by Robert White
I didn’t have a criminal record so they had nothing to match the prints to; it just meant that I had to stay out of trouble for the rest of my life. Not easy in my game.
I caught a cab back toward the Woodland Hotel. I jumped out a couple of hundred yards from the place and bought a baseball cap and a scarf. Then I did a recce before risking entering the lobby. I had changed my appearance sufficiently with the hat and scarf so as to put off any snoopers with just a description of me. I packed everything I had and paid a final visit to reception to pay my bill. It had to be there and then. I needed another safe place.
My mind turned to the Lexus as I collected everything I’d stored in the left luggage. The boys weren’t coppers. That was for sure. The place would have been teeming with the squad as soon as the chase started if it had been coppers. If I had been followed by a police surveillance team there would have been at least two other vehicles in the tail and I wouldn’t have noticed them till the team did a hard stop on me. That’s the way they worked.
No, they were definitely not the law. I did have a sneaking suspicion that one of the two boys had a radio earpiece but I couldn’t be sure. Would Stern’s boys be tooled up with shortwave comms? How did they find the Range Rover so quickly?
I put it all to the back of my mind and concentrated on stowing my kit. I had to find somewhere quickly and prepare for the funeral. It was three p.m. I had twelve hours to be on plot.
Lauren North's Story
High Dependence Unit, Leeds General Hospital.
The mystery patient appeared to be more popular than ever. Two surly detectives had been to see the consultant neurosurgeon in charge of his case around four p.m. The specialist had told the officers that there had been no change in the man’s condition and that the prognosis of them ever being able to talk to him was fifty-fifty at best. The dour-looking men looked even more upset when they left.
I was on a twelve-hour shift, due to finish at three a.m. and Jane was busying herself with the collective nightly medication for the unit. As I walked past her desk she hissed at me to stop.
“What’s going on with the Invisible Man?”
Jane had christened the patient with the film character’s nickname due to the facial bandages which all but covered the man’s face.
“Nothing,” I replied, knowing that there would be a follow up from my friend. She leaned forward with a conspiratorial tone.
“I told you he was a gangster. Detectives, eh? Under guard and now detectives.”
“Don’t go making a mountain out of a molehill, Jane,” I said sharply.
Jane knew I disliked policemen, especially detectives.
“I think you have a soft spot for our invisible friend, Lauren.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well what did the coppers want then?”
“I don’t know, they saw the specialist and he told them his prognosis and that was it, they left.”
Jane looked crestfallen at the lack of gossip and went about her duties filling syringes.
From my station desk, I sat and stared at the man lying there, in the half light of the ward. I watched as his guard stood, stretched and shuffled toward the staffroom. When I was certain the young copper had gone for his break, I stood and walked to the end of his bed.
Our mystery man was surrounded by the best of modern technology. His heart rate, blood pressure and breathing were constantly monitored. He was nourished by intravenous drips. He had been heavily sedated when he arrived, but within twelve hours he was breathing unaided without any ventilation or sedation. His pupils reacted to light but he was totally unresponsive to any other action. My mind worked overtime.
He held no possessions. No clothes and no jewellery. Most patients, even if they had no visitors at all, had some possessions. A watch or a diary, anything at all. This guy had zilch. The police had taken his shirt away for forensic examination. I’d overheard one of the detectives talking about finding two blood types on it. His trousers, underwear and socks had been removed by the burns unit and incinerated.
Then I noticed he was wearing a wedding band. A plain gold band, the simplest of rings. I walked to him, sat next to his bed on a plastic chair and spoke in quiet even tones as I did with all my brain-damaged patients.
“Hello, and how are we feeling today?”
I didn’t expect a response and got none.
I imagined who he might be. My mind wandered and fancied he would have a beautiful wife, and, for some reason, money. Almost absently I said to myself, “Where is your wife, mister? What is her name?”
Nothing.
“I’ll bet she misses you. I bet she’s worried.”
I took hold of his hand and cradled it in mine. It was smooth and his nails had been manicured. I mused that they were in better condition than my own. The ring was clean and on further examination I realised that it was only present as it couldn’t be removed. His hand was swollen from some trauma and the ring was tight. There were lesions on his wrist. He’d been bound.
“I wonder why she hasn’t visited you?” I spoke my thoughts under my breath, watching for the return of his guard.
His one visible eyelid flickered slightly, common with all patients, and I looked at him closely for the first time.
He was a big man, broad shouldered and powerful. He carried no excess weight at all. He looked like he had a gym membership somewhere and used it well. Despite his obvious desire to look after himself and the very expensive manicure, he had never bothered with the fashion of waxing his body. He had a hairy chest and I almost smiled at myself for thinking Pierce Brosnan or a younger Sean Connery was wrapped in those bandages.
I decided that someone must be missing the man. “Someone important, I think.”
The burns to his legs were severe looking. I was no expert on burn injuries but I thought he may need grafts to repair the damage. One thing I had decided. This was not an appalling accident. He’d been tortured terribly. I lifted the dressing near to his right ankle and saw that his feet had been tied as well as his hands. My mind whirled. What kind of person ends up this way? Was he a gangster after all?
As I sat contemplating my mystery man, his consultant appeared at my shoulder.
“Any change, Sister?”
Mr Kahn was an imposing figure. He was a Sikh, well over six feet topped with a pure white turban that matched his starched coat. He was a most respected neurologist, but a terrible bore.
“Are we expecting a change, sir?”
Kahn crinkled his nose, pushed his glasses back toward his eyes and then stroked his impressive beard. “This is a most interesting case, Sister. I have only ever seen one more like it in my entire career. A most interesting scenario indeed.”
I was even more intrigued. Kahn’s reputation for boring the pants off anyone who would listen had spread around the whole hospital. So much so that he rarely had the opportunity to tell his war stories. I bit the bullet as my curiosity got the better of me.
“Really?”
“Yes, when I studied in the USA I came across an identical injury. The man was dead, of course. It was a suicide case.”
“Oh.” I said, blankly.
“The poor man in question had parked his car in a McDonald’s car lot to watch his estranged children enter there. His wife had prevented him from visiting them after a very messy divorce, you see. He had lapsed into a severe depression and he was on strong medication. He watched his children enter the burger bar, saw that they looked happy and smiling without him, and decided to end it all. I suppose he felt they didn’t need him. Very sad, you know.”
“So what happened?” I mentally rapped my own knuckles for seeming too keen. Kahn looked a little surprised at my enthusiasm, but continued.
“The man took a handgun and, intending to end it all there and then, put it into his mouth. So!”
Kahn pushed his index and middle fingers into his own mouth to demonstrate and then attempted to speak.
“I’m s
ure you have seen this many times on the movies, Sister?”
I nodded furiously, completely enthralled with the story. I could barely hide my glee at the thought that Jane was missing this.
Kahn removed his fingers and sat on the end of the bed, carefully avoiding the man’s burned feet.
“Now then,” he smiled. “At this point, the poor man lost his courage. He didn’t want to die after all. He lost control and started to weep. The trouble was there were parents and children entering the restaurant who could see all this. They reported the man’s behaviour to the police. Within minutes the LAPD were there and surrounded the man’s car. As the first officer leapt from his patrol vehicle the man panicked, pushed the weapon back into his mouth and pulled the trigger. BOOM!”
Kahn laughed as he saw me flinch at his description of gunfire but quickly became animated as he continued his tale.
“The police officers were just as hyped up as the man in the car. Hearing the gunshot, and fearing for their own safety, they fired on the man’s vehicle. Six officers in all emptied their weapons into that poor man’s car.”
“Bit pointless,” I quipped.
Kahn shook his head from side to side and made a strange pouting shape with his mouth as if sucking an imaginary sweet.
“Not at all, Sister; you see when the post mortem was carried out, the cause of death was found to be a direct hit to the man’s heart. Yes, the man had placed his own weapon into his mouth, but when he pulled the trigger the bullet struck his wisdom tooth and exited through his cheek.”
Now I was enthralled.
“Really and he would have lived?”
“Definitely. Indeed, as I was to learn, the behaviour of a bullet is not as straightforward as you might think. The man would have lived and he was not alone. In the USA there are over ten examples of this type of injury.”
I closed my mouth as I was beginning to feel like a fish.
“And our man here?”
Kahn shrugged.
“He has been deliberately scalded with liquid and then someone decided to finish him off. Whoever his tormentors were, they obviously don’t read The Lancet or they would know what we do now.”
He belly laughed as if this was the funniest thing on the planet and I made a note to myself never to date a doctor again.
“Will he regain consciousness?” I pressed.
“It is possible. You see when the bullet struck this man’s tooth, the velocity and power of the impact would have been massive. Similar to brain injuries suffered by casualties of high speed motorcycle accidents. He may do, but what state he will be in, if and when he does, is in the hands of God.”
I was about to ask another question when the young constable that was charged with the man’s protection returned. Kahn nodded courteously at the officer and left. As he did he tapped the bridge of his nose with his finger.
I somehow didn’t need reminding to stay mum.
“Good evening, Constable.” I said primly.
The young guy wasn’t interested. He was bored.
“Just been for a brew,” he muttered.
I walked back to my desk and sat tiredly. Jane was over in a flash.
“What’s happening then?” she hissed.
“Nothing, Jane.” I pulled off both shoes and rubbed my feet. I wasn’t really listening. I had so much going on inside my head.
“Awww, come on, Lauren.”
I looked at my friend and lowered my voice.
“Okay, he’s been shot in the mouth.”
Jane nearly burst but managed to keep her voice to a whisper.
“I told you! I bloody well told you, he’s a gangster.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Maybe, my arse, he’s Al Capone.”
We both laughed like a pair of schoolgirls.
The policeman didn’t notice.
Des Cogan's Story:
Moston Cemetery Manchester.
It had taken me a couple of hours to get all my kit into the Audi and find another hotel. I had moved away from the centre of town and found a small family-run place in Didsbury. The whole thing had passed without drama and I was glad of it.
By three a.m. I was on plot in the cemetery and in a good covered position to watch the whole of the funeral without being spotted. It was a cold night but dry and I had managed a brew and a few pulls on the old pipe. I’d brought a video camera and all my usual toys. All that was left to do was to wait until the mourners started to arrive. By observing the funeral, I would get as much information as I could. I had my stills camera too and would make full use of it. There were bound to be some interesting faces around. Then, after the service, I planned to follow the family back to the wake, introduce myself to Georgie and hope for the best.
Other than the odd owl and distant passing traffic, the place was quiet as a graveyard should be. I’d never been spooked by graves or dead bodies. My family were fiercely religious and although I gave my mother nightmares by failing to practice my Catholicism, my faith held me in good stead when it came to death and its associated superstitions. In all my experiences, in action over three continents, the only people that did me any harm were very much alive.
So when, just before five a.m. I heard the sound of a vehicle behind me, my ears pricked up and I slid deeper into cover and pulled the SIG from my holster. I had definitely not banked on company. Two men got out of what appeared to be another Lexus and my pulse rate increased. They climbed the fence behind me and started to walk steadily toward my position.
I flicked the safety from the SIG. They were about a hundred meters away and through my night vision binoculars I could see they were carrying a holdall. They walked in silence, closer and closer to me. I could feel the first pricks of sweat on my back. One was taller than the other. Both looked fit and organised. From the angle they were taking I figured that they would pass within feet of me. I lay, silent and ready.
The footsteps grew louder and louder. Then they stopped. One spoke, the accent was American.
“Over there.”
The taller of the two pointed in the direction of the newly dug grave. He stayed put, whilst the smaller man continued his task.
He walked so close to me that I could have touched him.
I knew he was heading for the hole in the ground but I couldn’t risk any movement with his taller mate so close. I was flat to the floor. I could hear his movements but not see them. After a couple of minutes he started toward me again.
This time he was on course for a direct hit.
I had one guy in front of me and one to the rear. I was in shit. I couldn’t believe that out of all the places in the cemetery they could have chosen to enter they had to pick where my obs point was.
I pointed the SLP toward the walker. He was silhouetted by some distant streetlights. He would be first and I would spin to take the second guy if need be. He was ten paces from me. Nine, eight, seven…
The Yank behind spoke, “I’m here, Stephan.”
I could see the goon clearly now. He couldn’t see me. He was a bullish-looking guy with blond hair swept over his face. He wore glasses and I could have sworn I’d seen him before. He also had a bandage or dressing over his right cheek.
The taller man’s voice had moved to my left and it took Stephan away from my position. I held my breath and finally they started away. Within a couple of minutes both men were back in their car and the drama was over.
I removed a plastic bag from my kit. I needed a crap.
The morning was spectacular. The beautifully tendered lawns were resplendent in the early sunshine. The sky was the brightest blue, sliced into provinces by the white spirals of aircraft trails. I could feel the cold morning air burning my nostrils, but I revelled in it and took deep lungfuls of crisp Manchester daybreak mixed with newly cut grass. The owl that had kept me company through the night had gone.
I needed to check exactly what Stephan had been up to at the graveside but by the time I was sure the two heavies
had left for the night it was light, and I was going nowhere. I lifted myself into position and took a look. Through my binoculars I saw a wreath had been placed at the graveside.
By six a.m. the ground staff arrived for work, followed by early visitors to their dead. Gaunt grief-stricken men and women interspersed with resigned regulars. They came and went. Some stayed just long enough to leave flowers, some stayed to talk to the gravestone. Maybe it was a birthday or anniversary. Maybe it was a weekly occurrence. Whatever their purpose, they were as close as they could get to the people that had once been blood or lover.
For an hour I watched the start of Tanya’s ‘mourners’ arriving. The boys that were first to arrive weren’t grief-stricken. They were on BMX bikes. They wore colours too. This was a public show. The Richards’ reconnaissance team. One rode straight to the graveside and checked the newly dropped wreath; he picked it up with a single gloved hand, read the message and dismissed it. He rode on. I felt better, good enough to have a sip of coffee and a nip on the pipe. At least the wreath was inert, maybe there was recording equipment inside. One thing for sure, Stephan and his chum weren’t visiting the cemetery at three in the morning for the good of their souls.
The BMX crew were all between thirteen and sixteen years old. These boys were some of the most dangerous people to walk the streets of Moss Side. The colours and the single golf glove signalled to their peers that they were armed. Street shootings were at epidemic proportions and these boys were a big part of the problem.
By the time the cortège had pulled into the cemetery, the BMX boys had dispersed out of sight and had been replaced with serious muscle. I counted fifteen guys. All wore black greatcoats and wore sunglasses. If I hadn’t known better I would have said they were CIA.
The procession itself was led by a large black woman in her late fifties who I presumed to be Tanya’s mother. She was in obvious distress. Two solemn young men held her by the elbows and coaxed her the last few meters to the graveside. Just behind them was a beautiful young girl in her teens. She was the spit of Tanya. I decided this was the immediate family and one of the two boys must be Georgie. I took several pictures of both guys. I would have to convince them that Tanya wasn’t dead just because of a daft Jock.