Although she’d perked up since the arduous flight, his fatherly instincts were telling him her enthusiasm for the high-end facilities was just a coping mechanism. Deep down, he sensed she was worried about the proton treatment.
Letting the door slip to, he walked the short distance across to the nurse station. Sophie McCarthy sat behind the counter focusing intently on a flat-screen monitor.
‘Mr Blake?’
‘Tom, please.’
‘Tom, take a seat. Can I get you a drink before we begin?’ She got up and gestured towards two leather wingback chairs opposite the reception.
‘I’m OK for the minute, thanks.’
She followed him over and sat down cross-legged, glancing at a clipboard. ‘I understand you’ve come a long way, and it’s a very worrying time. But I can assure you your daughter is in the best place. I also understand you’ll have questions about the treatment, but first if I explain how the Proton Program works, and what you can expect from our specialist team; it should help to relieve some of that worry.’
Blake listened intently. ‘OK, thank you.’
‘Proton therapy is very safe and has an excellent success rate with this type of tumour. Unlike other more aggressive chemotherapies, it minimises damage to healthy cells. Overall there’s increased tumour control, or eradication. Another big advantage is the patient feels nothing during treatment. And, there are hardly any side effects after treatment.’
Her reassurances helped ease some of his anxiety. He was silent for a few seconds before asking, ‘How many treatments will she receive?’
‘One today, and then further treatments each day until there’s significant regression in the tumour. I can’t exactly say for sure. Dr Aston Jones will be along in a few minutes to discuss Isabel’s MRI images with you.’
‘Will she be poorly after?’
‘It’s worth bearing in mind that, apart from the tumour, Isabel is a healthy young woman with a strong immune system. I think the fact she’s flown ten thousand miles proves that. You must be very proud of her?’
‘I’m extremely proud.’ Blake felt a wave of emotion rise in his chest, but suppressed the urge to cry with a couple of deep breaths. Seeing Isabel again for the first time in twenty-four hours stirred up all kinds of irrational fears.
‘She’s all I’ve got left. I lost my wife and son in a car accident some years ago. Isabel’s been my rock ever since. I can’t imagine life without her.’ Unintentionally he heard himself appealing for sympathy.
‘I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sure this must be very painful. If there’s anything I can do to make your stay here with us more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to ask? You can be with your daughter day and night at the institute if that helps. We have an in-house Relative Support Unit. I’ll give you the number; you can talk to them any time.’
‘Thank you. Isabel has already shown me the sofa bed. When will we know if she’s in remission?’
‘During the whole treatment we’ll be monitoring progress, closely keeping Isabel under twenty-four hour observation. If everything goes well, which I’m sure it will, she’ll be moved to one of our convalescence suites right on the beach. Our post-op after-care therapists are some of the best in the world. Is there anything else you’d like to know?’
‘I think that’s it for now,’ Blake said, trying to process the info. She handed him a leaflet from the clipboard.
‘Everything we’ve discussed is in our brochure. If you do think of anything, you can reach me here?’ She pointed to the mobile number printed on the inside fold.
‘OK, thanks, will do.’
CHAPTER 108
Blake placed a reassuring arm around his daughter as they descended towards the beach in the clinic’s glass lift. ‘I’ve spoken to Doctor Aston Jones, and he showed me your scan pictures. He reckons, because the tumour is small and was spotted early, you have an excellent chance of full recovery.’
With renewed optimism, she smiled coyly, ‘I’ve already spoken to him, Dad; first treatment’s this afternoon.’
‘Try not to worry, love, I’ll be by your side all the way through.’
She hugged him tightly. ‘I know, Dad.’
‘Just look at this place,’ he said as they exited the lift, stepping out onto the neatly swept winding concrete pathway leading towards a stunning group of single-storey buildings made from a mix of redwood and white-washed blocks. Apart from a few minor cloud clusters, the sky was crystal clear.
Isabel stared ahead. ‘I can see this place from my window. Sophie told me it’s the Convalescence Centre. There’s a coffee shop and a spa… it’s unbelievable!’
‘Bloody different from the NHS, Izzy. Let’s get a drink, I fancy iced tea.’
‘Make that two, Dad?’
The whole situation was surreal; Blake only wished it could have been under much better circumstances. Whilst the idyllic surroundings provided a distraction, there was no getting away from the fact that his only child was being treated for cancer. He promised himself one way or another they’d get through this.
The open-plan coffee shop had the appearance of a classy restaurant, without alcohol. Several families sat at tables, under huge sails suspended by wires. The impressive redwood decking spanned a large area, edged by a glass balustrade, providing an excellent view of the Pacific. Waves rolled and crashed hypnotically on the shoreline.
Blake ordered two iced teas and a club sandwich. The assistant said she’d bring them over to their table. Weaving through the chairs, they dropped into two rattan-cushioned seats perched on the edge of the decking close to the bar.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind me eating? Feels cruel.’
‘I’m fine, Dad, stop worrying. I had a bacon toasty this morning. It’s not really nil by mouth; just a break from food before the treatment.’
‘Only had a small breakfast at the motel.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Basic, but clean.’
He leaned over the table and placed a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘You’ll beat this, princess.’
‘Can we talk about something else? I’m fed up of all this hospital crap. Just want to feel normal for a few hours.’
‘OK, what do you want to talk about?’
‘Anything, not bothered. What’s Miami like?’
‘Not seen much of it, but what I’ve seen looks pretty amazing. Pastel-coloured buildings and wide palm-lined boulevards, just like in Miami Vice.’
She gave him a puzzled look. ‘What’s Miami Vice?’
‘It’s a cult eighties TV show set in Miami about two cops Sunny and Crockett, running around in white suits catching drug dealers.’
‘Sounds cheesy.’ She smiled. ‘You’re so ancient, Dad.’
‘Cheeky, I’m only forty-five. Not ready for the care home yet!’
They both laughed. It was great to see her smile again after all she’d been through, he thought.
The iced teas arrived, and they both took a sip. A slight breeze coming off the ocean invigorated Blake.
Suddenly his moment of calm was shattered by an alarming announcement on Network News. He spun his chair around and stared at the large wall-mounted TV behind the coffee shop counter. The anchorwoman Robin De Haven delivered the report in her sixties-style wide-rimmed specs:
‘A dog walker discovered the body of a forty-five-year-old Florida man on a remote part of Daytona beach off the coastal plain this morning. In a statement to Network News, Crime Scene detectives said the victim’s vehicle was rammed off the coastal road and crashed amongst the trees. But the man died from fatal injuries not related to the crash, rather a single gunshot wound to the head, which appears to have come from his own gun, which backfired. Police also found a large bag of Marijuana in the victim’s vehicle, and suspect this is a drug deal, which went badly. They are treating the death as suspicious and appealing for witnesses.’
Blake felt cold creep over him as the news switched to live camera footage of a young
male reporter standing on the beach. The colour drained from his face. Swallowing hard, he turned his chair back around.
‘What’s up, Dad? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Just tired with all the travelling and stress,’ he lied nervously, as all kinds of irrational thoughts cursed through his mind.
‘Maybe we should go back now?’
‘Just ten minutes more. Please, Dad… it’s so lovely here.’
‘OK, Izzy.’
CHAPTER 109
Blake stirred around seven a.m. the following day. Sitting on the edge of the sofa bed, he entwined his fingers and stretched his arms towards the ceiling. His morning ritual. He stood and slipped jeans and a shirt on.
Isabel was still sleeping peacefully; he watched her chest rise and fall, feeling reassured as she breathed. Considering he’d been shouldering the burden of the biker’s death, and fear of being arrested in connection with it, he’d slept OK, after a relaxing evening spent chatting and watching DVDs with his daughter – though it was probably more to do with not feeling helpless any more; knowing Isabel was receiving the best possible treatment money could buy.
Removing the sheets and pillows, he folded and placed them neatly on the dresser before quietly collapsing the sofa bed.
Sliding the balcony door open, he slipped through and closed it behind him. The promise of another beautiful day loomed on the Pacific horizon. With the soothing sound of the ocean in the background, he retrieved his mobile from his jeans’ pocket and called John Murphy, mindful the UK was five hours in front.
‘Tom! How the bloody hell are you? More importantly, how’s Isabel?’
‘Not too bad considering she had the first treatment yesterday. I’m really hopeful it will cure her, John. This hospital is state of the art. Slept here last night to be with her.’
‘That’s great news, mate; we’re all rooting for her at the station. How long’s she in for?’
‘Can’t really say. Each patient is different… all depends on the size of the tumour. Thank god Isabel’s is small, and, because they caught it early, she may not need too many treatments, but we’ll know more over the course of the week.’ For the first time Blake found himself able to discuss ‘it’ – the tumour – openly.
‘How’s Miami?’
‘Like I mentioned to Isabel yesterday, I haven’t had a chance to see much. To be honest, John, we want to get the treatment over with, and fly back home.’
‘I can’t imagine how difficult it must be,’ Murphy sympathised.
‘It’s not easy. Listen, where are you?’
‘Just nipped out the station to grab a pie.’
‘You alone?’
‘Why?’
‘Can’t discuss it over the phone, mate. How about I call you from a phone box later?’ Blake said covertly.
‘All sounds a bit cloak and dagger. You in trouble?’
‘Sort of.’
OK, which mobile?’
‘Your other one.’
‘The burner?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I must nip home and get it.’
‘Appreciate that, John.’
‘What time?’
‘What time is it there now?’
Murphy glanced at his watch. ‘Twelve noon.’
‘Izzy’s having another treatment around ten a.m. Shall we say seven p.m. UK time?’
‘OK.’
‘Everything good with you? How’s the Bentley case going? Has he been sentenced yet?’
‘Yeah, Judge gave him four years for possession with conspiracy to supply.’
‘That’s good news at least.’
‘I’m still not convinced he hasn’t anything to do with the Barry Gibson murder case.’
‘I know, John, but there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him.’
‘OK, speak later.’
‘Take care, mate?’
‘And you.’
CHAPTER 110
The forty-foot Vitress 420 Fly private yacht left Ibiza harbour heading for Morocco, its two guests relishing the thought of spending an uninterrupted few days in the exotic North African coastal capital of Rabat with its fascinating blend of architecture and cultures.
Clouds of white sea spray churned from the bow, leaving a hundred feet stream of wash behind, as the Bavarian craft carved through the deep Balearic at twenty-seven knots.
Katrina Osborne, feeling like a Bond girl, stood in a revealing salmon bikini, next to Ibrahim Benzar on the fly bridge. She watched in awe as the vast Balearic sprawled out in front, her bob blustered in the headwind. Ibrahim sat at the helm in his gold-rimmed shades, gripping the steering wheel like a rich boy cruising around town in a convertible.
She kissed his warm temple. ‘This is a dream,’ she said, watery-eyed from the wind. ‘It’s a gorgeous boat. Must have cost a fortune?’
‘About a million.’
‘How many days have we got it?’
‘A few.’
Her face lit up like a small child’s at Christmas. ‘How long until we get to Rabat?’
‘It’s six hundred nautical miles. If we keep a steady twenty-five knots, a day and a half.’
‘Why don’t you get some sun on the bathing platform?’ he said, easing down the throttle, slowing the yacht to a steadier ten knots.
She padded barefoot down the fly deck steps and edged over to the bow, sliding a cautious hand down the chrome side rail, like an acrobat on a tightrope. The ocean breeze washed over her, cooling the intense rays. Feeling the yacht rise and fall underneath her, she lay blissfully on the leather covered memory foam bathing bed.
Since landing in Ibiza, hardly a single thought about Carl’s plight and Stoke had entered her head. Did that make her a callous bitch, or just someone who desperately needed to escape and gain new perspective on life?
She’d called Luna several times for updates, but Ibrahim warned her not to reveal their location, which she found suspicious, if not a little worrying.
After much interrogation Kat told her somewhere in the Balearics. Luna voiced concerns, said he was using her for sex. Instinctively Kat knew there was more to it than great sex. Ibrahim knew how to treat a woman. Expensive gifts, exotic locations and millionaire’s toys aside, she felt the connection you only get when there is mutual respect and feelings developing between two people. As good a friend as Luna was, her opinion reeked of jealousy.
Around lunchtime they’d reached the Alboran Sea off the coast of Almeria and Malaga. Whilst Ibrahim sat motionless at the helm, sipping coffee, Kat spent the rest of the morning familiarising herself with the yacht, with a glass of iced Pinot Grigio in tow.
The sense of space below deck – with its stylish rose-wood interior, white leather seats and saloon master cabin with en-suite bathroom – blew her away.
By lunchtime Ibrahim had detoured towards land and anchored just off the coast of Malaga in a secluded bay. He made his way down the fly bridge steps, over to the rear bathing platform, which was submerged into the sea, stripped naked and dived off. Swimming in the crystal cool waters, he shouted at Kat to join him.
‘I’m not a good swimmer.’
‘You’ll be OK, I’ll look after you, we’ll stay close to the yacht.’
Reluctant, she stood nervously on the platform. ‘I can’t.’
He swam closer and held out a hand. ‘Just sit on the edge and lower yourself in, I’ll steady you?’
Plucking up courage, she grabbed the edge.
‘Take off your bikini first.’ He grinned.
She glanced around. ‘Seriously? You cheeky bugger!’
‘There’s no one here, don’t worry?’
She paused, then untied her top and tossed it behind. With raised knees, she slid the skimpy bottoms off. Slipping into the sea, she screeched, ‘Shit, it’s cold!’
Ibrahim laughed. ‘You English girls are so uptight.’
She swam frantically into his arms. Treading water, he pulled her close and they kissed. She felt li
berated.
‘It’s OK once your body temperature gets over the shock. Don’t let go of me though; it looks really deep.’
Sensing her fear, he guided her to the platform edge. ‘Hold on here while I swim.’
Clutching the edge, she watched him for a few minutes, and, as he flipped and began to swim back towards her, she shouted. ‘Don’t be too long, I’m getting out.’
She heaved herself up.
He stopped and floated on his back. Salt water ran off her naked curvaceous hips and bum, and he felt himself getting semi-hard. He swam fifty feet, then rejoined her on the yacht.
Drying off, he slipped a robe on and climbed the steps back up to the fly bridge.
Kat was laying out a cold fish salad. They dined, sipping Prosecco he’d fetched from the wet bar.
Kat took another sip. ‘Where are we now?’
‘About four miles from Malaga.’
‘How do you know?’ she asked curiously.
‘The instruments and chart plotter on the helm tell me where we are, how many miles we’ve done, weather forecasts and all kinds of other info. It’s a computer you program before starting any journey.’
‘Sounds clever.’
‘It is. Without it we’d be lost at sea!’
‘I like the idea of being lost.’ she smirked whilst slipping her hand under his gown.
‘Where did you learn to sail?’
‘In Turkey. My old boss used to let me drive his yacht while he entertained clients,’ he said, raising his groin in response.
‘Must’ve been rich?’
‘He was, but the yacht was a lot older than this; it was years ago.’
‘Man of many talents, eh?’ she said, leaning lower, her arm now up to the elbow under his robe.’
Fully aroused, he joked, ‘I’ll show you what I’m fantastic at.’ Then, grabbing her hand, he towed her seductively to the side and turned her around to face the ocean. With both hands on the edge, she gazed at the waves gently lapping the boat.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 35