Free Angel of Death by Charlotte Lamb Page B

perhaps she was so healthy because she ate well, lots of fruit and salad and vegetables. She grew a good deal of what she ate, saving money, too. She had green fingers; she could persuade the most difficult plants to grow for her.
    ‘I don’t feel too good.’ Miranda admitted.
    ‘I don’t suppose you do.’ Dorothy eyed her thoughtfully. ‘You don’t look good, either. Are they looking after you well?’
    ‘The nurses are very kind.’
    ‘I hate hospitals, myself. If you’re ill, they make you worse. If you aren’t, you soon catch something with all these germs buzzing around. As soon as the doctors allow you to leave here you must come home with me. You need some fresh air and good country living.’
    ‘I’d like that, thanks, Mum,’ she said gratefully. It would be wonderful to get away from London. Especially at the moment.
    Her mother finished her second plum and wiped her fingers on another paper hankerchief. ‘I suppose you’ve let your firm know you’re in hospital?’
    ‘I left there. I haven’t got another job yet.’ Miranda didn’t want to explain the whole story to her mother, she didn’t feel well enough to talk about Sean and the girl, and what she had heard and seen.
    Dorothy Knox looked surprised. ‘I thought you liked working there.’
    ‘I did, once. It’s too complicated to explain, I’ll tell you all about it later. I’m not up to talking much just now.’
    Her mother stayed another ten minutes, then, seeing Miranda’s eyes half-closed, her body limp, left, kissing her.
    ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Anything I can bring you?’
    ‘No, I’m fine, thanks, Mum.’
    ‘Well, eat some fruit – it will do you more good than any of the medication they’re giving you in here. You’re so pale, I worry about you. You need lots of vitamins and anti-oxidants.’
    When she had gone, Miranda slid into sleep and the old dream about Tom and the sea and the angel of death. She had endured it so often, yet it was always as frightening; her own emotions as powerful as the rush and violence of the dark green waters.
    She woke up with a start to find the ward in silence. All the visitors had gone; the other women lay in their beds, staring at her in a strange way.
    The woman next to her, Joan Patterson, leaned over and said, ‘Having a nightmare, weren’t you, dear?’ She had made up carefully before visiting time; the yellow foundation and bright red lipstick looked bizarre on a woman lying in bed, in a hospital-issue nightdress, made her clownish, ridiculous, but her face was serious and concerned.
    ‘What?’
    ‘You were making pretty scary noises. Sounded as if you were crying in your sleep.’
    Desperately embarrassed, Miranda flushed, knowing all the other women were listening, but somehow forcing a smile. ‘I must have been dreaming about hospital food.’
    Mrs Patterson laughed obligingly. ‘Ugh . . . don’t even talk about it! I hope to God we don’t have that stew again, it was disgusting. I’d swear it was dog meat.’
    The others all joined in, then, with comments of their own about the food they were given, making it possible for Miranda to shut her eyes again. She would give anything to go home soon, she hated living in public, cheek by jowl with strangers, who could watch her when she was in pain or dreaming or even just thinking. There was no privacy in here. Even if you had treatment and the curtains were drawn the others could all hear what was going on.
    Sergeant Neil Maddrell slowed down as he drove through the gates of Blue Gables, Terry Finnigan’s big house in Sussex, ten miles from Horsham.
    He gave a low whistle. ‘Not bad! A bit flash for my taste, but spacious and the gardens are gorgeous.’
    Detective Constable Haddon made a face. ‘Bet he had it built – it doesn’t look that old. It must have cost a fortune, too. He could have bought an Elizabethan mansion for what this must have cost him.’
    ‘Some people prefer new houses.’
    ‘Some people have