Faith

by Peter James

  The nurse had looked at her watch just before she had gone out. It had been 6.25. There was absolutely no way three-quarters of an hour could have passed. He picked up the remote control, switched on the television and then pressed the clock button: 7.18.

  'This is nice,' Faith said suddenly. 'Having you here.'

  Three-quarters of an hour had gone from his mind. He peered at her eyes and saw that the pupils were less dilated. 'How are you?' he said, to test his voice. It sounded better now, near normal. He was returning to the base line from wherever he had been.

  And now he was certain. Ross Ransome was putting a very low dosage of some dissociative drug in the drip.

  The walls of the room were glowing with an intensity of light. The drug was still working on him, and he knew that with all the dissociatives, both the serotonergic psychedelics, such as LSD, psilocybin, peyote, DMT, and the anaesthetic ones, such as ketamine and tiletamine, their effects could go on returning for many hours after the initial effects had seemingly worn off.

  He tried to think of any other explanation, but nothing else made sense. If there had been a sedative in the drip, its effects would have been quite different on him. The bastard was deliberately keeping her in a psychotic state — and doing it on a prolonged basis like this carried a severe risk of brain damage. Was this man crazy?

  The question barely needed answering. For anyone to treat a jewel like Faith badly they had to be crazy. Dangerously mad. Prolonged doses of dissociative drugs had been proven to burn tiny holes in the posterior cingulate and retrosplenal cortex as well as the hippocampus, olfactory areas and the limbic system. Memory and learning skills would be affected, as would social behaviour, motor-control and bodily functions, with epilepsy as an additional factor.

  The most likely drug, he guessed, would be ketamine. It was frequently used for burns-trauma cases, and part of Ross Ransome's reputation was based on his work with burns cases. He would have easy access to the drug.

  Ross Ransome, you are a sick man.

  And where was he? Sister Durrant had been expecting him at six. No doubt he would show up shortly.

  He could wait: he didn't have anything else to do or go back to, just a hotel room, and yet another long phone conversation with Harvey's widow, and some goddamn cheerful room-service waiter bringing yet another meal he had no appetite to eat.

  'I don't want to be here,' Faith said.

  Oliver looked down at her, and squeezed her hand. 'I don't want you to be here, believe me.'

  There was a knock and the door opened. Oliver stiffened, ready for a confrontation. But it was just a cheery woman orderly come to take the tray away.

  When the door was shut again, Faith said, 'Take me away from here, please.'

  She had been here for two days. If she had been on the drug continually, there would be a considerable build-up in her system, and it would keep repeating strongly for many hours, but she seemed to him very lucid now.

  'It's not as easy as that,' he said.

  'I want to see Alec'

  'He's fine, I saw him a few hours back.'

  'What do you mean? Where?'

  Oliver told her, and then he told her also about the Mental Health Act section order.

  'It's not me who should be in here,' Faith said. 'It's Ross. They can't do this to me, they don't have any right.'

  'I'll be back in two minutes,' Oliver said.

  'Don't leave me, please.'

  He kissed her forehead. 'I'm not leaving you.'

  He opened the door and hurried back to the nursing station. Sister Durrant was on the phone and it sounded like a personal call. Impatiently he waited at a polite distance until she had finished. Then he said, 'The drip bag you just removed from Mrs Ransome's room — where is it?'

  She looked at him curiously. 'The drip bag?'

  'Yes, the empty one.'

  'I've thrown it away.'

  'I need it — where've you thrown it?'

  'Into the incinerator chute.'

  'Can we get to it?'

  'It'll be burnt by now.'

  Thinking fast he said, 'Will you do me a favour? Will you take a blood sample from Mrs Ransome for me?'

  'We have blood for our routine tests.'

  'No, this is different. Could you please do that for me? Just a small amount?'

  'Yes, yes, of course.'

  'And put the date and time on it, please. How do I get to the basement?'

  'The lift — just press B.'

  He was already on his way. He took the emergency stairs, running down the concrete well, past the ground-floor sign and into the heat of the basement. A long low corridor, poorly lit, with massive duct pipes running just above head height stretched out in both directions. There was a whine of electric motors, and a mixture of smells — food, laundry, heating oil. He saw the woman who had removed Faith's tray emerge from the kitchens and asked her where he could find the incinerator. She pointed out the door at the far end of the corridor.

  As he walked along he passed an open door into the laundry and ducked in. The air here was hotter and damper than it was in the corridor and the howls of the giant washing-machines sounded like the turbines of jet aircraft. Through another doorway he could see two Asian women and a man busily hauling sheets out of a dryer.

  He went in and none of them even glanced at him. Suddenly, he was floating, not walking. That's why they're not looking at me, they can't see me, I'm dead, I'm a ghost. He panicked. I'm dead. How can I —?

  The drug, he realised, the ketamine, or whatever, was repeating on him. That was all. He just had to go with it, try to ignore it.

  He took a step forward and nearly stumbled as the floor plunged away beneath him, as if he had trodden on a huge pedal. Just an illusion, he told himself and took another step, then another, holding out his arms to stay upright.

  He saw several bins. One contained a stack of white coats, and in another was a stack of chequered blue nursing tunics. Without any clear plan in his mind, he grabbed a coat and a tunic, rolled them tightly and crammed them as far as they would go into each of his trouser pockets, then went back out and down the corridor to the incinerator door.

  It was marked, danger, keep out and there were ventilation slats along the top and the bottom.

  He opened it. A blast of heat accompanied by the drumming roar of a burner greeted him, and he found himself staring at a wall of blue steel, dials and gauges. A voice behind him shouted, 'Yes, hallo! What you doin', man?'

  He turned to see a bemused, grimy-looking black man in blue overalls.

  'I need something that was dropped by accident down the chute from Park Ward,' he said.

  The man save a warm, gap-toothed grin and scratched his grizzled head. 'Dropped down the medical-disposables chute?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, you got a problem with that one. You bring an asbestos suit with you?' the man said, jerking a thumb at the shaking metal casing of the thundering furnace. 'Because whatever you lookin' fo's going to be in there — and I'm afraid mine's at the cleaner's.'

  89

  'Look, Detective Sergeant, my wife is extremely ill in hospital. I was involved in an accident on my way there this afternoon.'

  'Yes, you have already told me this,' Anson said.

  Ross stood up and went over to the window of his flat. Five minutes' walk to the hospital from here. He looked at his watch: 7.30. By his calculations the drip would have been changed an hour and a half ago. Faith might be returning to normal — although she had been on the ketamine for forty-eight hours. He was anxious to get to her. 'Could we continue tomorrow?'

  The policeman's voice and demeanour were respectful, the courtesy of one professional to another. Yet there was a firmness that brooked little leeway. 'I'd really prefer to wrap this up tonight, Mr Ransome. It won't take much longer.'

  Ross knew it would have been polite to have offered the man something to drink on this sticky evening, but he didn't intend to. He studied Anson's huge frame, which w
as dwarfing the two-seater chesterfield, his bulging eyes — definitely a thyroid problem — his perspiring face, and his ridiculous combed-forward haircut. The man's white shirt was clinging to his skin and the collar was crumpled. You're hot and thirsty and if I give you anything to drink it will encourage you to stay longer. You're not getting anything from me.

  'Were you aware, Mr Ransome, that your wife was seeing Dr Oliver Cabot, the deceased's brother?'

  Ross was aware that he needed to be careful. Obstructing the police by lying was a serious offence, and he didn't want to say anything that might bounce back in his face. He had no idea what Cabot had said to Anson, nor the weasel Caven.

  'Yes, I was.'

  'And how did you feel about that?'

  'Are you married, Detective Sergeant?'

  A slight frown. 'I am, yes.'

  'Let's say your wife arrived home from a shopping trip this afternoon and found, God forbid, your house had been burgled. How would you feel if instead of calling the police she looked in the Yellow Pages and phoned the number of some back-street private detective?'

  'I don't quite see the —'

  'Tell me how you'd feel, that's all I'm asking.'

  Anson ferreted around in his pocket and extracted a wooden toothpick, which he examined. 'I'd feel she was being a bit daft. I'd be annoyed, I suppose.'

  'Because the police are the professionals? And you feel something that important should be handled by professionals?'

  'Indeed.'

  'Perhaps you can understand how I feel. Our doctors are among the best-trained in the world and I want the best for my wife. I was furious when I discovered she was rejecting everything I had done for her and going to a charlatan.'

  'How did you make your views known?'

  'I told my wife.'

  'Did you tell Dr Cabot?'

  Thinking carefully, Ross said, 'I had no desire to get into a slanging match with the man.'

  Anson smiled understandingly. 'Very restrained of you, sir. I'm not sure I would have had such self-control.'

  Ross sensed that the two of them might just be on the same wavelength. Changing his mind about the drink, he said, 'Can I get you something? Something cold, perhaps?'

  'I'd appreciate a glass of water.'

  'Nothing stronger?'

  'A glass of water would be fine,' the detective said.

  Ross grinned. 'I've got some ice-cold Grolsch in the fridge.'

  'Ah!' Anson looked at his watch. 'Well, officially I'm not supposed to drink on duty — but it's late and I'd like that very much, thank you.'

  Ross fetched two lagers, then offered the police officer a cigar, which he declined.

  Swallowing a long draught of the beer appreciatively, Anson asked, 'Forgive the personal nature of this question, Mr Ransome, but have you ever had any reason to doubt your wife's fidelity at any time in your married life?'

  'Absolutely not,' Ross said, levelly.

  'And — again, forgive me — did you have any reason to believe that your wife was visiting Dr Cabot for any other purposes than purely a professional patient-doctor relationship?'

  Ross narrowed his eyes-deliberately, holding his hands still on his glass, aware that the detective would be studying his body language intently. He was determined to give nothing away. 'What exactly do you mean by that?'

  It was the detective who allowed body language to give himself away. He held up his hands defensively. 'Nothing, sir, nothing at all. I just needed to clarify that.'

  And Ross thought, This is incredible! This is very good news! Caven has said nothing to him. He doesn't know about Caven!

  Then he cursed himself for the way he had reacted to the private investigator down in the car-park earlier. That had been dumb. He had to get hold of Caven, and maybe do some kind of deal, buy the little shit's silence.

  Tipping back his glass and almost draining it, Anson said, 'My father suffers from Parkinson's disease. A mate of his recommended an alternative doctor, who put him on some cranky herbal diet.'

  Ross did not like this sudden shift. 'Yes?'

  'Didn't make a blind bit of difference. Cost my dad over two hundred quid by the time he'd bought all the stuff. Swallowed the first lot and threw up for twelve hours. Licensed con-man, I'd say.'

  Ross said, 'All these alternative medics are con-men.'

  Anson nodded in agreement.

  Better, Ross thought. This is much better.

  90

  Oliver took the stairs back up from the basement, getting to grips with the geography of the place, logging the fire-exit routes, his thoughts on just two things: first, to ensure that Ross Ransome did not spend another moment alone with Faith in that room, and second, to get her out of the confines of the section order.

  He kept his hands jammed in his trouser pockets, trying to hide the bulges as he walked back past Sister Durrant at the nursing station, but she was engaged in conversation and barely acknowledged him. She just pointed to an envelope on the counter and mouthed, 'Blood sample', at him.

  He thanked her and pocketed it. Faith was asleep when he went into her room. He perched on the edge of the bed and watched her face. He looked at the fall of blonde tresses across her forehead, the tiny wrinkles in the skin, her mouth slightly open and her lips in a beautiful pout, as if she had fallen asleep waiting for a kiss.

  Her neck looked so slender, the skin firm but pale, like a Rossetti painting, he thought, and he would have loved to lean across and kiss her lips and her neck right now, while she slept. She looked so gentle and so beautiful. And so terribly vulnerable.

  And it was wrong to be feeling this, but he couldn't help it: he felt deeply aroused just being here, so close to her. Yet he was aware that this was an assessment room, where new arrivals would be kept under observation for a few days. It was possible there was a hidden spyhole, maybe up in the light fixing or behind the protective glass of the television — or any damn place.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and he turned in alarm. It was sister Durrant. 'Dr Cabot,' she said, 'Mr Ransome has just arrived downstairs.'

  * * *

  The second Grolsch had been a mistake. Under its influence, Ross had let slip something to Detective Sergeant Anson about Faith and Dr Oliver Cabot. It was one of those off-the-cuff remarks that would have passed unnoticed if Anson had been a less observant man, but Ross could see instantly that the policeman had registered it.

  They had been talking about medicine men in primitive tribes, and how shaman healers whipped people into a frenzied trance state through the use of drums, and Ross had interjected that Dr Oliver Cabot probably achieved the same effect with his dick.

  He hadn't said enough to make it an outright accusation, but he had said more than enough for the inference to be clear.

  Not smart.

  Now in the reception of the Grove Hospital, perspiring after his walk here, he signed the register and scanned the rest of the day's visitors. He saw Dr Freemantle's name, and the name of a psychiatrist he had met a few times and rated, Roy Shuttleworth, and further down another psychiatrist he knew, Dr David Veale, but apart from them, the names meant nothing to him.

  'The ward sister asked if you wouldn't mind waiting just a couple of minutes while they change Mrs Ransome's bed-pan.' Ross grunted his irritation at the doddery receptionist, and stood looking through the waiting-room door at the elderly Middle Eastern man cradling a silver-headed stick in his hands, and the silent women beside him. Good customers, the Arabs. Preferred them to whingeing English boots like Lady Reynes-Raleigh any day of the week. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face, feeling a little muzzy from the effects of the alcohol and the heat. The drip bag was weighing heavily in his jacket pocket. He checked for the pills, which rattled, reassuringly.

  The phone beeped and the receptionist picked up the receiver. 'Right,' she said, 'Thank you.' Then, raising her voice a fraction, she said, 'You may go up now, Mr Ransome.'

  'I'll go up wh
enever I fucking feel like it,' he said, and walked down to the lift, checking that his mobile phone was switched on, waiting anxiously for the private investigator, Hugh Caven, to return his call.

  Head-butting him had been stupid, he now realised, ruefully.

  The lift doors slid open jerkily, then took an eternity to close. It was stiflingly hot in here. His mind went back to Detective Sergeant Anson. He'd been going off duty, he told Ross. Going home to kiss his girls goodnight, have a meal with his wife, take his two retired greyhounds out for a walk. He would be back at his desk at seven in the morning. If Caven was sufficiently angry he could give the information to anyone in the incident room. But would he?

  He tried to think back to what the private investigator had said to him in the underground car-park earlier.

  I haven't told them a thing — that's why I'm here —

  Mr Ransome, you have to believe me. I have not said a word to the police.

  We need to be sensible about this thing, Mr Ransome. I can understand you might —

  Sensible, Ross thought. need to be sensible… The little runt wasn't sure of his ground. He was nervous, caught up in something bigger than he had expected, plying his grotty little trade, and finding it biting back at him.

  The lift jerked to a halt. He waited for the doors to open, ready to step out, when he saw on the panel that this was only the second floor. A member of staff who looked vaguely familiar stepped in. A doctor, he guessed from the man's white coat, then changed his mind. The man's curly grey hair was cut longer than most doctors'. He was more likely a psychiatrist.

  The man stood holding the door open with one arm, as if he was expecting someone, and extended the other to Ross, beaming at him in recognition. Now Ross was searching his brain, trying hard to work out where they had met before, just who the hell he was. Here? Had they met here?

  His memory told him it was some other place.

  'Good evening, Ross. Nice to see you.'

  The voice, a rather mannered, pukka Oxford accent — like someone practising after an elocution lesson — rang no bells. Ross held out his hand and the man gripped it in a firm shake, and kept on holding it as he spoke. 'You look as if you've been working hard, Ross.'