Pulse(97)

Much to their annoyance, the dinner guests had to give not just names but also their addresses to the police, something that seemed to take forever.

Six more uniformed officers had arrived to assist in the mammoth task and also to take away Big Biceps, who was formally cautioned and arrested for assaulting a policeman.

He had continued to stare at me throughout, perhaps disbelieving that I was even there and wishing he’d done a better job at bumping me off.

I was extremely thankful the handcuffs had remained in place and that he’d been surrounded by four burly boys in blue as he was taken out to a waiting police van, still resisting by kicking out at his captors.

All the while, Rupert Forrester had been attended to by the paramedics before being placed on a stretcher and taken away in an ambulance. The naloxone had a much shorter half-life in the body than the morphine so, as the effects of the antidote wore off, those of the morphine would return. He would probably need another dose of naloxone at the hospital.

I had watched him depart with huge trepidation.

‘Please don’t let Rupert Forrester go,’ I’d begged DC Filippos.

‘Why not?’

‘Because he also tried to kill me.’

The detective had looked at me as if I were a crazed old lady with a persecution complex, accusing anyone and everybody of trying to kill her.

‘Forrester and that other man. They did it together. Why else do you think I stabbed him?’

I didn’t for a second think that the detective had been convinced but, nevertheless, he’d called over one of the uniformed policemen who was busy taking names and addresses and told him to go with the ambulance instead, and not to let Rupert Forrester out of his sight.

‘Has he been arrested?’ the copper had asked.

‘No. But keep your eyes on him anyway.’

I suppose it was better than nothing but I’d have been infinitely happier if they’d locked him into the police van with Big Biceps, and then thrown away the key.

The three detectives finally came back into the interview room and sat back down on their chairs.

‘Dr Rankin,’ the chief inspector said in an almost embarrassed tone. ‘We are now inclined to believe you.’

Hallelujah, I thought.

He went on. ‘A test on your urine sample has proved positive for you having had cocaine in your system at a significantly high concentration.’

‘So now what?’ I asked.

‘You will need to make a detailed statement and then you will be bailed and allowed to go home.’

‘Bailed?’ I said. ‘For what?’

‘Assault,’ the chief inspector said. ‘You remain under arrest.’

‘But Rupert Forrester tried to kill me,’ I said. ‘It was self-defence.’

‘He was not trying to kill you when you assaulted him,’ he said dryly.

I looked at the three of them with astonishment. DC Filippos wouldn’t meet my eye.

‘So am I being charged?’ I asked.

‘Not at this time,’ he said. ‘You will be bailed to return to the police station at a future date.’

‘And how about Sheraton, Forrester and his driver? Are they under arrest too?’ I tried hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

‘The driver is already in custody in connection with his assault on DC Filippos. He will now be arrested and interviewed concerning this other matter. Rupert Forrester will be detained at Cheltenham General Hospital and an arrest warrant will be issued for Mr Michael Sheraton. That will be executed by Thames Valley Police at his home in Wantage as soon as possible.’

I’d only be happy and feel safe, I thought, when all three of them were under lock and key.

‘And how about Jason Conway?’ I said. ‘He’s up to his neck in this as well. He’d have probably been there too if he hadn’t been concussed yesterday.’

‘We can’t arrest someone just because they would have probably been there but weren’t,’ the chief inspector said.

‘But you could surely arrest him for conspiracy to murder Rahul Kumar.’

At one o’clock in the morning, I was taken home in a police car, again abandoning my Mini. At least I hadn’t been charged with driving away from the racecourse under the influence of drugs.

Grant was still up, beside himself with a mixture of worry, sympathy and anger.

When I hadn’t arrived home by eleven, he had tried calling both the hospital and the racecourse but without any success.

In desperation he had then phoned the police to report me missing, only to discover that I was under arrest.

‘At least I wasn’t dead,’ I pointed out.

He and I sat at the kitchen table and I went through the whole story again.

He was shocked and outraged in equal measures, as well as feeling a little uncomfortable, I imagined. He had been one of those who hadn’t believed me.

‘Thank God you’re safe now,’ he said, stroking the back of my hand.

It was the first act of tenderness he had extended to me for many weeks and that, plus the release of tension in knowing that it was all over, made me cry.

‘How are the boys?’ I asked, dabbing at my eyes with a tissue.

‘They’re good,’ Grant said. ‘I didn’t let on to them that I was worried you weren’t here. They went off to bed with no trouble. I told them you’d be back in the morning.’