Missing: Presumed Dead by James Hawkins Page B

pointedly, giving him no option but to excuse himself.
    As he got up to leave a hushed voice somewhere behind him murmured, “Bloody whore.”
    â€œWhat?” he said, spinning around, fearing he’d misheard. No-one moved. The “dead” were as lifeless as ever. Had he heard it or was it extra sensory perception, a powerfully malicious thought pulsing through the ether and colliding with his brainwaves. Perhaps I dreamt it, he thought, seeking the eyes of those closest, hoping to establish contact, but the eyes were as lifeless as the bodies and he brushed it aside. “Goodbye, Mrs. Dauntsey.”
    â€œFucking whore – needs locking up.” There it was again. He hadn’t misheard this time, and the vehemence in the words stopped him in his tracks.
    â€œSorry – did you say something?” he asked one old lady, noticing her eyes open. She closed her eyes slowly, as if deliberately shunning him, and he turned back to Jonathon’s mother. There was nothing in her face to suggest she’d heard, although there was no doubt in his mind she was the target of the abuse. “I’ll probably have to come and see you again,” he said, listening carefully for the whisper, hearing nothing.
    â€œI won’t be around a lot longer.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t talk like that ...”
    â€œOh, don’t worry. I used to think I’d live forever, but I guess God has other plans.”
    He mumbled, “Sorry,” though it sounded forced, and as he turned to find the matron sweeping across the room toward him, wondered if he was sorry she wouldn’t live forever, or sorry that God had let her down.
    â€œIs there any hope for her?” he asked, his mind still spinning with the whispered accusations, as the matron guided him out onto a damp grey flagstone terrace having pointedly said, “You can get out this way, Inspector.” He got the message – she doesn’t want the police to be seen leaving by the front door – probably makes the undertaker carry the coffins out the back way as well.
    â€œThere’s always hope, Inspector,” she replied. “But whether or not one’s hopes are fulfilled is a matter of perspective.”
    â€œI’m not with you.”
    â€œMost of our patients hope to die quickly and painlessly, Mrs. Dauntsey’s no exception. It’s her son who can’t accept the inevitability of her passing.”
    â€œIt’s the one’s who are left behind who suffer the most, Matron,” he said, and felt the pain of the truth in his heart. “It’s very peaceful here,” he added conversationally to lighten the tone.
    â€œSunday afternoon is our noisy time – families coming to say goodbye to Gran or Gramps. If the kids aren’t wailing and crying, their parents are.”
    â€œWhat about the Major? Did he ever come on a Sunday.”
    â€œLike I said before, I’ve never seen him. I suspect this would have been his first visit, although I wouldn’t know for certain. But her son is here all the time – even when she’s asleep – the drugs you know – sits there holding her hands, crying silently. Nothing dramatic, just the odd tear, bleary eyes, occasional sniffle – pretends he has a cold. Keeps his Kleenex in a briefcase – thinks we don’t notice. It’s rather touching really and quite uncommon. You see this is just a dumping ground. By the time we get them most of the relatives have had enough.”
    â€œCan anything be done for Mrs. Dauntsey?”
    She shook her head with a finality that eclipsed any words. “Don’t tell her son though. He dotes on her. He’s got a notion into his head about some sanatorium in Switzerland – some quack making a fortune out of desperate people with elaborate claims of a cancer cure. He’s promised to take her there.”
    â€œCould it help?”
    â€œMight extend her