Kill and Cure
Page 1
Kill and Cure Cover FINAL 23/4/09 08:12 Page 1
He could hear his own breath, rapid and shallow. The killer’s was deep and measured. From his crouched position Stich could see him moving slowly, picking his way. He pulled himself deeper into the corner, willing the killer to leave, to give up the chase and go back to the house. But he didn’t. He kept coming…
STEPHEN DAVISON
David Stichell, a London chiropractor, is an ordinary man plucked from the normality of his existence and thrown into hell.
As a helpless witness to the brutal shooting of his fiancée he escapes her psychotic killer and alerts the police. They arrive expecting a murder scene but the place is clean and his fiancée has vanished.
Working late one night a lab technician notices something unusual in a routine lab procedure, the results had always been consistent, until now. Then it hit him, someone meant for him to get this new result.
STEPHEN DA
Hours later he’s dead, with a syringe full of acid sticking out of his arm.
As murder victims pile up, Stichell finds himself running from police and his fiancee’s killer. Then when vital evidence goes missing it becomes clear that some very particular powers want him dead.
With deception at every turn, Stich can trust no-one.
As his body deteriorates he must get ready for the fight of his life…
VISO
ISBN: 978-0-9560965-0-0
N
RRP £6.99
www.aliceandfred.com
KILL&CURE
“Nothing is predestined:
The obstacles of your past can become the gateways that lead to new beginnings.”
Ralph Blum
KILL&CURE
STEPHEN DAVISON
Copyright © 2009 – Stephen Davison First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Alice & Fred Books
Rosden House
Suite 243
372 Old Street
London
EC1V 9AU
enquiries@aliceandfred.com
www.aliceandfred.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – for example, electronic, photocopy, recording – without prior written permission of the publisher.
The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A record of this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-0-9560965-0-0
Book design and typesetting by Andy Ashdown www.andyashdowndesign.co.uk
Cover photographs © iStockphoto.com Manufactured in Malta by Gutenberg Press Limited For Dr. Huw Davies.
“Praise the bridge that carried you over.”
George Colman
Acknowledgements
Where do I start?
Jo, Harry and Louis – you are my world.
My friend and agent Suresh Ariaratnam –
you believed in this project as much as I did (and worked your arse off to bring it to life).
To all at A&F.
Mum, Dad and Julie for the constant love and support.
–––––––
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction.
The characters and events are fictitious.
The scientific principles, however, are not.
It’s the details I’ve had fun with. Enjoy.
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Prologue
He watches her struggle, her bloody head only partially visible. Gloved hands probe and encourage. Her face is now free; eyes scrunched shut.
The gloved hands ease her shoulders forwards and then Alice is out. She cries immediately. The midwife wraps her in a towel and thrusts her into his arms. He gazes at her face. She is beautiful.
* * *
A powdery film of frost covers the grass and the trees.
The group huddles close. From an old copy of the Bible, the priest reads aloud. Next to him, a man trembles as a small coffin is gently lowered into the grave.
‘My baby …’
A firm hand holds his arm, supporting him. The priest begins sprinkling earth.
‘Lauren … I’m so sorry…’
The ropes are released and pulled up.
‘… I couldn’t help you …’
The man collapses to his knees and the group rush to him.
‘… I couldn’t help you … I couldn’t help you …’
7
1
3.07 AM. Magenta Rosti is half-way through the night shift, a quarter-way through the latest James Patterson thriller and a third of the way through a cup of lukewarm coffee. She uses her fingernails to rake short, feathery clumps of her hair, as she reads. Yesterday, Michael John – the hairdresser with two first names – gave her this cut on the pretext that it would ‘lift her face’. Bullshit. The bob makes her look like her father and he was an ugly man.
The red light above the lift engages, the doors open and the silence breaks. Richard Hart emerges and stalks towards her. A blue reefer coat hangs open, and a beaten-up document case swings at his side. His strides cover the ground easily, the clack-clack from his footfalls echoing against the marble floor tiles.
She releases a lock from the plate by the desk.
‘You know what time it is?’
He checks his watch. ‘Late.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘What’s it to you?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m just saying.’
He moves away from the security area to the door. ‘She gets poisoned by the way.’
8
‘What?’
‘Norma, in that book you’ve got. I’ve read it.’
He disappears from view, the door locking behind him. Rosti slams the novel shut.
Prick.
Snatching up the coffee, she takes a mouthful and rotates her chair to face the bank of monitors behind her; feeds from twenty-four security cameras stationed all over the Moorcroft Pharmaceuticals building. It’s camera five that covers James Street and within moments Hart appears on the screen. Under an orange tinge generated by the street lamps, he walks towards his parked Toyota. Rosti uses the joystick on the panel to follow him. Just before activating the central lock, he looks up to the camera and gives her the finger.
That’s when she notices the flicker at the edge of the screen. She leans forward and squints. Hart pulls open the driver’s door and throws in his case.
She adjusts the camera, refocuses the lens. There it is again.
A shadow.
Hart fiddles with his keys for a moment, and suddenly the shadow moves into the light. Fully formed and travelling swiftly, it comes right up to him, smashing something heavy into the back of his skull.
Rosti drops the cup from her hand. Hart slumps forwards onto his car as dregs of coffee spill over her lap. Another blow crashes into the side of his head.
9
Her fingers, fattened by fear, try to work the camera, hitting the zoom just as the final blow explodes into Hart’s face, pulping his nose. The shadow turns three-quarters to the camera. That’s when she screams.
She knows who it is.
10
2
Stich had squeezed ten patients into the last seventy-five minute
s and was now in the kids’ room for the final appointment of the morning. Ethan was on the Kiro-Kiddies bench, his face set into the headpiece, elbows snug in the armrests. His mother sat on a chair next to him.
Stich began palpating the bones in the boy’s upper back. ‘Ethan, you’re tall.’
‘I know,’ he said without moving his head. ‘I’ve grown three and a half centimetres in the last year.’
‘You carry on and you’ll be taller than me.’
‘Tell Stich where the pain is,’ said Ethan’s mum, prodding her son.
‘Here,’ he said, waving a hand over the base of his neck.
‘He’s been playing Nintendo,’ she said, holding up a small console.
‘What game, Ethan?’
‘Mariokarts!’ he shouted at the top of his voice.
Stich eased the first thoracic vertebra back into alignment. ‘But what happened to Super Monkey Ball?’
The boy wriggled. ‘Mariokarts is better. Can I sit up now?’
Stich smiled. ‘Yes, you can sit up.’
11
Ethan’s mum stood and helped her son from the bench. ‘What do you say?’
‘Thank you,’ whispered the boy.
Stich ruffled his hair. ‘No problem.’
The room – the one everyone called Kiro-Kiddies
– was plastered with drawings from kids like Ethan.
Crayon and pencil figures collected over the last five years: stick men, dinosaur splurges, yellow rabbits, dogs, cats … all of them having some sort of chiropractic treatment carried out by Stich. There were stuffed monkeys on the shelves, Mickey and Minnie on a quarter-size plastic chair, and Tigger and Pooh hanging from the ceiling on a wire. David Stichell – or Stich to all who knew him – had been practising at this chiropractic clinic since completing his pre-registration year in Guildford five years ago.
The location, on the east side of London, catered to a mixed bag of patients. On the one hand, the council families from boroughs like Whitechapel and Stepney, and, on the other, bankers and traders working in the city’s financial centre.
Ethan’s family belonged to the first group.
‘Anything I can do if he complains again?’
‘Use ice,’ said Stich, amending Ethan’s notes. ‘Ten minutes every few hours.’
He clipped the paperwork together and paused.
‘How’s Callam?’
Ethan’s older brother was thirteen and having problems at school. His mum’s shoulders sagged.
‘How much time you got?’
‘That bad?’
She nodded.
12
Stich walked them to the front desk where Mertle, his receptionist, took Ethan’s notes. Morning session had just finished and Stich scanned the waiting room. It was non-medicalised and empty. A smattering of out of place easy chairs, magazines, and stray coffee cups awaited Mertle’s attention.
‘Put that down as a child check,’ Stich said.
‘Let me pay for this, Stich, please.’
‘Next time.’
‘You always say that.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘How’s Mags?’
‘My sister’s fine and you’re changing the subject.’
‘Pay me another time, when things have settled.’
She sighed. ‘What can I say?’
‘Say yes, and give my regards to Mags when you see her.’
‘You can do that yourself,’ she said, grabbing Ethan’s hand. ‘She’s working five minutes from here.’
‘Where?’
‘Moorcroft Pharmaceuticals.’
13
3
Stich left the reception area and headed for his office at the rear of the clinic. It was a space he’d worked hard to get just right: uncluttered enough to concentrate when in consultation, yet with enough distraction to chill out when he wasn’t. He made himself comfortable on the recliner that was squeezed into an alcove and closed his eyes for the first time in the last twenty-four hours. His right knee began to pulsate and instantly images – recent and clear – danced in and out of his head. Snapshots caught in his mind’s eye: looming shadows reaching forwards, glass chips stinging his throat. He felt removed from them as if he was watching a movie.
Then that voice: ‘ How can you care for a child when soon you won’t even be able to care for yourself? I’m taking her …’
‘Stich?’
The intercom burst into life.
‘Jesus, Mertle, that scared the life out of me.’
‘Sorry … forgot to tell you while you were out here. Susan’s on her way.’
‘Right now?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘Okay.’
He flicked the system off and closed his eyes 14
again. A scene from the Rome trip the summer before. A square – maybe Piazza Novona or Spagna.
Tourists sweating in the heat; sitting on the wall beside the fountain; Alice; a vanilla sundae; squeals of delight and –
The intercom sprang to life again.
‘Stich?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sue’s here.’
‘Already?’
Stich heard his fiancée’s voice. ‘Hello, Mertle, is he free?’
‘He’s just finished, Sue. Go on through.’
Stich turned off the intercom just as Susan appeared in the doorway. She wore a white teeshirt, faded jeans and a pair of three-stripe trainers. Apart from a ponytail dancing at her neck, most of her dark, chestnut brown hair was hidden under a baseball cap. Although she worked as a bio-immunologist, Stich always felt Susan was the antithesis of her colleagues, as happy out of the lab as she was in it.
He stood up and she rushed at him, flinging her arms around his neck.
‘Hey! Susan, what is it?’ The grip on his neck didn’t let up. ‘Sweetheart, are you okay?’
Eventually she broke free, kissing his cheek and then his mouth. Once, twice, three times. A knot formed in Stich’s stomach and began to tighten.
‘Susan, you’re crying. What’s wrong?’
She sniffed. ‘Nothing, I’m just happy to see you.’
‘Happy to see me?’
15
She hesitated. ‘I just wanted you to know, that’s all.’
‘Susan, you’re not making sense.’
She held her hand up in front of her face. Stich could see the small diamond reflect off the light.
‘Look, it’s not every day a girl gets engaged. I’m just a bit emotional that’s all.’
‘But we got engaged four days ago.’
She swallowed and wiped her eyes. ‘Like I said, I just wanted to see you.’
He didn’t reply, but watched her face.
‘You ask too many questions,’ she said eventually. ‘You know that?’
‘That’s because I’m not getting any answers.’
‘Please …’
He opened his lips to speak but she covered them with her mouth.
* * *
They ate lunch in a Pret on Houndsditch. Susan sat up high on a plastic barstool against a gleaming aluminum counter that overlooked the street. Stich had to stand. The smell of coffee and pastries took the edge off the dankness from the road outside.
Through the misted window, Stich could make out the back end of the take-out queue as it spilled onto the pavement.
‘Why the salad, Stich?’
‘I like salad.’
‘I know, but it’s lunchtime. Salad’s not exactly filling, is it?’
16
He had a tomato an inch from his mouth but dropped it back into the bowl. She averted her eyes.
‘Where’s this going?’
‘Nowhere.’
He wiped a napkin across his mouth. ‘I went mad at breakfast, okay?’
‘How mad?’
‘Egg, bacon, and sausage mad, all stuffed into two doorstops.’
‘Truth?’
‘Yes,
truth. ’
She wiped her mouth and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Good.’
‘I’m glad you approve.’
She took another bite, chewed for a few moments as if thinking and then swallowed. ‘Promise you’ll tell me straight away if you start to feel unwell.’
Stich puffed out his cheeks just as the seat next to Susan’s became free. He took it and pushed aside the last occupant’s half-eaten lunch. ‘Look, Sue, we’ve talked about this. I don’t feel unwell and I’m not going to either. I’ve lived with this for years. It hasn’t got me up till now and I don’t intend to let it start.’
‘How’s your side?’
‘I can’t even feel it.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly. I’d tell you if I could. Look, I’m here for the long haul. I’m not even thinking about what’s going on inside my body. I’ve shut it out. All I care about is being around to share my life with you and Alice. The rest is just background. Besides, I’m on 17
Krenthol. You of all people should know how good that drug is, so I’ll be just fine.’
She watched his face.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing.’
‘ What? ’
‘I’m sorry for getting on to you.’
He cupped her face softly in his hands. ‘I love you getting on to me.’
‘Liar.’
18
4
They huddled together under Stich’s umbrella on the ten-minute walk back to the clinic, picking their way past puddles and the crush of the lunch crowd on Bishopsgate.
‘So, you set for tonight?’ Susan asked, wiping rain splashes from the back of her jeans.
‘Yep.’
‘And you’re picking me up at 5.00, right?’
‘From the lab.’
She nodded. ‘We go to Maxi’s first and then on to Truro.’
‘You’re sure you don’t want to go to Immteck first?’ asked Stich.
‘Positive.’
‘Not even for a Laurence Tench function?’
She shook her head. ‘Especially not for that. You packed?’
‘I did it this morning.’
‘And Alice?’
‘Loni’s taking care of her.’
‘Are you okay with that?’
‘She adores Loni.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’ They crossed to a traffic island. ‘I know it’s difficult for you to leave Alice, baby, but I really think you need these couple of days.
19