Kill and Cure

by Andy Ashdown Design

  Stich’s room was in some kind of cul-de-sac.

  There was more strip lighting, magnolia walls and the smell of disinfectant.

  ‘Hello, David, I’m PC Stephen Reed. How’s your leg?’

  Stich rubbed the side of it instinctively. ‘Not so bad – hardly feel it, in fact.’

  He nodded. ‘Good.’

  ‘It’s quiet here,’ Stich said.

  ‘You’re in a private room well away from everything else.’

  ‘I need to take a pee.’

  ‘Of course.’ Reed stood up. ‘Have you brought that to help you go?’

  Stich still had Susan’s mobile clasped in his hand.

  ‘Oh, no, habit, that’s all,’ he said slipping it into the robe’s pocket.

  The officer smiled. ‘Follow me,’ and he led Stich down the empty corridor to the bathrooms. ‘I’ll wait for you back at the room.’

  Stich nodded.

  ‘And, David? Please don’t spend too long – I’ll 62

  only have to come and find you.’

  ‘You worried I might run?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. At least not dressed like that.’

  Stich looked down at the robe and his bare feet.

  Reed had a point.

  In the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water and checked his reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He wondered how much the last few hours had aged him – five years? Ten?

  Susan would hardly recognise him. He was a long way from the man who drove to Cambridge to take her on their first date, her self-assurance only making him more tongue-tied. Then, when they kissed goodbye, her breath sweet like bubble gum.

  The door squeaked open, breaking the spell. An elderly patient, sporting a white crepe bandage over one side of his head nodded and went over to the line of urinals.

  As the door closed behind him, Stich’s body went cold at what he’d glimpsed. He dropped the paper towel, lunged at the door and frantically searched for a lock. There wasn’t one. ‘Shit, shit, shit …’

  Stich tried to get control. Think … Calm down and think …

  The killer was back. How? He edged open the door and stole a look. Nothing. In the bathroom the old man stared.

  Back in the hallway, the green linoleum stretched in either direction. Stich slipped out towards the corner of the corridor and the cul-de-sac with his room at the end. He could see the man with Reed.

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  They were talking but Stich couldn’t make out what was being said. The killer nodded as if he understood what Reed was telling him. In one smooth movement, he pulled out a handgun, firing it at point-blank range into the policeman’s forehead. Reed rocked backwards. The killer replaced the gun as if he was putting away his wallet, pulled Reed from his seat and dragged him into Stich’s room. Stich reeled and staggered, jelly legs propelling him away from the danger.

  Images of the hospital flashed past him. He knocked into people, bounced off walls, tripped a couple of times, but hardly felt any of it. There were shouts, but no one tried to stop him as he lurched forwards. It wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. He was pumped so full of adrenaline that it would have taken a truck to bring him down. There was no plan, just a need to get away.

  Down one corridor, then another. The desperation was growing. Should he hide somewhere and wait? He came to a standstill, hands on hips, panting like a dog.

  ‘Sir, can I help you?’ The voice came from behind him. A burly man in a white jacket, slacks and white trainers was pushing an elderly patient. Stich ignored him and began walking away.

  ‘Sir?’

  He glanced behind and saw the man park the wheelchair and come after him. Stich sped up.

  Despite his leg, he was sure he could outrun him.

  ‘Sir!’ The orderly’s footsteps were pounding the floor in pursuit.

  64

  Stich broke into a sprint, arms pummelling the air.

  ‘Sir!’

  Stich looked back over his shoulder to check for him once more – and then crashed into a solid mass.

  That truck he thought would be needed to stop him?

  It arrived, and hit him square on. It came in the form of a huge orderly who made his colleague behind Stich look like a delicate, frail thing. Stich fell forwards, rolled over in mid-air to avoid landing on his face and hit the floor at speed. He skated diagonally and clattered into something metallic. He lay dazed for a moment. The truck was up and upon him, quickly holding him down.

  ‘Okay, my friend … Steady.’

  ‘You all right, George?’ The footsteps of his colleague approached.

  George – the truck – said he was fine. ‘May need some restraints, though.’

  ‘You got it.’

  George looked back down at Stich. ‘Calm down, now.’

  Calm down? There was an assassin with a gun upstairs! Stich had seen him kill at least three people since … when? He couldn’t remember. He kicked again.

  ‘Hey! Stop struggling.’

  The metallic object that finally stopped him turned out to be a trolley. Stich could see it above him. Steel pots, buckets, and disinfectant stacked on it. Some pots with lids, others with paper towel covers. One of them, a few feet behind his head, was 65

  scalloped, smelt foul and gave him an idea.

  ‘Can you understand me, sir?’ George spoke loudly as if Stich was hard-of-hearing. ‘We’re going to get you up.’

  ‘Leave me alone, I’m fine.’

  ‘I don’t want to use these,’ the other orderly said, raising the restraints and unclipping a walkie-talkie from his belt. Stich heard the crackle of static as he tried in vain to move from under the man’s bulk. He lifted his neck to look along the corridor.

  ‘Look, I’ve said I’m fine, just let me go.’

  Where was the killer? This was wasting valuable time.

  A small crowd had gathered now. He could see the man with the walkie-talkie speaking to a nurse.

  The conversation went on for a minute before she disappeared, then reappeared some moments later with a young-looking medic. White coat, scrawny neck, and three biros clipped neatly into his breast pocket. There was a bit more chatter, then the orderly led them both towards Stich. The medic had a hypodermic needle in hand. ‘Okay, sir. Just hold still.’

  When the orderly restraining him looked over at his colleagues, Stich grabbed his chance. He yanked his arm free, reached over to the scalloped basin behind his head and pulled it off the trolley. The man noticed what was happening and tried to grab Stich’s arm, but he swung the basin wide and upwards, smashing it squarely into the man’s face.

  Its contents spilled over both of them, a soft, caramel- coloured soup of evil smelling shit. His face 66

  covered, the man leapt up yelling and clawing at his skin and clothes. The odour made Stich want to retch but he kicked backwards and scrambled to his feet.

  He was on the move again.

  Following the corridor, he took a flight of stairs, and then came to a door that opened into a storage area. Discarded frames, weighing machines, hoists, and other hospital detritus, filled it. Stich dived in and closed the door behind him. He was breathing deeply now which only made the smell from the shit-soiled robe worse. He yanked it off, fished out the mobile and the beads, and then tossed it into the corner.

  67

  13

  The guard straightened his cotton tie and adjusted the collar on his brown Moorcroft Security uniform.

  Detective Inspector Terence Varcy pulled a cord on a set of horizontal blinds he normally kept tightly shut. They gaped open and a stream of light filled the room. He made himself comfortable at the table.

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘I’ve just had a tea,’ said the guard blinking against the sudden brightness.

  ‘You mind if I do?’

  The guard shook his head.

  ‘Tricky day for you,’ said Varcy, plopping a tea bag into a white mug and pouring in hot water.<
br />
  ‘I’ve had better.’

  ‘And somewhat crowded in your office when you arrived, I imagine.’

  ‘I expected to see Mags, not half a dozen police officers.’

  Varcy peeled the lid from a small carton of semi-skimmed. ‘It must have been a shock. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘They said a murder had taken place outside the building during the night and that Mags was helping them with their enquiries.’

  ‘And?’

  68

  ‘They said there had been a power surge last night and wanted to know if it had ever happened before.’

  ‘Had it?’

  ‘Not that I know of – which I told them. Then they asked about the discs we use to record data from the security cameras. If we change them, how often, where they are archived.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Varcy, reaching for a brown envelope that lay in a mesh tray on the desk. ‘Tell me about that.’

  ‘They get changed every eight hours,’ said the guard. ‘That’s the first thing I do when I come on to my shift. Trouble is, Mags changed the discs halfway through her shift because of a power surge.’

  Varcy flipped the envelope open and produced five Polaroid snaps. They showed a small room stacked high with metal boxes each with a number stencilled at the front. A green LED and a digital time display glowed in the semi-darkness.

  ‘That’s our switch room,’ said the guard pointing at the photos. ‘We have a whole bunch of recorders, one for each camera in the building. See the digital time displays at the front of each box? That tells you how much time has elapsed since the last change.’

  Varcy stirred the milk into his tea. ‘Your colleague

  – Magenta Rosti – has told us a power surge caused her to lose the feeds for a few minutes. She was worried about corrupting the discs and so she changed them all. This would have been about 3.15

  AM, around the same time as the murder on James Street took place.’

  69

  ‘So I understand,’ said the guard.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Varcy, tugging a section of blind downward and peering into the open-plan office beyond, ‘Magenta says she replaced the discs and archived the old ones. We’ve checked the tray.

  The archived disc for camera five – the camera that monitors James Street – is missing.’

  * * *

  ‘The man is a fucking maniac, Vick,’ barked Stich.

  ‘I’m ten minutes away. Please, phone the police.’

  Stich stopped pacing. ‘Vicky, I was under police protection, remember?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, how did he find me?’

  ‘I don’t know but you can’t handle this on your own.’

  ‘I’ve been set up.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘What other explanation is there? The officer guarding my room has had his head blown off.

  What will they think when they find him?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘They’ll think I killed him.’

  ‘Not if you explain.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘Okay … just hold tight. I’ll be there …’

  Stich rang off and began pacing the store cupboard once more. He could hardly think he was so numb. How long did she say?

  About ten minutes.

  70

  He kept checking the time display on Susan’s phone. Five minutes gone. Occasionally there was noise outside in the corridor. Voices mainly, then they would fade. He would strain to hear what was said. It wasn’t just the killer looking for him now, but hospital personnel too. Then there was the policeman. God, the policeman. Shot in the face as he watched. And now he was doing exactly what would be expected of someone who had just committed murder – running for his life. Jesus, it just got worse.

  Come on, Vicky …

  There was a rattle at the door handle, then a more forceful push. Stich grabbed at the door to check he’d locked it properly. It was fine. He turned off the light and waited in the dark. The rattling grew more determined.

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  14

  Ed sat in the transit van next to Trevor. Trevor had been trying to get a trace on Susan Harrison’s mobile. He sat alongside a stack of digital recording units, headphones clamped to his ears, peering at a computer screen. He flipped the phones off and spun his chair round. Ed hand-brushed his trousers.

  ‘What’s bothering you?’ Trevor demanded.

  Ed didn’t look up. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve got my mind on the job that’s all.’

  ‘Stichell?’

  ‘I’ll relax when all the pieces are back in the box.’

  Trevor smiled and grabbed a fistful of peanuts from a bag on the desk in front of him. ‘That’s what I admire about you Ed,’ he said, popping a few dozen in one go, ‘you actually care whether they go back in or not.’

  ‘I won’t tolerate a fuck-up, if that’s what you mean,’ said Ed leaning back. ‘Especially not on this one.’

  ‘I know.’

  Ed thought about what might happen if indeed there was a fuck-up. Everything would change. The place he had carved for himself in the world. Small time crime – protection rackets and gambling scams

  – was a shitty existence. A road to nowhere and full 72

  of low life. That’s how it had been before he’d had his eyes opened to the way things could be.

  Ed reached forwards and scooped out a handful of nuts. ‘Okay what have we got?’

  Trevor checked the screens. ‘Susan Harrison’s mobile phone has been used twice this evening. The first time was an hour and fifteen minutes ago –

  guess who got the call?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Clive Rand.’

  Ed frowned. ‘The boyfriend must have made it.’

  ‘The second call was made five minutes after that.

  Don’t know who the number is registered to yet, but I’ve managed to record it.’

  ‘Let’s hear it then,’ said Ed.

  Trevor typed away at the keyboard and the recording kicked in. They listened to Stich and Vicky.

  When it had finished, Ed checked his watch.

  ‘Where the fuck is Western?’

  Trevor flipped open his mobile. ‘I’ll find out.’

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  15

  The rattling at the door had been a shock. It might have been innocent – a hospital worker needing access – or it might have been the killer. Stich had decided he wasn’t going to hang around and find out which. He had to get out and looking above his head at the grill in the ceiling, had a fair idea how to do it.

  He began sorting through gear dumped about the room. Discarded at the end of a rack was a boiler suit. It must have been years old, blackened and smelling of grease. Nonetheless, he stepped in and fastened the poppers, then grabbed a pair of stepladders, positioning them under the grill and climbing up, tugging at the grating. It came away with no trouble. He stood on tiptoes and looked into the ducting. It was about one metre square –

  just enough room to squeeze through – and pitch black. Stich scrambled into the hole, until he was fully inside, crawling belly down somewhere above the storeroom. The darkness constricted in on him as he pushed forwards, and the taste of dust

  – dry and musty – charred his throat. The temperature in the confined space rose and he brushed the sweat from his eyes. His bare right foot snagged on something sharp and Stich felt the flesh 74

  tear.

  By the time he saw a haze of light up ahead, queasiness was threatening to overpower him. As he neared, he could see it was coming from another grate in the ceiling. Looking through it, Stich noticed a polished floor and the tops of two heads.

  He pushed his face up to the grill to get a better look. One man – the smaller of the two – had his back to Stich, wore blue overalls, and looked like a cleaner. The other – the one doing the talking –

  made bile rise in Stich’s throat. He strained to hear what wa
s being said, catching snatches.

  The killer was animated, his hands jabbing.

  ‘This tall … yes, he’s dangerous … of course … The policeman? … Murdered …’

  Stich was about to duck away when Susan’s phone started playing the Kylie tune she had downloaded a few years back. Fuck. He fumbled for it, desperately trying to find the off button. He located it and scrambled forwards, clinging to the inside of the ducting. After what seemed like an eternity, he felt a cold gust of air on his face and frantically pulled himself onwards. It came from another grill, one that looked down onto a mezzanine level – a grey steel platform – and a set of ladder stairs dropping down towards the grass below. Stich shifted his weight and began hammering the grill with his good leg until the mesh buckled.

  * * *

  75

  On the ground, Stich stayed close to the side of the building, turned a sharp right and ran towards a car park ahead of him, bare feet slapping the tarmac.

  He was still clutching Susan’s phone and, without breaking stride, he switched it on and glanced at the display. The call in the ducting had been Vicky. He returned it.

  ‘Stich.’

  ‘God, Vicky where are you?’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘No. Where are you?’

  ‘In the car park, I’ve just arrived.’

  ‘Which one? Front, back?’

  ‘Er … front I think. Hold it. I’m opposite the outpatients’ building.’

  Stich looked around. He was on the edge of a car park, and headed for the nearest car and hid behind it. Peeping over the bonnet, his heart hammering, Stich searched for a signpost or a pathway – anything that might give him a clue. But it was dark now and there weren’t any visible signs. He had to move quickly.

  ‘Vicky, I’m in deep shit.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Where are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look, stay where you are and I’ll try and find you. Keep the engine running, we won’t be hanging about.’

  He ran to his left, keeping close to the ground.

  There was a building about a hundred metres ahead of him and he made for that. Nearby a signpost and a pathway. A&E, Orthopaedics, Blood, 76

  Maternity, Outpatients … Outpatients. Thank God.

  The path curved round to the left and he followed it. A sharp right and there it was. But where was Vicky? He scanned the surrounding area. What car did she drive? He’d been in it dozens of times. A Peugeot, it was a red Peugeot. He remembered sitting in the back of it, knees up under his chin.