Head Count Read online

  Suddenly I was flying. Suddenly I was on top of a hedgerow, which seemed to consist entirely of brambles, wild roses, and nettles. Ah, there was some barbed wire in there too. Probably rusty.

  ‘Help!’ But no sound came out, of course. And, for the time being, I couldn’t reach my phone, tucked in my bumbag.

  Before I knew it, I was being rescued. Painfully. Pulled through a hedge backwards, as the cliché goes, but this was literally happening.

  ‘We’ve dialled 999,’ a man’s voice said. Oldish. Kentish.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I protested, though it’s possible that over the grunting of their own exertions they couldn’t hear my guttural whisper. By now I was making my own efforts to free myself, but could find nothing to give any leverage.

  It was hard not to squeak with pain when my rescuers resumed theirs.

  ‘Come on, Doreen: don’t just stand there!’ he gasped.

  ‘You’re just making it worse,’ the woman said. She too was oldish and Kentish. ‘And you know your heart’s not what it was, Harry.’

  What if trying to help me killed him? ‘I’m safe enough here,’ I gasped. ‘Do you live nearby?’

  ‘Just across the lane – well, a few yards.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve got such a thing as a stepladder, Harry?’

  He had. His footsteps retreated.

  ‘I’d best help him carry it, silly old bugger,’ the woman said doubtfully. ‘If it’s OK to leave you?’

  Certainly I wasn’t going anywhere. I promised her I’d be all right.

  And soon I was. Maybe I really had been hoping for the wail of an ambulance siren. Certainly I hadn’t expected the throaty pulse of a motorbike. Not just any leather-clad rider, either: the miracle of a mobile paramedic, who introduced himself as Ian.

  I suppose he had a list of guidelines to follow, because he fired a series of questions at me. No doubt my rescuers’ helpful suggestions drowned some of my replies: it took time to persuade him that my lack of voice wasn’t as a result of today’s activities.

  Eventually, though I didn’t wish to challenge his professionalism, I risked a suggestion: ‘Ian, you’re practically wearing a suit of armour. You could even put your helmet on again. Couldn’t you just push your way through and hold me up while I wriggle free? Look, all my toes and fingers work, and I promise you I’ve not lost any feeling anywhere. Anywhere at all,’ I whispered emphatically.

  ‘I ought to get backup, Jane.’ For some reason he dropped his voice too. ‘Ambulances carry equipment I can’t. Then we could slide a back-board under you and fix a neck brace.’

  ‘I’m sure you ought. But I’m sure a quick tug and Harry’s stepladder under me will free me.’ Please let it be quick: otherwise it would be like having a slow tooth extraction or a leisurely leg wax.

  He did his best. In a matter of seconds I was standing in my tattered jeans and shredded top on the dried-out grass verge. One foot hurt more than the other: I’d managed to lose a trainer at some point. My helmet was still in place, however, and things could clearly have been a lot worse. Even the blood – though there was quite a lot. I might have been embraced by razor blades.

  Doreen and Harry were both, as I’d suspected, in their seventies. For some reason they dressed as if they were in a fashion time warp, he in grey flannels and she wearing a wrap-around pinny. Both were more appalled by the sight of all my blood than was reassuring.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Ian said, ‘I can’t take you to A&E. We need an ambulance for that.’

  ‘But I don’t need A&E. GP surgery or Minor Injuries, maybe. The scratches are all pretty superficial. Aren’t they?’

  He was checking them carefully, and was clearly inclined to agree. But there was no doubt he registered my pathetic shaking.

  ‘I’ve only just had a tetanus booster,’ I added, as if that would put an end to the discussion. ‘It’s surely just a matter of putting dressings on the worst.’

  At this point, Doreen – it turned out she was Harry’s sister, not his wife – insisted that we all adjourn to their bungalow so that the paramedic could treat me there and then in what she called decent privacy. I was very grateful, even though she kept popping in and out of the lounge – a strange choice of room, perhaps – with towels and bowls of hot water, as if I was an injured hero in an old black and white Western. Ian pretended to be appreciative, although he had a seemingly endless supply of disposable wipes; my husky thanks for the pot of tea for both of us were absolutely sincere, however. The cup rattled less and less in the saucer.

  ‘I suppose you didn’t get the reg of the guy that ran you off the road?’ he asked, probably to distract me while he diligently extracted a thorn.

  ‘He came up from behind. I think. I can’t recall seeing anyone coming my way. Bloody hell, Ian!’

  ‘Soon be done. There’s no one who’s out to get you, I suppose?’

  Now wasn’t the time to regale him with my life story.

  At last he announced he was satisfied. I was to take a taxi home and call my GP or the NHS helpline if I had any problems. We waved him off.

  Doreen, who clearly disapproved of wasting money on a taxi, declared that Harry and she would drive me back to my cottage, even though my bike would have to await its turn in their front garden – a charming picture-book place with old-fashioned flowers surrounding an immaculate lawn. It was so lovely that I asked, flourishing my phone, if I could take a photo with them in it, but she simply pointed to a loft window she’d left ajar and dashed in to close it. Then she had to double-check she’d locked the front door. And nip round the back to see that all was secure there. Shades of my paranoid mother.

  Harry let himself into an elderly two-door Fiesta, which looked as if it had last been cleaned the year he bought it: it was completely out of place against the neatness of the house. It had left a patch of oil on the driveway at the side of the cottage. Doreen was checking that all was clear for him to reverse into the lane, reassuring him with decidedly ambiguous arm movements.

  ‘What I can’t work out,’ he said through the open driver’s window, as he pulled up with two wheels on the verge, ‘is why that man drove at you. He did, you know, didn’t he? That man?’ he prompted as Doreen held the front passenger door open and tipped forward the seat. Somehow I was to get into the back seat. At last I managed. I dared not speculate on how I’d get out.

  ‘What man?’ She took her place beside him.

  ‘The man that drove at Jane, here. In the big car.’

  ‘Oh, the blue one.’

  ‘No, it was black. With tinted windows.’

  ‘Blue with tinted windows. One of those that look like a van. Ugly great things.’

  ‘More like a young lorry. What do they call them on Neighbours? Utes? Only with the back section covered up. Yes, you ought to tell the police, Jane. Who would want to do that to an innocent woman?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Nor had I. Not precisely. The trouble was that though Simon was still in prison, he had plenty of cronies on the outside. On the other hand, I’d have thought they’d have done a more efficient job of despatching me. Who else could it have been? – assuming, of course, that it wasn’t a simple accident. I’d had problems when I’d arrived in the village but now I seemed to be on reasonably good terms with everyone.

  ‘We’d be witnesses,’ she continued.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, without irony. ‘I don’t suppose you managed to remember any of the registration number?’

  ‘They’ve got such complicated ones these days, haven’t they?’

  I took that as a negative. ‘Or the make?’ I added, more in hope than expectation.

  As if they were an old married couple, bound together for fifty years, they bickered all the way to Wrayford: make; model; colour? Somehow I didn’t think there was much for the police to work on, even if I’d been able to make any intelligent guesses.

  The only time they were silent was when, ready to say goodbye, I asked them for their address and phone num
ber. They flinched as if I’d asked them to give classified information.

  ‘So I can phone you before I come and collect my bicycle,’ I whispered gently.

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for that. All you need to do is open the gate.’

  I shook my head, trying to be patient and to sound even more grateful than I was. ‘You know, I think I must have banged my head after all. I haven’t,’ I declared truthfully, ‘a clue where it all happened.’

  Their contact details safe in my phone, I waved them goodbye, unable, however, to rid myself of the idea that they wanted nothing further to do with me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the cycle had appeared unannounced in my own front garden. But it hadn’t when I ordered a large bunch of thank-you flowers online next morning, including the message that I’d arrive in my car the following day.

  I did. To find the bike still in place. It was absolutely pristine: they must have cleaned it when they cleaned their car, which I presumed they must do occasionally – an annual treat, perhaps. Meanwhile, far from spruce, wilting on the sun-baked doorstep, sat a large bouquet.

  It must have been a combination of the virus and the accident that meant I could only stare, nonplussed, for what seemed like several minutes. They were out. That was all. Or perhaps it wasn’t. I took a prowl round the bungalow. A peep through a window showed me that everything was almost unnaturally tidy: it reminded me of how my mother used to leave the family home before our summer exodus to the seaside; my family hadn’t discovered cheap package tours abroad. Even the dishcloth was hung carefully to dry over the mixer tap. Some fairly deep tyre tracks led me to a long shed, the roof of which was so concave I couldn’t imagine it holding up much longer. What it held would remain a mystery, because it dawned on me that what I was doing was snooping. Even so I registered another puzzle: why two people should need such an inordinately long washing line. But perhaps they had once offered B&B accommodation and needed to dry loads of bedlinen.

  But none of this was anything to do with me. I gathered up the flowers so I could return them to the Canterbury florist. Next time they might not leave anything unsigned for lying casually for all to see. All? Well, the odd sheep.

  In the cycle shop, as the mean and lean owner sucked his teeth over the damage to the bike and worked out an estimate for repairing it, I looked at helmet cameras. The next person running me off the road had better smile.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Having bravely run the risk of being bled on, Nosey was very relieved when my scratches began to heal. Then my voice improved, apparently in sync. I was almost as disappointed as he was. Even though I’d have had to exchange two wheels for four until my bike was better too, I’d planned silent visits to some of the most famous tourist destinations in Kent: Dover Castle, Dungeness, Sissinghurst. But now I could read without throat complications, could I turn to my enticing pile of books? With Nosey on my lap? No, I told him: I’d better apply myself to the files of my new outpost, none of which would interest him. I’d arrived in Wrayford itself with precious little opportunity to prepare, and a whole heap of problems no one could have envisaged. So naturally I resolved to prepare this time for every single foreseeable eventuality.

  I read the file of every child and every adult associated with the school. I knew the first name of the plumber who responded to what seemed an unnaturally high number of call-outs; I also knew the cleaner had a problem with punctuality, though not the reason. But the most interesting thing I discovered seemed to me a policy worth adopting at Wrayford itself: every family whose child had been offered a place at Wray Episcopi school had a home visit from one of the staff – sometimes even with Maggie Hale, the head, if it was felt there might be problems with either location in a very rural area or with a family known for a less than co-operative attitude to authority. The plan was not to snoop around, but to introduce to the child and its parents a member of staff whose name and face would be familiar on the child’s first day at school. It was also a chance for the parent to raise issues about behaviour, illness or allergies. A handwritten appendix to the file showed that this was not a universally popular policy: one extremely rich local worthy had been so incensed by the idea of what he wrongly construed as a check on his granddaughter’s home life that he’d paid for a private school place instead. Another noted that as a result of the teachers’ visit the RSPCA had been summoned to check on the family dogs. Clearly all was not going to be straightforward, and I suspected that some of the Wrayford governors would be against the idea from the moment I first mooted it, unless I did so with extreme tact – otherwise known as low cunning.

  I would certainly need the chair of governors on my side.

  Brian Dawes and I had enjoyed an uneasy association from the moment I was appointed: at times he’d shown downright hostility, with his massive head and threatening shoulders unnerving me, but on other occasions he’d proved a wise and committed professional. There was no doubt he’d been as shocked and horrified as I by a series of tragic events resulting in the loss of several promising pupils – the death, indeed, of one of them. Chastened, perhaps feeling a modicum of guilt, he’d recently been more constructive than destructive in any criticism of me or my colleagues. As well as being my generous landlord he had also invited me to a number of social events, which probably caused no little gossip in the village, though I could have assured anyone interested that our friendship, if so it could be described, was strictly platonic.

  As was my relationship with someone for whom I’d once had far from platonic feelings: Pat Webber. For a long time he’d been my utterly reliable – relionable, indeed – police contact for when my violent ex-husband forced his way back into my life yet again, finding me wherever I’d moved to. At last, however, Simon was tucked away in Durham jail, and, after I’d changed my name and as much of my appearance as I could manage without actually going under the knife, Pat’s bosses, mindful of their budget, no doubt, thought I could look after myself. Pat had plenty of other work to do, and perhaps other personal responsibilities I still didn’t know about. It was those he had to deal with, one way or another, to his own moral satisfaction; in any case, officers like him were never supposed to develop personal feelings towards their vulnerable clients – and certainly not act on them if they did. There was talk that an officer’s initiating a sexual relationship – Pat with me, for instance – would become a criminal offence, with a jail sentence for the offender.

  Meanwhile I needed to work out whether I was genuinely attracted to Pat or simply profoundly grateful for all he’d done. So like fairy-tale lovers we’d separated for a year and a day. Seriously, we’d not spent any time together for about six months now. OK, we’d had the very occasional contact by text or email. How he felt about mine, I can’t tell. Once I’d held my breath till the next one from him. Now I was accustomed to not hearing from him, and I’d pretty well ceased to imagine reporting a particularly weird or pleasant incident to him. Actually, even without Pat on the horizon, Brian didn’t stand much chance. I needed solid friends more than risky love affairs – and if I did date him, what if the relationship ended? No, it was best for us to be strictly professional in our doings.

  I was preoccupied too with the alterations to my new home. Or lack thereof. I was working through a succession of builders who might, you’d have thought, have leapt at the chance of several weeks’ solid work. The one on whose assurances I’d gone ahead with the purchase went bankrupt within two days of the cottage becoming my property; another refused point-blank to have anything to do with the project. Was it because it was remotely likely to attract historical officialdom? They never replied. Several insisted that they were committed to projects that would mean no work on mine till next Easter.

  Add to that the complications of even builders taking normal summer holidays, my progress was slow to non-existent. Now I could speak firmly down the phone, perhaps my progress would be better. Perhaps.

  In fact, the whole village seemed to be in a state of susp
ended animation, the natives being replaced by visitors in search of quaintness cheek by jowl with the advantages of urban living. They couldn’t believe there were no shops, no post office – nothing but the pub. Even the church was relying on visiting clergy, as Brian remarked when we met – by chance – in the Jolly Cricketers’ bar.

  ‘And now we’ve got damned Operation Stack again, too!’ he added venomously, as if the M20 being used as a car park for hundreds of vehicles waiting to cross into France was somehow the fault of the Church of England.

  ‘What’s the reason this time?’ I asked. It wasn’t just one major road being blocked, as media reports might have implied: access to others was severely limited, and some minor roads were gridlocked as drivers sought to beat the appalling jams only to find bigger, better ones lying in wait. Last time the delay had been caused by insufficient security staff to check travellers’ documentation and search cars, if necessary. I missed all the chaos because of my virus, of course.

  Brian shrugged those huge shoulders. ‘Which one this time? Migrants trying to get into the Tunnel and closing it? A broken down lorry? Striking French fishermen blockading the port of Calais?’

  Diane shook her head. ‘Rioting refugees. A boy was killed in the Tunnel. Some sixteen-year-old trying to ride a lorry. The dreadful irony is that he was entitled to come over here anyway – he has family in the country already. But officialdom just took too long …’