Sleaford Noir 1

by Morris Kenyon

CHAPTER 7.

   

  I left the lounge with its heavy dark furnishings and crossed the corridor to the toilets. The lavatories were old fashioned but clean. Someone had left little vases of fresh flowers by the wash basins next to bottles of scented hand lotion – a nice touch, that. Which is what you'd expect in an upmarket place like the King's Arms.

  Pulling the chain, I stepped out of the cubicle and a moment later was washing my hands. A movement, a sudden reflection in the mirror caught my eye. I looked up, amazed that Mulhearn had followed me into the toilets. His phone was back in his pocket but now he carried a yellow cloth in his hand.

  Mulhearn leaped forwards, annoyed that he hadn't been able to catch me unawares. The pungent sickly, sweetish scent of chloroform came from the cloth as he clutched it. I raised my eyes away from the cloth. Wheelan must have told Mulhearn to bring me in alive. Maybe as revenge for the fire-bombings or to use me as a bargaining chip with McTeague.

  Mulhearn pulled up hard seeing that his surprise attack had failed. I paused, waiting for Mulhearn to take the next move. A grin crossed his broad face. It would be a mistake to underestimate Mulhearn's combat skills. The man had served in both Iraq and Afghanistan and I knew he'd fought several straighteners with other soldiers out there.

  Particularly against the jocks. For some reason, Mulhearn hated Scots. I never found out the reason why, perhaps it was simply their accents that grated on his nerves. But a lot of Scots are very tough people and together with their hatred of everything English the jock squaddies almost held their own against Mulhearn's ferocity. Almost – but the way I heard it Mulhearn always won his bouts in the end.

  So I didn't dare downplay Mulhearn's skills in one-on-one combat. All the same, Mulhearn should have waited until I left the toilets and grabbed me from behind in the corridor. The man must have wanted the honour, the glory of taking down the infamous Hennessy face to face.

  Now Mulhearn leaped forward, hoping to use his heavier build and weight to overpower me. The fumes from the chloroform rag hit the back of my nose, making me gag. I sidestepped his attack and Mulhearn's body slammed into the rack of washbasins. He pivoted away, surprisingly light on his feet and launched himself at me, the rag clutched tight in his hand. I spun away and caught Mulhearn's jaw with my fist. Once again, he crashed against the washbasins.

  Mulhearn bellowed with rage and frustration. He pushed away from the washbasins and attacked. I gave him a swift one-two to his face but I might as well have punched the tiled wall as his face. He didn't even recoil. For a moment, I felt a shudder of fear before pushing that feeling back down.

  Grinning, Mulhearn approached. He was now between me and the door so I couldn't just cut and run. Not that I wanted to. How long would I last out on the streets if, no, when word got around that I'd run from Mulhearn? Less than a week. Not an option. Anyway I wanted to beat Mulhearn. He'd broken our truce and tried to attack me from behind. The man had it coming.

  Mulhearn jabbed at me. A swift right straight to my face. I bobbed out of the way with a fraction of an inch to spare and felt the airflow as his fist sailed past my ear. Then I brought my knee up. Hard. Right up between his legs. My kneecap connected squarely with Mulhearn's crotch.

  "Oooph," Mulhearn gasped. He leaned forward, gasping for air. His left, the hand holding the yellow cloth, dived between his legs. That was too good an opportunity to waste. I thought Mulhearn was better than that. I planted one deep in his solar plexus under his breastbone. He doubled over in pain.

  "Uummph," Mulhearn said this time.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  Mulhearn's hair was cut short in a military buzz-cut. Too short for me to grab and pull the man upright. Instead I gave him an uppercut to his nose. He rocked back, straightening up. Shock and rage in his eyes.

  With an effort of will, an effort I could appreciate, Mulhearn pulled himself upright again. He looked far more dangerous now. Blood leaked from his wide nose, staining his chin and white shirt collar. His chloroform soaked rag now forgotten, Mulhearn charged forward like a prize Lincolnshire bull.

  His shoulder caught me and using his heavier build he slammed me up against the tiled wall. My ribs squashed in, further than they were meant to contract. Now it was my turn to feel what it was like to have all the breath knocked out of my body. I gasped, drawing oxygen deep into my hurting lungs.

  Mulhearn punched me in the gut. I gasped again choking and felt my gorge rise, my coffee and sandwiches coming back up. I forced the partially digested food back down. I saw Mulhearn grin and now he remembered his chloroform rag. He pressed the rag over my mouth and nose.

  I needed oxygen, I needed life. Mulhearn punched my stomach again, pushing more air out of my lungs, forcing me to inhale another deep breath. The sickly stench of chloroform filled my throat and lungs instead. Almost instantly, I felt strength leave my muscles. The cream tiled walls of the lavatories greyed. I felt woozy, dazed, unsteady on my feet. I swayed.

  In my fading, greying vision, I saw Mulhearn's face looming above me like a tanned fall moon. I struggled but his hand was clamped vice-like over my airways and there was nothing I could do as my strength waned. Black blotches swam into view and already the far side of the lavatories was no more than a grey blur.

  Mulhearn said something but I couldn't really tell what he was saying. His words sounded muffled, indistinct, vague. Still keeping his hand pressed over my mouth and nose, Mulhearn supported my limp body as I slid down the wall. The blackness was taking over my vision and I felt light headed and out-of-it. My head slumped to one side and the tiled floor filled my remaining view.

  Maybe Mulhearn relaxed the pressure just a fraction. Whatever, I had one last unexpected chance and I took it between my teeth. Literally. Twisting my head, I bit down as hard as I could through the yellow cloth. My teeth connected on the base of Mulhearn's thumb. The man cried out but the yell sounded dull on my drugged ears. His left hand jerked away automatically, the pressure on the rag blocking my breathing falling away.

  So I twisted my head further away and drew in a lungful of sweet clean air. I sucked in another breath and my vision started to clear and my thoughts came through quicker and with more clarity. There were blood spots on the tiles. Mine or his, I didn't know.

  I drew myself up onto my hands and knees and retched. A string of bile dangled from my lip. I spat. Mulhearn stood and kicked me in the side. More pain flared from my already bruised ribs. But the agony purged more of the effects of the chloroform from my system. I felt sharper, a bit more in control of my own body now. Mulhearn raised his leg to kick me again. Unbalanced, he was easier to topple over. I grabbed Mulhearn's ankle lifted and twisted and threw him over on his back. He slammed down onto the floor. I heard his skull crack on the tiles.

  The adrenaline surge through my system blasted even more of the chloroform from my bloodstream. Using the shelf with the basins as support I pulled myself to my feet. Mulhearn turned over, leaning on his elbow. He'd dropped the yellow cloth and it lay next to his body.

  I was on the man before he had chance to get to his feet again. I dived onto his back, crushing him down onto the tiles. Snatching up the chloroform rag, it was my turn to press it over his airways instead. Mulhearn bucked and writhed beneath me until I pressed my knees and thighs against his side, holding him in position.

  Leaning forward, I kept the damp rag tight against Mulhearn's ugly face. He shook his head from side to side trying to free his airways. I clung on for grim death. Mulhearn's struggles were fierce at first but gradually the strength ebbed from his body and his attempts to free himself became slower, sluggish losing their urgency.

  He lay still. I felt his energy leave his body.

  I wasn't fooled by his stillness but held the rag tight against his face until I was completely sure Mulhearn wasn't faking it. Carefully I stood and watched Mulhearn's body for a moment, half expecting him to rise to his feet and resume the attack, like every villain in the last reel of every movie I'v
e ever seen.

  However, Mulhearn didn't move but lay still on the tiled floor. I must be losing my touch, I thought as I was out of breath. Leaning on the washbasin shelf for support, I checked my appearance in the mirror and quickly washed my face and brushed my hair until I looked half way presentable again. And not like someone whose just come from a life or death struggle rolling about on a toilet floor. For good measure I threw a double handful of water onto the tiled floor near Mulhearn's feet.

  Stooping, I checked on Mulhearn. For a moment I thought I'd killed the man. Not that I was bothered – it wasn't like Mulhearn's would be the first corpse I'd left behind me. Of course, it would be inconvenient having to deal with Mulhearn's body as I wouldn't be able to call in the services of McTeague's professional 'cleaner' to tidy up the scene for me. Not here at a busy place like the King's Arms. The big danger was that someone would walk in whilst I was dealing with Mulhearn.

  Glancing up at the door, I half expected someone to walk in there and then. Mulhearn drew in breath – a ragged, shuddering inhalation. He muttered something thickly. I rolled Mulhearn over onto his side in the recovery position.

  Another glance at the door. Deciding to push my luck I checked Mulhearn's pockets. I took his car keys and found a tightly sealed brown bottle labelled 'Halothane'. That was the chloroform. I knew enough to know that repeated doses of Halothane can cause something called hepatotoxicity. No, I'm not too sure what hepatotoxicity is either but one of McTeague's associates, Dr. Nabi-Khan told me it is a serious blood disorder – it can give you things like jaundice.

  I listened to Dr. Nabi-Khan MB, ChB, FRCA, DICM whenever he talked to me. That string of letters after his name? Means: Bachelor of Medicine, Bachelor of Surgery – they are the degrees all doctors take at university – and then Fellow of the Royal College of Anaesthetists finishing off with a Diploma of Intensive Care Medicine. Even other doctors regard the training to become an anaesthetist as the most difficult. It takes a minimum of fourteen years to become an Consultant Anaesthetist.

  Over the years I've found it's always worth listening to people who are experts. You can pick up a lot of tips from people who really know what they are talking about. However, although he's very knowledgeable, Dr. Nabi-Khan was a man who gave me a severe case of the creeps. He used to be an anaesthetist at Nottingham's main City Hospital. But he got caught out once too often touching up the women on the operating table. Not only the young pretty girls but older women, too. In his way, Dr. Nabi-Khan was an equal opportunity pervert.

  Now he'd been struck off, Dr. Nabi-Khan made almost as lucrative a living working for people like McTeague and a number of other capos around the Midlands. He was the go-to guy if you needed bullet wounds treating without troubling the authorities. Or if you needed someone keeping alive for a while longer whilst you find out what they know. Like the Kirkham brothers from Hull.

  But I still didn't like being alone in a room with Dr. Nabi-Khan with his eyes crawling all over my body.

  I unscrewed the cap off the bottle. Again, the fumes hit the back of my throat and I felt my earlier wooziness come on as I poured out a few drops of Halothane onto the yellow cloth and pressed it tight over Mulhearn's face until the man subsided again. If Mulhearn got this hepatotoxicity thing later then that was his problem. Not mine.

  I tried to lift Mulhearn's body. Although I'm strong for my size and work out at the gym, Mulhearn's dead weight was too much for me to lug about. So I dropped him back onto the floor. His head hit the floor with a dull thud. Ouch.

  Stepping out of the lavatories, I had another stroke of luck. Morela was walking down the corridor holding a dustpan and brush. She glanced round at me.

  "Quick, help me!" I called to her in distress. "My partner's had a fit and he's collapsed on the floor."

  Morela dropped the dustpan and brush and ran with me back into the lavatories. She saw Mulhearn's body on the floor.

  "What was he doing in...," the stress making her Polish accent stronger. She saw the cubicle's open door and put two and two together to make a number that was nowhere near four. Her pale complexion flushed red, making the young woman even more beautiful.

  "I call ambulance," Morela said, her accent very thick now.

  "No, never mind that; give me a hand to get him up. He's had these attacks before. I only need to get him home where he can rest quietly," I said.

  Morela looked at me. Unsure. Unhappy with the situation. "Should get ambulance," she said again. Mulhearn stirred slightly and his tongue lolled from his mouth. A string of drool leaked out onto the tiles.

  "Don't worry, he'll be okay," I reassured her. "Even though he's banged his head. I just want to get him to my car." Looking Morela full in the face, I said those magic words. "Look at this wet floor. No wonder he slipped. Maybe I should sue the hotel for negligence?"

  That decided her. No way did she want even the hint of a stain on her work records here. There were lots of eastern Europeans out there eager and waiting to take her job. Far better to get us out of the King's Arms as soon as possible.

  "Stay here. I get Arkadiusz from kitchens. He help you take him to car," Morela said. She dashed out of the lavatories and I heard her calling to Arkadiusz before the door closed behind her. Instantly, I gave Mulhearn another sniff of the chloroform.

  A minute later Morela burst into the lavatories closely followed by Arkadiusz. He was a stocky, darker man wearing kitchen whites. They spoke together in Polish. Arkadiusz crouched and hoisted Mulhearn's body up in one fluid motion. Morela and Arkadiusz spoke some more in Polish. The only word I could make out was 'ambulance' but Morela shook her head.

  With Morela leading the way, we exited the lavatories, walked down the corridor until she pushed open a fire exit and we were out in the car park. Taking out Mulhearn's keys, I pressed the central locking button and the lights flashed on and off a Jeep Cherokee. I ran forward and opened the Jeep.

  I suppose Mulhearn thought it looked macho to keep his Jeep 4x4 as muddy as possible. I knew Mulhearn enjoyed off-road rallying of a weekend but he could still have swung by a car wash on his way home. Maybe he thought mud and dirt went with his military hard-man image as if he'd come straight from manoeuvres. Opening the door, I expected the Cherokee's interior to be as filthy as its bodywork but the 4x4 was show room fresh inside with that new car smell.

  Carefully, with Morela's assistance, Arkadiusz slid and pushed Mulhearn's body into the passenger seat and then leaned over him to clunk-click the seatbelt. I thanked the two Poles for their help, slipped them a tenner, and then got behind the wheel. In my mirrors I saw them watch me drive out and turn onto Northgate.