8
Ivy Kerr was much more comfortable now with less pressure on her pelvis. She thought she’d seen John move a minute ago. But maybe she was mistaken. As her eyes slid over his face, she noticed, bizarrely, that the white hairs in his ears needed a trim. He would hate that. He’d always taken such a pride in his appearance.
She’d tease him about it when they got home.
More rescue personnel had arrived. Strobe lights from emergency vehicles flashed non-stop and there was frantic activity as professionals took over from civilians. A couple of plainclothes police officers with high-viz jackets walked by as the rain began to ease off. Despite the chaos all around her, the woman appeared calm, confident and businesslike. She stopped making notes in order to direct medics to a particular individual in distress. The man with her, a large man with a pleasant face, looked at Ivy through the car window.
‘You guys in there OK?’
Gormley waited for a response. Hours ago, on a rare night off, he’d been watching footie with unmarried police mates. Take-out Indian food. A few jars. A few laughs. Time away from marital disharmony. And then all hell broke loose: three mobiles rang out simultaneously in the middle of the night, three ringtones competing with each other to interrupt deep, alcohol-induced sleep. Even for coppers, for all of them to be called out was unusual. An omen of what lay ahead. And now he was surrounded by death and destruction in the middle of a traffic nightmare in the pissing rain, with no bloody idea why Daniels had agreed to get involved.
Who was he kidding? She couldn’t walk away from a lost dog.
He didn’t approach the vehicle, just ducked beneath the height of the car roof, raising his voice over the din of sirens and screams and the noise inside his head. ‘Need any help in there?’
A young woman grabbed his arm, begging for help. He led her to the nearest paramedic and then turned back to the car. Gormley knew a dead body when he saw one. The driver was a fatal by the looks, the old lady being worked on not much better. A front passenger, she looked proper poorly, her green eyes paling to yellow in the early morning light as they strained to meet his. She reminded him of his mother, or what she might look like in a few years’ time, should she live that long. The same stamp: heart-shaped face and short-cropped, silver hair. He gave her a reassuring smile.
Ivy was comforted by his caring face. As the big man in plain clothes moved off, her rescuer smiled at her, far too busy cutting off her seatbelt to turn around and chat.
‘We’ve got it covered here, haven’t we, Ivy? You’re a star, aren’t you, love?’
‘Nice of him to ask,’ Ivy managed in return.
She was relieved to hear that her rescue was proceeding well. It meant she would live long enough to make that trip. God forbid she’d meet anyone called Annaliese in Austria. Another glance at John. Those flapping wings in her chest again. It was time she learned to trust him. She took his hand in hers, praying he’d survive his injuries and make a full recovery.
Ivy looked out the window. The big man had caught up with his female colleague. They were heading in the direction of a busload of passengers Ivy could see in the distance. In the foreground, a young woman suddenly appeared in front of her. She’d crawled out from beneath a load of boxes that had spilled from the back of a four-by-four, blood streaming down her face, rendering her sightless. She walked towards Ivy, hands feeling her way, oblivious to her surroundings.
‘Help! Help me,’ she cried. ‘Is anyone there?’
Ivy never saw the object that struck her, or the torch illuminating her bag. Never felt the hands searching her pockets, or the gap in her cleavage where the item was nestled between her breasts. She met her end holding her dead husband’s hand, with police and medical personnel metres away, a blind girl looking straight at her. And she certainly never heard the shout go up as her damaged brain stopped functioning.
‘Over here! I need help over here!’