The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(56)

I spoke fractionally first. ‘Is he—?’

‘George is fine,’ Lockwood said. ‘He’s alive.’ He had his long thin fingers resting on a chair back; he stared at them as if they belonged to someone else. Then he left the chair and walked round the table and put his arms about me and pulled me to him. Time did weird stuff again. We stood like that for I don’t know how long. I’d have been happy for it to go on longer.

‘So he’s fine?’ I asked once we’d drawn apart. ‘Really?’

Lockwood sighed. ‘Well, no – not really. He’s got several types of concussion, but we all know how thick his skull is.’ He smiled at me. ‘But he’ll live. He’s conscious, so you needn’t worry.’

‘He’s woken up? He’s really talked to you and everything?’

‘Yes. He’s a bit sleepy. But at least he’s home now.’

‘Home? What? He’s here?’

‘Not so loud. He’s upstairs. In my bed, as a matter of fact.’

‘Not his room?’ I paused. ‘Actually, no. I can see that wouldn’t work.’

‘No, he’d just get sepsis. It’s fine like this. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

‘Sure. Lockwood – I’m so pleased you’re both back.’

‘Me too. Do you want tea? Silly question. I’ll get you some.’

‘So tell me what happened,’ I said. ‘When did he wake? Were you with him? What did he say?’

‘He didn’t say much – hasn’t said much. He’s too weak as yet. The doctor didn’t really want him to leave the hospital, but this morning he had to concede that George was out of danger, so …’ Lockwood stared into space, holding a spoon. ‘Where do we keep the tea bags now?’

‘On the shelf, where they always are. Have you had any sleep?’

‘Not much. I’m not quite ready yet … What was I doing?’

‘You were making tea. Look, I’ll do it. Where is Holly? She’s not yet been in?’ Holly had gone home the previous evening, searching for elusive rest, like me.

‘Not yet, I don’t think.’ Lockwood hesitated. ‘How is she?’

‘Oh, like the rest of us, I expect.’ I glanced back at him as I stirred the tea. ‘While you were gone, I was thinking … You were very hard on her, you know – when she first told us about George, back in the hall.’

Lockwood took his mug in silence. Then he said, ‘I wanted every detail. I wanted to see that image of George as if I was there myself.’

‘It’s not your fault, Lockwood.’

‘No? Barnes thinks it is.’

I remembered the inspector, a brown and furrowed presence beneath his raincoat, passing me in a hospital corridor. It was a disconnected image, leading nowhere. There were no details. ‘How was Barnes when you spoke to him?’

‘Civil.’

‘What did he say?’

Lockwood sighed. ‘He didn’t need to say anything – his face was eloquent enough. He couldn’t talk openly, anyway – he had several police officers with him. And there was George’s doctor too.’ Lockwood shook his head. ‘I didn’t trust him. Barnes says he’s worked for both the Fittes and Rotwell companies. He might be OK, but … Anyway, I’m not having George out of our sight from now on. That’s why I brought him home.’

I looked towards the ceiling. ‘He’s out of our sight right now, if it comes to that.’

He shook his head again. ‘Not exactly. He’s got company.’

‘Who? Not Holly. Not Kipps, surely. Or is Kipps here?’

‘Flo.’

‘What? Flo? She’s in the sick room?’ I stared at him. ‘Is that sanitary?’

‘She was very insistent.’

‘How did she even find out about it?’

‘I don’t know. She showed up an hour ago and barged upstairs. She brought some black things in a pot.’ Lockwood rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I hope to Christ they were grapes, but with Flo you just can’t tell.’

I drank my tea, letting its warmth run through me. As so often, the feeling brought me back to the essentials. The moment became simpler, my needs clearer.

‘Lockwood,’ I said, ‘I want to see George. I want to see him now.’

The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and we were able to push it open without a sound. In the ordinary way, Lockwood’s room was the opposite of George’s, being clean and tidy and sparsely furnished. Not that I went in it much, but I’d always linked it with sunlight and smooth white sheets and the smell of lavender. The sight of Flo Bones squatting in the armchair like a death-cap mushroom blew such associations into sweet oblivion. She lifted her straw hat up a notch and made stern shushing gestures. The air smelled antiseptic and also somehow stale and muddy, courtesy of Flo; the curtains were partly drawn. The bed was dim, the covers rumpled. It was hard to see its occupant at all.

We stole across the carpet. Flo’s puffa jacket rasped as she pulled herself free of the chair.

‘Don’t disturb him!’ she hissed. ‘He needs his rest!’

‘I know he does,’ Lockwood whispered. ‘How is he, Flo? Has he woken?’