BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS

by Ian C. P. Irvine

  Cheap or not, the restaurant turned out to be brilliant. Inside the door the lights of the restaurant had been romantically dimmed. The atmosphere and the decor absolutely oozed 'Gemütlichkeit', little candles on each table burning brightly, like a hundred little stars. In one of the corners of the restaurant, a few people dressed in what Peter guessed were traditional Swiss clothes, were playing some musical instruments, probably also typically Swiss. It sounded great.

  Peter ordered a non-alcoholic beer, and the non-alcoholic version of the Swiss cheese fondue, and sat down to relax.

  The beer went down quickly. Followed by another.

  And then the fondue arrived. Masses of bread, and a platter of some vegetables, which he dipped on wooden skewers into a thick pot of melted cheese, all kept warm by a candle burning underneath the pot.

  The more he ate, and the further down the pot he got, the gooier and stronger got the concoction of cheese. By the time he had finished the meal, he was absolutely stuffed.

  .

  The waiter came and cleared away the meal, and Peter sat back, cocking his head against the padded seat behind him, and enjoying the ambience: the music, the smell of candles, the warmth of the restaurant.

  He felt the effect of having a full belly and the Gemütlichkeit of the restaurant rush over him, a nice, secure, feeling of warmth and relaxation. He closed his eyes.

  No sooner had he closed his eyes than he shivered.

  Instantly, a knife flashed before his eyes, slicing across the throat of a woman lying on a bed just in front of him. Blood began to spurt in bright red bursts into Peter's face, the scream of the woman instantly muted as she began to choke on her own blood.

  Peter blinked, coughed, and started frantically to wipe the blood out of his eyes, instantly coming to a sitting-up position in his chair, and simultaneously letting out an involuntary scream.

  In the microsecond that it took to open his eyes, the vision evaporated, and Peter found himself sitting alone at his table in the restaurant, a few of the other people at the other tables staring at him.

  "....A wasp..." Peter shouted, quickly trying to find a reason for his bizarre behaviour.

  "Ist alles in Ordnung? Ist alles OK?" a waiter asked, appearing a second later, concern written all over his face.

  "Yes, " Peter replied. "Yes, ...I think so." He looked around the restaurant again. People looked away and returned to their meals. "Can I have the bill please?"

  .

  By the time the waiter had returned, Peter had started to calm down.

  As he paid the bill, he spoke to the waiter.

  "That was a fantastic meal, Herr Ober." The waiter smiled, acknowledging Peter's schoolboy German. "Can I ask you something?..." Peter requested, putting some more Swiss Francs on the plate as an obvious tip.

  "Ja, please..." the waiter replied, his eyes twinkling.

  "I am a reporter, I was wondering if you were around in Zermatt a few years ago when a woman was killed in the Hotel Matterhorn Superior?"

  "Nein, leider nicht...Sorry, no," the waiter replied. "Aber...but..., I hear about this wenn I vas vorking in Berne. I come here later, but I remember everything. Is very famous murder and mystery."

  "Can you tell me what happened? How did the woman die?"

  "Vell...," the waiter started to explain, glancing over his shoulder as if he was about to reveal some great, important secret."From vat I remember, eet vas a very horrible murder. The woman who looks after the hotel room...how you say?"

  "Maid? Chambermaid?" Peter offered.

  "Yes, ze maid. She come to change ze sheets ze next morning and she find ze dead body of beautiful woman lying on ze mattress."

  "How did she die?" Peter urged. "Do you know?"

  "Yes," he started to speak, hesitated, and then shook his head, almost as if in disgust at the memory. "Her throat was cut. From one ear to ze other..."

  ..

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  .

  .

  Edinburgh Royal Infirmary

  .

  .

  Sergeant Cameron Angus sat up in bed and winced. A stab of pain shot down his right side, and he swore underneath his breath.

  He would be getting out tomorrow. Most of the ribs on his right side were bruised, and his right arm was in a sling, also very bruised but not broken. But that was not the worst of it: one rib was broken, and apparently, there was nothing that anyone could do for him. There was no treatment for a broken rib. And when he got out tomorrow, the hospital medication would stop. He had been warned that he should visit his own doctor as soon as possible, and discuss pain relief with him.

  "For a week or so, the pain could be quite severe," was all the doctor was prepared to admit. "So take it easy, and mind how you go."

  Cameron winced again.

  He knew that the National Health Service was under-resourced and under strain, but how about a morphine-drip-to-go?

  He had been in hospital for a few days, just to make sure that he did not develop any infection: when he had hit the tiled mantelpiece in Mr Wallace's flat, the rib that had cracked had pierced his right lung, and it had instantly deflated.

  As the intruder had pushed Mr Wallace to the floor and made good his escape, Cameron had been struggling to breathe, and for a few seconds he had thought he was going to die.

  Thankfully, his lung partially inflated again, and the paramedics that arrived almost immediately (thank God!), had sedated him, laid him on the stretcher and delivered him to A&E in the hospital in less than ten minutes.

  After the doctor had examined him again this morning, he had just said. "Don't worry, ...you will live," smiled, and then left.

  That was this morning. Since then, he had begun to feel as if he was just taking up space. He was no longer the centre of attention. In fact, he was beginning to think that they had completely forgotten about him. He was starving! Where were the meals-on-wheels and dinner-on-a-tray?

  His wife had been and gone, bringing some grapes and Lucozade, and had left to make the kids their dinner and put them to bed.

  Cameron was just about to reach for another magazine to read, when old Mr Wallace walked into the ward.

  As soon as he saw him, the old man smiled. Cameron couldn't help but smile back. He liked the old man. Which was why, when the call had come in, and he once again recognised the address as Mr Wallace's, he had turned his motorcycle around from where he was going and sped straight over.

  The next door neighbour had called the police, informing them of a suspected burglary. Unlike the last time he had been called over and had not made it, this time he had been the first on the scene. He'd got there just as Mr Wallace had got back early from the Bingo.

  Fat lot of use he'd been though.

  "How are you, Sergeant?" Mr Wallace asked, as he waved a small bag of grapes in front of him, and set it down on the small table beside the bed.

  "Thanks," the Sergeant said, nodding and acknowledging the gift. "I'm fine. Though you shouldn't have bothered coming all this way to see me."

  "It's nae problem. I wissne very far away anyway. I only live over the hill. I was grateful for the excuse to take a walk o'er the field. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay, especially since this all happened to you on account o' me."

  "Don't worry about it. Honestly. All part of the job and all that. Although to be quite honest, I could have done without...without this shit." He said, looking down at his arm. "And the pain. My rib's cracked, and apparently they won't let me have anything stronger that paracetamol."

  Mr Wallace sat down beside the bed.

  "Back in the day, way back when, I remember a couple o' the injured lads in the field...sorry, during the Korean War...some of the lads smoked a little bit of marijuana to dull the pain. There was tons of the stuff about. Everyone was doing it. Most people were so relaxed they didn't know when they'd been killed..."

  "Thanks. But I don't think it would set a very good example...even if it is the only t
hing that might work."

  "Well, just let me ken, if you would like some, like. I'm sure I could get some fir ye frae those wee shites in the CME Team. From what I hear, they're starting to sell drugs now. Lots of drugs."

  "I know. We're doing our best to nip it in the bud..."

  "Dinnie bother. If the young guys on the estate dinnie get it frae them, they'll just buy it all doon in Portie."

  "Sorry about your flat, Mr Wallace... I hear it was wrecked."

  "Sure was. The bastard turned it upside down."

  "Almost definitely he was looking for cash. Probably to buy drugs with."

  "Maybe, but he must have been in there for an awfy long time. He'd turned the whole flat upside down, pretty methodically. Bastard..."

  "Did he get away with anything?"

  "Yes. The most valuable thing in the whole flat and the most valuable thing I had. The worst thing is that the big shite will probably not even know what it is, and he'll likely sell it for peanuts."

  "What is it? Have you reported it missing?"

  "My medal. My Victoria Cross."

  "Your Victoria Cross? You won a Victoria Cross? Are you kidding me?" the Sergeant smiled, perking up.

  "When I was a lad, like. I got it for being stupid."

  "Stupid? No one just wins a Victoria Cross...it's the highest medal of valour that anyone can receive in Britain. Mr Wallace, I’m sorry, I didn't know you were a national hero! The estate should be proud of you! What did you get it for?" Cameron felt genuinely honoured to be in the presence of someone who had won such a medal.

  "Korea. Someone was shooting at us, so I jumped out of our trench, ran forward and tossed a grenade into his wee bunker. Blew the yellow bastard up. There wasn't much left of him. I wissnie proud of it. He was the first person I'd killed. I threw up afterwards. But it was him or us. Luckily it was him."

  "And the thief stole it?"

  "Thief? Why did you call him that? Have you not realised yet who it wis that did this to you?"

  "No...What do you mean?"

  "Can you remember that big bastard that you fished out o' the Loch. Saved his life and then got your own wee medal fir?"

  "You’re joking?" Cameron replied, the truth just dawning on him.

  "I canna prove it, ye ken, and apparently there were no prints or anything, nothing to connect him wi' the scene o' the crime. He had a hoodie on, but I would recognise that bastard anywhere. He's the tallest guy on the estate. There's not exactly many like him."

  "You mean, that the man I risked my life to save, almost killed me?"

  "Yep. See now why the residents wished that you had let him droon? Once a bastard, always a bastard."

  The Sergeant said nothing, but he knew that in this case, Mr Wallace was probably right.

  "Let's change the subject. If I get angry, I'll move, and the pain will kill me...so how do we get your medal back?"

  "I was hoping that you'd be able to help me on that yin. Surely that's more yer speciality, than mine."

  "How about we call the reporter, who's doing all the work trying to get some media focus on the estate?"

  "You mean, Peter Nicolson frae the Evening News, the other guy that Big Wee Rab tried to kill?"

  "Yes, that's the one."

  "You mean, the wan that you saved frae the burning car wreck?"

  "Yes, putting it like that, then maybe he owes me one. Perhaps we can get him to run another article in the newspaper about the estate, highlighting you as a hero, emphasizing that it is mainly really decent folk like you who live on the estate, and requesting readers to help find and return your medal. Perhaps the News could even offer a reward!"

  "Good idea."

  "Okay, let's do it. I'll call him now..."

  Chapter Thirty

  .

  .

  Knutsford

  6.30 p.m.

  27th February

  .

  .

  Carolina was sitting at home in the front room of her house, worrying.

  Little Sam had gone off to sleep an hour ago. She'd given him a bath, a cuddle and a story. He'd snuggled up to her, put his little hand around her neck and fallen asleep in her arms as she rocked him back and forward, singing "Rock-a-bye-baby."

  The best part of the evening was over.

  She had just dropped him off at her friends, where he would sleep soundly in their spare cot until she got back from her shift at the Fox and Hounds. She was dependent upon Nancy looking after Sam and without her friendship and kindness there was no way she would be able to earn the money she needed during the evening shift in the pub. Actually, it was working out really well. Knutsford was a small village, and Nancy and her family only lived at the other end of the street, so if anything ever went wrong, it would only take her seconds to get to Sam's side. And if she needed, she could in theory pop down and see him in her break. But she didn't like to disturb Nancy, so she didn't.

  Nancy's husband often popped into the pub, and Nancy seemed quite happy that she had a friendly eye in the pub to keep an eye on her man. There had never ever been a problem, but sometimes Carolina wondered if perhaps, something had happened in the past, something that Nancy hadn't shared with her yet.

  Maybe one day Nancy would confide in her.

  She was due to start her shift in half an hour. They'd better hurry up.

  There was a knock at the door.

  She jumped to her feet, checked her make-up in the mirror in the hall, adjusted her top, and opened the door.

  "Miss Saunders?" the policewoman asked.

  "Yes," she nodded. "Please come in."

  They sat in the front room. Carolina apologized that she could not offer them any tea, she knew it was cold outside tonight, but she had to be at work in twenty minutes.

  "I understand that you would like to report a missing person?" the male police officer asked, who had come in with the policewoman. Carolina thought that she recognised him from the pub.

  "Yes."

  "Could you let us know who it is, when you last saw them, and why you think that he or she might be missing? And if you have a photograph, that would be very useful..."

  Thirty minutes later, Carolina was behind the bar in the pub. She hoped that she had just done the right thing.

  Chapter Thirty One

  .

  .

  Delaware

  1st March

  .

  .

  Nic White thanked the middle-aged woman at the door of her house, shook her hand one more time, and then turned and walked down the path to his car.

  All-in-all it had been a very pleasant visit.

  They were a lovely couple, well-mannered, and incredibly hospitable.

  Mr Spelling was doing very well. Today he was a little tired, but that was easily explainable. Last night he had been for a three mile run, and the man was after all seventy years old.

  Six months ago the man couldn't walk ten metres.

  At first Mrs Spelling had kept bursting into tears, thanking Nic and saying how grateful she was for everything that they had done.

  "It's a miracle. A miracle," she had said.

  "A miracle," Mr Spelling had repeated.

  "Perhaps it is," Nic had said softly. "Personally, I believe it is the correct application of science to a problem that we are learning to solve by understanding more about the powers of nature, of DNA. If we are to believe in miracles, then there is the biggest miracle of all: human DNA."

  They had smiled at each other. Still holding hands.

  "We prayed for a long time, Mr White. Then one day, my husband was given a gift from God, and then thanks to you and your company and the doctors, he was cured. We cannot thank you enough."

  Nic had left it at that. Nic had never really believed in God. He had wanted to. He had tried. But, in spite of searching, he had not yet found Him.

  Instead, he had found a version of God, a supreme design that defied human understanding, in the super-natural twist of the DNA strand.r />
  It had been his life's work so far, but there was so much to discover and learn from DNA and he knew that unless he found the secret to immortality, he would never have enough time in this life, or the next, to fully understand its secrets.

  "Thanks for allowing me to come and meet with you at such short notice...If I may, I would just like to ask you some questions about the things you have said to your consultant at the hospital..."

  When he got back into the car an hour later, Nic sat back and closed his eyes.

  The Spellings were the fifth couple that he had visited in six days. They all had similar stories.

  Incredible stories.

  Amazing stories.

  There was definitely a problem.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  .

  .

  Peebles

  Scotland

  1st March

  .

  .

  It was raining outside. Inside the car Big Wee Rab lay on the back seat, listening to the raindrops as they fell, dancing on the metal roof. For a while he had watched as the rain formed little rivulets of water that ran down the windows, the different little streams coalescing into slightly bigger streams, before continuing on their journey, down the side of the car, on to the road, down the drain and then ultimately to the sea. Which was where Big Wee Rab was headed. Eventually.

  For now though, he was bored, tired, depressed, scared, worried, cold and very, very hungry.

  This would be the third night that he had tried to sleep in his car. Unsuccessfully. The back seat was too small for him, and he had to try and hook his feet around the front passenger seat. Every few minutes he would have to move his feet or he would get cramps or pins and needles.

  For the past two nights he had only managed a few hours of fitful sleep, and he had woken feeling more terrible than when he had first tried to close his eyes.

  Rab was in a difficult place right now. He only had a few pounds left, and he didn't know what to do. To spend it on petrol, or to buy some food. His tank was almost full, but it wouldn't get him to France without being topped up a couple of times. Deep down, he knew that France was now rapidly becoming more of a long term goal, as opposed to a realistic possibility for tomorrow or next week.