by Peter James
Now it was one o'clock on Thursday. More than forty-eight hours since they had spoken. What the hell could stop her calling him for so long? An accident? She might have had a car smash on the way to Legoland or on the way back. But he'd looked up the route she would have taken and had rung every hospital between her home and Legoland, and no one of her name had been admitted. In case she had been killed he had checked with the police. Nothing.
So what were the options? Either she was deliberately not calling him, or her husband was preventing her. He ruled out that she was deliberately not calling him.
Which left her husband. Her bully of a husband, who controlled her life, who was obsessed by her, who hit her. Either he had done something to her, had perhaps imprisoned her somewhere, or —
He didn't even want to contemplate that option.
He sipped water from the glass on his desk. Downstairs, a beautiful young woman who'd had an innocent-looking white mark on the tip of her thumb two years ago, and now had no right arm, was waiting to see if he could help her defeat the cancer that had defeated all the doctors she had seen. He needed to be strong for her. He needed to be strong for all of his patients — and for Leah, especially when he returned to America with Harvey's body. Perhaps the strongest he had ever been.
I need you, Faith, I really need you badly right now.
And I don't like this silence from you. It's too loud. Way too loud.
84
At three seventeen in the afternoon, Dr Jonathan Mumford, the duty ITU doctor at the Harley-Devonshire Hospital, stood by Lady Geraldine Reynes-Raleigh's bed, filling in a death certificate. Under cause of death he wrote, 'Meningoencephalitis due to septicaemia.'
Thirty minutes later, after he had wheeled her body down to the basement cold-store that acted as a holding mortuary, a twenty-one-year-old general assistant named Jason Rillets slipped out of the rear entrance of the hospital into a mews off Devonshire Place, walked a few hundred yards and stopped in a doorway, safely out of sight of the hospital. There he made a call from his mobile phone, which he had bought for just such a situation.
The call was to a journalist called Will Arnoldson, who had approached him a couple of years back. He was a rather raffish character, with swarthy, middle-European good looks, attired in a smart business suit. He looked more like a James Bond villain than a newspaperman.
Arnoldson freelanced. He was socially well connected and made part of his living flogging gossipy pieces to the newspaper diary columns. He paid Rillets thirty pounds for any stories about the Harley-Devonshire's upmarket clientele that he could get printed. The last titbit Jason Rillets had fed him had been printed in the news section of Hello! a fortnight ago.
'Lady Reynes-Raleigh? Mean anything to you?' Rillets said, glancing around him.
'Yes, she's good value,' Arnoldson said. 'Very good value. What's the story on her?'
Rillets told him.
As usual Arnoldson got more out of him than Rillets had intended to tell him. The journalist thought he could make it into a good story — embellish it a little. He might even get two different pieces out of this, work up two different angles, if Jason didn't have a problem with that. It might mean a double payment for him.
Jason had no problem with that at all.
85
'It's the second time he's called,' Lucinda said, on the hands-free in his office. 'I think you ought to speak to him.'
On Ross's desk was a Moliou-Orelan container. There were ninety-seven capsules in the container, and three lying on his desk. Holding one of these firmly on the blotter with tweezers, he slid the needle of the syringe into the join between the two halves and injected the same tiny measure of ketamine that he had laboriously injected into all the rest.
'What time am I operating tomorrow?' Ross asked, removing the syringe and holding up the capsule to inspect it in the light, before dropping it into the container.
'Eleven. You told me not to make it earlier. I've had to do some juggling around.'
'Do you think I ought to go to Lady Reynes-Raleigh's funeral?'
There was a pause, then a sharp, 'Why?'
'I — as her surgeon.' Then he added, lamely, 'Networking?'
'I don't think it's very good advertising to turn up at the funeral of a patient who died after you operated on her.'
'You're right,' he said. And he thought, What the hell am I thinking of? Am I cracking up? My bloody judgement's all to hell and back. 'Do you think we should send flowers?'
'Absolutely not. You have to dissociate yourself from her. Keep your name well out of it.' His secretary paused, then added, 'Anyhow, you didn't like the woman. Why would you want to send her flowers?'
'Courtesy.' He checked the barrel of the syringe, then picked up the next capsule with the tweezers.
'Are you going to take this call? Detective Sergeant Anson? He's still holding.'
Ross took it.
* * *
The doorbell rang and Rasputin raced into the hall, barking. Alec followed him, shouting, 'Mummy's home! Mummy's home!'
'I don't think so, sweetie, I'm afraid.'
'It might be!'
His grandmother crossed the floor and had a quick look out of the library window to see who it was. She was always wary of opening the door to strangers.
There was a large blue off-roader that she didn't recognise on the drive, and a tall man in a suit, whom she had never seen before, standing in the porch.
She went across to the front door and, as a precaution, put on the safety chain. Alec peered up excitedly as she opened the door a few inches. The man looked well dressed and well groomed, she thought, but what did that count for in today's violent world?
'Can I help you?' she said, through the gap between the door and the jamb.
'I have an appointment at five o'clock to see Mrs Ransome.' His voice was pleasant, and he spoke with an American accent.
'Appointment?'
'Yes, we made it on Monday.'
'Who are you, please?'
He proffered a business card through the gap, which she took and read: 'Don Rosslyn, Director. Research and Development. Moliou-Orelan Pharmaceuticals plc, a subsidiary of Moliou-Orelan Corporation Inc.'
There were two addresses, one in London and one in Berkshire. She returned the card to him. 'I'm afraid Mrs Ransome isn't here,' she said.
'She's not?'
The man looked disappointed. She decided he didn't look like a rapist or a burglar, closed the door, released the chain, then opened it wider, keeping hold of Rasputin.
The man knelt down immediately and began to make a fuss of the dog.
Alec said, 'My mummy's not well, she's in hospital but my daddy said she'll be able to come home soon.'
Still stroking the dog the man said, with surprise in his voice, 'She's in hospital?'
'I'm afraid my daughter is not well.'
The man stood up. 'I'm sorry. Actually, that's the reason I'm here. She's on a clinical drugs trial with my company. We have a new drug she's taking, which we're hoping will help her.'
Faith's mother said, 'I know all about it.'
'We're, like, running a monitoring programme. I spoke to Mrs Ransome on Monday to make the appointment. We're learning about the efficacy of our drug as we go along, and by spending a little time with each of our patients we think we can get them to maximise the benefits. Is her hospitalisation related to Lendt's disease?'
Glancing at her grandson, not sure how much he should hear, she said, 'Yes.'
'Mummy is going to get better, isn't she, Grandma?'
'Of course she is, and this nice gentleman's going to help her. You go and watch television while I talk to him, all right?'
Reluctantly, Alec headed for the kitchen.
'She's having severe symptoms at the moment,' she told the man. 'We're hoping the problem is because she's not been taking the drug until now. She's very independently minded.'
'But she is taking it now?'
'Oh, yes.'
'I have it on a pad in the kitchen,' she said. 'I'll go and fetch it for you.'
* * *
Five minutes later, Oliver Cabot drove his blue Jeep Cherokee out of the front gates of Little Scaynes Manor. It was strange being here, strange talking to Faith's mother: he felt a closeness to Faith and a distance at the same time. The woman must have been attractive when she was younger; she had Faith's slim build and her small, straight nose, but she didn't look or sound anything like her daughter.
A few hundred yards along the lane he pulled into a lay-by and consulted his road atlas.
Hospital? Faith, my darling, has this damned disease worsened overnight?
Her mother had been cagey about exactly what kind of hospital. Its name meant nothing to him, but there were numerous hospitals in Britain he didn't know. How badly had Faith deteriorated?
He called Directory Enquiries and asked for the number of the Grove Hospital, then dialled it.
'I'd like to speak to Faith Ransome,' he said, when the switchboard answered.
'One moment.' There was a brief pause, then the woman came back, polite but cold. 'I'm sorry, she is not permitted telephone calls. I can put you through to the nursing station in her ward.'
'Sorry if this is a dumb question, but exactly what kind of hospital are you?'
'What kind?'
'Yes.'
'We're a secure private hospital,' she said, irritably.
'Secure?'
'Yes, for psychiatric patients.'
Oliver hung up.
Psychiatric hospital?
Faith had been concerned about her bouts of dissociation. Had she had a really severe attack? Severe enough for her husband or her GP to decide she should be admitted?
He closed the atlas and put the car in gear. It would take him about an hour and a half, he estimated. He rang his secretary and asked her to make enquiries about the exact nature of the Grove Hospital, and any information she could find on the reasons Faith Ransome had been admitted there.
She rang him back forty minutes later. 'She's been sectioned under the Mental Health Act to be detained in a private psychiatric hospital, Dr Cabot. She's on a twenty-eight-day order.'
86
It was ten past five. In the rush-hour traffic it might take half an hour to get to the hospital. Then he needed to allow a further half-hour with Faith once he was there — he had to make sure he had enough time alone in the room to make one final switch. Tonight, he calculated, her existing supply of Moliou-Orelan capsules would be exhausted, and tomorrow they would start giving her these fresh ones. Then life would be easier.
How the hell had he allowed himself to be bullied by Detective Sergeant Anson into meeting him at his flat at seven this evening?
Walking down the steps of the underground car park in Cavendish Square, Ross was thinking about the policeman's voice. It was pedantic — slow, precise and polite, yielding no hint of emotion. Just duty. A voice in search of the truth.
Ross hadn't much liked his voice, didn't like the fact that he couldn't read it, and wondered just how much the policeman actually knew or suspected.
No doubt Caven had gone squealing to the police after he'd thrown him out of his office on Tuesday. Fine. Caven knew nothing of his arrangement with Ronnie Milward. It was no offence to hire a private investigator to follow your wife — if Caven had broken any laws in the course of his work, that was his problem.
Perhaps, Ross realised, he shouldn't have lost his temper with Milward. Caven was a grotty little scumbag, but no more. Ronnie Milward was altogether different. He might tell Ross over the phone that he wouldn't get out of bed for twenty-five thousand, but if he saw an opportunity to get out of repaying it by making a phone call or two and having Ross Ransome stuffed, would he take it?
Was the Pope Catholic?
And yet Milward was smart. He would know that Ross had before and after pictures of his makeover. He would not be stupid enough to risk his freedom for that paltry amount of money.
He pushed open the door marked Level 2 and strode in the shadowy lighting past rows of parked cars, the familiar smells of warm engine oil, petrol, rubber and dust in his nostrils. The Aston Martin was parked in his regular numbered bay between a sports Jaguar and a small Mercedes saloon. As he reached it, he dug in his pocket for his keys.
Nearby in the silence, a warm engine ticked and pinged. He pressed the button on the fob, and as the Aston Martin's indicators flashed streaks of amber across the floor and walls, and the central locking clunked open, a figure stepped out of the shadows right beside him.
Ross jumped. Ronnie Milward?
Then he calmed as he recognised the man's voice even before he saw his face.
'Good afternoon, Mr Ransome. Off to visit your wife? Your third visit today, I'd be thinking.'
The soft Irish accent. The shorn hair, the small frame, the pallid little aged-rock-star face.
'Are you following me?'
The private investigator shrugged.
'What do you want, Caven?'
'You must love her an awful lot.'
'I don't have anything to say to you, so out of my way, you're obstructing me.'
'We need to talk, Mr Ransome, you and I.'
'You might need to, I don't. And I've just heard from the police. They want to interview me. I wonder why?' Ross glared at the man. 'What did you tell them?'
'I haven't told them a thing. That's why I'm here.'
'Oh, yes? Are they psychic then?'
Ross pushed past him, and opened the door of his car. The interior light came on, and the opulent smell of leather rose through the stale air.
'Mr Ransome, you have to believe me. I have not said a word to the police.'
Struggling to contain himself, Ross put his hands on the investigator's shoulders and gripped them hard. 'You're pond life, Caven. You're a little bottom-feeder.'
'We need to be sensible about this thing, Mr Ransome. I can understand you might —'
Ross did something he had not done since his schooldays. It was something he hadn't even thought about in twenty years. He headbutted the man.
Caven reeled backwards, struck the wing mirror of the Mercedes, snapping it off, and jerkily, like a crumpling rag doll, sat down on the floor, a dazed look in his eyes, blood running from his nose.
Ross climbed into the Aston Martin, slammed his door and locked it. Then he rammed the key into the ignition, twisted it, keeping an eye on the investigator in his mirror, pulled out of the bay and accelerated. As he turned right, heading for the exit ramp, he saw the man emerge from the bay and lurch into a run after him.
He drove up the ramp, turned sharp right, following the exit arrows, tyres squealing, and accelerated hard down between the parked vehicles. The tail of a car was nudging out and he blasted the horn hard. As he started the turn to the final ramp up to the pay desk, he saw Caven come out of a door. He did not want a further tangle with this man to delay him.
The barrier was down and the bloody attendant in the booth was talking on the phone. Ross hooted twice. Caven was only yards behind now. The attendant waved in greeting, and the barrier began to rise. Ross's car phone rang. Ignoring it, watching Caven in his mirror, he drove on up the ramp into daylight. The bastard was still running after him. He accelerated harder, eyes on the mirror.
Oh, Christ, no, no, no.
The great red wall in front of him.
He stamped on the brake pedal.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
He heard the tremendous, deep metallic bang then, almost simultaneously, both his eardrums popped, there was a burst of white light in front of his eyes, a jarring pain in his shoulder and the car rocked to a halt.
An inst
ant of numbed silence. His ears felt as if he'd dropped twenty thousand feet in an unpressurised aircraft. He pinched his nose with his fingers, blew, and his ears cleared a little.
The bonnet had flown up and a jet of steam rose from the engine compartment. Airbags hung like spent condoms from the steering-wheel and passenger dashboard. Beyond the bonnet he could see the crumpled side panels of a bus. A startled woman in big spectacles was peering down at him through one of its windows. The driver was climbing down from the cab.
Ross unclipped his seat-belt and tried to open the door. It would not budge. Hot, sweaty and furious, he barged it with his shoulder. It still wouldn't move. There was a musical tinkling sound.
His bloody car phone was still ringing.
He barged the door a third time. People were standing around the car now and he was feeling foolish. He reached over to the passenger door then realised why his own door wouldn't open: the central locking was still engaged.
He unlocked it, opened the door and climbed out, staring shakily at the growing swell of faces closing around him.
'Not big enough?' An angry man's voice. 'Not bloody big enough? Not big enough for you to see? If you can't bloody drive it, you shouldn't bloody have it.'
Ross looked around anxiously, trying to spot Caven. But he had melted away. No doubt standing smirking somewhere nearby, he thought, staring in desperation at the crumpled front of the Aston.
Someone was going to have to sort this mess out and he did not have time. He was a member of one of the emergency road services, the number was on a card inside his wallet. He could get a taxi and phone them, tell them to come and collect the car, sort it out.
'Excuse me,' he said, and tried to push out through the crowd. An arm held him back. It was the bus driver.
'Where do you think you're going?'
'My wife's very ill,' Ross said.
'You're not going anywhere until the police have been.'
'Fuck you,' Ross said, pulling the man's arm away. 'I'm a surgeon and it's an emergency.'
The man grabbed him more tightly. A large, beer-bellied man with a walrus moustache.