by Nick Oldham
Alison shook her head tightly. She took the tea and sipped it, her eyes constantly focused on Henry’s face.
His eyelids flickered.
Alison stiffened.
But the eyes did not open.
Ginny laid a hand across her shoulder and squeezed gently. ‘He’ll come out of it,’ she reassured Alison, then sat down next to her.
Alison looked at her and forced a tight smile. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m OK. Feel a bit of a cheat – I slept through it all.’ She laughed without humour.
‘It’s a good job Henry heard something.’
‘Yeah … yeah.’ Ginny gripped her mug to stop herself from shaking.
‘Do you remember anything at all? Do you remember him saying anything to you?’
‘I’ve tried, mum, but no … but yet I think there is something. I can’t quite …’ She shook her head.
‘Never mind. I’m sure it’ll come back at some stage.’ Alison looked at her stepdaughter, hoping she was wrong in what she herself was thinking. ‘Look, you don’t have to stay … why don’t you go to the cash and carry? We have to keep the place going, even though I just want to shut it all down and run away. You know what we need … the wedding depleted a lot of the basic stock which we were going to replenish today. You’ve got the business card. Do that, eh? Then come back. If anything happens in the meantime, I’ll call you. If nothing’s changed, we’ll get something to eat from Booth’s across the road.’ She was referring to the supermarket opposite the hospital, which also had a cafe.
‘OK.’ Ginny said reluctantly. ‘I’ll have my brew first.’
Rik Dean was very reluctant to leave his post, but a summons from the chief constable was not something he had the courage to refuse.
Jess Makin had just returned from a quick journey home and back for a clothes change and he left her in charge of the MIR, much to her delight and consternation.
‘I’ve been ordered to attend the dream factory to see Papa Smurf,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking he wants an update in person.’
‘Understood, sir.’
He went, jumping into his VW Golf. Makin watched him drive away, then turned back to the MIR, staffed for the moment by a single civvy who was working at the computer, trying to set up the HOLMES network, the Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System brought in following large, cumbersome, badly run police investigations in the 1970s.
The man at the computer turned to Makin. ‘Sarge, don’t know if you need to know this,’ he said, pressed the print key and a sheet of paper clattered off the printer.
Makin snatched it before it hit the floor.
It was simply the report of a stolen van from the adjoining village of Thornwell, a backwater, even sleepier than Kendleton. A place where, usually, very little happened. Not a place from which vans are stolen. Usually.
‘Circulate it, let everyone know.’ She handed the sheet back to the man, frowning, wondering if there was any connection to what was going on.
The MIR was equipped with radio equipment and a few moments later, details of the stolen van, a ten-year-old Ford Transit, had been circulated to all patrols.
Makin read the report again. The owner of the van had phoned it in to control room at headquarters and no actual deployment had been made, so no one had been to see the owner about it and the report, like so many others, was just recorded for insurance purposes mainly.
Such was the way of the new world when victims of everyday crime would often never even see a cop at their door.
Makin thought it might be worthwhile in this case.
It took Rik Dean forty-five minutes to reach headquarters from Kendleton. He pulled up in a space outside the main entrance, glanced very briefly at the military helicopter on the helipad and thought nothing of it, then quickly badged his way inside, giving the lady behind the reception desk a nod. He went up on to the middle floor of the building on which the chief’s office was situated. Mostly – if he could – Rik avoided all contact with the chief and his deputy, although it was hard to stay out of the way of the assistant chiefs, who were more hands-on. He recalled that Henry Christie seemed to have spent a lot of time – unwillingly – ducking in and out of the – then – chief’s office, a man called Robert Fanshaw-Bayley (RIP).
Rik poked his head into the outer office (there was no direct route off the corridor into the chief’s office for minions), which housed secretaries and the chief’s staff officer, a jumped-up chief inspector called Riley, who beckoned Rik to enter, then pointed to the big, closed, oak door to the chief’s domain.
‘Just an update?’ Rik asked Riley, before knocking.
‘Don’t think so. Some shenanigans happening,’ Riley said under his breath.
Words Rik did not necessarily wish to hear.
‘Just go in,’ Riley added. ‘You’re expected.’
Rik knocked but still waited for the ‘Enter’ call before pushing open the heavy door and stepping through.
The chief constable’s face looked serious and strained as he gestured for Rik to join him and the other two men wearing visitors’ badges at the conference table in his large office. It dawned very quickly on Rik why the grey helicopter was outside. These guys had arrived in it.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said to the chief.
‘Superintendent.’
‘I’m assuming you want an update on the progress of matters up in Kendleton?’
‘No, actually … but this does concern those matters.’ The chief’s sharp eyes flicked towards the two men. ‘May I introduce …’
The less military looking one of the two raised a quick hand to interject and cut the chief dead. He said, ‘No need for introductions, Chief Constable,’ with an arrogant tone. ‘All the superintendent needs to know is that myself and my colleague are from … certain government departments and that we are here to assist his investigation.’
‘Oh, OK,’ Rik said, but did not say anything else. He knew when to keep his mouth shut and intuitively realized this was one of those situations.
Eventually and reluctantly, Ginny left Alison alone with Henry and made her way to the front entrance of the hospital, where she took a deep breath of fresh air from a day that was beginning to warm up but was also becoming close, possibly thundery.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘cash and carry.’
Turning right, and avoiding a couple of patients who, whilst still attached to drips, had sneaked out for a quick cigarette, she walked towards the visitors’ car park on East Drive, about a three-minute walk away. When she and Alison had arrived, the car park closest to the main entrance was already full and they had to drive around all the others before finding a space. All very frustrating but a fact of life for the NHS. Parking at a hospital never seemed easy or free.
She passed a pay station on the way and inserted the required three pounds before getting to her car.
Her mind was full of what had happened to her the night before and also about Henry and Alison, the two people she loved most in the world. Life seemed so unfair. They had done nothing to deserve any of this. They were good people, making their way in life, forging ahead but not treading on others on the way.
‘It’s shit,’ she said out loud to no one in particular as she crossed the pedestrian walkway into the car park and tried to remember where she’d bloody well left her Punto.
The car park was still almost full and one poor guy in a van was creeping slowly around, looking for a space, or for someone to leave.
She waved her ticket at him and pointed to her car. ‘I’m going,’ she mouthed and saw his thumbs-up gesture. She walked on, passing a couple of empty places, but did not really think very much about them. She got to her car, parked nose-in to the space. She was at the driver’s door fumbling with her keys – this was a pre-remote-locking Punto – when the man in the van drew up, his window wound down.
‘I won’t be a tick,’ she said.
He smiled. Ginny turned her back to him as she opened
the driver’s door, just vaguely aware of the van driver opening his door, which was slightly odd.
It suddenly unsettled her. The question: why did he need to park here? Why not in one of the other bays? Or was paranoia setting in?
She peeped over her shoulder.
The man had gone to the back of his van and had opened one of the rear doors.
Ginny was about to ease herself into her car when a hand clamped over her mouth and suddenly she could not breathe.
There was a sharp pricking sensation in the side of her neck. She knew what it was: a syringe. She felt the warm flood of liquid in her vein and instantly went limp, everything turned a dark, misty grey, then black and she knew nothing else.
‘You have a very dangerous man operating in your area,’ Smith – not introduced, but prompted by the other man, Jenkins, also not introduced – said to Rik Dean.
‘Tell me about it,’ Rik grunted.
He had taken an instant dislike to these men in the chief constable’s office and was fidgeting uncomfortably.
‘We intend to,’ Jenkins said with a patronizing smile. In his mind, Rik had christened him ‘The Plump One’. The other, more military one, rugged, older and quite handsome, he had nicknamed ‘Clint’.
‘I assume I’m going to hear about why this man’s fingerprints were blocked on the system?’ Rik said. ‘And although we haven’t heard anything about DNA, I also assume that is going to suffer the same fate?’
Smith – ‘Clint’, the man who seemed more normal than the other, dipped his eyes, looking a little embarrassed, but even so said, ‘Actually we can’t tell you very much, I’m afraid.’
‘I think you need to be telling me everything,’ Rik said and added, ‘Actually.’
The belittling smile on the pudgy man’s face remained intact as he said, ‘For the sake of, shall we say, ease, let us call this man Jones.’
‘Why don’t we call him by his real name?’
‘Because you do not need to know it, but to be fair to you,’ Jenkins said, making Rik snarl in disbelief, ‘I will give you some background, some context in order to help you understand our position.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Superintendent Dean!’ the chief chastised him.
‘Weeell,’ Rik said elongating the word to show his irritation. ‘What’s going on here, boss? Yeah, I get it, this guy is dangerous, very dangerous. He’s killed two innocent men and we suspect him of trying to abduct an equally innocent girl, plus’ – Rik jerked a finger in the direction of his own seared face – ‘he almost killed me and my friend.’ He glared at Jenkins, who remained unbowed. ‘Tell me everything you know about this man, not least why he is up here on my patch, killing people, kidnapping people … He hasn’t just turned up by accident.’
‘No,’ Jenkins said resolutely. ‘I will tell you some things and that will have to suffice because, as corny as this sounds, this man – Jones – is, was, a state asset and anything concerning him is a matter of state security.’
‘State asset? What does that mean?’
‘Jones is someone who kills people on the orders of the government,’ Jenkins said brutally.
‘His codename is Stiletto but he is often referred to as Blade,’ Smith said, ‘and our problem is that’ – he tapped his temple – ‘post-traumatic stress disorder … he’s gone rogue.’
Everything was ready for Henry’s transfer to the critical-care unit which meant a long-ish trip along ground-floor corridors, then down in a lift to the lower ground floor on which the unit was located.
Alison watched nervously as they prepared him.
Although she had been an army nurse in a previous life, she wasn’t watching the nurses with a professional eye. Her mind was in too much turmoil for that.
Finally when he was ready, two porters entered the room and manoeuvred Henry across to a trolley.
They smiled and chatted to each other, trying to keep it light, and even made some humorous comment to Alison that flipped straight over her head.
She stepped into the corridor to give the porters more space and did half-notice a man lurking further along the corridor next to a confectionery dispenser, but thought nothing about him. There were plenty of weird characters knocking around the hospital.
The porters rolled Henry out.
A tear trickled from Alison’s eye, tracing a line down her cheek. He looked so poorly.
Once more she prayed silently.
As the trolley moved away, she sighed, began to follow and then suddenly realized she was bursting for a pee as she passed the door to the ladies’ toilet.
She stopped, backtracked, and entered the loo.
‘Sometimes it happens,’ Jenkins said blandly, making Rik want to punch him in his pudgy faceless face, although if he did, he knew the very physically dangerous other man, Clint, would probably tear his limbs off.
‘Shit happens. Go on, tell me.’
‘It got to him, eventually … which is a shame because he was, is, very good, but things started to go wrong when he was involved in a mass killing in West Africa. That was when we began to question his judgement, you know, when the flies buzzed and the bodies burned and stank.’ Jenkins glanced at Smith.
Smith continued for him. ‘Two more occasions after that and we decided to withdraw him from active service and for a full psychological evaluation. We discovered he had gone over the edge, lost his perspective, his logical reasoning, the ability to think critically and although we tried to deal with him in a secure establishment, he … uh … escaped.’ Smith paused. ‘Strangled two nurses.’
‘Shit,’ Rik said. ‘So why the fuck has he turned up in Lancashire?’
‘I can’t tell you that,’ Smith said. ‘But we will help you track him down.’
Rik would not have been surprised if the word ‘WANKER’ had appeared on his forehead, because that is exactly what he was thinking.
‘And you propose to do that how?’ he asked.
‘We have assets in the region,’ the Plump One said.
‘Ahh, more assets,’ Rik said sarcastically.
There was an urgent knock on the chief’s door. At the same time, Rik took his mobile phone out and glanced at the screen. It had been on ‘discreet vibrate’ and for the last minute or two he had felt it pulsating like mad in his pocket. It showed ten missed calls, four texts and two voice messages.
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ The chief’s staff officer shoved his head through the door.
The chief sighed irritably. ‘We’re busy, Chief Inspector.’
‘I know, sir, and I’m sorry … it’s just …’ He nodded towards Rik.
Rik tore out of the chief’s office with his phone clamped to his ear, ran along the corridor, then swarmed down the stairs.
‘I’m on my way, Jess …’
He hurtled through the foyer and out of the revolving doors, which could not go fast enough for him.
‘Ten minutes at most,’ he said breathlessly as he jumped into his car and threw the phone across to the passenger seat, reversing with a squeal of tyres out of his spot.
‘Shit,’ he said, ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit.’
FOURTEEN
‘I pronounced life extinct in situ,’ the consultant, Mr Basheer, said to Rik Dean. ‘I knew you would rather see that, as awful as it sounds … crime scene and all that. I can’t say evidence has not been contaminated because a lot of people, including myself, have been in and out, although I have tried to restrict numbers.
‘OK, OK, just show me.’
Rik had pulled up in the ambulance bay and abandoned his car there. The doctor had been waiting for him, explaining everything as he hurriedly led him along the corridor in the emergency department.
Rik could already feel the palpitations of his heart and they dryness of his throat as he ducked under the crime-scene tape stretched across the corridor. He flashed his warrant card at a white-faced bobby.
Twenty metres further along the corridor, another uniformed c
op was standing by the door to the ladies’ toilet. Rik strutted past a local detective sergeant, not wanting any eye contact because he wanted to be cold, focused, and be able to hold himself together for this one. He had to, had to …
The toilet door had been wedged open.
This is where Rik stopped abruptly.
‘My God,’ he said, swallowing back the nausea.
It was only a small room, a ladies’ loo, two side-by-side cubicles, one wash basin, waste bin, hand drier, baby-changing facility.
It had happened in the first cubicle on the left.
They were the sort of cubicles with a gap at the bottom, a gap at the top, made of laminated wood, not offering a great deal of privacy.
One of her feet stuck out at a strange angle through the side gap. The other was poking out through the opposite gap.
Rik even recognized the slip-on shoes.
His fists bunched as his eyes took in the huge amount of fresh blood covering the tiled floor in which her legs lay.
He swallowed again.
Keep it together.
There were footprints in the blood. Doctors, nurses, the general public – contamination already an issue but understandable.
Even so, Rik sidestepped and overstepped as much as he could until he manoeuvred himself into a position to see straight into the cubicle and the full horror that awaited his eyes.
She sat twisted at some grotesque angle. Her legs were sticking out under the cubicle sides, her back against the toilet, and her head lolling back, almost severed from her body, a huge gaping, bloody cut. The blood fountains from her severed veins having splattered up and high on the inner cubicle sides, still dripping, still warm, still smelling.
Rik knew he was going to lose it.
Tears welled in his eyes, misting his vision.
He rubbed them away with the back of his hands, took firm control of his breathing.
The consultant was still with him, standing just behind. ‘You knew her?’
Even from that angle, Rik’s body language was easy to read as his shoulders shook.
‘She was a friend, a good friend.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not half as fucking sorry as I am,’ Rik blinked. ‘Where is her daughter?’