Kill and Cure

by Andy Ashdown Design

  33

  7

  It was the cold that brought Stich round into consciousness. Rain cut into the back of his neck. He was face down in dirt, mud in his mouth. Then the pain in his leg registered, sending waves of nausea through his gut. He tried to move and felt a dragging in his shoulder. He heard the sound of water rushing behind him and turned to see it flowing over his legs.

  His head and arms were propped against a bank, raised up above the water level. Stich tried to get his bearings. Beyond the water, maybe a hundred metres away, there was woodland. Disorientated as he was, the place was still familiar. Then he remembered why. There was a ravine behind Maxi’s farmhouse.

  Reaching it meant a scramble through overgrown thickets and a lot of sloping ground. He must have fallen down it and into the river that ran along it towards the village. There was a plateau near the farmhouse with a great view of the ravine. On a sunny day it was beautiful. He had been up there a few times with Susan …

  Susan.

  His mind baulked at the memory. Was she at the hospital? Then he remembered. Slowly at first, then all too quickly. His face fell back into the dirt as tears ran down his cheeks.

  34

  * * *

  Alice was crying and alone. Susan had gone and he couldn’t think where. Then the voice mocking him: ‘ Take care of a child? Soon you won’t be able to take care of yourself …’

  He looked up and froze. The low light reflected off the water and picked out the wire frames of the killer. He stood like a spectre in the moonlight.

  Unable to move a muscle, Stich’s breathing accelerated, adrenaline flooding his system. Had he been seen? Stich watched mesmerised. The man was rooted to the spot, only his head turning from side to side.

  Stich glanced downstream. The bank of the river gave little, if any, cover. Upstream was certainly better. About twenty metres away was a small section where the bank was higher. There was a group of trees there that would give some chance of hiding. The closer he got, the faster and louder the water ran.

  As the bank got steeper, Stich lost sight of the killer. Whether this was a good thing or not, he didn’t know. Easing forwards, grabbing at handholds on the bank, he chanced a look. The man was standing almost above him, facing away looking downstream.

  Stich dipped out of sight and swung around to check how much distance he would have to cover to make the shadow of the trees. He eased himself into the river, grabbing hold of a rock wedged into the bank to help push him away from the danger. But it came free from the soil, knocking him off balance. The jolt 35

  of electricity through his leg sent him scrambling to stay in control, desperately grasping at handholds. It was no use and he fell fully into the water, the current pulling him away from the bank. He flailed around and tried to stabilize, praying that the sound of the falling rain and the rush of the river would mask the commotion.

  Instinctively, he got underwater and kicked. It was agonizingly slow. His soaked clothes, like an anchor, dragged him down. His heart now pounded so fast that he had to keep resurfacing for air. At one point he turned and thought he saw the man on the bank firing at him, but the image was so blurred by rainwater and fear that he couldn’t be sure.

  Swallowing water, he put his head under and swam.

  Finally the opposite bank came into sight. He snatched at some roots, but they came away in his hand and sent him drifting. Again he lunged forward, this time finding a hold. Clawing at the dirt, Stich pulled himself free.

  Once on his feet, he staggered into the woodland, hoping it would swallow him up. At first Stich headed for the village but soon lost his bearings.

  Certain the killer was following, he took to checking behind himself every few metres, staring into darkness; leaves and twigs cracking underfoot as he surged forwards; branches brushing his face, cutting his skin. Then, uneven ground where he lost his balance and fell.

  A face loomed in front of his and grabbed him.

  That’s when he passed out.

  36

  8

  Clive could hear the landline ringing as he struggled to get the key in the lock. He’d left the Immteck lab forty-five minutes ago, stopped to get groceries and was now failing to balance the bags while opening the door.

  The switching of the probes changed everything.

  It was all sham – five fucking years of work down the toilet. He’d driven around the block dozens of times trying to understand.

  This wasn’t an in-house matter, that was for sure.

  It was much bigger than that. He pushed open the door as the ringing stopped.

  ‘Shit.’

  Maybe that was Susan calling him back. God, he needed to speak to her – there must be a reason for all this. Clive smelt something as he stepped into the hallway. What was it? Cologne perhaps? He dumped the bags, moved into the lounge and reached for the light switch.

  If this thing got out, Jesus, it would be chaos.

  Lights on, he stopped mid-thought.

  A man in a blue sports jacket was perched on the sofa that once belonged to Clive’s grandma. Another man – square bodied and black – was slouched on an upright chair by the dining-room table. Both of 37

  them glanced at Clive with a vague disinterest.

  Clive froze. He’d never seen either of them before. Nor had he been burgled before. The man on the sofa sat peeling an orange. How much had they taken? He took a step backwards. ‘What are you doing in my home?’ he heard himself say.

  The black man got to his feet and without warning smacked Clive in the mouth. Clive reeled backwards and crashed against an up light by the wall. The glass shade shattered at once. If there was pain, Clive didn’t feel it – the shock had numbed all sensation – but he held his face anyway, and stared at his assailant through his fingers in horror.

  The intruders looked back at Clive casually as if they were regarding a curiosity in a museum. Clive felt a spurt of urine escape into his pants. The man smacked him again. This time Clive’s nose gave way and the shock could no longer hold the pain. Blood poured.

  The other man stirred. ‘I’ve taken an orange from your fruit bowl, Clive. Is that okay?’

  Clive crouched, staring unfocused at the carpet.

  He could make out a red puddle forming at his feet.

  As blood trickled down the back of his throat, he coughed. His bladder emptied itself steadily now, as his dignity faded. The urine was surprisingly warm.

  The man with the orange crouched next to him and cocked his head sideways for a moment. ‘Okay, Clive, tell us what you know.’

  Clive heard the voice from far away.

  ‘Why did you call Susan Harrison this afternoon?’

  38

  ‘Susan?’ Clive whispered.

  ‘Yes, why did you call her?’

  Clive’s brain tried to make sense of what was happening.

  The man watched him. ‘I’m waiting.’

  Clive coughed again and blood trickled out of his mouth. ‘I was using some probes …’

  The man nodded.

  ‘ … and I thought she might tell me something about them.’

  ‘What did you think she might tell you?’

  ‘They changed … I mean … I think they were switched and I got a result I didn’t expect.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I thought Susan might know why.’

  ‘What result did you get, Clive?’

  Clive opened his mouth to speak but all that emerged was a white, bitter tasting liquid that dribbled onto his chin. His interrogator winced.

  Clive spat it out. ‘I found something that shouldn’t have been there.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘It’s difficult to explain,’ Clive stammered between breaths, ‘unless you know about biological science.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘There are virus proteins in all my samples.’

  ‘So what?’

  Clive’s eyes darted quickly between his tormentors. ‘My samp
les are tumour biopsies from a clinical trial on a drug called Krenthol.’

  ‘So?’

  39

  ‘The viral proteins shouldn’t have been there,’

  said Clive. ‘They are unique to the 3f7 viral vector we use in biological research. To find 3f7 proteins in every sample means only one thing.’

  ‘And what’s that, Clive?’ the man asked softly.

  Clive hesitated. ‘Will you leave me alone after I’ve told you?’

  ‘That depends on what it means.’

  ‘It means the tumours suffered by the patients on the Krenthol trials are not natural. They have been deliberately introduced using the 3f7 vector.’

  The man narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’

  Clive shook his head. ‘Of course not, I’ve only just realised it myself.’

  The man set the orange on the floor, and looked to his companion who immediately tossed over a faded Nike sports bag. Unzipping it quickly, he pulled out a brown bottle. He unscrewed the lid and turned it around to face Clive.

  ‘Being a scientist, you should recognise this.’

  He did. The yellow label with the skull and crossbones. Hazardous Material and HCl scrawled across it.

  ‘Recognise the smell?’ He wafted the top of the bottle under Clive’s nose. The pungent odour registered straight off. As nonchalantly as he’d produced the bottle, the man took out a pair of latex gloves and a hypodermic needle. He pulled on the gloves, dipped the needle into the acid and drew up a syringe full.

  Clive watched as the man – for no reason he 40

  could think of – held the syringe up to the light and flicked at it twice.

  It had the desired effect.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  The man ignored the question, grabbed Clive’s forearm and sank the needle deep into a vein.

  Clive screamed. ‘For Christ’s sake …’

  ‘Do you have any idea what this acid will do to your insides if I press the plunger?’

  Clive knew exactly. Internal burning, glycolysis shutdown, massive cell apoptosis, then – and only then – death. He began to struggle. The black man strolled over and knelt on Clive’s chest to hold him still.

  ‘Now, I’m going to ask you again, Clive. Who else have you told about these probes?’

  ‘I swear I’ve told no one,’ he sobbed.

  The man studied Clive’s face as if searching for something – anguish, desperate fear, and finally the truth.

  He nodded, clearly satisfied. ‘I believe you,’ he said. Then depressed the plunger.

  41

  9

  Stich awoke and saw light glimmer off a thin metallic strip. Another flash as it moved and then he knew why. It came from a pair of glasses worn by the man leaning over him. He jerked upwards.

  Stich felt the man’s hand on his chest. ‘It’s all right, settle down.’

  He heard him but it didn’t register.

  ‘You’re in hospital. Do you understand?’

  Stich squinted into his face, the man’s features slowly coming into focus. It wasn’t the killer. This guy was bald and overweight.

  ‘Hospital? How?’

  ‘Don’t worry how. Just rest.’

  Stich settled and became aware of the throbbing in his skull.

  The bald guy smiled and nodded at him. ‘I’m Dr Sharp and this is my colleague, Dr Silvan.’ He gestured towards a man Stich hadn’t seen at first.

  ‘Hello, David,’ the second man said, rubbing the lapel of his white coat.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ Stich asked.

  Dr Sharp gestured behind him to the other side of the room. Apart from the bed on which Stich was propped, and a chipped laminate overtable pushed next to it, there was a closet and a sink with a Cutane 42

  hand sanitiser above it. Nothing else. ‘Your ID was in your clothes. You had a nasty laceration on your leg.’

  Stich reached down to feel his thigh. A bandage bulked it out.

  ‘You’re lucky – the femur hasn’t been damaged.

  You’ve lost some blood, though.’

  Stich rubbed his temples. ‘How long have I been here?’

  Dr Sharp looked at his watch. ‘An hour. A hiker found you lying in woodland a few miles from here.’

  Stich’s head was now hammering.

  ‘David, what happened to you tonight?’

  He shook his head, trying to release the fog that packed it. They waited, watching him. The pain made him want to vomit.

  ‘Drink some water,’ said Dr Sharp, pouring from a jug at the overtable.

  Stich took a few mouthfuls.

  ‘Try and drink more,’ he said.

  He finished the glass.

  ‘Okay?’

  Stich wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘Better.’

  Susan getting out of the car outside Maxi’s, knocking on the window around the back. The gun, the glass shattering, the ravine. Then other memories from the past. A mask enveloping Stich’s face, grinding downwards like a lemon-half over a squeezer. Razor blades nicking his throat, choking off the air. He stumbled over the words. ‘My Susan

  … she was murdered.’

  He saw the two men exchange glances.

  43

  ‘I couldn’t stop it,’ he said, attempting to convince them he’d tried.

  There was silence. Stich could smell antiseptic.

  ‘I was shot,’ he said.

  They nodded in unison. ‘We know,’ said Dr Silvan. ‘The laceration to your leg is quite distinctive.

  Thankfully, we don’t see too many bullet wounds here – so when we do, they tend to stand out. You’re lucky it’s only superficial. The bullet passed straight through.’

  Dr Sharp cleared his throat. ‘Who’s Susan, David?’

  ‘My fiancée.’

  ‘And who shot you?’

  ‘The arsehole who shot Susan turned the gun on me. I managed to escape. He was chasing me. I ended up in a river.’

  ‘I see.’ He said it as though he didn’t see at all.

  Stich felt alone. ‘When can I go?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d rather you stayed,’ said Dr Sharp. ‘We want to keep an eye on you …’ He glanced at his colleague again. ‘Besides, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.’

  Stich sat up. ‘Who?’

  He moved closer. ‘It’s okay. We had to inform the police when you were brought in – it’s standard procedure for injuries like yours. He’s here to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘The police?’ Stich felt a contraction in his chest.

  ‘Is there anyone you want us to contact to let them know you’re here?’

  Stich thought of Alice. She would be in bed by 44

  now, Loni probably sitting up watching Holby City.

  What was he to tell them? I’ve been shot and Susan is dead. How could he explain what he didn’t understand himself?

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s no one.’

  Sharp nodded. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In pain?’

  ‘My head hurts like hell.’

  ‘I’ll get some painkillers,’ said Silvan, moving towards the door. ‘Are you allergic to Paracetamol?’

  Stich shook his head.

  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  A nurse came with a couple of pills in a plastic cup. Stich took both of them with a few swallows of water.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ she asked.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Thanks, I’m okay.’

  When Dr Silvan came back he had someone with him. ‘David, this is Detective Willis,’ he said.

  The man nodded. ‘Okay if I perch on the bed?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Willis’s suit was Primark and faded from too many wears. As he adjusted his tie and extended his hand, he blinked half a dozen times. His grasp was surprisingly firm.

  ‘We’ll leave you two alone for a while,’ said Dr Sh
arp.

  Willis carried a small notebook. ‘You feel all right?’

  Stich propped himself against a criss-cross of 45

  pillows and nodded.

  ‘You know why I’m here?’ Willis asked.

  ‘I can guess,’ Stich said.

  ‘Okay, let’s go over some facts. You were brought in at 7.45 this evening. A bullet apparently caused your injury. You were groggy, semi-conscious and incoherent. Remember any of that?’ He looked up from the notebook.

  Stich watched the single fluorescent tube clinging to the ceiling. ‘Not really.’

  ‘A couple of times you screamed out and struggled. You were pretty much out of control.

  What happened?’

  Stich told him. Willis listened, taking notes until Stich talked himself out. For a little while after, he continued writing. Stich watched him. There were no outward signs of shock. Routine for him, Stich supposed.

  ‘You’ve told me what happened but you’ve not made any mention of why,’ said Willis eventually.

  ‘Do you or Susan have enemies? Someone prepared to go to these lengths to harm you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You’re a chiropractor, am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you see lots of patients?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any of them ever got close to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Any of them …’ he searched for the words ‘…

  ever been infatuated with you?’

  ‘ Infatuated? ’

  46

  ‘It does happen.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what about …’ he checked his notebook, ‘…

  Maxi? Any idea why he’s mixed up in this?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘You said he was Susan’s uncle.’

  ‘She called him that. He was her late father’s friend.’

  ‘And he was shot just before Susan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Willis flipped some pages. ‘After you fell down the ravine, the man with the gun went to a lot of trouble to follow you. That was risky for him. Why do you think he did that?’

  Stich shrugged. ‘No doubt to finish me off.’

  ‘I’m sure … but why?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ said Stich, raising his voice. ‘Aren’t you supposed to work that out?’

  ‘You said Susan was killed. Did you check her vital signs to confirm this?’