Chapter 6

It had been just over four weeks since Claire had left John Pollard’s house, and John was once again used to being alone. He had been grateful for Claire’s presence and for their long talks, which he thought had been consoling for both of them. He had bade farewell to her hoping she had found a new way of living with her husband.

He followed his routines. It gave structure to his life. He had also stayed for a while with his son James. James and Julie had made him very welcome, and it was good to have company, but he was certain that in the long run he had to face life on his own. Now he’d been back at home for over a week, during which he had attempted to tame the now rampant garden.

Her visit was in the past, and he hadn’t heard from her since, so she was now far from his mind, but the same Tuesday Claire had left the convent to travel to the family house in Grange, he was about to be reminded of her in no uncertain terms

On that morning, John heard the door bell ring at eight thirty and went innocently to answer it.

How many times do folk answer a knock to the door without a thought as to who might be on the other side? It is a routine they do not think about.

He opened the door.

“Ye...” was all he managed to say before the door was violently crashed open, hitting him in the face and knocking him backwards against the wall. Two things happened.

First, his monitored alarm system had a handset on the wall, with a panic button against which John’s head fell, activating it. There was no siren, but the result of this was that the monitoring company alerted the police.

Second, the door hitting him in the face broke his nose and stunned him, so that falling backwards, the back of his head hit the handset on the wall hard, after which he slid down the wall unconscious.

He was in fact semi-conscious. He vaguely heard voices and the movement of more than one person. He felt his shirt being grabbed.

He was dimly aware of something hurting him, then he was in a hospital bed. To say his head was hurting was a vast understatement. His ears were ringing, his vision blurred, and the pain was intense. In the midst of this, he wondered why his chest hurt, then blackness again.

Mrs Frobisher was the archetypal nosey neighbour. Nothing happened in the cul-de-sac where she lived without her knowledge, and none of her neighbours minded. Thanks to her eagle eyes, many a family crisis had been averted, burglars caught, car thieves photographed and car number plates remembered. And she lived next door to John Pollard.

Early that same bright warm Tuesday morning she was dead-heading roses in her front garden when a car drew up, and she straightened enough to see the two men approach John’s house. Father and son, she thought, appraising their similarities of face and build. By the evening she would know who they were, she was certain. She bent again to the roses.

Then came the crash of a door being forced open, and shouting. She could not make out the words, but she knew violence was afoot. She scurried into the house and collected her mobile phone, photographing the car and its registration. She knew better than to interfere, but she would record these two thugs and their car.

As the two left she pretended to be talking on her mobile, while all the while catching them on the phone’s camera. They drove away and she at once made her way to John’s house, and finding the door wide open went in. There was John Pollard streaming blood from his face, and unconscious behind the door. She phoned the police and an ambulance, and was amazed when one of two policemen immediately walked through the door.

She announced who she was and told him that she had called an ambulance. Then all attention was on John. Once he had been removed to the hospital, the two policemen turned their attention to Mrs Frobisher, and found she was a perfect witness. They borrowed her phone and sent the pictures to the station. The house was made secure and the excitement was over.

When John surfaced again, the pain had lessened, mainly because pain-killers had been drip fed into him. By his bed sat a police officer. John groaned.

“PC Graham Woods,” said the constable. “Up to a few questions?”

John nodded, and immediately regretted the action. The pain shot through him. He groaned.

Woods showed him a photo of the two men. “Recognise them?” he asked.

“No,” said John.

Woods showed him the photo of the car.

“No,” repeated John.

“Remember anything?”

John thought. “Someone shouted something.” There was a pause while he tried to dredge his memory. “No,” he said. “I don’t remember.”

“As far as we can tell, there was nothing taken,” the policeman told him. “All the usual targets are still there – money, DVD player, laptop – all still there. Anyone annoyed with you? Upset anyone?”

John thought, but again could not think of anyone. “No, I don’t think so.” he said.

“If anything comes–”

“I’ll let you know,” said John. “Not found them, then?”

“Not yet,” he replied, “but it’s only a matter of time. There are cameras everywhere, and the car was hired. So, no memories?”

John was about to shake his head, thought better of it and replied verbally in the negative.

It was nine that night before a very young and attractive woman approached his bed. She announced herself as Dr Diana Langton. She dutifully asked how he felt and he replied that his head hurt and so did his chest and stomach.

“Your nose is broken, and have a nasty bruise and lump on the back of your head. We think you were hit by the door and fell back against a wall.” She paused. “And the pain in your chest? Someone kicked you and cracked a couple of ribs. You’re lucky you didn’t get a punctured lung. They also thought to kick you in the testicles. They’ll recover but that area is rather swollen and bruised.”

“I don’t understand,” groaned John. “It’s not as if there’s anything valuable in the house. And it seems nothing was taken.”

That same fateful Tuesday, as Claire drove her mother’s car up to the family home in Cumbria, she felt her path in life was clearer. She would make renewed efforts to heal the rift between herself and Peter. As it happened she was wrong. As she parked the car, she saw there was already a car parked in front of the house, and at that moment her mobile rang. It was Ellen, her sister.

“Claire!” she cried. “It’s John Pollard – he’s in hospital. The police have been here.”

“What?“ Claire cried, upset at the news. “What happened?”

“He was attacked in his house,” Ellen was shouting. “The police have traced the car the attackers were in – Claire, it was rented to Peter!”

“But the police? Why ring you?”

“Apparently there was a huge notice saying that in emergency they were to contact me! Why I don’t know. They seemed to think I was his sister.”

“I gave it him when I left to go back home.” Claire said. “We both knew who I meant.”

“Well it was just as well they came. You’re in danger, Sis!”

“Ellen,” said Claire quietly, “I’ve just arrived at the house in Cumbria. I think Peter’s here.”

“Get away, Claire,” shouted Ellen. “The police think he beat John up!”

“Don’t be stupid, Ellen,” Claire reproved her. “He’s not a violent man.”

“Not violent?” shrieked Ellen. “Broken nose, concussion and two cracked ribs? Not violent? Get out of there!”

“Not likely!” snarled Claire. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

That ended the conversation. Claire got out of the car and strode to the door of the house. It opened as she approached and Peter emerged. As usual he was angry, but not as angry as Claire.

“You stupid, pathetic, bastard!” she yelled at him. “You beat up a defenceless man who did nothing to you! You bunch of slime, you never did this on your own, who did you pay to do that to John Pollard?”

Peter actually recoiled, before collecting himself, but by then, Claire had swept past him into the house. She burst into the kitchen where she found Thomas.

“I might have known!” she barked at him. “You self-righteous little hypocritical prick! You, the perfect little Catholic, you beat up a defenceless and totally innocent man. You’re no son of mine. None of my children would do such a thing.”

“He deserved it,” Peter said coming up behind her. “He’s been hiding you.”

Claire whirled round. “Oh, Peter, you are an utter idiot! You’ve really messed things up this time. The police are looking for you – aggravated assault with intent I should think. They’ve got your car on camera, they’ve traced it to you.

“And John hiding me? I’ve not been near him – I’ve been on a thirty day retreat at Greystones Priory. John doesn’t even know I’m in the country. Now thanks to you, he’s seriously ill in hospital. You really are a pair of lowlife fucking bastards!”

The two men gaped at her. She never used such language and she had not finished.

“To think that after my retreat I was seriously intent on contacting you and discussing whether it would be worth my returning! To think I was going to forgive your insane jealousy, Peter, and try to find a way back together. Not any more. Now you’ve shown yourself to be a violent thug, I wouldn’t be safe.”

“You’re married,” snarled Thomas. “In God’s eyes you’ll always be married to Dad!”

“Thomas!” Claire turned to him, her voice dripping with irony, “Are you, a violent little tike on the run from the police, trying to lecture me on morality? Bringing God into it? You bloody hypocrite! You defy description!

“For your information, I learned a good deal while on retreat. You stupid boy, there’s no sin in separation, and after the treatment I’ve had from you two, there’ll be little sin in finding someone else, if I ever bother. After this little game that’s unlikely.”

“Claire, you wouldn’t!” cried Peter. “You can’t!”

“I can, and I will!” she retorted. “It’s divorce, Peter. You’ve finally gone too far even for me to repair anything. You’re a poor weak hopeless immature little man and I’m finished with you.

“Now. This house belongs to my mother’s children, my brother, my sister and me, not to our children, and not to their spouses. So get out, the pair of you!”

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Peter imperiously. “We’re going to discuss this sensibly, and then you’re going to come home with us.”

“Peter,” Claire’s tone was now icy and full of false patience. “You’ve clearly lost touch with reality.

“Let me spell it out to you. Ellen called me as I arrived here to tell me about John and what you pair had done to him. It was the first I’d heard about it. I told her where I was and that I thought you were here. She begged me not to come in here, after what you did to that poor man.

“Now, what do you think she did after I told her I was coming in here anyway? That’s right! I’m willing to bet she’s called the police and told them she’s afraid for my safety. How long before the police get here? One way or another, you two are leaving here shortly.”

“You could tell them you’re safe,” Peter ventured, looking worried.

“I won’t,” Claire asserted, and they could tell she was serious. “In any case, safe or not, after what you did to John, you’ll be in the cells tonight!”

As it happened, there was no need for Claire to tell them that. The sound of a van and a car on the drive stopped further discussion. It was the police, six burly officers. Claire went to the door and opened it to them. She assured them she was unharmed, and led them to her husband and son. They were immediately arrested and led away. Claire closed the door behind them and leant against it, and with it she was certain she’d closed the door on that part of her life.

She stayed there that night and then set off to find John very early on the next day.

The police officer was back first thing the next day. John smiled a welcome; his head was not hurting so badly, and he felt much more alert.

“We have a name,” said the officer, once greetings had been exchanged. “Do you know of a Peter Klinsman, or a Thomas Klinsman?”

John was brought up short. He nodded, “I’ve never met the man, but I know of him,” he said sadly.

“Can you explain?” asked PC Graham Woods.

So John told him the story of how Claire had come to his house, of Peter’s jealousy and Claire’s second visit. “But I don’t understand. Are you saying he attacked me?”

“He hired the car a witness saw outside your house, and he fits the description of one of the two men who attacked you.”