‘I knew you’d choose that,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘It was your favourite.’
‘That’s right. Queen’s Indian Defence …’ said Isis.
‘Petrosian Variation,’ added Sir Humphrey. ‘Inspirational.’
‘Quite so.’
‘Excellent!’ said Greenberg, getting excited. ‘What do you think, Sir Humphrey?’
‘Sure, we could do that, if it helps.’
‘It certainly would,’ said Greenberg. ‘That’s exactly what I want her brain to do. Fight the enemy on the chessboard while I attack the enemy within. Concentration, focus, excitement. Perfect!’
‘This could turn into quite a tournament,’ said Isis, feeling suddenly much better. The idea of playing mental chess with her old mentor and friend while her brain was being operated on appealed to her. The idea was endearingly bizarre.
Greenberg stood up to leave. ‘That only leaves the music …’ he said.
‘Bach,’ said Isis. ‘I love Bach Cantatas.’
‘So do I,’ said Greenberg. ‘You got it!’
‘What about the prize?’ said Isis, a sparkle in her eyes.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sir Humphrey.
‘Well, every tournament must have a winner and a prize.’
‘Obviously,’ said Greenberg, turning serious.
‘Oh? What will it be then?’ asked Isis.
Greenberg walked to the door and turned around. ‘Can’t you see? Your life, of course. See you in the morning, gentlemen.’
89
Carrington had missed his old chambers and eccentric colleagues more than he cared to admit. He even missed Cyril Archibald QC, his old rival and sparring partner. Archibald had defended Sir Eric Newman, a notorious Nazi war criminal, in a sensational trial a few years before, which had become the subject of Jack’s hugely successful book – Dental Gold and Other Horrors. Carrington had also missed MacDougall, his crusty, cantankerous old clerk and was looking forward to his quirky ways of running the floor.
Leaving Sydney and the bar had been an escape, a way to deal with the grief that had threatened to overwhelm him at the time. Losing both his wife and daughter in that dreadful terrorist attack in Egypt three years ago had seemed almost too much to bear. Somehow, running away and accepting The Hague appointment seemed the only way to cope with the unspeakable tragedy.
Carrington ran his hand along the edge of the familiar mahogany bookcase filled with Egyptian artefacts, papyri and manuscripts in Latin and Hebrew, and looked up at the bronze busts of Roman emperors and bearded philosophers staring down at him from above. Good to be back, he thought, and sat down at his desk.
The files he had requested from the police regarding the Blowhole fire had been delivered and Carrington was anxious to begin his review of the case and examine the evidence as instructed by the DPP. Even if only part of what Alexandra had told him was correct and Macbeth and his thugs were somehow behind it all, this could quickly become one of the most explosive and sensational cases to land on his desk in years.
Carrington realised this was exactly what he needed and was ready to do what he did best: looking at a case with an open mind; assessing the evidence rationally; taking nothing for granted; questioning everything, even the obvious; and then examining every minute detail – however remote or trivial it may appear at first glance – to get to the truth. He firmly believed that the truth was hidden somewhere in every case and all one had to do was have a good, hard look. However, many knew how to look, but few knew how to see.
The volume of material was massive. The case was still being prepared for the coroner and a hearing wasn’t expected for weeks. Some of the forensics reports were outstanding and some of the patrons who had been at the club at the time of the fire, still had to be tracked down and interviewed. It seemed to Carrington that the case lacked direction and had stalled. This often happened in difficult cases. He had seen it many times before.
If Alexandra was right about Cavendish and he was in fact murdered at the club and the fire deliberately lit to cover it up, then it made sense to begin with Cavendish. Carrington looked for the autopsy report. Ah, Dr Penelope Ritter. Excellent, he thought, opening the report. Carrington had run several cases involving Dr Ritter and knew her well. He had cross-examined the pathologist with the fierce reputation many times and respected her opinions and impeccable methods.
Carrington began to read the report and carefully examined the photographs of the charred remains. Burnt beyond recognition, Cavendish’s body had been identified through dental records and a distinctive signet ring. How could that be? he wondered, and began to sift through the many photographs until he found what he was looking for: photos of a perfectly preserved right hand. Instead of ploughing through the long report full of jargon and pedantic detail, Carrington decided to cut to the chase. He reached for the phone and called Dr Ritter.
‘You’re in luck, Marcus,’ said Dr Ritter. ‘Lunch break. Fancy a sandwich?’
‘You’re on. Where?’
‘Usual place across the road in, say, fifteen minutes?’
‘Done. See you there,’ said Carrington and hung up.
Dr Ritter’s office was next to the historic sandstone Sydney Hospital, just around the corner from Carrington’s chambers.
‘Thanks for seeing me straight away, Penelope,’ said Carrington, shaking Dr Ritter’s hand. ‘Let’s have some lunch.’
‘I heard you were back, Marcus. It’s good to see you. How can I help you?’
‘The Blowhole case, Cavendish autopsy,’ said Carrington.
‘You are looking into it?’
‘The DPP has asked me to, unofficially.’
‘Ah.’
‘You’ll hear about it soon enough; this is now a possible murder enquiry, but please keep it to yourself for the moment.’
‘What? They believe Cavendish was murdered?’
Carrington shrugged. ‘What did you find?’
‘You read the report?’
‘In part.’
‘This is a bizarre case. I examined a badly burnt body with a missing head and severed arm. Death was by drowning in the fish tank. The head and the arm were bitten off by sharks after death. The head was also badly burnt and so was the arm. The hand was missing.’
‘Death by drowning, a badly burnt body and a missing hand?’ said Carrington.
‘I know it sounds weird, but this is what appears to have happened: Cavendish was high on drugs—’
‘I read the toxicology report,’ interrupted Carrington. ‘An interesting cocktail of drugs, but mainly ice.’
‘Correct. Cavendish falls into one of the large fish tanks and drowns. He is then attacked by sharks. His head is ripped off and so is his right arm. Then a fire breaks out in the club. Panic. The fish tank explodes in the heat, the water runs off, leaving the body behind to be consumed by fire.’
‘Then how do we end up with a perfectly preserved right hand?’ asked Carrington.
‘Ah, that’s the really fascinating bit. How do you think it survived the fire,’ said Dr Ritter, ‘virtually intact?’
‘No idea.’
‘It was protected from the fire, because …’
‘Please just tell me,’ said Carrington, ‘the suspense is killing me.’
‘It was inside one of the sharks.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No; perfectly serious.’
‘Let me get this straight. One of the sharks bites off Cavendish’s hand and swallows it before the tank explodes?’
‘You got it. The shark was surprisingly intact, hardly burnt at all. When I opened it, I found the hand with the ring inside its stomach.’
‘Incredible.’
‘Could Cavendish have been pushed into the water?’
‘Sure. But that’s a matter for the police and the coroner. Apparently, no one saw anything. No evidence and certainly nothing to suggest this from the autopsy. You must understand, there was panic in a crowded nightclub. A stampede; ugly stuff. First, bod
y parts floating in a fish tank with sharks in a feeding frenzy, and then the fire. You can imagine what was going on. But now you tell me this is a possible murder investigation and not some kind of horrible accident. How come?’
‘Can’t say too much; too early. But let’s assume this for the moment: Cavendish is high on drugs, is pushed into the tank and drowns. Could there have been some sort of struggle before he fell in?’
‘Sure, but I certainly can’t tell from what’s left of him.’
‘What about the hand?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know it’s a long shot, but did you examine the fingernails?’
‘Of course. You mean for some evidence of a defensive struggle, something caught under the nails perhaps?’
‘Exactly. How many cases did we run with DNA extracted from some tissue fragment trapped under the fingernails, and then nailed the suspect with it?’
‘Several. I did find some. It’s all in my report. However, there was just no reason to look for anything specific in this case.’
‘I completely understand. But the line of enquiry has changed and now suggests a possibility of murder. A favour?’
‘You want me to have another look?’
‘Could you? Unofficially at this stage. We don’t want to rock the boat unnecessarily, do we?’
‘For you, Marcus, I’ll do it. Coming home present.’
‘Thanks, Penelope. I owe you.’
90
Sir Humphrey looked at Isis propped up in bed, her head covered in bandages. Thank God, she’s sleeping, he thought. She looks like a mummy. She’d like that. The operation had lasted close to seven hours and had been far more complicated and risky than anyone had expected. The awkward position of the tumour had pushed Greenberg and his team to the edge. Sir Humphrey had talked Isis through several famous chess games to keep her focused and alert until he was so exhausted, he could barely speak.
Sir Humphrey’s admiration for Greenberg’s exceptional surgical skills had risen to new heights. He was convinced there wasn’t another surgeon alive on the planet who could have attempted such an operation. Overcome by fatigue, he pulled up a chair and sat down. He was drifting towards much needed sleep, when he heard the door open behind him.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ said Greenberg. He walked over to the bed and looked at his sleeping patient for a while without saying anything. ‘We almost lost her, you know,’ he said. ‘Between the defending bishop and the attacking knight. It was the most dangerous part of the operation. A millimetre each way could have made the difference between life and death. I wasn’t sure which way to go until she made her next move. Her brain responded and suddenly it all became clear. I had to turn to the left, and I did. Had I gone the other way, well …’
‘And without the operation?’ asked Sir Humphrey.
‘Five weeks; perhaps eight. The tumour was a monster. You saw it. Very aggressive. But she’s a fighter.’
‘Prognosis?’
‘I got most of it, but not all. Just couldn’t go there; she would have died on the spot. It will come back.’
‘How fast?’
‘I wish I knew, but we’ve certainly given her a little more time. A few months.’
‘And then?’
Greenberg shrugged. ‘We can’t do this again.’
‘So, where to from here?’
‘You won’t find the answer in my knife, but in genomics.’
‘The Kozakievicz research you spoke of?’
‘Yes. Dr Delacroix and her work. We have to defeat the tumour from within.’
‘You think that’s possible?’
‘Kozakievicz thought so. He was a strong believer in immunotherapy.’
‘It’s a race against time then?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘There are a few more moves left in this game, David,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘and we never give up.’
‘I saw that during the operation. And Rogan is one of your white knights?’
‘He is, and young Tristan is the other. But Dr Delacroix is the undisputed queen of this game.’
‘Good,’ said Greenberg.
‘How quickly will Isis recover now?’
‘Quite fast. For a while, she will almost feel her old self again. Until it comes back …’
‘The Emperor of Darkness?’ said Sir Humphrey.
‘Yes. He doesn’t like anyone threatening his deadly domain.’
‘Then we’ll just have to find a way to defeat him.’
‘How?’
‘With the help of our queen, we can defeat the emperor.’
‘Dr Delacroix?’
‘Yes. And don’t underestimate the white knights … Watch this game, David.’
‘This sounds more and more like an episode of Lord of the Rings,’ joked Greenberg.
‘Orcs and elves, evil wizards and dragons?’
‘A bit like that. Only we have tumours and genomics, surgeons, white knights and an evil emperor,’ said Greenberg, laughing. To enjoy a little levity after a traumatic day was refreshing. ‘And we both know the prize waiting at the end of that tournament, don’t we?’
‘Yes, we do. Life,’ said Sir Humphrey, turning serious again. ‘When can Isis travel, do you think?’
‘Soon.’
‘I want to take her back to London. Home.’
‘Good idea. And I want her out of hospital as soon as possible. Infection is always a big danger. Hospitals are not a good place for recovery,’ said Greenberg.
Sir Humphrey stood up. ‘What you’ve done, David, borders on miraculous,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘There are no miracles in surgery, only courage, imagination and luck. I too want to defeat the emperor. If I can in some way help you do it, that would be reward beyond my wildest dreams. Perhaps there’s still a little part this pawn can play in your game?’ joked Greenberg.
‘Oh, I should think so. Pawns can be very dangerous. The emperor’s on notice. He better look out.’
‘You bet!’
91
Because news coverage in Somalia was haphazard at best, and Van Cleef hated television and didn’t read the papers, news of the audacious pirate attack and the sinking of the Calypso hadn’t yet reached him. He was therefore unaware that his boss was dead, and was still following his instructions with dogged determination.
Van Cleef stepped out of the lift and looked for the blackjack table. Problem gamblers are so predictable, he thought. You always know where to find them.
Ashari was winning. He had been playing blackjack for hours and couldn’t believe his luck. He was ten thousand ahead. However, he was beginning to make the mistake many gamblers make when they are on a winning streak: increasing the bets.
Van Cleef put his hand on Ashari’s shoulder from behind. Annoyed, Ashari looked up. ‘Call it a day,’ said Van Cleef, ‘before Lady Luck turns her back on you.’
‘Mind your own business,’ snapped Ashari.
‘It is my business. Kevin couldn’t come; he sent me instead …’ said Van Cleef quietly. ‘And keep your voice down. The bar; now!’ Van Cleef withdrew his hand and walked across to the bar. Ashari nodded to the dealer, picked up his chips and left the table.
Dr Delacroix was right, thought Moretti, watching Ashari follow Van Cleef to the bar.
‘You’ve got something for me?’ said Van Cleef, and ordered a drink. Ashari pulled an envelope out of his pocket and put it on the bar. Van Cleef opened it and looked inside. ‘Don’t fuck with me. Where’s the rest?’ he barked.
‘That’s all there was. That’s what she left on her desk,’ said Ashari.
Van Cleef watched Ashari carefully. ‘If you are playing games …’
‘That’s all there was,’ repeated Ashari timidly.
It’s not him, thought Van Cleef. He hasn’t got the balls. It’s the bitch!
‘All right, you can go back to the table and lose it all, for all I care.’ Van Cleef slipped th
e envelope into his pocket and climbed off the bar stool. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
‘What about my money?’ asked Ashari.
‘You get it when you deliver the rest,’ snapped Van Cleef. Ashari was beginning to annoy him.
‘But …’
Van Cleef put his arm around Ashari’s shoulder and bent down until their faces almost touched. ‘You heard what I said,’ he whispered. ‘Now piss off.’
‘I have something that may interest you,’ said Ashari.
‘And what might that be?’
‘I think she’s gone to the police …’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Van Cleef, frowning.
‘I overheard things …’
‘What things?’ demanded Van Cleef.
‘Rumours. Chatter in the common room over coffee, stuff like that. There are no secrets in a place like ours.’
Makes sense, thought Van Cleef. ‘Anything else?’ he said.
‘She seems different towards me. Something’s changed …’
‘You’re not just making this up. I warn you …’
‘Definitely not. I’m concerned … my position …’
‘No need to be. We’ll handle the matter. Nothing’s changed.’ Van Cleef reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash and stuffed it into Ashari’s shirt pocket. ‘Go and enjoy yourself and leave the rest to us,’ he said. Then he turned away and walked to the lift.
Van Cleef tipped the doorman and got into the black Range Rover waiting in front of the busy casino entrance. ‘We have a problem, Paulus,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ said his buddy and pulled away from the kerb.
‘I think she’s gone to the police.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘No.’
‘Leave it to me; I’ll find out. I have contacts.’
‘I knew I could rely on you,’ said Van Cleef, relieved.
‘All part of the service. Cocky bitch,’ said Paulus. ‘What do you want to do about it?’
‘If it’s true, we’ll teach her a lesson,’ said Van Cleef.
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I want to put the fear of God into her. I’m sure between us we’ll come up with something to do the trick, don’t you think?’
The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3) Page 44