“Mr. Argent.” Ash dipped his chin, acknowledging the mysterious medic. “My thanks for your prompt arrival. I believe this situation will require your unique talents.”
Without waiting for a response, Ash pressed the intercom button. A harsh buzz vibrated from the small speaker, followed by a bored-sounding voice saying, “Yes?”
“This is Commander Ash of East Sussex Fire & Rescue,” Ash said calmly. “I am here to see Mr. Jones.”
7
“Mr. Jones?” the carer repeated, in tones of some incredulity. “You want to talk to Mr. Jones?”
“Yes.” Ash stood with his hands folded behind his back, looking perfectly composed. “On a matter of great urgency.”
The woman’s eyes flicked over them all, growing even rounder as she took in their uniforms. “Um…you do know his condition, right? The poor man suffered a massive stroke. He can only form a few words, and even those aren’t coherent.”
“Nonetheless, we need to see him.” Ash tilted his head, indicating the corridor beyond. “If you would be so kind…?”
“I think you’ve got the wrong person.” The woman shrugged, and started to lead the way. “But it’s your own time you’re wasting. And it’ll be nice for Mr. Jones to have some visitors at last.”
“No one’s come to see him?” Griff asked as they all tramped up the stairs. “No family? Friends?”
“People who end up here don’t have family or friends.” The woman knocked on a door. “Mr. Jones? Visitors to see you.”
She pushed open the door without waiting for a response, revealing a small, plain room. An elderly man lay in a narrow bed, propped up by pillows. The left side of his face hung slack, the corner of his mouth drooping in a perpetual frown.
“Minnie,” the man said, the name so badly slurred that it was barely understandable. He seemed to try to sit up, his left arm pushing at the mattress in a futile effort to move his half-paralyzed body. “Minnie?”
“No, Mr. Jones,” the woman said, in the weary tones of someone who’d had this conversation far too many times today already. “Not Minnie. Some firefighters.”
The man’s left eye was half-lidded, but his right flicked over them all. Dai was struck by the sharp, bright intelligence in that gaze…and the desperation.
“Mr. Jones.” Ash addressed the elderly man, all calm courtesy. “I am Fire Commander Ash of East Sussex Fire and Rescue. These are my associates Dai, Griff, Chase, and Hugh. We are here to talk to you about your cat.”
The carer stared at Ash. “That’s what this is about? His cat?”
“Minnie,” the man repeated, even more urgently. He made a clumsy, sweeping gesture at a couple of framed pictures propped up on a small table next to his bed. “Minnie.”
Ash picked up one of the pictures. Peering over the Fire Commander’s shoulder, Dai saw that it was a portrait of the elderly man—still lined and white-haired, but smiling, vigorous. A familiar tabby cat perched on his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against his with clear affection.
Ash turned the picture around, showing it to the man in the bed. “This is Minnie, sir?”
The man’s good eye widened. Apart from a spasming tremor in his left hand, he went very still.
“No, that’s Minnie.” The carer pointed at the other picture, which showed a handsome, smiling woman with grey hair and mischievous green eyes. “His wife.”
One of Ash’s eyebrows lifted. “And where is Mrs. Jones?”
“No one knows. She wasn’t at home when Mr. Jones collapsed, and nobody’s been able to contact her. Apparently she’s something of a free spirit. Gallivants off around the globe for months and months at a time.” The carer sniffed in clear disapproval. “Leaving poor Mr. Jones behind all on his own. And she hasn’t even called him, in all this time. I mean, she can’t know he had a stroke, but surely any caring wife would phone her husband at least once in six months.”
“How do you know all this?” Chase asked. He gestured at Mr. Jones. “If he can’t communicate.”
“His neighbor told us. He’s the one who found Mr. Jones after the stroke, and called the ambulance.”
Griff frowned. “Yet this neighbor didn’t know have any clue where Mrs. Jones might have gone?”
The carer shook her head. “He’s just a neighbor, not a friend. Mr. Jones lived very privately, in a little cottag
e out in the countryside. It was lucky his neighbor found him. It’s a nice story, actually. Mr. Jones’ cat ran to the house next door and meowed until the neighbor followed her home. It’s funny how animals know these things sometimes, isn’t it?”
“Minnie,” whispered Mr. Jones.