The Raven's Eye

by Barry Maitland

‘Ned Tisdell? You mean from the canal boat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But . . .’ Brock hesitated, then said cautiously, ‘Surely that’s not possible, is it?’

  ‘That’s what I told myself. But I’m sure it was him.’

  Brock sat beside her on the edge of the bed and put a reassuring hand on her good arm. ‘You don’t look well, Kathy. Shall I call a nurse?’

  ‘No, look . . .’ It felt such a struggle to get the words out.

  Brock said, his voice immensely patient, ‘Do you remember me talking to you about Ned Tisdell in the ambulance as we brought you over here?’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘No. I was feeling a bit sleepy, with the painkillers.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I talked to you about him, and then you came here and had a meal and went to sleep. Don’t you think it could have been a dream, your mind replaying what I’d told you in the ambulance?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t a dream. I was out there in the corridor; one of the other nurses found me just after Tisdell ran away, and she brought me back to my room. Look, I know it sounds weird, and I’ve tried to tell myself that I was wrong, but I wasn’t. You see, he recognised me, and looked as surprised as I felt. He began to say something, then turned on his heels and ran away.’

  ‘He was in a nurse’s uniform?’

  ‘Yes, with an ID card clipped to the pocket. He looked neater than before.’

  ‘Okay, so you bump into a nurse in the corridor who looks a bit like Tisdell. He’s surprised to see you wandering around in the middle of the night and begins to say something, then the alarm sounds and he has to hurry back to his station.’

  Kathy took a deep breath. The effort of trying to explain, to convince him, was overwhelming. ‘I’ve been wondering if it’s possible that there was some connection between him and Bragg. Maybe he got involved with someone from Bragg’s gang while he was in prison. Maybe he did jobs for them when he got out, and heard that Bragg was coming back to the UK, and Gudrun discovered something and Tisdell had to kill her . . .’

  She ran out of steam, seeing the expression on Brock’s face, knowing how far-fetched it sounded.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Brock said, ‘I’ll do some checks, here in the hospital, and into Tisdell’s background.’

  He would do it, she knew, so that he could reassure her that she was mistaken. But surely it had been Tisdell; she had looked into his eyes and knew that it was him. And yet, she hadn’t been herself at all, half doped with sleep and pills. ‘Thanks,’ she said, defeated. ‘So what was it you told me about him in the ambulance?’

  ‘That his boat has gone from the canal basin. It seems he disappeared three or four days ago.’

  16

  Commander Lynch was re-energised, like a man from whose shoulders a great weight had finally been lifted, bouncing on the balls of his feet, slapping people on the shoulder, laughing for goodness’ sake. Brock watched this transformation with interest and some relief; perhaps the earlier, darker Lynch was an aberration after all, the effect of a man under extreme pressure.

  Operation Intruder wasn’t finished, however. With considerable relish Lynch was outlining the new trails to be followed, to round up Bragg’s contacts in Stanmore and all the other people who had helped him to get into the country and sheltered him once he was here. Commander Sharpe would never have done this, Brock reflected, taking over the whole operation himself. Serious Crime had dozens, hundreds of cases as important as this one on its books. What was Lynch trying to prove? Who was he trying to impress?

  Brock’s phone buzzed. He saw that it was Sundeep Mehta calling and turned away from the briefing to take the call.

  ‘Brock! I’ve had trouble getting through to you. You’re very busy, I hear.’

  Brock could hear the shriek of a saw in the background, and had a sudden image of a skull being cracked open. ‘We’ve had a bit of excitement, Sundeep. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Something rather curious, old chap.’ Sundeep liked to affect a ripe public school accent when he had something juicy to impart.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘We did the PM on Ashur Najjar this morning.’

  ‘Yes?’ Sundeep was spinning it out, toying with him, and Brock didn’t have time. He could see Lynch moving on to a street map of Stanmore and talking about phone intercepts.

  ‘I got a very snooty phone call from someone in the Home Office telling me that I was to give it top priority.’

  ‘Because it was a police shooting, I suppose?’

  ‘That’s what I assumed. But he did ask me—no, order me, in the nicest possible way—to accommodate another doctor at the PM, but not a pathologist.’

  ‘Oh? What was he?’

  ‘He didn’t say, but I looked him up—he’s a cardiac surgeon!’

  ‘Why? Did Najjar suffer from a heart condition?’

  ‘I wish I could tell you, old bean. When we opened the thoracic cavity he stepped up and said he had instructions to remove the heart, just like that! I was flabbergasted. I phoned back to this chap at the Home Office and he confirmed it, said the heart was needed for special study, wouldn’t say why. So I had to stand back while our friend removed it, weighed it and put it in a cold box he’d brought with him. I didn’t get a chance to look at it at all. Then he just observed us, saying not a word, while we carried on with the post-mortem. What do you make of that?’

  ‘Had Najjar been shot in the heart?’

  ‘No. Two bullets passed through the lower abdomen and one—the fatal shot—hit his head.’

  ‘Could they have wanted it for a heart transplant?’

  ‘No, no, it was far too late for that. I guessed it must be part of some kind of research program, but I haven’t been able to find any reference to such a thing. And why was the man so uncommunicative?’

  Brock could imagine Sundeep in the pathology suite, trying with mounting frustration to tease information out of the surgeon.

  ‘Let me know if you hear anything more,’ Brock said. ‘I’m in the middle of a meeting—’fraid I have to go.’

  ‘Well, I feel like putting in a formal complaint. It’s most irregular. He did promise to send me a report on the heart, but still, it was my post-mortem.’

  Odd, Brock thought as he rang off. He returned his attention to Lynch, who was setting out his strategy for the follow-up operations.

  Kathy was taken for another X-ray, then another session with the doctor who had seen her when she checked in to the Pewsey Clinic. Dr John Partridge was a youngish man with a brisk, confident air and the sort of considerate bedside manner that one might expect in an expensive clinic. He removed the dressing on her shoulder and examined her stitches. Bragg’s cleaver had penetrated the fabric of her protective vest and given her a deep flesh wound about ten centimetres long, as well as snapping the collarbone. Kathy glanced down and saw that the whole of her left shoulder was swollen and purple.

  ‘The resetting of the bone has been successful,’ the doctor said. ‘Clavicle fractures usually heal well. You should have full union of the bone within four months, full mobility in six and full strength in nine, all being well.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long.’

  He smiled. ‘We’ll keep your arm in a sling for three or four weeks to allow initial bone and soft tissue healing, after that there’ll be a regime of therapeutic exercise.’

  A nurse replaced her dressing, fitted her sling and returned her to her room. She was feeling better today, her head clear, appetite back.

  She had a succession of visitors—Brock, Lynch, someone from Human Resources, and then someone she didn’t know, a woman dressed in a smart black suit, with a sharp haircut and scarlet-framed glasses.

  ‘I’m Superintendent Suzy Russell, Kathy,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘I head up a new unit you may have heard of, the Digital Security Task Force. The acronym is DiSTaF—my idea.’ She gave a little smile.

  ‘We’ve been helping Commander Lynch on the Bragg case, and I just wanted to
meet you personally to thank you for the part you’ve played, and commiserate for all you’ve had to go through.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Kathy was impressed—she seemed very confident, intelligent, focused.

  Suzy Russell went on, asking her how she felt, whether she was being looked after, what she needed, listening to Kathy’s answers with an empathy that made Kathy warm to her. She had a flat Midlands accent that made her sound practical and down-to-earth.

  ‘I’ve also inherited this place for my sins,’ Russell added with a raised eyebrow, looking around the room. ‘The Met has had a role in the security of Pewsey for some time, simply because of the kind of patients who come here—the rich and famous—and the kind of unwanted attention they can attract. We’ve had to be a bit more proactive than just sending the local safety officer round to advise on locks and alarms. So I was concerned to hear that you’d seen an intruder in here while they were rounding up Bragg last night.’

  Kathy was disarmed by the way she said it—that Kathy had seen an intruder, not just imagined she’d seen one, which had been everyone else’s reaction.

  ‘Yes, though everyone seems to think I must have got it wrong. I certainly was a bit groggy.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve got to take it very seriously. This man you recognised, Ned Tisdell, tell me about him.’

  ‘I only met him the once, by his canal boat near Little Venice, though he made a pretty vivid impression.’ She described the circumstances, and her later discovery that he had a record.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a copy of it.’ Russell took a file from her shoulder bag and took out Tisdell’s police mugshot. ‘This is him, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly not on the staff here. You noticed an ID card, didn’t you? That’s what bothers me. Did you happen to see the name on the card?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘The thing is, he would have needed that card to get through the security scanners to enter this place. But we’ve checked the scanner records and every entry is accounted for. To bypass the system he would have had to use some pretty sophisticated electronics.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘There is one other alternative.’ Russell took a second photo from her file and showed it to Kathy. ‘This bloke is on the staff here, and was on duty last night. He remembers meeting a patient in the corridor just before the alarm went off. To me he looks a bit similar to Tisdell. What do you think? Take your time.’

  Kathy stared at the picture. The resemblance was there, similar features but smartened up. ‘It does look a bit like him.’

  ‘The corridor lights were dimmed, weren’t they? Do you think it’s possible you were mistaken?’

  Kathy’s heart sank. ‘I suppose,’ she said heavily. ‘I suppose it’s possible. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Russell briskly tucked the file back into her bag. ‘It’s easily done. Better safe than sorry. Now look, you’ve been through a lot. You need to relax for a while and forget about work. Later on, when you’re recovered, I want you to come and see me and I’ll tell you about DiSTaF. I’m looking for people like you. But in the meantime, put your feet up and get stuck into a good book. Tonight, order yourself a glass of Moët before your dinner.’

  Kathy laughed. ‘I wish.’

  The superintendant departed, leaving Kathy feeling slightly bothered. Russell had been sympathetic and direct, and the explanation she’d offered for Kathy’s false sighting of Tisdell was entirely plausible. Yet she couldn’t shake off the vague sense that she had been very smoothly manipulated.

  Later, Mickey Schaeffer and Pip Gallagher, another detective from Brock’s team, came to see her, carrying flowers, grapes and her laptop. They spoke about how upbeat the atmosphere in the office was now, and how Lynch seemed like a changed man.

  ‘They should have broken both the bastard’s legs,’ Mickey said.

  ‘What, they broke Bragg’s leg?’ Kathy said.

  ‘Yes!’ Pip cried. ‘Poetic justice, eh, after what he did to you?’

  ‘No one’s told me anything,’ Kathy said. ‘He put up a fight, did he?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mickey grinned. ‘He got a bit roughed up. He’s in . . .’ He stopped suddenly, bit his lip, then went on, ‘He’s still in treatment.’

  Kathy looked at him. ‘What were you going to say, Mickey?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘He’s not here, is he?’

  Mickey frowned at the floor.

  She stared at him in disbelief. ‘He is, isn’t he?’

  Pip said, ‘Is he, Mickey? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No one’s supposed to know,’ Mickey conceded reluctantly. ‘I only heard it by accident. They reckon this is the safest place. Don’t worry, Kathy, he’s in the secure wing. He can’t get to you.’

  Kathy felt a sudden heave of panic. She took a deep breath, fighting down the nausea. More deep breaths. Slowly, she told herself. Slowly.

  ‘Kathy, I’m sorry.’ Mickey sounded worried. ‘Just forget I told you, please.’

  ‘Forget!’ she exploded. ‘Christ, Mickey, I’m not gaga. You think I shouldn’t know a thing like that, that I’m locked up in the same building as the man who wants to chop me into Oxo cubes?’

  ‘Kathy, Kathy . . .’ He held up his hands. ‘Take it easy. It’s all under control.’

  ‘That’s what they said about the ambush at his house. Does Brock know this?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Then how the hell do you know?’

  ‘I told you, I overheard—’

  ‘Bullshit! Who told you?’

  Mickey sighed. ‘Kathy, if you tell them I told you it’ll cost me my job. You’ve got to calm down, there really is no need to panic. I’ll sit outside your door all night long if you want.’

  ‘Piss off, Mickey.’

  He got to his feet, head down. ‘Yeah. Sorry.’

  They watched him leave, closing the door softly behind him, then Pip said, ‘Oh, shit. Do you want me to tell Brock, Kathy?’

  Kathy took another deep breath, feeling the anger and panic subside. ‘No, better not. Don’t want to lose Mickey his job, do we?’

  When she was on her own again, Kathy studied the building plan mounted by the door of her room, showing the fire escape routes, and identified an extension to the main house marked Secure Area. It contained a cluster of individual rooms labelled Ward S, along with a larger suite called Laboratories. She went for a walk down the corridors and eventually found the place where a pair of doors gave access to the secure area. They were locked and bore a sign Access for authorised staff only. There was a scanner to one side of the doors, and a pair of cameras covering the area.

  She returned to her room, powered up her laptop and typed the name of the clinic into Google Earth. She studied the aerial view that came up on the screen, the house in its parkland setting beside the river and the precise geometric figure of the maze in which Bragg had been trapped. The closest part of the house to the maze was the secure wing, served by its own access road branching off the entrance drive. It would have been a short hop to bundle Bragg straight in there from the maze—or had he been processed somewhere else first and then brought back?

  She zoomed out to take in more of the surrounding area of Richmond and Twickenham, and noticed a number of jetties and piers along the river where small craft and narrowboats were moored, most noticeably at Eel Pie Island, where there was a crowded boatyard.

  She was interrupted by a knock on the door and a nurse came in carrying a tray on which stood a tall flute of champagne. ‘Compliments of Superintendent Russell,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Wow,’ Kathy said. ‘I must have done something right.’ She closed the laptop awkwardly with her one good hand and took the glass. ‘She mentioned that you have a secure wing here. I bet they don’t get this sort of treatment.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t think it’s that sort of secure—it’s more for special patients who need c
omplete privacy. But I’ve never worked there, they have different staff. Give me a ring if you want a top-up.’

  Not reassured, Kathy sat by the window sipping her drink thoughtfully, then opened her laptop again to see what she could find out about DiSTaF. The Metropolitan Police website gave it a short entry, describing it as a specialist support unit. Its mission statement included the formulation of strategies for accessing and securing digital communications of all kinds for the Met, the acquisition and development of new digital technologies, the support of criminal investigations and the shaping of digital policy. Kathy didn’t see how she could contribute much to any of that, but still, it was flattering to be asked, or at least hinted at being asked.

  In any case, she thought with a sigh, according to her doctor she wasn’t going to be in a position to do much about it for months.

  17

  The following day Kathy told Dr Partridge that she wanted to leave. He shook his head.

  ‘Not yet. It’s a nasty fracture and I’m concerned that a bump might mean we have to reset it. Aren’t we making you comfortable enough here?’

  ‘It’s very comfortable, thanks, but I’m impatient to get home.’

  They compromised on one more day.

  Brock visited soon after. They took a walk out into the grounds and into the maze, where a taped-off area of ruined hedges showed evidence of Bragg’s capture.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘No. So far Lynch has kept him under wraps.’

  ‘I heard he was hurt.’

  ‘Yes. Nothing too serious, unfortunately.’

  ‘I even heard a rumour that they were holding him here.’

  ‘Here? No.’ Brock frowned. ‘No, that can’t be right.’

  ‘No, well, I suppose Superintendent Russell would have told me, but it did make me wonder, her coming out here.’

  ‘Suzy Russell? She came here?’

  ‘Yesterday. She called in to wish me well. She seemed quite concerned about my imaginary sighting of Ned Tisdell.’

  Brock frowned, staring at the broken privet, then said, ‘As soon as they’re satisfied with you here, Kathy, Suzanne wants you to go down to Battle and stay with her for a bit. Get out of London—fresh air, fresh scenery. What do you say?’