Faith

by Peter James

  In the glare of the fluorescent light, her flesh was the colour of tallow. She had been cut open down her front from her neck to her pelvis, the skin was folded back exposing her internal organs, and her yellowy intestines coiled out of her midriff. Her breasts, skilfully enlarged and lifted by Ross Ransome, now hung, still erect from the implants, on each side of the stainless-steel table-top. Her scalp had been peeled back and lay like a membrane across her face, the skull cap had been sawn off and put to one side, and her brain lay nearby on a metal trolley. A buff identity label hung from her right big toe.

  '… and the suturing and bruising on her face is consistent with her recent sessions of cosmetic surgery.' He switched off the dictating machine, walked across the room and put it down, selected a knife then returned to Lady Reynes-Raleigh and picked up her brain. Placing it on the white plastic cutting board behind her head, he made a careful slice through it. Then he looked at the assistant pathologist, Annie Halls, who was standing beside him and pointed. 'You can see the damage from the meningoencephalitis here and —'

  He was interrupted by another assistant, a handsome, good-natured Indian woman in her mid-forties, called Zeenat Hosain, who came into the room.

  'Dr Barrow, Sarah from the coroner's office is on the phone. She says it is most very important to speak to you right away.' She nodded at the cadaver. 'It is concerning this lady.'

  The pathologist removed his gloves, and went over to the phone on the wall. 'Sarah? Good morning.'

  'Morning, Harry. We know you're busy, but we've had a strange phone call about Lady Reynes-Raleigh. It might be nothing, but the coroner would like you to take an extra close look at her.'

  'What was the gist of the call?' he asked.

  'It's someone who wouldn't give his name but claims to know Mr Ransome, the surgeon who operated on her. He thinks her death might have been intentional. We're not taking the call seriously enough to turn it into a murder inquiry at this stage, but please be extra thorough.'

  Harry Barrow returned to the cadaver deep in thought. There was little doubt in his mind that the cause of death was meningoencephalitis — that was clear from looking at the state of the brain. The first area he decided to take a closer look at was inside the skull, to see if he could find anything there, any abnormality that might be linked to the meningoencephalitis, although frankly he doubted it.

  Touching the loose flap of the scalp, through which there was a faint indentation from the woman's nose and chin, the pathologist said, 'You know, think I could set myself up as a cosmetic surgeon. Do one of these scalp flaps a lot cheaper than that bugger Ransome.'

  Annie Halls sniggered. Black humour was the universal currency of mortuaries.

  Serious again, he studied the interior of the skull. An infection causing meningoencephalitis could enter the body in a host of ways. He knew from pathology lab tests done while the woman was alive that it was a strain of septicaemia, and probably cross-contamination in the hospital, but it could have been transmitted in the air, the water, or through a wound.

  Suddenly something caught his eye in the cribriform plate, on the ethmoid bone, which separated the nose cavity from the cranium: a tiny fracture in a straight line. Unnatural. And he saw as well that there was a small amount of haemorrhaging in the tissue around it.

  He walked across to his tools, selected a pair of forceps and pulled the edge of dura, the thick white membrane lining the inside of the skull, away from the bone. Beneath, he could see the damage to the cribriform plate more clearly. It was possible that the surgeon's chisel had gone too far during the rhinoplasty operation. Clumsy — particularly for a man of Ransome's reputation.

  But it would have taken force to do this.

  He carefully cut out a section of bone. He would fix and decalcify the plate in the laboratory, then examine the damaged section microscopically to look for any evidence of pus or inflammation. It would take a few days for the acid solution to remove the calcium, but he would then be able to see the damage more clearly.

  The more he thought about it, the more the damage bothered him. The cribriform plate was relatively remote from the operative field in a rhinoplasty where the chisel would pass up between the skin and the outer aspect of the nasal bones. What was a surgical implement doing within the nasal cavity at its weakest point?

  He dictated his concerns into his machine. And he decided that when he had finished with the woman, he would speak to the coroner's officer and tell her his concerns. It was probably nothing, but he had learned in a long career that you were never safe taking anything for granted. Your instincts were your best guide. And right now Harry Barrow's instincts told him something wasn't right.

  101

  Oliver decided he was right to ignore Faith's plea to find a local laboratory. She would be safe at the house while he was away, and the evidence in that blood sample was crucial; he needed a lab he could trust not to ruin or lose it, as well as one with an established reputation for forensic work, whose evidence would stand up in any tribunal or court hearing.

  There was a regular fast train service from Swindon to London — he had used it a couple of times in the past. In the car on the way to the station, he tried to phone his solicitor, Julian Blake-Whitney, a partner in the law firm Ormgasson, Horus and Sudeley. Blake-Whitney had acted well and efficiently for the Cabot Centre and Oliver trusted his judgement. In turn, Blake-Whitney trusted Oliver: he and his wife had brought their twelve-year-old son, William, who was suffering from chronic asthma, to the Cabot Centre, and within a year the boy's symptoms had gone.

  Blake-Whitney was in court all morning, but his secretary got a message to him and, within minutes, he rang Oliver from his mobile. He would cancel a lunch appointment and meet Oliver at one o'clock.

  Oliver left the Jeep tucked safely among a mass of cars in the station car park, and caught a train that would get him into King's Cross shortly after eleven-thirty. If he travelled by underground he would have just enough time to get to the lab then on to his meeting with his solicitor.

  He sat alone in a first-class compartment and made a call on his mobile to the house, using the code he had agreed.

  'It's me,' he said, when Faith answered. 'How are things?'

  She sounded tense. 'OK. How soon will you be back?'

  'I'm on my way to London. I have to use a lab that's accredited with the police and I've fixed a meeting with my lawyer — his firm are the top medical specialists in the country. I want to get this section order lifted on you today somehow. How's Alec?'

  'He's sitting in front of a wide-screen digital television watching Sky, and eating caramel-crunch ice-cream I found in the freezer. That's about as good as it gets for a small boy on a wet Friday morning.'

  Oliver laughed. 'And you?'

  'I'm just — thinking, I suppose, just finding everything a little hard to take on board.'

  'I'll be back mid-afternoon.'

  A train thundered past and for a few moments he couldn't hear what Faith was saying. Just as he picked up her voice again, they went into a tunnel and he was disconnected. When they emerged on the far side, he redialled.

  'Sorry,' he said. 'How are you feeling?'

  'OK — apart from eating too much breakfast.'

  He grinned. 'No relapses from the drug?'

  'Some weird flashes — and occasionally the floor moves around. But nothing else.'

  He was pleased by how normal she sounded. She was strong, she was a coper. 'Is there anything you need?'

  'No,' she said. 'Just you. I love you, Oliver.'

  'I love you too.'

  'I really love you,' she said. 'So much.' She was breaking up. For a moment he wondered if it was the connection, then he realised she was sobbing. 'Everything's going to be all right, Faith. I promise.'

  * * *

  At ten past one, Oliver and Julian Blake-Whitney were seated in a cramped booth at the back of a packed wine-bar just off Chancery Lane. It was a couple of years since they'd last met and in
that time the solicitor had put on weight, lost some hair, and sprouted a mosaic of broken veins on his cheeks. He was squeezed into a grey chalk-stripe suit, a Jermyn Street shirt with a cut-away collar and a sombre silk tie, and had a learned air about him, enhanced both by his half-moon glasses and his confident, authoritative voice.

  Oliver, in his polo shirt, felt under-dressed.

  'I'm sorry to hear about your brother,' Blake-Whitney said.

  'Yup. Tough call.' Oliver swallowed. He found it hard when people spoke of Harvey's death.

  'Have the police got any ideas about who did it?'

  'I talk to the detective in charge every day. They don't have any solid ideas at all yet.'

  'And the other man — was there some connection between them?'

  'No. It's weird. Seems he used to be a night-club bouncer, but now his widow won't tell the police what kind of work he'd been doing.'

  'Sounds like drugs.' The solicitor gave a sympathetic grimace. 'Anyhow, you're looking well, Oliver, you haven't changed a jot.' He patted his belly. 'But I could do with losing a few pounds off this.' He grabbed a menu, summoned a waitress and got the ordering out of the way: garlic bread and lasagne for himself, a salade Nicoise for Oliver, and a bottle of the house claret. Then he looked at his watch. 'Got to be back in court at two sharp, so tell me the problem.'

  Oliver talked him through the events of the past few weeks, and in particular of last night. Their food arrived as he was finishing.

  'OK,' Blake-Whitney said. 'It's good that you had the nurse sign the vial. You've had this blood sample analysed?'

  Oliver shook his head. 'The lab won't be able to get a result until Monday afternoon at the earliest — and that's pulling out all the stops.'

  The solicitor tore off a chunk of garlic bread then offered the rest to Oliver, who raised his hand in a polite refusal.

  Munching hungrily, Blake-Whitney said, 'Well, as it's Friday afternoon, we're not going to get anything in motion until Monday at the earliest. Mrs Ransome will have to be examined in advance by at least one independent doctor. I think we're looking more likely at Tuesday or even Wednesday to get all our ducks in a row, and we're looking at a minimum of a week after that if we apply to the hospital managers, and two weeks if we go for a Mental Health Act commission.'

  'There's nothing you can do faster?'

  'Unfortunately it's a damned sight easier to get someone sectioned than to get it reversed. That part of the Mental Health Act is there to protect the public'

  'The public should be protected against her goddamned husband,' Oliver said.

  'Well, he's going to be in big trouble if you find what you're hoping to find in that blood sample.'

  'So what happens between now and next week?'

  'As your lawyer, I have to advise you to return Mrs Ransome to the Grove Hospital.'

  'No way, Julian. I'd only return her to the hospital if you got an injunction preventing her husband coming within a mile of her until the hearing.'

  Glancing anxiously at his watch, the solicitor nodded. 'I gave you that advice as your lawyer,' he said.

  'So now give me some advice as my friend.'

  'You're sure no one knows where this lady is — other than this chum of yours who lent you the place?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'Then go back to Gloucestershire, make yourself scarce, give me a phone number and we'll talk on Monday.'

  'I could hug you.'

  'Go and hug Faith. I'm not into all this male-bonding crap. Just get me the result of the blood tests. Hugs embarrass me.' He gulped some more wine and smiled. 'Nothing personal.'

  102

  'There was a grey car, Oliver.'

  Faith was stammering and he could hear the fear in her voice. There were two other men in the compartment with him, so he got up and went into the corridor. Rain was sheeting down outside across the lush green Berkshire landscape.

  'I'll be at Swindon in an hour. I'll be back with you by half past four.'

  'It came up the drive.'

  'What kind of a car?'

  'A saloon — I'm not sure — a Vauxhall maybe.'

  'Did you see who was in it?'

  'No.'

  'How close did it come to the house?'

  There was a burst of static on the line and he missed what she said next. When the line was clear he said, 'I didn't hear you.'

  'I don't know — a few hundred yards, then it turned round. I saw it driving away.'

  'How long ago?'

  'About two hours.'

  Trying to calm her, but concerned now, Oliver said, 'It was probably someone trying to find the farm who had gotten lost — that happens sometimes.' It had actually happened once.

  'It might have been Ross,' she said.

  'What car does he drive?'

  'A blue Aston Martin.'

  'So it wasn't Ross, right? Anyhow, Ross has no idea you're there.'

  'Please come back quickly, Oliver, I'm really scared.'

  'Are the doors and windows locked?'

  'All of them.'

  'Listen, Faith, don't worry. If you see the car again call me. I'll be there as quickly as I can.'

  'Please hurry.'

  'I'll go bribe the engine driver.'

  103

  In his office overlooking the back garden of his home, Hugh Caven was staring at the spikes of rain in the paddling-pool. He had just come off the phone after a traumatic conversation with Barry Gait's widow.

  The coroner was releasing Barry's body, and Steph had arranged the funeral for next Tuesday. He knew how hard up she was, and had finally persuaded her to allow him to pay for Barry's funeral. He told her that Barry had died while in his employ and he really wanted to do that.

  Then she'd broken down and told him of the debts Barry had left and she didn't know how she would cope. Caven told her he would help. He lied that there was life insurance covering his employees and that he might be able to get something for Barry's death from the policy. In truth he planned to give her what he could himself. It wouldn't be much — he had enough debts of his own — but it would salve his conscience.

  And his conscience was troubling him badly right now, as it had been all day. Ross Ransome was a dangerous bastard. He was regretting having given him the compass co-ordinates this morning of where Dr Oliver Cabot's car was located. If Ransome had been behind the killer of Cabot's brother — and Barry Gatt — who was to say he wasn't intending to finish the job off?

  Why the hell else would he want the co-ordinates?

  To get his wife back?

  Sure.

  He dialled New Scotland Yard and asked to be put through to the incident room for the Cabot and Gatt murders.

  After two rings a voice-mail told him that all the lines were busy. He left a message that he had information relevant to the death of Barry Gatt, and asked for someone to call him back.

  He said it was urgent.

  104

  It was you, bitch! Ross could see her clearly now, through the binoculars. It was you looking out of the window when I drove up earlier. You were there, and then you were gone. I was too far away to be sure.

  She was staring out of the window straight at him, only she couldn't see him, of course, and there was no sunlight to reflect off his lenses and give him away. He'd learned that deerstalking in Scotland. There was a time when he went regularly, a group of young doctors together, their annual boys' hunting trip. A gamekeeper in Braemore had also taught him how to move silently through undergrowth. And how to remain invisible.

  Deerstalking had taught him patience too.

  He was lying, shielded by a clump of ferns, in a ditch on the edge of a copse of firs, close to the track and with a clear view of the house. A long green Barbour jacket, waterproof trousers, Wellington boots and a rain-hat, which he'd bought in an outdoor shop in Cirencester an hour ago, along with the canopy of branches above him were keeping out most of the weather, except for one persistent trickle of water down the back of his ne
ck.

  A beetle was crawling past in front of him, up and down every undulation of the soil, laboriously navigating through the fronds of dripping greenery. A solitary bird was tweeting somewhere above him. The smells of moist earth and pine cones brought back those deerhunting days vividly to him. Good times. Those early years with Faith when they had been so happy together. Before Dr Oliver Cabot had come on the scene to steal her from him.

  Where are you Dr Oliver Cabot? Is your car hidden away in the garage or have you gone out to buy more condoms to screw my wife with?

  She was in what looked like a kitchen, wearing some kind of blue top, and her hair could have been tidier.

  You look like a slut, today, Faith. Is that what Dr Oliver Cabot does to you? Makes you into a slut? Do you do slut things to him?

  Faith needed him. She might not realise it, but she did, she really did. She was looking like a piece of trash.

  You've rejected me, and now look at you.

  His mind went back twenty-eight years. To his mother lying on the bed in her small, grim flat, with her legs scissored around her lover's waist.

  I thought at least you would have left me for a paradise, and that all I could have done would have been to stand in awe if I ever saw you.

  I really would like it if you could explain how you could do this to me, Faith.

  A sharp clatter some way behind him startled him. The sound of wheels on a cattle grid, he realised.

  A second clatter, louder, and now the sound of an engine. A vehicle travelling quickly. Tyres on the rough surface, splashing through puddles.

  He could see the front now. A blue off-roader. A Jeep Cherokee, passing by just yards from him. The silhouette of a tall man driving, with long grey curly hair.

  Through the binoculars he watched the Jeep pull up outside the house. The stupid bastard stopped right in front of the door, blocking his view of it. Ross strained to see through the windows of the Jeep but all he could see was blurred shapes moving, then the door closing.