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Overview
DI Joanna Piercy is irritated at what she perceives to be an attempt to wrap her up in cotton wool during her pregnancy when she is asked to take on the case of Zachary Foster, a missing ninety-six-year-old man suffering from dementia. Zachary has vanished from his residential care home on the edge of Leek during the night with his beloved old teddy bear. He can’t have gone far, surely, but how did a frail, elderly man manage to abscond from a secure house at night? As Joanna investigates, it soon becomes clear that this apparently minor case is far more sinister than it first appears. Could her own life, and that of her unborn child, be at risk?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780727829481 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 02/04/2020 |
| Series: | A Joanna Piercy Mystery , #14 |
| Edition description: | Large Print |
| Pages: | 336 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.55(w) x 8.74(h) x (d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Monday 22 October, 8.20 a.m.
'Still get in through the door, can you?'
Joanna shot him a baleful glare. 'Bugger off, Korpanski.'
He simply grinned, knowing he had another jibe up his sleeve. Joanna dropped into her chair and Korpanski took in her outfit with some surprise. 'You still cycling in, Jo?'
'It's the only thing that still makes me feel half human and less a dumper truck.'
He looked dubious. 'I don't think I'd have been very keen on Fran cycling through a pregnancy.'
'I'm not Fran, am I?'
Korpanski opened his mouth to respond but quickly shut it again without asking what Matthew thought about her cycling at this time.
She'd picked up on something. 'You got something up your sleeve, Korpanski?'
'Yeah, I have.'
'Well, spit it out.'
But DS Mike Korpanski was taking his time. He was going to get maximum satisfaction out of this one. 'Something right in your line.'
'Go on.'
'Old man gone AWOL from a residential home.'
Her head whipped round. 'And you think I should be investigating this, do you?'
He'd picked up on her dangerous tone all right but DS Korpanski enjoyed sailing close to the wind. He nodded, not even trying to suppress a smile.
Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy glared at her detective sergeant. 'You're kidding me, right?'
Korpanski didn't respond to the furious demand as she continued her rant. 'You really want me to investigate an old man who's wandered away from a residential home? Mike,' she appealed, 'I know I'm pregnant and have the belly of a blue whale and the brain of a flea but, bloody hell, I haven't sunk that low. Haven't you got uniforms looking out for him? He can't have gone far.'
'The uniforms haven't come up with anything, Jo.'
'Well, get them to look harder then. It's hardly something for us.'
He was grinning at her as he leaned back in his seat, tempted to spin it around, peer into his computer screen and avoid seeing the fire that was burning in her eyes. 'As he hasn't turned up so far, Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush, your favourite CS ever, says we should be asking questions and getting involved.'
'And you think it's one for me.'
'The sooner he's found, Jo, the sooner we can all get on with some real work.'
He followed that up with, 'Besides, a nice easy task like this. I thought it'd be right up your street.'
She almost ground her teeth before realizing that was exactly the response he'd been counting on, so modified it to, 'You,' she said, finger pointing, 'are trying your bloody luck, Mike. I don't even give birth for a couple of months. I can't do crap like this until then. I'm an inspector, for goodness' sake. Matthew already wants to wrap me up in cotton wool, ban me from riding my bike. He wants us to spend our time off together looking at prams and cribs and ...' And then it was all too much for her and she dropped her face into her hands, almost sinking her head on to the desk. 'Mike,' she appealed again, 'how on earth am I going to cope with all that? Matthew's parents simply can't wait to become acting grandparents though ...' Mercurial as ever, she smothered a grin herself now. 'I can't say my mum is quite so keen. In fact, she's keeping her distance, as is my sister and her pair of brats.'
Korpanski bit back the retort, don't blame them, contenting himself with a long sigh which could have meant anything and smirked into his computer screen as she continued with her rant.
'This whole role – it's not me. I'm not some earth mother.'
He turned around then, studied her face and read only apprehension. And he felt an unexpected wash of sympathy for her misgivings, realizing they were all centred on her doubts about the approaching 'happy event'. 'Jo,' he said, wanting to reassure her, 'you'll love it. Take to it like a duck to water. It's a piece of cake. Nothing to it being a mum. It'll all come naturally, I promise you.'
She was unconvinced, her doubt failing to melt away but staying, a block of ice inside her heart. 'I'm not so sure,' she confessed. 'Unlike Matthew who just can't wait to cuddle it. He's so convinced it's a boy, Mike, he's even chosen a name.'
Korpanski chuckled. 'So what is it?'
Shoulders up in exasperation. 'He won't tell me.'
Korpanski smiled. He and his wife had had a pact. He could choose his daughter's name, Jocelyn, while his wife had chosen their son's: Richard, who was never ever called anything but Ricky.
'And just think of his disappointment if it's another girl.' She gulped. 'Another Eloise.'
'He'll get used to it.' And as she still looked unconvinced he added, 'Well, at least he's not Henry VIII and won't be chopping your head off for a child of the wrong sex.'
They both laughed at this and the atmosphere melted while the surrounding officers looked up from their desks and thanked their lucky stars for the way DS Korpanski could deflect their inspector's growing irritability which was only matched by her increasing girth.
When they'd stopped laughing Mike couldn't resist tacking on, 'You can find out the sex of the child before it's born, you know. You don't have to wait, Jo. Maybe it'll take some of the stress out of it?'
'No, thanks.' She held up her hand. 'Heaven forbid. I wouldn't exactly be enamoured at the thought of another Eloise growing like a tumour inside me.'
Korpanski looked over, dark eyes concerned. 'I'd keep that particular thought to yourself.'
And even she realized she'd crossed a line. 'Yeah. You're right. I guess so. I'll cross that bridge when I meet it.'
Korpanski rested his large, meaty paw on her shoulder. 'It'll all be worth it, Jo, I promise.'
And she nodded, thinking, maybe, maybe not. Too late now.
If Matthew had the son he so fiercely desired, it would be worth it all – the sickness, the nausea, the tiredness, the huge waistline, the horrible clothes and big knickers. It would all be worth it just to see that wondrous look on his face again – the very same look that had lit his face when she had first told him she was pregnant. A look she hadn't seen since they'd first become lovers – a sort of amazed disbelief at his good fortune. The realization of a dream which was coming true, the fulfilment of his ambition.
Mike brought her back to the present. 'I tell you, Jo. When you have your baby, be it son or daughter, you will love it more than life itself. They become everything to you. More important than career or ambition or anything else. They become your life. Your future.'
She looked at her sergeant, at his dark eyes and tall, burly form and felt a wave of affection matched only by her interest in these foreign emotions he was describing. 'You really feel that strongly about Ricky and Jossie?' 'Yeah,' he said. 'I do. I'd give my life for them, Jo.' But even as he spoke the words he sensed the vulnerability this confession exposed, which for a moment knocked him silent and made him thoughtful, dark eyes clouded even at the thought.
'And you really think I'll feel like that ...' she rested her hands on her bump, 'when this child is born?'
He nodded.
'Matthew already does.'
Korpanski simply nodded again and she held out her hand for the notes she'd spied on his desk. 'OK, then,' she said. 'I give in. Tell me about the case?'
Sensing the storm was now abating, Korpanski tossed the few papers across the desk. 'Here it is, Inspector Piercy,' he said, smothering his grin. 'Old guy with dementia missing from a residential home. We've already alerted the local lads but he hasn't turned up so far. And that's about it.'
She took the notes from him. Read the top line.
Zachary Foster, age ninety-six, missing some time during the night from Ryland's Residential Home. Absence noted seven a.m. Suffers from dementia. Stroke two years ago. Speech impaired. She looked up.
'Hardly a major case,' she said wryly. 'How are the mighty fallen.'
And to that even Korpanski couldn't produce an answer.
CHAPTER 2Monday 22 October, 9.30 a.m.
They wouldn't exactly be using the blue light to drive to Ryland's. There was no hurry. The longer they left it, the likelier it was that the old boy would turn up of his own accord. Joanna had googled the home and read only glowing reviews.
'Cared for my dad like one of their own.'
'A pleasant, welcoming atmosphere.'
'Wonderful, kind staff.'
'They even made Mum a birthday cake.'
And so on. By the time they got there, she guessed, the old guy would have wandered back. They'd be met at the door by an apologetic matron and sent on their way, back to the station and Korpanski's jibes.
She'd elected to bring PC Bridget Anderton with her. Besides the fact that she would do well interviewing confused elderly people, Joanna had an ulterior motive.
Bridget had three children. That meant three pregnancies and, presumably, three labours. If anyone knew about childbirth it was Bridget Anderton. As the time approached, Joanna was becoming increasingly anxious about this inevitability. Considering her husband had done three months' obstetrics in his medical student days, Matthew had not been very helpful on this subject. He'd ummed and aahed and said, 'They just get on with it.' She'd wanted more details. A personal view from someone who had actually experienced labour and giving birth. At the back of her mind she was curious and increasingly concerned. The baby was growing and somehow, in the not too distant future, it was going to have to make an appearance, which meant being pushed out of her nether regions by her – unless, of course, she opted for or needed a caesarean section. She wanted Bridget's story straight from the horse's ... she smirked. Not exactly the mouth.
She glanced at her watch. It was now ten a.m. Mr Zachary Foster had been missing for anything up to eight hours. Even so the chances were that he was still not too far away, probably cowering in a shop doorway or trying to buy a coffee in the Red Cross charity shop on the Butter Market. But no one had rung in so far.
She and Bridget made their way to the car, walking through chilly sunshine, anticipating the simple case ahead.
When, later on, she returned to that moment, she found herself again in that comfortable place where this disappearance was nothing more than a confused old man who had wandered out of a residential home which probably had next-to-no security measures. Later on she might wish herself back there.
Somehow Bridget, with her sensitive and intuitive nature, had already sussed out the reason for her being chosen to accompany her and was doing her best to respond to the DI's questions. 'It's not that bad, Jo.'
Joanna kept her eyes on the road. What did that mean: It's not that bad?
PC Bridget Anderton tried again. 'It's like period pains.'
'Ugh.'
Bridget tried again, a bit harder. 'Just a bit more fierce.'
'And what about ...?'
'When you push – oh my goodness. That's an urge like you've never felt before. It is all consuming.'
Joanna frowned. 'Not sure I like the sound of that.'
Bridget sat back in her seat, a smile lighting her plain face. 'You haven't got much choice, Joanna.'
That drew a scowl.
Bridget tried for a third time. 'But then they put the baby in your arms and, oh, Jo,' she turned to look at her inspector. 'It's heaven. You feel this warm glaze of honey all over you. It's magic and you feel powerful.' She echoed Korpanski's words. 'You feel you would die for this tiny, vulnerable being that you've just produced.'
Joanna wrinkled up her nose and turned to look at the PC. 'I'm really not sure about this.'
At which point Bridget burst out laughing. 'That baby's got to come out and that's the way it'll be. Head first – usually.'
'Was Steve there with you?'
'For Katie and Sollie but not for Troy. He came too quick.' She turned to look at her. 'But Matthew's a doctor, Joanna. He'll want to be there to see his child's birth and make certain everything's done right.'
'Oh, he'll want to be there all right. Make sure everything's done properly.' Was it a consolation that he would be there, witnessing the moment she gave birth to his son – or daughter – or would it inhibit her? Was being together at such a personal moment a good or a bad thing? She didn't know ... yet. Something else she would learn.
A sign, black with gold lettering, swinging in a light breeze, told them they were there and put paid to their conversation. Joanna turned the car into the drive.
Ryland's was one of the last houses before the town gave way to empty moorland. It was a large Victorian house, set back from the A53, a road that climbed and climbed up to Ramshaw Rocks and the Winking Man, crossing miles of bleak moorland, empty apart from scattered smallholdings, finally dropping into the spa town of Buxton. Before they petered out, giving way to the deserted moors, the houses along this road were huge. Plenty big enough for a good-sized residential home. The sign moving in a cool autumn breeze read: Ryland's Residential Home for elderly folk.
It sounded friendly. Safe. Reassuring. Inviting. As they travelled up the drive, Joanna's thoughts were that this was the civilized way to care for the frail, the vulnerable, the elderly. Already she was piecing together a narrative. The guy had wandered out, too confused to find his way back. He would soon be found. The fact that he hadn't yet been spotted could be an indication that he was somewhere near, perhaps paranoiac, hiding from what he would perceive as a hostile, alien environment and people who might harm him.
She inched the car along the drive, eyes alert to any sign of movement. Two squad cars told her a search was already underfoot. So why drag me in? she wondered, still irritated. Any time now there would be a shout and she could return to the station.
The grounds were neatly lawned with a few mature trees lining the driveway, already sprinkled with freshly fallen leaves which made it look like a brightly patterned carpet against the brilliant green of the grass. A sign pointed to a large car park at the rear but Joanna pulled up in front and parked at the side of the police cars, taking in tall bay windows either side of a panelled front door, shiny with black gloss paint, which was now firmly closed. Shutting the stable door? All looked neat, quiet, well-ordered and civilized, the squad cars the only sign of drama. She and Bridget climbed out of the car and locked it behind them.
Now Joanna had reached the scene her narrative was finding colour and movement. An old man creeping out of that door, standing on the step, looking around him, already tense, nervous and completely lost. He would step down, getting even more lost and confused as he reached the grounds. So had he headed down the drive, out into the long, unfamiliar street where he would either turn right, towards the town, a slight decline, or left, climbing up to Blackshaw Moor, stepping into the dangerous void that was the moorlands, where he might suffer exposure, an accident, and where there was less chance of him being found by a passer-by. And already she was working through something else. This end of the road wasn't actually in the town but a good half-mile outside, and at night was lit only by lampposts. To his left the road would have been black and bare, the lampposts finishing in a hundred yards or so. To the right the road sloped gently down towards the town and civilization. But, depending on what time he had made his escape, Leek is hardly a town of late-night bustle, bright lights and noisy bars. It is a rural market town, the native folk, in general, more likely to keep to their homes on a cold night in late October.
So ... she stood for a moment trying to put herself in his place. A confused old man. What would he be most likely to do? Surely he would have headed down the hill towards the lights? But there was always the possibility that he had turned left out of the gates and been swallowed up in the dark. It seemed unlikely but would their man have had the power of reason? Did he think he was heading somewhere? Had he a plan? A trigger for leaving – perhaps staff cruelty? Confusion? A misapprehension? The trouble was, unlike a person suffering from depression or a rebellious teenager, she had absolutely no idea how a person suffering from dementia would reason; whether they were capable of rational thought, a structured plan. She recalled the description of the missing man's medical condition. They had described his mental state with the word dementia. A stroke two years ago. Surely that must have affected his mobility? And speech impaired, so if anyone did find him he might be unable to describe where he had come from. This didn't look good. But surely he was nearby? He must be, hampered by that collection of medical stumbling blocks. She frowned.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Blood On The Rocks"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Priscilla Masters.
Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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