Jason nodded, forcing down the little thrill he got when he realised he was part of a police operation now. The Jason of two years ago would’ve been disgusted with him, but he didn’t care—he was making a difference. He was useful.
When Amy had handed him that contract, it was like running with the gang again, his best friend by his side. He hoped Amy knew she didn’t have to pay a penny for him to come running if she needed him.
Jason followed the signs to the operating theatres, ignoring the looks he was attracting with his swollen, discoloured face, and rang the bell at reception. A harried-looking nurse came to greet him, wearing a cap and scrubs that were faintly spattered orange. “Yes?”
“I’m...” he hesitated. How was he going to play this? He settled on the truth. “I’m Jason Carr. I’m working with the police on the Cardiff Ripper case. One of your staff may be in danger.”
He certainly got the woman’s attention. “In danger? Who? God, I’ll need to get security down here.”
But Jason held up his hand to halt her panicked rambling. “It’s not that easy. We don’t know which of your staff it is. We only know that she’s here.”
The woman’s face was aghast. “We’ve got over fifty staff here. How are we meant to find her?”
“One at a time. We know she called the police. We just need her to admit to it.”
The nurse looked him over. “Well, you can’t come in like that. You’ll have to change.”
Jason stared at her blankly. “Change?”
“Into scrubs.” She grabbed a pair off the nearby trolley, and a large pair of white slip-on shoes. “Look, change in the office here. I can’t let you into Theatres looking like that.”
Jason sighed impatiently, but did as he was told. They couldn’t afford to waste any more time.
* * *
Amy was following Bryn’s progress in A&E, the cameras absurdly easy to remote access, but he didn’t seem to be making much progress. He was talking to the woman he’d identified as the most likely of her list—a Melissa Johns. She was tall, willowy, and even through the black-and-white of the camera, Amy could tell her hair was pale.
Amy paused, hand frozen in midair above her mouse. What if they were completely wrong about this woman? If you wanted to drive someone mad with jealousy, you did one of two things—you went with someone who was exactly like them, or you found someone who was the complete opposite and whom they could never hope to be.
They’d been looking for a tall skinny blonde, because that was the type of girl he killed. What if they really should’ve been looking for a short, curvy brunette?
Amy scanned through her list of women and found her instantly. Carla Dirusso. Dark black-brown curls, rounded face—lived with her boyfriend, who bought her tickets to the Crash and Yearn gig. And she worked in trauma theatre.
AEON chirruped. Amy flicked to another monitor—there was a new blog post, updated two minutes ago:
I’m so close, freebird. Can you feel me?
She hit speed-dial #1. He answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Jason, you need to get to the trauma theatre. I’ve found our woman—she’s Carla Dirusso, and the killer’s coming for her.”
Chapter Thirty-Four: Flight
Carla checked over her instruments, made one last swab count, and turned to the theatre sister, who nodded that she was finished for the day.
Gratefully shrugging off the heavy sterile gown and gloves, Carla washed her hands methodically, draining away the tension of her shift. A crash on the M4 had seen three trauma victims through theatre. Though none of them were individually complex, it had been a brutal day at the office.
Carla dried her hands and left the theatre, heading back to the locker room to change. There wasn’t a note on her locker, and she breathed a small sigh of relief. The other nurses hadn’t told her about any more phone calls for a few days now, but maybe they were just hiding them.
She knew she should report it to someone, but he wasn’t really doing anything wrong, just calling to speak to her. He never left a proper message, just said that she knew how to find him. She didn’t even know his name.
She’d vaguely remembered a guy who’d approached her at a gig, yammering on about how Crash and Yearn were the twenty-first-century Lynyrd Skynyrd, acting like they were best friends. She’d been polite enough, even taking a scrap of paper off him, until Tom had come back from the bar and made it clear the guy should move on. That was when the phone calls had started. Heavy breathing, the faint strain of music in the background—and always at work. She didn’t know whether to be creeped out that he knew where she worked or grateful he didn’t know where she lived.
But then the photo of that girl appeared on the forum. Then another, and she’d realised that she recognised them from the paper. The missing girls in her city. And while she didn’t have the first idea who the guy was, she knew she had to tell the police about the pictures and that she needed to get the hell away from Cardiff.
Tom hadn’t understood why she went to stay with her parents. He’d never had much patience to begin with and, with her being jumpy the past few weeks, he’d packed his things and got the hell out. She had no choice but to manage the flat by herself, and bills didn’t pay themselves. She’d had to go to work, avoiding Tom in the corridors and dreading the phone calls her colleagues would deflect. Hearing more and more about the dead girls on the news.
She knew she should ring the police again, but what would she tell them? She couldn’t even remember what the guy looked like, wouldn’t recognise his face if he passed her in the street. Contacting the police would just make her a target—just look at that couple who had found the bodies. Their lives were all over the papers the next day. No, she just had to keep her head down until her contract ran out at the end of the month and she could move back to Haverfordwest with her family.
Carla blinked, realising she’d been staring at her locker for about five minutes without moving. She really was exhausted. At least there was a bottle of wine at home with her name on it. She took the padlock off her locker and fished out her watch, placing the delicate silver round her wrist. A present from Tom. She ran her fingers over the face. She needed a new watch.
She tugged off her scrub top, throwing it towards the laundry bin. It overshot and landed in the sink. It was not her day. Not really her week, if she was honest. She pulled off her theatre cap and ruffled her cropped dark hair back into place. The small chipped mirror inside her locker showed dark circles under her eyes, chapped lips. She needed a holiday. She needed the police to catch this killer.
The door opened behind her. Carla reached inside her locker for her sweater, surprised the room wasn’t already heaving with the end of shift rush. She started to unfold the jumper—and realised someone was standing behind her.
Slowly, she turned—and screamed. There was a man in the changing room.
Carla clutched the jumper to her chest and trembled. She did recognise him after all.
“Hello, freebird.”
* * *
“Trauma theatre—where is it?”
This bloody place was a maze and everyone stared at him as if he was insane instead of telling him what he needed to know. The man before him now raised his eyebrows and shook off the hand Jason had attached to his arm.
“The last case is over. You sure you’re not looking for neuro—”
“I need trauma!” Jason said again, increasingly desperate. The man took pity on him and relented.
“That way,” he pointed, and Jason took off running.
He’d been racing around for five minutes trying to find this theatre, hitting dead ends and supply cupboards, but no closer to Carla Dirusso. He’d tried to call Bryn for backup but the signal was dodgy as hell—he had no idea how Amy got through.
Out of breath a
nd panting, he pushed through a door and was met with an empty theatre, a single male nurse staring at him.
“You can’t come in here. This is a clean area.”
“I’m looking for Carla Dirusso,” Jason said, and the man’s reaction was immediate. His eyes hardened and he squared off, marching towards him. Confused by the reaction, Jason held his ground and met the man’s eye. He didn’t have time for this shit, and he had no qualms about landing the nurse on the floor of his “clean area.”
“Are you that creep who’s been ringing round here? I don’t know how you got in—”
“I’m with the police.” Jason’s mind was torn between excitement at having found the woman they needed—and fear that they wouldn’t find her in time. “We think Carla’s in danger. Where did she go?”
The nurse backed off, a worried frown on his face. “It’s him, isn’t it? She went to get changed.”
“Where?” Jason said, already impatient. He couldn’t afford another wild-goose chase around theatres.
But the nurse had some sense about him and strode ahead. “This way. She only left fifteen minutes ago.”
Jason ran after him down the corridor and it was less than a minute before they hit an unmarked locked door. The nurse punched in the code, Jason immediately pushing open the door. The locker room was empty, but there’d been a struggle. A bloody mirror was smashed on the floor, a woman’s top beside it, and a nearby locker left wide open with clothes, keys and phone inside.
Jason rounded on the nurse, who was pale as death and leaning on the wall for support. “How many ways out of here?”
“I d-don’t know,” he stammered. Jason just resisted shaking him, but the nurse caught his glare. “The nearest is the back stairs.”
“Where?” Jason demanded, and the man pointed towards a second door in the locker room. “Other exits?”
The nurse shook his head, shaking as he tried to think. “The main entrance, the lift, the delivery door—”
“Too many.” Jason fished his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. “We’ll need hospital security. Which doors don’t you need a pass for?”
The nurse shook his head. “None. They’re all locked. B-but he might have Carla’s badge.”
Jason pressed the phone tightly to his ear, knuckles white. “Come on, come on—” It connected. “Bryn, our woman is Carla Dirusso and the killer’s got her.” He turned to the nurse and held out his phone. “Tell him what she looks like.”
The nurse took the phone and Jason sprinted across the locker room, leaping over the blood pool, and headed down the back stairs.
* * *
It wasn’t meant to be this way.
His freebird was bleeding, the splash-splash-splash of red echoing up the stairs as he carried her over his shoulder, making their bid for freedom.
He’d startled her. That was all it was. She didn’t recognise him in these clothes and she’d panicked. He hadn’t wanted to push her, but she was screaming and people would come for them before they could get away. People wouldn’t understand.
But he could bear the burden, carry his sleeping love away down the stairs to their future. He could still get them out. Destiny, Fate—his muse wouldn’t let them be taken like this. She believed in them. The universe believed in them.
Smiling to himself, he heard the door at the top of the stairwell slam. That was quick—too quick? His smile faded and he quickened his pace. Another plan. He needed another plan.
“It’s like an adventure, freebird.” As long as they were together. Dead or alive, they’d be together.
* * *
Bryn glowered at the man behind the security desk. “A warrant? Are you serious?”
Without waiting for a response, he slammed his badge down on the desk and leaned forward, voice low and furious. “One of your staff has been abducted by a man who’s killed three women. If she dies because you waited for a fucking warrant, I will come for you.”
After that, security became remarkably cooperative, but it was still taking too damn long. There was backup on the way, but he would be long gone before then. Owain was hovering by the main entrance—more like a shopping centre than a hospital. The likelihood of him using that exit was slim to none, not when he had Carla’s badge. To raise his blood pressure further, Bryn hadn’t heard from Jason and his phone went to voicemail. Bryn tried not to think about that.
His phone buzzed and he read the text. nothing on cctv. sent pics of vic 2 phone. r u with jason? @
She hadn’t heard from him either. Shit.
“No hits on her badge since thirteen-twenty-four,” the man said finally.
“Call me when there is.” Bryn flicked him his card and walked away. The killer was going to use a public entrance, hope to get lost in the crowd. Bryn wouldn’t allow that to happen.
* * *
Jason leaped the last few steps and looked around, his breathing harsh in his ears. Where was the bastard?
The blood trail ended at the bottom of the steps. He’d cleaned up.
What now? Jason forced himself to calm down and look about him, taking in his surroundings. He appeared to be underneath the hospital, dark tunnels full of pipes and poor lighting. It would be easy to miss him down here, with enough towering supply trolleys and dark corners to conceal two people easily, even if he had both Owain and Bryn with him to search.
The tunnel stretched to the right and the left. Jason reached for his phone—and found it missing. He’d left it upstairs with that nurse. Jason slammed his hand against the wall in frustration. He’d lost him.
“Think, you bastard,” he muttered to himself, forcing himself to concentrate. Carla was injured, probably unconscious, definitely bleeding. You couldn’t just walk out of a hospital with a bleeding woman in your arms. He’d have to find something to carry her...
“Oi! Stop right there, mate!”
Jason turned, instinctively held up his hands as a man in uniform approached him. “I’m with the cops,” he said, earnestly. “I’m looking for the missing girl.”
The security guy relaxed—clearly, that was still privileged information.
Jason lowered his hands. “Now, where can I find a wheelchair?”
* * *
He walked into the gift shop and glanced over the shelves. Something in green would bring out her eyes. She could wear it again, when they were alone. That would be nice.
His gaze landed on the perfect match, delicate in silk, and he picked it up, running his fingers over the material. She’d love it. She would smile and thank him, and she would understand then why he had to do this, why they had to be together. She would be grateful, so very grateful. He could already see it in her eyes.
Placing her present on the counter, he pulled out his wallet.
“That’s lovely,” the shop assistant said, smiling at him with reddened lips. “For someone special?”
“My girlfriend,” he said, and couldn’t help the grin that came to his face.
The pretty assistant nodded and folded it carefully. “Would you like a bag?”
“Please.” He watched it vanish, concealed. If she was awake, she could unwrap it. He couldn’t wait to see the surprise on her face. “Thank you.”
She took the crisp tenners he handed her without checking them. He must look trustworthy. His mother had taught him to be polite, neat. The change slid into his palm like the touch of a knife, cool metal between their hands. She was lovely, smiling at him like that, but he was taken now. It would’ve been nice, though.
He walked away with his present and made a beeline for the row of wheelchairs against the wall. Slipping in a pound from his change, he freed a chair and pushed it through the concourse and out into the cool evening air.
Chapter Thirty-Five: In Plain Sight
; Amy chewed on her thumbnail, eyes scanning the security camera feeds from the hospital. She watched Owain hovering nervously beside the jewellery shop, as if the man was about to walk straight past him. For all they knew, he already had.
Bryn had sent an acknowledgement text for the pictures, reported no use of Carla’s badge. That didn’t mean a lot at this time of day—anyone could walk in or out of the place. It was impossible to impose a lockdown on a hospital, and it would never shut, was always full of people, crowds and crowds. Amy’s breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to calm down, breathe deeply. She couldn’t afford to panic now.
There was still nothing from Jason.
It was quarter to six. Carla had been missing for over half an hour. He could be in town by now, back to his bolthole by seven at the latest. Or he could be hiding in a linen cupboard, biding his time. Especially if Carla was dead.
Amy felt a stinging in her eyes, but blinked it away. It was her fault Carla was missing. She should’ve seen it sooner. They could’ve got to her days ago and kept her safe. As it was, she was in the hands of a serial killer who was obsessed with her. That might make her more likely to be alive, but he was unpredictable, had already escalated. The condition they found her in might be worse than death.
Her phone trilled and she jumped on it. “Jason?”
The connection was terrible, but she could make out some words. “Amy...watch out...blood in the...chair...hear me?”
“Move somewhere with signal,” she said, typing one-handed what she had heard him say. Then the line went dead.
Amy sighed with frustration, scanning quickly over the words. Blood—was he hurt? He’d sounded all right, from what she heard, but he was also walking around with a black eye and bruised ribs from his last two street fights. Maybe Carla was bleeding. That would make her more conspicuous, certainly.
Amy nodded, the pieces clicking into place. “A wheelchair. Good boy.” She sent a text to alert Bryn and Owain, and sat back, suspiciously singling out everyone in a wheelchair.
Binary Witness (The Amy Lane Mysteries) Page 16