Enemy Within: A heart-wrenching medical mystery (British Military Thriller Series Book 3)

by Nathan Burrows

  The van’s tracks under his feet got less pronounced, and Titch realised he was now on a proper track of some sort. A Forestry Commission road, perhaps? The downside to this was that the ground also got harder, and he had to pick his way carefully along it as he couldn’t see the sharp stones.

  Titch made his way down the track, thinking about the men who had been the main instigators of his ordeal. He was pretty sure that he would recognise most of them. Big Guy, he would, for sure. Taking any sort of revenge following an initiation ceremony was considered really poor form, but Titch had a long memory and he knew that, at some point in the future, his path would cross with Big Guy’s. Titch passed the time as he walked gingerly along the track by imagining various scenarios where he would dish out some of his own medicine on Big Guy and his muppet colleagues. They wouldn’t see it coming.

  It took Titch almost an hour to reach the end of the track and find a proper road. He couldn’t move quickly across the stony ground, but when he eventually reached the road, he could see a soft orange glow in the distance. It was too far away for him to make out exactly what it was, but the military base was the only thing for miles around. Moving more quickly than he’d been able to before, Titch set out toward the lights.

  Three full hours after Titch had been dropped off in the forest, maybe more, he was standing outside the perimeter wire, looking up at the forbidding structure. He’d circled the base for about half a mile, following the outside of the fence, until he found a remote spot a long way from any buildings on the other side. He had also found an empty plastic drum abandoned by a farmer and a large piece of coarse hessian sacking.

  Titch rolled the drum against the fence and climbed on top of it, wobbling precariously as he did so. He reached his arms up and could just touch the top of the fence underneath the razor wire. Whoever had installed the fence had obviously decided to save a few quid this far away from the main base area, as the coils of wire were spaced almost a foot apart from each other. More than enough room to squeeze through. Titch didn’t even think he would need the hessian to throw over it.

  He climbed down from the drum and took a couple of steps back to go over his plan. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself climbing on to the drum and throwing the hessian over the wire. Then he would grab the top of the fence, pull himself up, and shuffle through the gap between the razor wire. The hessian would stop the wire from moving and would provide some useful insurance.

  Happy that he knew what he was doing, Titch clambered back onto the drum and threw the sack over the wire. Its weight flattened a couple of loops. Then he reached up, grabbed the top of the fence, and hauled himself up, using only his upper arms. Then he pressed down with his arms until the top of the fence was at his waist, and leaned forward, ready to pivot his body weight over it.

  Just when Titch was at the point of no return, the hessian sacking moved and the coil of wire sprang back into position. He felt it pierce the skin of his calf, but wasn’t able to do anything about the way it sliced through his flesh as he rolled over the top of the fence. He half-fell down the other side of the fence, landing on his back with enough force to wind him and take his mind off the searing pain in the back of his calf.

  Titch slowly got to his feet and examined his calf in the soft orange light from the base in the distance. He couldn’t see the wound clearly, but it hurt like a bastard. The next thing Titch knew, he could see the jagged wound very well in the white light of a torch that was aimed in his direction. He heard the distinctive sound of a weapon being made ready.

  “Armed guards!” a male voice shouted from behind the torch. “Stop! Stand still!”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Titch muttered as he raised his arms in the air.

  19

  “Liam,” Eleanor said, still half asleep, “this had better be good. It’s almost midnight and I’ve got work in the morning.” There was silence on the other end of the line. It wouldn’t be the first time her brother had phoned her up drunk in the middle of the night, wanting a lift home from somewhere because he’d pissed all his money up against the wall. “Are you there?”

  “She’s dead, Eleanor,” Liam’s voice came back down the line. Eleanor sat up in bed, suddenly more awake.

  “Who?” she asked him urgently. “Who’s dead?” For a fleeting moment, Eleanor thought about their mother. She was in her fifties but fit as a fiddle. It couldn’t be her, could it?

  “Fiona,” Liam replied with a gasp. “She’s dead.”

  “What the fuck?” Eleanor said. “What are you talking about, Liam? Are you pissed?”

  “No, Eleanor, I’m not pissed,” Liam’s voice cracked. “Fiona’s dead.”

  Eleanor put her hand to her chest. Her heart was racing, and she felt nauseated. “What happened?”

  “She was attacked down on Riverside,” Liam replied with a sob. “She got mugged, that’s what the police said. Only whoever mugged her, stabbed her.”

  “Oh my God,” Eleanor said. She couldn’t believe it, and part of her hoped that this was Liam’s idea of a sick joke. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it was a long way from putting salt into her tea instead of sugar like he had done when they were children. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it.”

  “Can you come and get me?” Liam asked with a mournful sniff.

  “Of course I can,” Eleanor said after a quick calculation in her head. The two glasses of wine she’d drunk earlier with her Taste the Difference lasagna from Sainsbury’s would be long gone. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Norfolk and Norwich,” Liam replied. “In the Emergency Department.”

  Eleanor dressed as quickly as she could, her mind racing as she did so. People didn’t get stabbed in Norwich very often and when they did, it was usually druggies arguing over money. For this to happen to someone like Fiona was incredibly unusual. She closed the door to her flat and made her way to the underground car park beneath her block. Eleanor had never given the car park a second thought before, but this evening, the dimly lit expanse was terrifying. She half-walked, half-ran to her car, blipping the locks as she approached it, and the second she was in the car with the door closed, she hit the central locking button on the dashboard. It was only when she breathed out that she realised she’d been holding her breath.

  No one Eleanor knew had ever died before, apart from her grandparents, and that had been when she and Liam had been children. Questions kept popping up in her mind as she drove out of the car park and into the deserted streets of the city. How do you organise a funeral? Are there people who do all that for you? How much does it cost? On a subconscious level, Eleanor knew she was only thinking about these questions to avoid thinking about the most important one. Who had murdered Fiona?

  By the time Eleanor reached the dual carriageway that encircled most of Norwich, she had calmed down a bit and her thoughts turned to Liam. He must be absolutely devastated. She remembered talking to him after his first date with Fiona. They had gone to the cinema and then for a few drinks. Liam had walked her home after they had left the pub. No, he had told Eleanor excitedly, he hadn’t tried to kiss her. But yes, she had agreed to see him again.

  That had been months ago, and Fiona and Liam had rapidly become inseparable. Eleanor still couldn’t believe what had happened. It was only a few days ago that they’d been eating a meal together. Now the poor woman was dead.

  When Eleanor reached the hospital, she followed the red signs to the Emergency Department. They led to a large bay with a couple of ambulances parked in it, but she couldn’t see where she was supposed to park. There were yellow painted hatched lines all over the bay with the words Ambulances Only in large angry letters. Eventually, she double parked on some yellow lines and got out of the car. She had just blipped the locks when she saw a man in green scrubs walking toward her. Eleanor was just preparing to be told off when he spoke.

  “Are you Eleanor?” he asked her. “Liam’s sister?”

  “Yes, I am,” Eleanor replied, glancing ba
ck at her car.

  “I’m Paul Adams, one of the nurses. I’m glad you’re here. He’s in a hell of a state.”

  “It’s true then?” Eleanor asked. The nurse gave her a sad smile.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said gently. Eleanor felt her chest contract. She took a few deep breaths, not wanting to cry in front of this man. Adams put his hand out and touched her arm. It was a simple gesture but, in her eyes, absolutely the right thing for him to do. “Do you want to come with me, or do you need a minute?”

  “No, no, I’ll come with you.” She glanced back at her car again. “Will my car be okay there?”

  “It’ll be fine,” Adams replied. “The yellow lines are only for show, anyway. It’s not like we’ve got any traffic wardens.”

  Eleanor followed the nurse into the main department. In the waiting room were a couple of drunk-looking lads sleeping, and a nervous elderly lady with a bandaged head who was regarding her with suspicion. The nurse turned and walked through a door marked Staff Only, raising a key card to the lock as he did so.

  “It’s just through here,” Adams said. He took another few paces and stopped outside a closed door. The sign on this one read Relatives’ Room. “I’ll leave you to it for a few moments, and then pop back to see how you’re getting on.” He knocked softly on the door and opened it to let Eleanor walk in.

  When Eleanor walked into the room, the first thing she saw was Liam curled up on the sofa. He had his arms wrapped tightly around his knees and his eyes crunched shut as if he’d not heard the knock at the door.

  “Liam?” Eleanor said, but he didn’t reply. It was only when she knelt down in front of the sofa that he opened his eyes. They were red-rimmed and desperate. He unfurled his arms and held them out like a child.

  Eleanor leant forward to hug him, unable to stop her own tears from flooding down her face.

  20

  Lizzie muttered under her breath as she got dressed. She had been in bed with a copy of the latest Peter James book, which she had been looking forward to reading for ages, when the Nokia brick of a mobile phone on her bedside cabinet had trilled.

  “Is that the duty medic?” a male voice had asked. When she confirmed it was, he continued. “We’ve got a pissed bloke with a nasty cut to his leg. One of the patrols found him climbing over the wire.”

  “Okay,” Lizzie had replied, breaking one of her cardinal book rules and folding the corner of the page down. “I’ll meet them at the Medical Centre.” She got dressed quickly and ran her fingers through her hair to tidy it up.

  “That’s all I need,” Lizzie said as she did up the front of her combat jacket a few moments later. “A sodding drunk at this time of night.” She ran her fingers through her hair, deciding that it didn’t need to be brushed before doing up the laces on her boots. Lizzie knew she was being unreasonable. She didn’t have to be the duty medic, as the SWO had reminded her in the bar earlier, but she was irritated as she’d not been able to talk to Adams about her afternoon.

  Lizzie grabbed her beret from the hook, folded it up, and put it into the loops on the back of her combat trousers. Then she picked up her phone, realising that she’d missed a text message from Adams only a few moments before.

  Just home now the message read. Talk tomorrow?

  Deciding that the pissed bloke could wait for a few moments, Lizzie tapped at the screen to call him.

  “Hey, you,” Adams’s voice came on the line. “You’re up late.”

  “Just been called into the med centre for a pissed bloke with a cut leg. How was your shift?”

  “Shit. Had a young woman stabbed down on Riverside. She didn’t make it.”

  “Oh, crap. You okay?” Lizzie asked. Some deaths, Lizzie knew, were easier to deal with than others. But violent deaths of young people were always more difficult.

  “Yeah, all good. How was this afternoon?”

  Lizzie noticed the way he had just diverted the conversation back to her, and wondered if it was because he didn’t want to talk about his shift. Knowing that he would when or if he wanted to, she let it go.

  “It was interesting. I’ll have to tell you about it. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Sure, you need to go.” There was a silence on the line that lasted maybe ten seconds. “Lizzie?” Adams continued.

  “Yup?”

  “Whatever you decide, it’s cool with me.”

  Lizzie smiled at his reply. It was typical of Adams to say something like that.

  “That’s either really sweet or really sad, Adams. I’m not sure which, but I need to go.”

  “Okay, talk tomorrow.”

  “Talk tomorrow.”

  She disconnected the call and then tapped out a quick text message to him.

  Sweet - definitely sweet xxx

  “Name, rank, and service number?” Lizzie asked the man wrapped in a blanket who was standing in front of her.

  “Hunter, Robert. Corporal. 8564317G,” the man replied. He was standing at attention in the reception area of the medical centre, his left leg wrapped in a bandage.

  “Relax, would you?” Lizzie said. “Say your service number again, but slowly this time.” As her patient recited his service number, she entered it into the DMICP computer system that housed service personnel’s medical records. A few seconds later—DMICP wasn’t known for its speed—a box popped up on the screen that confirmed his name and rank.

  “Yep, he’s one of ours,” Lizzie told the uniformed guard next to Corporal Hunter. The guard’s colleague was outside with two rifles following an argument with Lizzie about why weapons weren’t allowed inside medical facilities. “You can foxtrot oscar if you want.”

  “You sure?” the guard replied, looking at Corporal Hunter with disdain. “Only he is a bit pissed?”

  “He doesn’t look that pissed to me,” Lizzie shot back.

  When the guard had left, Lizzie turned her attention to her patient.

  “So, Corporal Hunter. What do I call you?” she asked him.

  “Most people call me Titch, sarge.”

  “Titch it is then. Follow me, let’s get you in the treatment room.”

  A few moments later, Titch was lying on the examination couch as Lizzie unwrapped the bandage around his leg. She looked at the vertical wound carefully. It was, unsurprisingly, given how sharp razor wire was, straight and clean. There were a few patches of yellow fat sticking out, but nothing too outrageous.

  “What happened?” Lizzie asked as she gently pressed at the edges of the wound.

  “Um, I went out for a few drinks with the lads,” Titch replied, shuffling his feet. “Then, er, they thought it would be funny to strip me and leave me outside the wire.”

  “That doesn’t sound very funny to me,” Lizzie replied. “Are you regiment? That might explain it.”

  “Nope, I’m a weapons tech. Just posted in.”

  “I saw you were a new arrival when I looked you up on DMICP.”

  “I start work in the morning,” Titch replied, wincing as Lizzie prodded his leg.

  “Not the best welcome to the base, then? This is going to need stitches. Can you just pop the blanket off for me?”

  “What for? It’s only my leg that’s hurt.”

  “Just a precaution,” Lizzie replied, smiling. “I just need to make sure you haven’t got any other injuries you don’t know about.”

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Titch unwrapped the blanket that was around his shoulder. When she saw his tattoos, Lizzie whistled through her teeth.

  “Oh my word,” she said. “That’s some quite impressive ink.” Titch smiled, obviously enjoying the way she was looking at him. Lizzie wasn’t impressed by the tattoos, though—she was horrified. Almost every inch of his torso, both front and back, was covered with arcane looking symbols and foreign words that she didn’t recognise.

  “Have you got any tatts?” Titch asked her.

  “No,” she replied. “I had my ears pierced when I was fourteen and that was enough for me. What’s this
one here? The diamond shaped one with the legs?”

  “That’s a Nordic rune,” he said.

  “And the surrounding words?”

  “They’re Latin. Fourteen of them altogether.”

  “But what do they mean?”

  Lizzie saw Titch frowning as he looked at her, as if he was trying to make a decision. She saw him shuffling his feet and knew that he was about to lie. He’d made exactly the same gesture before telling her he’d just been out on the lash with his mates.

  “I’m not sure of the exact literal translation, but it’s something about securing our future and our children’s.”

  “Oh, right,” Lizzie replied. That wasn’t what she’d been expecting them to mean. “Is that some sort of Viking motto?”

  “Yeah,” Titch replied with a grin that was bordering on cruel. “Something like that.”

  “Okay,” Lizzie said. “Let’s get that leg of yours stitched up, shall we?”

  “Is it going to hurt?” Lizzie took one more look at Titch’s tattoos before he covered them back up with the blanket.

  “I would have thought you’d be used to needles, looking at that lot,” she said with a smile that she hoped looked genuine.

  Lizzie couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something about Titch that she really didn’t like.

  21

  George Rimpler, or at least that was the name he was known by in the role he was currently in, looked at the dour-faced researcher in front of him. The woman had just spent the last ten minutes going over some biological results that he understood about as well as he understood the Greek language, which was not at all.

  “Thank you,” he said to the researcher who, if she realised he was completely in the dark about her presentation, had the good grace to hide it well. “Very informative.” He turned to the woman sitting to his right. “Charlotte? What do we have next?”