Malgreave nodded. “I am.”
Josef’s face brightened. “Then …”
“Then you can prepare yourself for your next assignment,” Malgreave said gently.
“Assignment?”
“Vidal is being named chief inspector in my place. You’ll be his assistant.”
Josef’s face whitened. “You haven’t even handed in your resignation yet. How do you know … ?”
“I handed it in several hours ago. In it I made my recommendations.”
“And I get screwed,” Josef said bitterly. “All for one little fuck-up.”
“For one little fuck-up that nearly cost three innocent people their lives, Josef. I’m sorry.”
“The hell you are!” Josef slammed out of the office, out of the building, without a backward glance.
Malgreave stubbed out his cigarette. God, it was about time he retired. He was getting too old for this. He’d finish his report, give it to Gauge to type, and then take off. He’d spent too much of his life swamped by the Grandmother Murders. It was time to break free.
He stared down at the torn and tattered paper in front of him. They’d found it on Bonnard’s body, and it explained a great deal of what Malgreave had begun to suspect. Scrawled in a boyish, almost illegible hand, written in human blood, it was the pact, made by a bunch of abused young boys. It was all spelled out, from the weather to the victims, all very ritualistic and depressing. And twenty-five years later they’d all tried to live up to it, with varying degrees of success.
He leaned closer to the paper, peering at it. He’d left his glasses at home, and his eyesight wasn’t as good as it used to be. Half the words were illegible; he could make out two of the signatures, but he had to guess at the other two. Except that it looked as if there were five signatures on the shredded paper, and only four murderers accounted for.
Claire sat outside the hospital room, her bandaged hand resting lightly on Nicole’s shoulder. They both looked like hell, she thought. Exhausted, tear-stained, filthy and hungry, they looked like refugees. But neither of them was going anyplace until she found out whether Tom was going to make it.
The police said he would, but the police were very low on her list of trusted personnel. The gash on his head required countless stitches, but at least Marc hadn’t had a chance to use his knife. Rest was what he needed, rest and antibiotics to ward off infection. The hay Marc had stashed him under was laced with chicken manure. Neither the smell nor the sanitation of it was to be recommended.
The door to Tom’s room opened, and Claire rose, followed by Nicole. “How is he?”
The doctor launched into a spate of French, but Claire, instead of feeling miserable and inadequate, held up her hand. “In English, please,” she said regally, knowing full well the doctor could manage if he tried.
The doctor, like his American counterparts, considered himself to be one step below the Almighty and didn’t like taking orders from a mere mortal. With an irritated sigh he launched into a halting explanation. “He’s resting comfortably. With luck we’ll take him off the intravenous tube tomorrow. We’ve given him something to help him sleep, and by tomorrow he’ll be feeling much better. Go home.”
Claire smiled sweetly. “Thank you, doctor.” And pushing past him, she walked into Tom’s room, with Nicole trailing behind her.
He looked like hell, tubes going into him, tubes coming out, his face pale, his sandy hair in a tangle around his face. For a moment Claire panicked, wondering if the doctor had lied to her, when he opened his beautiful blue eyes and smiled at her.
“I forced my way in here,” she announced without preamble.
“I’m sure you did,” he said, his voice weak, his grin a semblance of his usual charm.
“I had to make sure you were okay.”
“Fit as a fiddle,” he
said, though she could see the effort was costing him.
“I just thought I ought to mention something,” Claire said, coming closer and taking the hand that wasn’t encumbered with an i.v.
“What?”
“I love you.”
His grin broadened. “That’s right. We never got around to mentioning that, did we?”
“No, we didn’t.” Her fingers gently stroked the warm flesh.