Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  There were no problems. We were on the list. And for the right reasons, just for once. Everything checked out. We were instructed to take the left-hand fork, up went the barrier and we were waved through.

  Markham thanked them politely, and we crawled up the drive.

  ‘Nice grounds,’ he said, and they were. With immaculate lawns and well-planted borders, even at the dusty end of summer, everything still looked colourful and fresh.

  ‘That’s the Annexe over there,’ I said, pointing to a separate building. ‘That’s where the arts and crafts centre, gym, swimming pool and so on are. Something tells me Dr Bairstow will not have been availing himself of those facilities.’

  ‘We go this way,’ said Markham, turning left off the well-kept drive and on to a slightly rutty lane. Towards the non-public area. We twisted around trees and shrubberies, eventually arriving at the back of the building. As expected, there was the small car park and our destination – a door marked Authorised Personnel Only. Markham very carefully turned the car around so it was pointing in the right direction should we need to get away quickly. I sat in the back, ostensibly arranging my paperwork while he checked out the CCTV cameras.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s say you need to get away in a hurry and I’m not with you, the keys are in the ignition. The car’s in neutral. All the doors are unlocked. Put Dr Bairstow into the back. Throw him in if he won’t cooperate. Get into the driver’s seat and drive away. Don’t wait for me. Don’t look back. You know where to go. You know what to do when you get there. Everything’s all set up and waiting. I’ll join you if I can but wait only for as long as is safe. Then go without me.’

  I nodded. ‘And the same applies to you, too.’

  ‘All set?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He jumped out and held the door open for me. I could get used to this.

  I stepped out and looked around. The door was off to my right. Our car was parked in the space nearest to it. Pointing outwards and all ready to go. I checked the car park exit. There was no chain nor any apparent means of barring the exit. No bollards. No sleeping policemen. Three more cars occupied spaces at the other end. Staff probably, given the location. And the age of the cars. Security isn’t a terribly well-paid occupation. Markham can drone on about it for hours.

  There was no one in sight.

  Markham looked at his watch. ‘We’re exactly on time. Hope it’s all going well in London. Ready?’

  He walked ahead of me and rapped sharply on the door. A disembodied voice instructed us to step back and look up at the camera. We did so, holding up our IDs at the same time and trying to look as if we did this sort of thing several times a week.

  The door clicked open.

  ‘After you, ma’am,’ said Markham, ushering me in.

  I found myself in a small anteroom, about twenty feet square, with one corner converted into the traditional glass-fronted cubicle, occupied by a uniformed security guard. He looked up as we entered.

  I left Markham to deal with him while I took a look around. Excluding the one we’d come in by, there were three doors in this room – one in each wall. The one to the left was actually encased by the glass-and-wood cubicle and led, I suspected, to the guards’ lockers and restrooms. The one to my right would lead to a room with an outside window, so I guessed that might well be the superintendent’s office. The door ahead of us probably led into the facility proper. The keypad alongside bore out this theory. And no handle. In fact, none of the doors had an external handle. No access from this side. So, at least three rooms led into this one but there was just the one exit. The one behind us and only the security guard could buzz us in and out. It made sense. This was a holding area. In or out, all traffic must come through here.

  A table stood against the right-hand wall with a quantity of incredibly ancient magazines spread thereon. Seriously, a social historian would have had an orgasm over this collection. A few bleak wooden chairs were pushed against the wall nearby. Something told me the public never saw this part of one of the most expensive medical facilities in the country.

  I could smell that institution smell – disinfectant, floor polish and people. All the surfaces were washable. Everything was old and scruffy, but spotlessly clean.

  The uniformed man behind the glass held out his hand. ‘Your identifications, please.’

  We handed them over.

  He scanned them and then handed them back again. ‘If you could sign the book, please. And enter the car registration, here. Thank you.’

  He passed a plastic tray through the hole in the glass. ‘If you could deposit your weapons, please. Thank you.’

  We’d expected this. Silently we made them safe, showed them to him for verification and dropped them into the tray, which was then placed in a pigeon hole. One of many behind the desk. All the others were empty. It looked as though we were the morning’s only guests. Markham never took his eyes off his gun, giving an excellent impersonation of an unhappy SNCO parted from his weapon.

  The guard spoke into his intercom. ‘Major Bradley is here, sir.’ He turned back to us. ‘The superintendent will be with you in a moment, ma’am.’

  I nodded and turned away to examine the ancient magazines. As far as I know, the BBC Knowledge magazine ceased publication some considerable time ago. I was itching to turn the pages but first things first.

  I knew that contrary to its own publicity material and because of the mysterious disappearance of its former director – an event with which I was not unconnected – there were now two superintendents here at the Red House. James Washburn, in charge of the medical side, and Martin Gaunt – security. The public face and the private. Our appointment was with Martin Gaunt.

  Time ticked on and still no sign of the security superintendent. We had an appointment. He knew we were coming. Was he genuinely busy or was he, as I was beginning to suspect, exercising his control by making us wait?

  I knew the worst thing I could do was to show signs of impatience, but things were happening in London. Pennyroyal and Smallhope would already be in place. It was vital the two operations occurred simultaneously. We didn’t want anyone phoning here to warn them.

  I stared at the table. What if this was a game of nerves? What if he was quite happy to make us wait all day?

  I said, ‘Sergeant, what’s the time?’

  ‘Ten past one, ma’am.’

  Damn. I turned to the guard in the cubicle. ‘I’m on a schedule today and can’t wait any longer. Please could you inform Mr Gaunt that I’m sorry he was unable to have the prisoner ready for us. I’ll report this failure back to London and they’ll make arrangements for another day. Although they won’t be happy.’

  My suspicion we were being watched was confirmed. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. At that very moment the right-hand door opened, the security superintendent entered, and my heart sank.

  We didn’t have much info on Martin Gaunt. He’d served in the police, rather than the military. He was in his mid-sixties and I suppose, subconsciously, I’d imagined someone just putting in the final few years before collecting his government pension and retiring to grow marrows. Or a fussy little man being a big fish in a small pool at everyone else’s expense.

  Wrong again.

  I think everyone’s initial impressions must have been unfavourable. I saw a very tall man – well over six feet – whose domed, shaven head made him look even taller. God knows what he saw when he looked at me but he certainly wasn’t impressed.

  Gaunt wore an impeccably tailored black suit that shouted, ‘I’m too good for this place.’ All his visible skin was a deep shiny pink as if he scrubbed himself down three times a day. With hedgehog skins. With his slightly underhung jaw, he looked like a shiny pink shark.

  The worst part, though, was his eyes. He wore those tiny round spectacles that reflected the overhead lights and made them diff
icult to read. And then he stepped out of the glare and I wasn’t any better off because they were so dark, I couldn’t tell where pupil ended and iris began. They were just black pools. The whites of his eyes were disconcertingly white. Seriously bright white. As if he’d scrubbed those as well.

  He had authoritarian written all over him. Relationships, family life, sex, outside interests – I suspected everything had been subjugated in his quest for complete and absolute control over everyone and everything around him. I’d finally come across someone who made Treadwell look appealing. If St Mary’s had got Gaunt instead, there would have been deaths.

  The slightly good news was that he had a folder under his arm, containing, if we were very lucky, his version of our transfer documents.

  He checked our IDs again, taking his time over it. The naughty part of me itched to ask for his, but before I could get us all into trouble, he said abruptly, ‘Papers?’

  The courteous approach would have been to introduce himself, ask after the journey, enquire re current bladder status and invite us into his office to review our documents.

  We obviously didn’t rate any of that.

  I wasn’t going to hand them to him. I walked to the table, opened my briefcase, swept the magazines aside and laid out my papers, one after the other.

  He was going to play games with us. I was certain his next move would be to shoulder me aside and manspread over as much space as he could manage while ostentatiously examining our immaculate documents. I’d end up crushed against the wall.

  I stepped back, ignored him completely and went to stand by Markham, who was waiting, wooden-faced, by the exit. There was no handle on his door either, but there was an emergency door-release mechanism on the left. Fire regulations, I guessed.

  The remark about the tight schedule had been a mistake. Gaunt took his revenge by making us wait. Relishing his moment, he picked up each sheet of paper and meticulously read every single line. Every now and then, just to demonstrate his superiority over lesser mortals, he would refer back to something on a previous page.

  I stood quite still but I could hear telephones ringing inside the cubicle. I told myself to relax. This was a busy place. Not everything was about us. But it was nerve-wracking, nevertheless. I had to work at standing still and keeping my face calm. Especially when the telephone in his own office began to ring. It rang on and on. I didn’t dare look at Markham.

  Fortunately, Gaunt was more concerned with playing with us. Whoever had called would have to wait for Gaunt to finish here. Because he was an important man and everyone should always be very aware of that.

  I don’t know if the phone diverted elsewhere or whether the caller just gave up in the end but eventually it stopped. The silence was even worse.

  It was eighteen minutes past one by the time he’d gone over everything at least once. According to our schedule, we should have our prisoner by now and be heading towards the door. A faint frown puckered Gaunt’s shiny pink forehead. I suspected it was because he’d found nothing to pick at.

  I took a brief moment to wonder how prisoners fared under his regime. I didn’t imagine for one moment he actually physically tortured anyone, but here he had complete control over people whose poor life choices had left them with no power at all. No rights. No civil liberties. I wondered how much autonomy he had. And how had he fared against Dr Bairstow? And, more worryingly, how had Dr Bairstow fared against him? That his people feared him was very apparent. The guard behind the glass sat at attention, not making a move. Not a sound.

  And neither did we. Until Markham yawned ostentatiously, breaking the tension.

  Eventually, Gaunt gathered up our papers in one contemptuous handful and thrust them back at me. ‘Everything appears to be in order.’

  I put them back down on the table and began to arrange them neatly. Now he could wait for me.

  ‘Why now?’ he said, suddenly.

  I kept my attention on the papers. I’d presented them to him in perfect order. Simple courtesy required him to return the compliment. ‘Why now what?’

  ‘Why today? Friday is the usual transfer day.’

  We’d left the Reason for Transfer box empty. It wasn’t mandatory.

  I said brusquely, ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  He folded his arms. The message was clear. No one was going anywhere until he’d squeezed every last little bit of pettiness from the situation.

  I thought I’d have a bit of fun. Well, why not.

  I glanced at Markham, then at the guard behind the glass – who probably couldn’t hear a thing anyway and was probably too scared of Gaunt to try – and took a step away to the centre of the room, quite curious to see whether Gaunt would follow me. Move from his turf into mine. Oh, the games people play.

  He did. Without looking at him directly, I said very quietly, ‘Someone screwed up.’

  It was exactly the right thing to say. A rigid disciplinarian himself, other people’s mistakes would always be another reinforcement of his own superiority.

  Matching my tone, he said, ‘Who? London?’

  ‘Treadwell. Treadwell screwed up.’

  ‘I’ve never met the man,’ he said. ‘What did he do?’

  I suspected that should he ever meet Treadwell, this would be something to hold over him. This was how he operated.

  I compressed my lips and then said tightly, ‘He let Maxwell go.’

  He blinked. Good. He wasn’t in the loop. That would rankle. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘The one person who knows almost as much about St Mary’s as Bairstow.’ I let anger bleed into my voice. ‘Maxwell is – was – Head of the History Department and has walked out of St Mary’s and vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Someone’s got him?’

  ‘No one knows. Thanks to Treadwell, Maxwell’s in the wind and anything could happen. There are heads rolling in all directions over this. Word has gone out. No more Mr Nice Guy as far as Bairstow’s concerned. We transfer him to London and he tells us everything he knows, like it or not, and if it kills him . . . well.’ I looked Gaunt in the eye. ‘I can’t afford to waste any time.’

  ‘In that case, why didn’t you bring a helicopter?’

  Because Markham, while quite happy to TWOC pretty well everything that wasn’t nailed down, had drawn the line at heli­copters. Besides, we didn’t need a chopper.

  ‘Standing by,’ I said.

  Gaunt nodded, opened his folder and produced his own paperwork. ‘Sign here.’

  ‘When I’ve seen the prisoner,’ I said, leaving my briefcase on the table as I’d been instructed by Markham.

  ‘There shouldn’t be any trouble,’ he’d said, ‘but keep your hands free at all times. Just in case.’

  Gaunt nodded to the guard in the cubicle. The door ahead of me buzzed. A metallic voice announced, ‘Door opening. Door opening.’

  A uniformed security guard came first. Unarmed – or apparently so. He paused, looked around and caught Gaunt’s eye. Apparently satisfied I didn’t represent a massive security threat – ha, little did he know – he nodded over his shoulder and they brought in Dr Bairstow.

  Another guard escorted him – or supported him would be a better description. My heart sank. For the first time I realised he was elderly. He looked bedraggled; his little bit of hair had grown and fell lankly over his face. He shuffled like an old man. He was wearing grey sweats – normally he would have gone to the stake rather than publicly appear in such garments – and just generally looked seedy and frail. He and his escort waited silently in the doorway.

  Dr Bairstow’s glance passed over me. Completely uninterested. I wondered if perhaps he was drugged, which might be a problem if we had to make a run for it.

  I made a show of looking critically at the prisoner and then said to Gaunt, ‘Can he manage for himself?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s unc
ooperative but no trouble physically. You should be able to get him in and out of a car without difficulty. Do you have far to go?’

  I smiled politely and ignored the question. Need-to-know.

  I was actually very pleased. Everything was going exactly as Smallhope and Pennyroyal had said it would. We’d walked through the procedures so many times I felt quite familiar with everything going on around me.

  ‘If your people could bring him through, please, Mr Gaunt, my sergeant will take it from here.’ Assuming Gaunt’s consent, I continued, ‘Sergeant . . .’

  Markham crossed to the cubicle and held out his hand. ‘My gun, please.’

  The clerk reached for the tray and set it down on the counter. Markham took his gun.

  Gaunt held out his own paperwork again. All I had to do was sign . . .

  Dr Bairstow shuffled towards me. I was pleased to see no one hustled him. He looked so ill. I hoped he could walk as far as the car.

  Markham had his weapon. Mine was still in the tray. Dr Bairstow was shuffling across the room. Gaunt was standing by the table. The two guards stood by the inner door, watching closely. Everyone was exactly where they should be.

  Gaunt laid a double sheet of paper on the table. I leaned over it, read it carefully because this could still go wrong and signed A. B. Bradley (Maj) with a flourish.

  We were going to get away with this. This was going to work.

  Gaunt picked up the paperwork, tore off one sheet and handed it to me.

  ‘The prisoner is now officially yours, Major Bradley. You have responsibility.’

  ‘Thank you, Superintendent Gaunt.’

  Behind us, the red light over the internal door began to flash again. The same metallic voice intoned, ‘Door opening.’

  Gaunt looked over his shoulder and back to me again. ‘Goodbye, Major.’

  ‘Goodbye, superintendent, and thank you. After you, Sergeant.’ I reached out to pick up my briefcase.

  The clerk behind the desk pressed the control and opened the outer door for us. I could see the car park. I could see our car. I could see sunshine and trees. Markham took Dr Bairstow’s arm in a firm grip. ‘Now then, sir, this way, please.’