Chameleon

by Ken McClure

  'Break the bastard's neck!' Jamieson heard one of the voices say as he struggled to remain conscious.

  'We're gonna do this right!' said another voice.

  'I'll cut his balls off!' said the first voice again.

  Jamieson heard the metallic click of a knife being opened in the blackness. Blind panic fuelled him with enough energy to wrench his right arm free again. He swung his fist with all his might and this time it connected but only with the wall. Another violent blow to his head snuffed out all consciousness before the pain in his hand had even reached his brain.

  Jamieson came round with a blinding headache. He felt as if two hydraulic rams were trying to push his eyes out of their sockets and the merest movement of his head exacerbated the pain to such a point that consciousness threatened to leave him again. In the moments when he could think clearly, those when he lay absolutely stock till and kept his breathing to a minimum, he deduced that his hands were tied behind his back and that he was lying on a rough blanket that was none too clean. There was a smell of stale sweat in the still air and a faint, seminal odour about the room. But at least he was alive. Pop music was being played somewhere in the distance and a young girl's exaggerated laughter drifted up from the street below.

  The fact that he was still alive was something that Jamieson found surprising. Come to think of it he couldn't understand any of it. There had been two attackers and neither of them had been Thelwell. He was quite sure of that. So who had assaulted him and why? Psychopaths didn't have accomplices? It didn't make sense.

  Jamieson heard footsteps on the stairs and felt afraid. He was facing the wall when he heard the door open behind him. This wasn't by design; the pain in his head had prevented him from turning over; he hadn't moved more than a few centimetres since he had regained consciousness. The light clicked on and he focussed on faded green wallpaper in front of his face. Behind him he heard more than one person come into the room.

  'He's still out,' said a voice.

  'Turn him over,' rasped a second voice.

  A hand gripped Jamieson's shoulder roughly and stars exploded in front of his eyes as he was rolled over on to his back. He grimaced and let out a whispered curse in the form of an appeal to the Almighty.

  'He's awake,' said the man at the foot of the bed without any emotion. 'He's conscious.'

  Jamieson opened his eyes with pained slowness and looked at the speaker. He was a tall, powerful looking man aged about thirty and dressed in an expensive leather jacket and open necked shirt which looked as if it might be made of silk. But the expensive clothes could not mask the rough features or the scowl that looked as if it might be permanent. The other man was a full head shorter and dressed in a pin stripe suit which seemed a shade too tight for his expanding waist line. His thin lips were disguised to an extent by a bushy, black moustache which also interrupted a scar line that ran down the left side of his face and turned in to finish in the centre of his chin. Both men had a Mediterranean look about them although they sounded local.

  'Sharon! Get in here!' the tall man called back over his shoulder.

  A girl in her mid twenties sidled into the room, her skirt riding high on her thighs. Although still young, her face bore the signs of imminent ageing. Excess make-up could not disguise the early sinking of her cheeks and a hollowing of the eyes. By the time she was thirty even more make-up would turn her into an ugly caricature of the prostitute she was at present.

  'Seen him before?' asked the tall man.

  The girl examined Jamieson as if he were an inanimate object. 'Don't think so,' she said unsurely. 'Hard to say when you have to see so many in one night.'

  Jamieson got the impression that her statement was an accusation and that it was directed at the shorter of the two men. Without looking at her the short man rapped, 'Cut the shit and just answer the questions.'

  'Yes Louis,' replied the girl sullenly but obediently. 'She looked at Jamieson again and said, 'If this is the bastard. I'd like to…' Words failed her and she made a lunge at Jamieson, fingernails bared. Jamieson turned his head to one side but one of the girls’ nails had scratched his cheek before the tall man pulled her off. He could feel a trickle of blood start to run down his cheek.

  'What the hell is going on?' demanded Jamieson through his pain and confusion. His voice was a croak.

  'Don't play the innocent with us you bastard!' snarled the big man. He looked to his shorter companion and said, 'I still think we should settle this our way. Cut him and have done with it.'

  Once again Jamieson heard the sound of a flick knife being opened and this time he could see it gleaming in the tall man's hand.

  'Why are you doing this? What in God's name is going on? Who are you? What do you want with me?'

  Jamieson's questions were ignored. The girl said, 'Ronnie's right. Teach the bastard a lesson. Better still leave him to me and the girls!'

  Jamieson looked at the expression of contempt on the girl's face and was completely bemused. 'What the hell have I ever done to you?' he demanded.

  'It's what you might have done you swine!' snarled the girl, once again trying to get to Jamieson but being constrained.

  'It's too late for that,' said the small man.

  'Will someone please tell me what's going on?' pleaded Jamieson. The sound of police sirens outside suddenly filled the room and the tall man went over to the window and opened it to look out. Jamieson could hear car doors slamming outside in the street and decided to gamble. He shouted at the top of his voice. 'Help! Police! I'm up here! Help!'

  To Jamieson's amazement no one in the room made any move to stop him. The three behaved as if nothing had happened. The tall man closed the window and went to open the front door. The girl and the small man waited patiently until policemen started to pour into the room.

  'This is the bastard, officer,' announced the small man as a man wearing an open raincoat appeared through the uniforms. 'Here's your killer.'

  Jamieson closed his eyes as everything became clear to him at last. The irony of having been taken for the killer himself did not go well with his headache.

  'Looks as if you've had a go at him yourself Louis,' said the policeman looking at Jamieson's face.

  'We had to restrain him Inspector, nothing more. It took me all my time to stop Sharon here removing his assets so to speak.'

  'There's been an awful mistake,' murmured Jamieson.

  'If I had a pound for every time I've heard that before,' said the policeman in a bored voice. He was middle aged, balding, with a short moustache and a world weary look about him that said that he had seen it all before. He spoke as if Jamieson wasn't there. Jamieson was reminded of certain consultants he had known who discussed patients with colleagues at the patients' bedsides in similar fashion. 'What did you say he was doing Louis?' the policeman asked.

  'He was lurking about the lane, trying doorways, looking up at the windows. The boys have been keeping a look-out for any weirdos in the streets and along comes this one.'

  'Very public spirited of you Louis,' said the policeman. 'But then this sort of thing is bad for business anyway eh?'

  'Don't know what you mean Inspector,' said Louis with an air of outraged innocence.

  'Of course not.'

  Jamieson tried to sit up and two uniformed policemen moved in to restrain him. 'I'm not the killer! My jacket. Look in my jacket. I have Identification.'

  The Inspector nodded to one of the constables and then accepted Jamieson's wallet casually as it was handed to him by the uniformed man. He rifled through the contents until he found the Sci-Med card and then paused before letting out his breath slowly and looking up at the ceiling. 'Sweet Jesus,' he said softly.

  Louis and the tall man could sense that something was wrong and began to get nervous. 'He is the killer isn't he?' asked Louis, anxious for reassurance.

  'You pillock!' said the Inspector quietly. 'You have just assaulted an officer of the Sci-Med Monitor.

  'Does that mean he's a c
opper?' asked the tall man with a vacant look on his face.

  'You could say,' replied the inspector.

  'Well how were we to know?' complained Louis.

  'You can ask the judge that,' said the policeman.

  'Judge? You mean you are going to charge us?'

  'Charge you?' exclaimed the inspector. 'When this hits court they'll probably bang you up and melt the key.'

  'Shit!' said Louis. 'You try to help the police like a responsible citizen and…'

  'Louis you've been pimping since you were old enough to tell your arse from a hole in the wall. Let's cut out the responsible citizen crap.'

  'I don't want to press charges,' said Jamieson grimacing as he sat up to have his hands released by one of the policemen.

  'That's very generous of you sir,' said the inspector, 'But you'd probably be doing the city a service if you were to rid its streets of this garbage for a while.'

  'No,' said Jamieson. 'It was my fault. I should have thought that someone might think what these gentlemen, obviously thought.'

  'If you're sure sir?'

  Jamieson nodded as he rubbed his wrists painfully.

  'Thanks,' said Louis as if the word pained him.

  'Yeah thanks,' echoed the tall man. 'No hard feelings eh?'

  'If I can repay you in any way…' simpered Sharon.

  Jamieson smiled in spite of his pain and the inspector snarled, 'I'll pretend I didn't hear that Sharon if you get out of my sight within five seconds.'

  Sharon disappeared and two policemen helped Jamieson to his feet. 'We'd best get you to a hospital for a check-up,' said the inspector. 'By the way, what were you doing here in this area?'

  'I was looking for the owner of the green Volvo estate down there at the end of the lane.'

  'Volvo estate?'

  'The green one.'

  The policeman came back from the window with a blank look on his face.

  Jamieson knew what he was about to say. 'No Volvo huh?'

  'No Volvo sir.'

  It was well after midnight before Jamieson got back to the residency and heard Sue gasp when she saw the state of him. Jamieson sat down slowly in the only arm chair and asked her to pour him a drink while he told her what had happened.

  'So you didn't even find out what Thelwell was up to?' said Sue. There was a suggestion of 'I told you so' in her voice but she didn't actually say it.

  Jamieson agreed with a shake of the head and said, More Clouseau than Poirot.'

  Sue smiled as she tended to Jamieson's cuts and bruises.

  'But I should be able to find out if Thelwell owns or rents one of the apartments in that block and if he does…'

  'Then what?' asked Sue suspiciously.

  'I'll hand the information over to the police.'

  'And if he doesn't?'

  'I don't know.' confessed Jamieson.

  'Sci-Med called when you were out. Thelwell has never been a patient at Costello Court.'

  'The perfect end to a perfect day,' sighed Jamieson massaging his bruised cheek gently with the tips of his fingers.

  'Oh and Moira Lippman phoned.'

  'What did she want?' asked Jamieson.

  'She said that she was at the lab and that she wanted to talk to you.'

  'She shouldn't be at the lab,' exclaimed Jamieson. 'She was there all last night. She'll make herself ill. What time was that?'

  'About eleven.'

  Jamieson dialled the lab extension but there was no reply. 'She must have gone home. I hope she's all right. I thought Clive Evans was going to persuade her to take some time off. How did she sound?'

  'A bit agitated. I asked if there was anything I could do but she said she had to speak to you about the result of some tests. Mean anything?'

  Jamieson shook his head. 'Maybe I could call her at home.'

  Sue looked at her watch and said, 'It's late. Can't it wait until morning?'

  'No,' said Jamieson flatly. He flicked through the pages of his diary though he was hampered by the bandage over the knuckles of his right hand, the aftermath of having swung his fist into the wall. 'Damn, I didn't make a note of her home number. Maybe Clive is still awake.'

  Jamieson went downstairs and along the corridor to Clive Evans' room. He could see there was a light under the door and knocked gently.

  'What on earth!' exclaimed Evans when he saw the bruising on Jamieson's face.

  'It's a long story. What I need right now is Moira Lippman's home number.'

  'Of course,' said Evans. 'Come in. Is anything wrong?'

  Jamieson told Evans about the message and Evans was surprised. 'Test results?' he exclaimed. 'But she wasn't working today. I sent her home this morning. She'd been up all night and what with the death of her sister in law she was just about all in.'

  'She must have come in to the lab this evening. Sue said that she called from there. Who is on call in the lab this evening?'

  'I am,' replied Evans. 'I've just come from there. I must have just missed her.'

  'She may have discovered something important.'

  'I can't think what. She hasn't had to time to set up any tests this evening that she could have the result from.'

  'I think I have to speak to her.'

  Evans shrugged and conceded. 'We can call her from here,' he said, picking up the phone.

  Jamieson glanced at his watch as they waited for an answer. It was twenty past one. In the quiet of Evans' room he heard the phone being answered. Evans asked to speak to Moira.

  'Out? At this time?'

  A pause.

  'Where did you say?'

  Jamieson saw Evans frown as he put the phone down. 'She is out,' said Evans. 'Her flat mate said she went out about an hour ago.'

  'Did she say where?' asked Jamieson.

  'She went to meet Mr Thelwell.'

  Jamieson felt as if someone had just switched on a machine inside his head, one of these engine models you find in museums which have been cut away to expose their workings. Wheels turned and gears meshed, shafts moved up and down but nothing really happened. Everything just moved. He rubbed his forehead and whispered, 'What on earth…'

  'This is all very puzzling,' said Evans.

  TWELVE

  Jamieson felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. He was afraid for Moira's safety but couldn't say as much to Evans without voicing his suspicions out loud. 'What on earth is she doing with Thelwell at this hour?' he said.

  Evans shrugged. 'If she couldn't find you and she couldn't find me and it was something important perhaps she called Mr Thelwell,' he suggested.

  'I'm going to call him,' said Jamieson picking up the phone.

  The phone seemed to ring for ages before it was answered. To Jamieson's surprise one of Thelwell's daughters answered. The young voice said unsurely, 'Yes. What is it?'

  'I'd like to speak with your father please,' said Jamieson, wondering why the girl was up so late.

  'You can't,' said the girl.

  Jamieson thought he detected a sob in the girl's voice. He frowned and looked at Evans who was listening in. 'It's very important. Perhaps I could speak to your mother if your father isn't there?'

  'No, you can't… Mummy's upset. Call back another time.' The phone went dead leaving Jamieson to exchange puzzled looks with Evans. 'What do you make of that?' he asked.

  Evans shrugged and scratched at his red hair. It made a noise like sandpaper on wood. 'Something's obviously happened over at Thelwell's house.'

  'I'm going to call Moira's flat again,' said Jamieson. He checked the number in Evans' book and dialled quickly. Once more Moira Lippman's flat-mate answered. 'No, she hasn't come back yet. Is something wrong?'

  'Frankly I'm not sure,' replied Jamieson, feeling even more anxious. 'If she returns soon will you ask her to contact the hospital switchboard and leave a message for Dr Jamieson?'

  'I'll do that,' said Moira's flatmate. 'Perhaps you would let me know if you find her first?'

  'Of course,' said Jamie
son.

  'What now?' asked Evans.

  Jamieson hesitated for a moment and then said, 'I think I'm going to go round to Thelwell's house.'

  'At this time?' exclaimed Evans.

  'You said yourself that there's something going on. I have to find out what.'

  'I'll come with you,' said Evans seeing that Jamieson had made up his mind.

  It took less than ten minutes to drive through the deserted streets to Latimer Gardens where the Thelwells lived. Jamieson found Thelwell's Volvo parked outside his house. Another car, a beige Rover was parked directly behind it and Jamieson thought it vaguely familiar.

  Evans said, 'That's Carew's car.'

  'Carew? What the hell is he doing here?'

  Jamieson drew up behind the Rover and he and Evans walked briskly towards the gate. As they passed the Volvo, Jamieson put his hand on the bonnet and noted that it was cold. Thelwell had been home for some time.

  It was Carew who opened the door of the house when they rang. When he got over his surprise at seeing Jamieson and Evans standing there he recovered his composure and said, 'How did you know? I was expecting the police.'

  'Police?' asked Jamieson.

  'You'd better come in,' said Carew. He put his hand on Jamieson's shoulder to signify that he should wait while he closed the door and then whispered, 'I'm afraid there's been a bit of a tragedy.'

  Jamieson felt his heart sink.

  'What kind of a tragedy?' asked Evans.

  'Mr Thelwell is dead.'

  Jamieson was stunned. He had been so afraid that he was going to hear some bad news about Moira Lippman that this was the last thing in the world he expected to hear. He waited for Carew to elaborate and had to contain himself while Carew shook his head and looked at the floor in a solemn display of official grief. 'Tragic, tragic,' he muttered. 'A Brilliant man, not always the easiest of men to get along with, I'll admit but that's often the way in these things. Don't you think?'