by Peter James
Something had been ripped away from inside her, some big piece of memory. Last night they'd been having a dinner party and now she was here in bed and it was morning. Sunday morning?
'Oh, God,' he said. 'Do you want me to come up? I can be there in an hour and a half if you need me.'
She felt giddy, closed her eyes, which made it even worse. Her brain felt as if it was tumbling around inside her skull.
'Cross-contamination,' Ross said. 'That's what it sounds like. Why didn't anyone realise yesterday? I see. Are you on duty all day?'
She had been greeting guests and now she was in bed and it was Sunday morning. The guests were gone. She couldn't remember speaking to anyone. Or serving drinks. Or food.
Ross smelt of stale cigar smoke. 'I don't like the sound of it at all. No. Will you keep me posted? What tests are you running?' He was out of bed now, walking across the bedroom with the cordless and closing the window. 'OK… So you're not sure… same symptoms … The lab's not open today, right? So you can't get anything confirmed until tomorrow. No, don't worry, I'm glad you called, this is important. You realise the implications for the clinic, don't you, if there is cross-contamination?'
I dropped a glass jar of quince jelly on the porch and now I'm in bed.
'Is anyone else affected? You'd better damned well check on everyone — God knows, could be in the air-conditioning, the water, the food, anything.'
Faith heard the click of the receiver going back on the cradle.
Ross said, 'Jesus, it would have to be one of my patients, wouldn't it?'
Then the click of the television coming on, and the sound of Ross padding through to the bathroom and the door shutting. Then a newscaster's voice. 'It seems from eyewitness reports that Dr Cabot's assailant may have shot the second man, Barry Gatt, because he tried to apprehend him.'
For an instant, Faith thought she either imagined or misheard the name. The newscaster continued, 'The doctor, who was identified by his secretary this morning, came to England from America eight years ago following the death of his son from leukaemia. A maverick, who frequently made news headlines because of his controversial views on medicine and the pharmaceutical industry, Dr Cabot founded the Cabot Centre for Complementary Medicine in North London in 1990.'
She sat bolt upright in bed. There, on the television screen, was the terraced Notting Hill Gate building where Oliver lived. The front porch and steps were tented and police tapes cordoned off the pavement. She could see several police cars and unmarked vans; a man in a white protective suit was emerging from the rear of one.
No.
A sluice opened somewhere in her belly. This had to be part of the dream. Her blood was draining and ice-cold water was rising inside her.
Please no. Not Oliver. Please.
Now she could see a face she recognised, a gentle, good-looking man in his early thirties, she had seen him before. Where? On the screen beneath him appeared the caption 'Dr Christopher Forester. Hypnotherapist. He was looking distraught, and now she remembered him. He had talked to Oliver in the corridor of the clinic. They had borrowed his office to — to look out of the window at the man who was following her.
'Oliver was a wonderful man,' Dr Forester said, in a voice that was barely composed. 'I can't imagine why anyone would want to do this. He dedicated his whole life to helping people, to trying to make this world a better place.'
Faith was numb. Over and over just one thought repeated itself inside her head. Please don't let anything have happened to Oliver.
The newscaster was back on the screen. 'The assailant was dressed in cycling clothes, with a crash helmet and a rucksack. The police are interested in talking to anyone who might have seen someone of this description in the vicinity of Ladbroke Avenue between half past eleven and half past midnight last night.'
A policeman now appeared on the screen, and although she was listening intently, she found it hard to concentrate on his words, which seemed to drift around the room, around her head. It was a particularly savage crime, he was saying, and it was too early to suggest any motive. They had a good description of the suspect's face and would be issuing an Identikit of him shortly.
On the screen now the scene changed. The familiar gates of Stormont Palace in Belfast. Then newscaster said, 'Prime Minister Tony Blair arrives at Stormont later this morning for the start of a new initiative with the leader of Ulster Unionists David Trimble at keeping the Good Friday agreement alive.'
Had she missed something?
Whimpering, her nausea forgotten, she scrambled out of bed, grabbed the remote control and punched up Teletext, then the command for the news headlines. She hadn't even noticed she was still wearing her black dress from last night.
TWO DEAD IN NOTTING HILL SHOOTING. Page 105.
Ross came out of the bathroom, naked. He put an arm round her. 'You're awake, darling. How are you feeling?'
She punched the numbers without replying.
'I may have to go to London,' he said. 'Fucking patient I operated on last week has developed septicaemia. The worst possible patient it could have happened to…' He hesitated. 'What are you looking at?'
On the screen the story came up.
Police investigating double-shooting in a house in Notting Hill in which prominent London doctor Oliver Cabot and another man were killed. The shootings took place shortly after midnight.
'Jesus,' Ross said.
Faith fell into his arms. 'No,' she said. 'It can't be him. Who would kill him, Ross? Why? He can't be dead.'
Ross sat her down on the bed and cradled her head in his arms. She was sobbing hysterically. 'Why would anyone kill him?' she said.
The phone rang again. Ross answered. Through her sobs she heard him say, 'Tommy? You heard? Lady Reynes-Raleigh — I just can't believe this, what are they fucking playing at? How the hell could it have happened? I could be there by half ten. OK, I'll see you then.'
'I don't want to die, Ross,' she sobbed.
'You're not going to die, my darling angel.'
'He can't be dead, Ross. Who would kill him? Who?'
He held her tightly, kissed her sodden cheek. 'Listen, my darling, I have to go to London. The clinic administrator's called a crisis meeting. We have a big problem. I'll be back as soon as I can.'
'Don't go, please don't leave me.'
'I have to, angel.'
She flung her arms around his neck, holding on to him in terror. 'Please stay.'
'I'll get you something to calm you down.'
He released her. She sat limply, the words of the Teletext a blur on the screen, someone talking in an Irish accent about decommissioning weapons.
Ross came back holding a glass of water. He put one pill in her mouth and she sipped and swallowed, then another.
'Let's get you back into bed. I'll make Alec his breakfast.'
'Please stay with me, Ross.'
'I'll ask Mrs Appleby to come over and look after Alec.' Mrs Appleby was a widow who lived in a cottage down the lane, and was always happy to babysit.
She felt him lifting her, then she was lying on her back. On the television the man with the Irish voice was still talking. Downstairs she heard Rasputin barking. After a while there was silence.
68
'Mummy?'
Faith opened her eyes from deep sleep with a start, to see Alec standing over her. He was wearing a black sweatshirt with whorls of luminous green on it, and clutching a plastic Sumo wrestler with one of its hands missing. 'When are we going to Legoland, Mummy?'
The curtains were open, and rain was lashing the window so hard it looked like frosted glass. All kinds of bad stuff was stirring inside her head.
'Legoland?'
'You said we were going to Legoland today. You promised.'
She glanced at the clock: 12.25.
This took a moment to register. It couldn't be — she'd slept the whole morning.
'You did promise, Mummy.'
Now it was all returning to her. Oh, God.
Oliver.
Dead.
She stared up at Alec, helpless, drifting. She needed time alone for a few minutes, time to think.
Alec was close to tears now. 'You promised, Mummy.'
She stared at him bleakly, shivering. 'Have you had breakfast yet, darling?'
'Hours ago. Daddy made it for me. He burnt the toast and my egg was all hard. And Rasputin's been sick in the hall.'
'Great.'
'Mrs Appleby cleared it up.'
'Did Daddy say when he would be back?'
'He said you're not very well. Are you going to get better?'
She took his free hand, squeezed his wrist. 'Of course I am. I'm going to get better because I love you.'
He sat down, pensively, on the bed. 'Are you going to get better in time to go to Legoland today?'
Despite herself, she smiled. And she realised just how desperately she loved her son. She had to keep going for him. Whatever else, she wanted to make sure this vulnerable child of hers had a normal upbringing. Wanted somehow to make him happy. Maybe her mother could bring him up after she was gone.
'What time exactly do you think you will be better?' Alec enquired.
She smiled again. She loved the way he expressed himself sometimes.
'In exactly fifteen minutes.'
'I'm hungry, and Mrs Appleby says she has to go home now.'
'I'll make you something, OK?'
'What?'
'A surprise.'
'OK.' His face much brighter now, he jumped down from the bed and scampered out of the room.
Faith went across to the television, switched it on, pulled up the Teletext news. It was on the list of headlines.
Two dead in Notting Hill shootings.
She called up the page number for details but little had been added to what she had read earlier. The phone rang and she answered. It was Ross to say he was going to be stuck at the Harley-Devonshire Hospital for a while yet. If he could get away in time, he'd try to meet them at Legoland. He said not a word about Oliver.
You're pleased, aren't you, you bloody bastard? she thought, as she hung up. She looked at the screen again, and a crazy thought went through her head. Was this Ross playing one of his sick games? Sending a false news story into the television just to torment her?
For a few moments she clung to this slim, forlorn thread. Then she remembered on television earlier, the scene outside Oliver's flat, the tenting, the tapes, the police, and she sat down on the bed, head in her hands, tears guttering down her face, trying to take on board that Oliver was dead and that she was never going to see him again.
Somehow she showered, dressed, paid Mrs Appleby who was reluctant to accept any money, and got Alec, clutching his GameBoy, belted into the back seat of the Range Rover. She started the engine, put on the wipers, opened the map on her lap and worked out a route to Legoland.
'I need to go wee wee,' he said. 'I need to go wee wee now.'
She shoved the gear shift into Drive and floored the accelerator. Gravel rattled beneath them. 'You'll have to bloody well wait.'
'You didn't make me any lunch, and I'm really, really, really hungry.'
'I haven't had breakfast, so we're both hungry.' She peered down the bonnet, easing the car out of the drive into the narrow lane.
Behind her she heard a sharp, twangy beep-beep… beep… blarrrrrpp… and, in the mirror saw Alec's face scrunched up in concentration, playing the Pokemon game they'd bought in Thailand.
'You said it was going to be a surprise, Mummy. You promised it was going to be a good surprise.'
She pulled out at the end of the lane into the main road. There was a film of grease on the windscreen and she could barely see the road ahead. Swallowing a lump in her throat she said, 'I'm afraid the surprise is that you're going to have to wait for your lunch. I've had a bad surprise too this morning, so we're both having a lousy Sunday.'
'Why isn't Daddy coming with us.'
'Because he's had a bad surprise as well. Now, play with your game.'
After they had been driving for almost an hour, she saw the signs for a Happy Eater, pulled into the car-park and they went inside. The place was packed and the smell of chips turned her stomach. A waitress came over with their menus. Alec took his and studied hard. He chose a double burger with a ring of pineapple and French fries, which Faith knew would be too much for him, but she ordered it anyway, and a coffee for herself. Although she hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday she had no appetite.
Alec continued to play his Pokemon game. To their right, there was a young couple, leaning forward, holding hands. In love. On the left was a man reading the Sunday Express. Nothing about the shooting, probably happened too late for the morning papers, she thought.
Her mind was filled with the image of Oliver's face. She tried to think of him in the flat. Someone coming in with a gun. A burglar? Had Oliver gone for him and been shot for his trouble? What cheap piece of human trash killed you, Oliver? Some junkie desperate for his next fix, come for any money he could find, not giving a damn that he killed one of the best human beings in the world to get it?
'Why are you crying, mummy?'
She looked into the little boy's round, concerned eyes and cracked. She got up, asked the waitress to keep an eye on Alec, made her way to the washroom, locked herself into a cubicle, sat down and wept into her hands.
It was several minutes before she felt composed enough to make her way back to the table. When she got there, Alec's meal had arrived. He sat behind it, with a ketchup bottle in his hand, and most of its contents on the table, his face, his shirt and his hands. 'The top came off, Mummy. It wasn't my fault.'
As she cleaned him up, he said, 'Are you crying because Daddy isn't with us?'
She gave him a thin smile. 'I'm OK, just a bit sad today.'
'You said you were going to ring Daddy because he might meet us there.'
'I'll phone him now.'
Then she realised she'd forgotten to bring her normal mobile with her. What the hell? It didn't matter now. She dug into her handbag, pulled out her private phone and switched it on. Before she had a chance to dial, the message indicator beeped. She jammed the phone to her ear and listened.
'Faith, hi, this is Oliver. Call me as soon as you can on my mobile.'
She listened, fighting back her emotions. The message must be from yesterday, when he was still alive. She played it again. He sounded subdued. Had he known something was wrong, that someone was after him?
Had he been phoning to warn her?
Why didn't I check my messages yesterday?
Standing up, her head swimming, she said, 'I'll be back in a minute, darling. Eat your lunch.'
She went out, stood in the porch, with the wind driving the rain on to her, and listened to it a third time. Just as the message finished, the phone rang. Startled, she pressed the answer button. 'Hallo?'
'Faith?'
It was Oliver.
For an instant, she thought this must be another message. Then she heard his voice again. 'Faith, can you talk?'
Trembling, she said, 'Oliver?'
'Harvey's been murdered. My brother. Jesus, Faith, it's just so terrible, I — I can't believe what's happened.'
'You're alive?' It was all she could say.
'I'm alive.'
'On the television news it — it said —'
'Harvey,' he said. He was crying. 'Oh, God, Faith, some bastard's killed my brother.'
'They said it was you.'
'I'm just so glad I got through. I needed to speak to you, I just needed to hear your voice, Faith. I have to go — the police — oh, Jesus. Can I call you later?'
'Yes.'
He said something she couldn't hear and hung up.
She stood where she was, leaning against the misted-up glass, watching her son busy with his food. She knew she shouldn't be feeling the way she did, because a man was dead — two men were dead — the brother of the man she loved was dead. A nice man, and she
could recall him vividly. She knew she should not be feeling elated.
But she couldn't help it.
69
Outside, two floors below, a goods train was clanking past, heading towards the docks. It made a noise louder than scaffolding collapsing.
Spider, in a crumpled white T-shirt and underpants, on his hard bed in his cramped, bare-walled flat, had not slept. Grey light filtered through the grimy, curtainless windows. The television at the end of the bed was still on as it had been all night, sound muted. The smell of stale fat came from the plate on the floor beside his bed. A Coke can sat next to it, with the butt of a Marlboro Light crushed out on it.
It was Monday morning. He felt like shit. Sevroula was refusing to speak to him. None of his excuses for standing her up on Saturday night had washed. And Spider had seen an Identikit of himself on television. Half a dozen times already this morning. On ITV, on BBC 1, on Sky, on every fucking news programme.
An incredibly accurate likeness.
And he reckoned, gloomily, that along with his hopes of marrying Sevroula his green Subaru Impreza was down the toilet. He just hoped the bastard would give him back his deposit.
Now his phone was ringing. He picked up the receiver, hoping it was Sevroula.
A man's voice said, 'You asshole. What a fucking dickhead. You looked at the morning's papers?'
'No.' Spider's voice sounded lame and squeaky.
'They tell me you made the front page on three of them.'
'This isn't smart, calling me at home, Uncle.'
'You don't have to worry about that. If you had more than half a brain inside you and some small fragment of it was in working order, you wouldn't be at home, you'd be hiding in a cave on another fucking planet. Why didn't you leave your business card in their hands after you shot 'em? Make it even easier for the law?'
'It's not that good a likeness,' he said defensively.
'No? It's a perfect likeness of an arsehole. Not going to take the police long to work through the list of arseholes on their computer. Not when there's a fifty-thousand-pound reward out for you. What's that fucking noise?'