The Truth

by Peter James

  There was no connection.

  Mr Sarotzini had an icy smile. He took back the receiver and hung up. ‘I think it is so wise that this was only a rehearsal, Susan. Don’t you?’

  She said nothing.

  And Mr Sarotzini said, more kindly now, ‘It is the Nineteenth Truth that tells us that only in the vortex of our deepest fear can we see with true clarity.’

  Chapter Sixty-four

  John slowed for a sleeping policeman, then accelerated on down the drive. As he came round to the front of the clinic, he saw that the visitors’ car park was almost empty, which was normal. The clinic had never seemed busy – he could barely remember seeing anyone other than staff on all the previous occasions that he’d been here.

  Maybe that feeling of privacy and seclusion was the reason for its success, he speculated, as he locked the Chevrolet and walked, under the watchful eye of a closed-circuit camera, through the automatic doors of the main entrance, into the plush cool of the wood-panelled lobby. Today the quietness made him uneasy.

  ‘Help you, sir?’ The man on duty at the desk was black, about forty, and an honours graduate in courtesy.

  ‘I’ve come to see my wife, Susan Carter.’

  ‘And your first name, Mr Carter?’

  John told him, he entered it on his keyboard and, seconds later, the computer printed out his name, time of entry and pass number. The guard tore it off, slipped it into a plastic lapel holder and handed it to John. Then he picked up his telephone, stabbed a button, and said, breezily, ‘I have Mr John Carter to see Mrs Susan Carter, two zero one, Monterey Wing.’

  He replaced the receiver and gave John a beamer of a smile. ‘Someone be right with you to take you up.’ He pointed towards the cluster of low chairs. ‘Have yourself a seat.’

  ‘It’s OK, I know my way around. Tell me where she is and I’ll find her.’

  The guard gave him an apologetic look. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Carter, everybody has to be accompanied – security policy.’

  ‘Wasn’t last time I was here,’ John said, testily, and remained standing, pacing around distractedly. He picked up a brochure on the clinic and flicked through it, glancing at pictures of the rooms, operating theatres, views, the grounds. But he could find no mention of the new owners.

  ‘Mr John Carter?’

  The voice was tinged with a guttural mid-European accent. John turned to see a tall, unsmiling man with close-cropped hair and massive shoulders, staring at him. Dressed in a dark, shiny suit, plain black tie and shiny black loafers, he didn’t fit here. He looked like a minder, not a medical orderly.

  Guardedly, John said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘This way, please, you will follow me.’

  In contrast to his powerful appearance, the man walked lamely, in a hobbling gait, as if he were in pain. John followed him across to the elevator, and as they stood waiting for it to arrive, he was aware that the man was studying him intently.

  ‘How is my wife?’ he asked, awkwardly, feeling as if he was undergoing some physical inspection.

  The man bristled, as if John had asked a forbidden question, then replied, stiffly, ‘She is satisfactory.’

  The double doors opened and John stepped into the car, which was wide enough to accommodate a gurney. Continuing to stare at him, the man pressed a button for the third floor.

  The doors closed slowly and a little jerkily, then the elevator began to ascend. Satisfactory. Susan was satisfactory. Whatever that meant. Was Susan under guard? Presumably. To protect other patients from her? Or, more likely, to prevent her from going anywhere.

  ‘Slow elevator,’ John said, disconcerted by the scrutiny what was still going on, and trying to break the awkward silence. But the response was a narrowing of the man’s eyes and an even more intense stare. Then John noticed that the man’s fists were clenched tight, his knuckles white. His whole face was taut and he was quivering, as if struggling to contain some private rage.

  Alarmed, John eased himself back, away from him, but within a few inches he was pressing against the wall. The light on the panel indicated 3 and the car stopped with a jerk. But the doors remained closed.

  The man looked at them, glanced at the panel, then stabbed a button. Nothing happened. He tried again, with the same result. Then, with a sudden burst of fury, he punched one of the doors with his fist Then he punched the door again, even harder.

  John watched the display of temper, saying nothing. He had a feeling that if he opened his mouth, the man might switch his aggression to him – he looked nuts, a psycho, well on the edge of losing it.

  Without uttering a sound, the man took another swing, and this time he struck the door with such force that John could see it bulge and light appeared down the centre. He hit it again, then again, then again, then again, setting up a reverberating metallic drumming sound, and shaking the car so violently that John became apprehensive that they were in danger of plummeting downwards.

  Then he stopped, and again tried a button on the panel. The car jerked up a couple of inches, halted, and the doors, mercifully, opened.

  With the drumming sound still in his ears, and his temper worsening, John followed the man out, down a corridor and into a small room occupied by a secretary, who was concentrating on her keyboard and barely glanced at them. There was an open door behind her and the man gestured for him to go through.

  John entered a large, well-furnished office that smelled faintly of cigar smoke, then stopped in his tracks. Seated behind the desk, framed by Venetian blinds behind him and a workstation to his right, was Emil Sarotzini.

  John stared at the banker, surprised. It had not occurred to him that he might be here. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

  The banker stood up, smiling courteously, and extended a rigid hand. ‘Mr Carter, how very pleasant to see you here in the United States. Please sit down.’

  John shook his hand coldly, and remained standing. ‘I asked to be taken to Susan, not to you.’

  ‘In good time,’ the banker said.

  ‘I want to see her now. How is she?’

  ‘I have just been with her. She is fine.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

  ‘She is fine, Mr Carter, I can assure you.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your assurances.’

  Remaining calm, Mr Sarotzini replied, ‘Perhaps I should remind you that you were interested a year ago, Mr Carter, when I was all you had.’

  ‘Yes. I must have been a bloody fool. I had no idea quite how ubiquitous you were.’

  The banker looked at him quizzically.

  ‘What a coincidence that your bank should acquire the one clinic in the world in which Susan’s sister is a patient,’ he said sarcastically. Then, digging in his jacket pocket, he produced a tiny dome-shaped video camera, and thrust it across the desk. ‘I think this belongs to you.’

  Mr Sarotzini cradled it in his bony fingers, examining it for some moments. ‘No, Mr Carter, I regret I am not familiar with this object. It is a lamp of some kind, perhaps?’

  ‘Let’s cut the crap. I found twelve of these concealed in the ceilings of my house and a satellite transmitter. You’ve been bugging Susan and me. You’ve been spying on us. Is this how you get your rocks off? Watching us in bed? This is outrageous, grotesque.’

  The banker sat down and made a gesture for John to sit also, which he ignored. After studying John solemnly for some moments, seemingly deep in thought, he said, ‘Events have proven the surveillance to have been a wise precaution, Mr Carter, would you not agree?’

  ‘I didn’t think voyeurism was your style, Mr Sarotzini. For some foolish reason, I thought you were a gentleman. You’re not even going to apologise?’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Carter, you should thank my colleague, Mr Kündz, for his foresight.’ Mr Sarotzini inclined his head, and John suddenly realised that someone else was in the room. He spun round and saw that it was the man who had brought him up here. He was standing behind him, squarely block
ing the door, and acknowledged John’s glance with a hint of mockery in his eyes.

  Mr Sarotzini’s tone became icy. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain, Mr Carter, why your wife disobeyed Mr Van Rhoe’s explicit instructions not to leave London and instead, recklessly, with no thought of the baby’s well-being, flew out here?’

  Angrily, John replied, ‘I’d have thought you knew the reason, since you’ve been able to hear everything in our house for God knows how long. She was scared, OK? Zak Danziger died, then Harvey Addison, then Fergus Donleavy. The one connection between all three was you. And she was informed that her wonderful obstetrician, whom you insisted on, Mr Miles Van Rhoe, has a Scotland Yard file as a devil worshipper. And now my friend Archie Warren’s in a coma, and guess what? He was trying to find out information about you when it happened. Then I find that the Vörn Bank has bought this clinic – and suddenly Susan’s sister is dead. And –’ John checked himself from saying something about Emil Sarotzini the war criminal, who had died in 1947.

  Mr Sarotzini looked at him impassively. ‘These are serious accusations, Mr Carter. I think perhaps you are experiencing some of the stress that your wife has been under. You must be tired after your flight. Would you care for some refreshment? Coffee, perhaps?’

  ‘I want to see Susan. I want to hear her side of what’s happened, before I hear from anyone else, OK?’

  ‘Of course.’ The banker raised his hands expansively. ‘In a few moments. We need to talk first, to understand each other a little more.’

  John shook his head. ‘No, I want to see her now. I want to see my wife right now. Then I’ll come back and talk to you, if I’m happy – and if I’m not happy, I’m calling the police.’

  Mr Sarotzini examined his keyboard tapped out a command, then swivelled the monitor towards John. It showed in colour, Susan lying at a lopsided angle in a bed, breastfeeding a baby. The clock on the wall, clearly visible above her, showed the time as being now. This wasn’t a recording, it was live.

  Relief burst through him. She was all right. Susan was all right, alive. Thank God for that.

  He leaned forward, closer, watching in a swirl of emotions. ‘When did she have the baby?’

  ‘Last night, Mr Carter. She’s a very healthy little girl. They are both doing excellently. I can understand your wish to speak with her, but there are important things that you should know first. Please sit. This is going to take a little time.’

  John hesitated, then looked over his shoulder: the flunkey was still resolutely blocking the door. The sight of Susan had defused some of his anger, and he sat down in front of Mr Sarotzini, then watched Susan again. She was looking at the baby and there was a tenderness in her face, such incredible tenderness. It moved him and, at the same time, gave him a pang of anguish. It was going to devastate her to let this baby go.

  ‘You have been informed, I believe, about the death of Susan’s sister, Mr Carter.’

  He looked at the banker. ‘I had a phone call from Susan’s father telling me something totally crazy – that Susan had killed Casey. There’s no way, absolutely no way, that Susan would have harmed her.’

  Mr Sarotzini nodded, apparently sympathising with his view, then he said, ‘I’m afraid it is much worse than that, Mr Carter. Your wife has killed her sister, Casey, and she maimed Mr Van Rhoe. He has lost an eye and he has irreparable frontal-lobe brain damage. He is paralysed down the entire length of one side of his body, and he will never work again.’

  ‘Van Rhoe? Miles Van Rhoe?’ John stared back at him in disbelief. ‘Her obstetrician? Susan was responsible?’

  ‘I regret so.’

  This was absurd, totally ludicrous. Some bizarre practical joke was going on, some test he was being put through. His eyes went back to Susan, who was transferring the baby to her left breast. He laughed, thinly. ‘Come on!’

  But there was no humour in the banker’s face. ‘It is not something I would have thought your gentle wife capable of, Mr Carter. But how often do we really know anyone?’

  The banker tapped out another command. The image on the screen changed from Susan breastfeeding, to the exterior of a building. It was the clinic, John presumed from the style of architecture, although he didn’t recognise this part. A figure emerged from a door, dressed in green scrubs, wearing a surgical face mask and cap, and holding a cellular phone. The camera zoomed in tightly on its face.

  For a moment it was too difficult to make out just from the eyes, who it was, but it seemed to be a woman. Susan? Then, as she dialled the phone, she tugged the mask down from her face, and John could see clearly that it was Susan. Suddenly, she looked over her shoulder, then began to run.

  Other cameras picked her up from different angles as she raced across a flower-bed, a lawn, then down the drive, three men appearing behind her now, chasing her, two in suits, one in surgical scrubs.

  John watched in horror. Susan tripped over a sleeping policeman and sprawled headlong onto the tarmac drive. She scrambled forward on her hands and knees, grabbed the cellular phone, which had fallen from her grip, and stood up. The man in surgical scrubs had caught up with her and put a restraining hand on shoulder. In a reverse camera angle John could see the man’s face: he was about sixty and puffing with exertion. In that same split second, John saw Susan strike out and stab him in the eye with the pointed aerial end of the phone.

  Blanching in shock, John watched the man, whom he presumed must be the obstetrician, sink to his knees with the phone jammed in his eye, then fall sideways. The camera zoomed in on his face. Blood rolled out around the phone; the man lay still.

  Mr Sarotzini switched off the replay, then slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, formed a bridge with his fingers, and studied John across the top of it.

  John stared back at the banker, feeling sick, the image burning through his mind, replaying itself over and over. There was a tremor in his voice. ‘Wh – what was he trying to do to her?’

  ‘Mr Van Rhoe was going to deliver the baby, Mr Carter, that was all. She was his patient. She ignored his instructions to remain in London, and did a very foolish thing, getting on an aeroplane and flying out here. He very kindly agreed to come out himself, to be available for her.’

  ‘How fortunate she came to a clinic you owned.’

  Mr Sarotzini ignored the barb. ‘I’m afraid Susan has been suffering some form of breakdown, Mr Carter. Her behaviour has been most erratic.’

  John leant forward. ‘Do you blame her? If I was pregnant and discovered my obstetrician was on a police file for devil worship, I’d run too, Mr Sarotzini.’ He watched the banker’s face very closely. ‘Perhaps you knew all about that. Perhaps that was the reason you insisted Susan go to him in the first place.’

  Mr Sarotzini sat up straight, and looked deeply hurt. He sounded hurt, too. ‘I think, Mr Carter, you misjudge me. I admit I have kept your wife under surveillance although, as you may be aware, this is not against the law in your country. But have I, in any other respect, behaved in an untoward manner to either of you?’

  John stared back at him in silence. He was trying hard to think his way through what was happening, and had no immediate answer. Was he making a serious misjudgment in accusing the man?

  ‘Mr Carter, I have saved your business and your home, and I have tried not to interfere with your lives. We made an agreement and I have stuck strictly to my end of it. Regrettably, your wife has not. She has sought help from surrogacy groups on the Internet, she has consulted lawyers, she has disobeyed her doctor’s instructions, she has shown every intention of breaking our agreement and keeping the baby, which is why she is here, and it is why, as you have seen in that regrettable video footage, in an act of total madness she fled from the clinic and savagely attacked Mr Van Rhoe.’

  Mr Sarotzini’s face tightened with anger. ‘And now you have the effrontery to come here, making insinuations to me about the deaths of a composer and two other people, and about someone else who is in a coma, and to imply that in so
me way our acquisition of this clinic is connected to the death of your wife’s sister.’ He pointed to the phone on the desk. ‘Go ahead, Mr Carter, phone the police, please. It will make us both more comfortable. Ask them to come here. Tell them you wish to make a statement.’ He lowered his eyes. When he looked up at John again, he said, ‘And inform them that the directors of the clinic wish to make a statement also.’ He pushed the phone towards John. ‘Please, just lift the receiver, ask the switchboard to connect you.’

  John pressed his hands tightly together. They felt clammy; his whole body felt clammy. He swallowed. Mr Sarotzini pushed the phone even closer towards them, and then, in a sharp jerk, even closer still. John fixed his eyes on it. There were two rows of memory buttons, each with a small plastic window containing a typed name. With a sharp screech on the polished desktop, the telephone moved closer still towards him.

  His eyes remained rooted to it. He was unable to lift them, unable to look Mr Sarotzini in the face. The hideous image of Van Rhoe collapsing to the ground seemed to reflect at him straight from its grey plastic casing.

  ‘Would you prefer that I make the telephone call for you?’

  John looked up, bleakly. Susan had been trying to escape, Christ she must have been desperate. But a confrontation here with Mr Sarotzini wasn’t going to get them anywhere. She had – allegedly – killed Casey and the police had not been informed. She had stabbed Van Rhoe, and again no one had called the police.

  Was Sarotzini trying to protect Susan?

  Or hide something?

  ‘I’m going to talk to Susan before I make any decision,’ John said.

  Mr Sarotzini gestured with his hand. ‘Mr Kündz will take you to her room – but a word of warning first, Mr Carter. I think you need to be careful about what you tell your wife. She is in a state of considerable mental distress. She knows, although she is reluctant to believe it, that she was responsible for her sister’s death by disconnecting her air line. But she seems to have blotted from her mind her attack on Mr Van Rhoe. It is fortunate that there were no witnesses to this incident other than our own staff.’ He inclined his head, giving John a knowing look.