hailey sat in a small anteroom on the ground floor of the hospital.

The young DC sipped at his machine coffee, grimaced, and watched as Hailey ran her fingertip around the rim of her own plastic cup. She seemed uninterested in its contents.

‘The attack could have been random,’ the policeman continued. ‘Some bloody idiot from the pub – drunk? There doesn’t seem to be any real motive for it. Or if there was, we haven’t found it yet. I’m afraid your husband just seems to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m sorry.’

‘He couldn’t identify who attacked him, then?’ Hailey asked, gazing past Tate towards a sign that proclaimed: AIDS – BE SAFE, WEAR A CONDOM.

‘Do you know of any enemies your husband might have had?’ the DC wanted to know.

It couldn’t have been Adam Walker, could it?

Hailey shook her head.

Perhaps the same person who tried to run him off the road the other night?

She looked directly at Tate. Perhaps now was the time to mention that?

‘Your husband couldn’t think of anyone either,’ Tate said. ‘Mind you, in his state I’m not surprised. I’ll have a word with him in a couple of days, when he’s feeling better. Perhaps I could call around to your house?’

Hailey nodded.

Why? Rob won’t be there, anyway.

‘Yes, that’d be fine,’ she told him.

Had it really been a random attack? Would someone almost kill a complete stranger just for the hell of it? Would Walker do that?

‘I understand your husband was staying at the local Travelodge when this attack happened,’ said Tate. ‘We found their key-card in his jacket.’

So that was where he’d gone.

Hailey nodded. ‘He’d been away on business,’ she lied.

Tate looked at her quizzically. ‘Who else knew he was there?’ he wanted to know.

‘I don’t know. Why does it matter?’

‘Well, your husband’s a businessman, isn’t he? Runs his own company? Men like that sometimes make enemies.’

‘He’s got a haulage company,’ Hailey sighed. ‘It’s hardly the Mafia, is it?’ She stretched her arms, hearing the joints pop. She had the beginnings of a headache. The product of tiredness and tears, she reasoned.

She sipped at her tea, wincing when she found it cold.

‘Can I see my husband again now?’ she said, almost pleadingly.

‘It’s not up to me, Mrs Gibson,’ Tate told her. ‘But if the hospital don’t object . . .’ The sentence trailed off.

She got to her feet and turned towards the door.

‘I can leave a car here to get you home,’ the DC told her.

‘I’ll call a cab. Thanks, anyway.’

He smiled. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he told her.

And he was gone.

Hailey made her way back towards the lifts, and rode the next car to the third floor.

She had no idea how long she’d been sitting there at his bedside.

Every now and then he would groan softly in his pained sleep, sometimes open his swollen eyes as best he could. Once he looked straight at her.

Hailey sat by the bed holding his unbandaged hand, her own head lolling forward onto the sheet.

‘Hailey?’

She heard the voice through a veil of sleep.

Hailey jerked her head up and stared at Rob. There was a jug of water on the bedside table and she poured him some, holding it to his ravaged lips, watching as he managed to take a couple of sips.

The effort seemed monumental and it caused him pain.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ he murmured finally.

‘I’m so sorry, Rob,’ she said, tears welling up.

He squeezed her hand. ‘I saw his face,’ he said, each word forced out with effort.

‘Who was it?’

‘Don’t know.’ He winced.

She began to stroke his hand slowly.

‘Just rest,’ she urged him.

‘Don’t know who it was,’ Rob continued. ‘But it wasn’t Walker.’