by Adam Hamdy
‘Everything OK?’ the detective asked.
‘Fine,’ Wallace replied. ‘Let’s go.’
Bailey didn’t say much to Wallace as they drove west, and instead spent most of the time on his phone, coordinating with his team. They agreed the concourse at Euston Station as the location for Wallace’s arrest. Someone named Superintendent Cross told Bailey that SCO 19 had been put on standby, ready for Wallace’s transfer to the Maybury. Wallace felt reassured by the level of preparation going into his staged capture.
‘When do I get a weapon?’ he asked, as they passed St Pancras.
‘In the hospital,’ Bailey replied. ‘Anything you have on you now is going to get confiscated. As far as everyone else is concerned, this is a real bust.’
Wallace reached into his pocket and produced a little over seven hundred pounds, which he showed to Bailey. ‘I’d better leave this with you,’ he suggested.
‘Put it in the glove box,’ Bailey instructed.
Wallace held back twenty pounds, which he stuffed in his pocket, before opening the glove compartment and tucking the rest of the cash underneath the owner’s manual.
‘Sorry,’ Bailey said, catching Wallace by surprise. ‘You must have been going nuts in there. You shouldn’t have had to find the evidence yourself.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment, but I think we’re probably even,’ Wallace replied. ‘I worked most of my frustrations out on you.’
Bailey rubbed his jaw, recalling the assault.
‘Just make sure you catch the guy,’ Wallace said.
‘We will,’ Bailey responded with confidence. ‘We’re almost there. I’m going to turn into Gordon Street. When I stop, jump out and go straight to the station. The arresting officers will be there in about ten minutes. Just hang around where they can see you.’
Wallace looked puzzled.
‘You’ve been all over the Met Briefing sheets. You’re a wanted man,’ Bailey explained.
‘Great,’ Wallace observed sarcastically, as Bailey turned the corner.
The car pulled to a halt in a Red Zone loading bay and Wallace jumped out.
‘See you soon,’ Bailey called out, as Wallace slammed the door. He started walking towards the station and looked back to see Bailey drive south.
Wallace lifted his hood and joined a small crowd of pedestrians waiting to cross the busy junction on Euston Road. After a minute, the lights turned red and the green man illuminated. He walked across the road and up the diagonal path that cut between two imposing office blocks. He entered the station and crossed the large, black-tiled concourse. He didn’t know whether it was nerves or real pain, but his collarbone had started to throb, so he went into Boots and bought another pack of Paramols. He lied to the cashier and told her it was his first time on them. He paid for the pills and took two as he exited the shop. He’d been on them for more than the recommended three days, but suspected this would be his last opportunity for a dose. With his impending hospitalisation, he’d be back on a cocktail of mind-numbing medication very soon. He saw fluorescent yellow tops across the concourse and drew closer until he saw two uniformed officers, one male and one female. Wallace dropped his hood and walked nonchalantly towards them.
The woman spotted Wallace first. He was about thirty feet from them when he saw the flash of recognition. Wallace pretended not to notice, but saw the stout policewoman nudge her gangly colleague. Satisfied that they were moving towards him, he looked up at the departures board.
‘John Wallace,’ the policeman said, ‘you are under arrest.’
Simultaneously, Wallace felt a forceful pair of hands grab his forearms. A knee went into his back, and he was forced down to the ground. He cried out in genuine pain.
‘Calm down!’ the policeman ordered. ‘Get down!’
Wallace was pushed flat on his stomach.
‘Arms behind your back!’ the policeman commanded.
Wallace complied, and when he turned his head in an effort to see what was happening, he caught sight of Euston’s travellers backing away. A few had their phones out and were filming the arrest. Wallace felt a smaller hand on his head, turning it back towards the floor.
‘Look down,’ the policewoman instructed.
Heavy cuffs coiled around Wallace’s wrists, biting tightly.
‘I’m going to help you up,’ the policeman informed Wallace. ‘Your hands are shackled, so you will not be able to properly support yourself in the event of a fall.’
A hard tug on his biceps indicated it was time to rise. With both officers’ assistance, Wallace struggled awkwardly to his feet.
‘This way,’ the policewoman directed.
Another tug informed Wallace which way to go, and he was frogmarched through the station, with the officers flanking him closely.
‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,’ the policeman recited. ‘Do you understand?’
Wallace nodded as they led him out to the covered walkway that ran between the station and Melton Street. There, waiting near the pelican crossing, was a police car, its blue lights pulsing rhythmically.
Processed and packed into a cell within an hour, Wallace had to remind himself that he was incarcerated voluntarily. But the police officers who brought him in, the custody sergeant and his colleagues didn’t know that, so Wallace was given the same dehumanising treatment as every other suspected criminal. His meagre belongings had been taken, along with any items of clothing he could possibly use to harm himself – in Wallace’s case, his shoelaces. He’d been asked a number of intrusive questions about his personal life, his health and his background, and finally, when they’d taken everything they desired, he’d been led to the cell block; a long corridor lined with eight red metal doors on either side. Wallace had been thrust into the third one on the left, which contained a melamine bunk and toilet, no natural light, and no stimulus whatsoever. It made his cell at the Maybury seem like a luxury suite.
Wondering how many unhappy people had spent countless miserable hours here, Wallace sat down on the bunk and waited.
He lost track of time. Bailey knew he was in custody, so why was he taking so long? Frustration rose like a hot tide, engulfing his body in its angry swell. Acting as bait was difficult and dangerous enough; he didn’t need the added stress and discomfort of being treated like a normal prisoner. He stood up and started pacing. He could feel the confinement getting to him and dark thoughts wormed their way up from the fertile corners of his mind. This might be a ruse to get him back into custody. Bailey probably hadn’t even looked at what was in the folder. Worse still, this was a trick to lure him to the killer. The second attack had taken place after Bailey had given the hospital his real name. What if Bailey was in league with his assailant? Wallace took a deep breath and tried to disperse the darkness clouding his mind, but he struggled; he had good reason to be paranoid.
Metal struck metal, and the clanging sound startled him. Wallace turned to see the cell door open. Bailey stood in the doorway with the custody sergeant at his shoulder.
‘Mr Wallace, you’re to be transferred to the Maybury Hospital,’ Bailey said. ‘Follow me, please.’
Bailey led Wallace out of the cell block and down a corridor that was capped by a large metal door. The policewoman who had arrested Wallace held the door open, and Bailey ushered him outside. They emerged into a car park that was filled with police cars, vans and bikes. There were a few unmarked vehicles, but most of them bore the familiar orange and blue livery. Bailey pulled him towards a waiting police van, its rear doors gaping like the jaws of a trap. Wallace climbed aboard to find the arresting policeman sitting on one of the two benches that lined either side of the vehicle. Bailey pushed Wallace towards the opposite bench and then sat next to the arresting officer. The policewoman slammed the rear doors shut. The last rays of the dying sun shone through the windows, which were l
aminated with one-way plastic. Cargo secured, Bailey rapped the divider that separated the holding area from the cab. The engine roared to life and, a moment later, the van started moving.
‘I could have run him down, sir,’ the policeman said to Bailey.
‘It’s personal. I want to make sure he gets taken care of,’ Bailey replied, rubbing his chin and fixing Wallace with a menacing stare.
Was this part of the act?
The policeman smiled slyly, satisfied with his superior’s response.
The rest of the journey passed in silence. Wallace wasn’t a human; he was a criminal and merited none of the courtesies most people took for granted, like conversation or concern. This suited him fine; he was used to solitude. Even on a film set, he was an outsider; a voyeur chronicling the lives of others.
Bailey wore a watch, which enabled Wallace to see that the journey south took exactly one hour and thirty-eight minutes. They arrived at the Maybury Hospital at quarter past seven. Wallace felt a dry lump climb into his throat when the van doors opened and he saw Doctor Taylor and Keith waiting for him. He resisted the powerful urge to shout the truth of the situation, and allowed Bailey to lead him out of the van.
‘Welcome back, John,’ Doctor Taylor said with a smile. ‘Keith will see you to your room.’
Keith’s chubby fingers took tight hold of Wallace’s upper arm and pulled him towards the main entrance. The windows Wallace had smashed hadn’t been repaired yet; just covered with long pieces of plywood.
‘Never works,’ Keith advised. ‘Running away just lets us know you’re a long way off being better.’
Wallace wasn’t paying attention to the fat man. He craned his neck to see what Bailey was doing.
‘I’d like to talk to you about the additional security, DS Bailey,’ Taylor said as he approached Bailey. ‘I really don’t think it’s necessary.’
Wallace didn’t hear any more. Keith pulled him inside the building, where a square-jawed man with burning eyes sat behind the reception desk. One of the cops, maybe? The man eyed Wallace with intense hatred, as Keith produced a key card and swiped it through the reader. The security door opened and Wallace felt a wave of panic. He was back, trapped, helpless and without the weapon Bailey had promised him. He was totally reliant on the strength of others for protection.
Keith led him through the canteen. The other inmates were having dinner, and Wallace couldn’t help but feel he was their cautionary tale, proof positive that escape was a futile endeavour. He locked eyes with Heather, who looked as sad as ever. When she smiled sympathetically, Wallace wished he could tell her – tell them all – that he was back voluntarily as part of a special mission to catch a killer. But who’d believe a tale like that in a place like this? Rodney shook his head slowly as Wallace was paraded past, the pathetic man registering his disapproval of the escape attempt. Fat Bob waved, and even Button offered a flicker of recognition at the return of his TV buddy.
Satisfied that enough eyes had seen Wallace, Keith pulled him out of the room and led him to the shower block. Wallace stripped and went into one of the cubicles, where he washed with the red gel. His bruises had lost some of their anger and were starting to fade. Only his collarbone still had the rainbow tie-dye discolouration that now looked worse than it felt. Keith smacked the cubicle door to signal that Wallace’s time was up. He turned off the shower and stepped outside to the depressing sight of the hospital’s pyjamas and Crocs placed in a neat pile on a bench that ran the length of the room.
‘Get dressed,’ Keith instructed. ‘Food’s waiting in your room. You’re on special measures.’
Wallace smiled inwardly. They thought it was punishment to deprive him of the company of his fellow inmates, but it was a relief. The less he was exposed to the damaged people who shared his incarceration, the more chance he had of keeping himself positive.
Once dressed, he followed Keith to his cell. It was the same one he’d escaped from. Inside, sitting on his old bunk, was a tray with a sandwich, an apple, a slice of cake and a carton of pineapple juice. It looked like the contents of a child’s picnic box, but it was food, and Wallace approached it eagerly.
‘Good night, Mr Wallace,’ Keith said, before he shut the door. Wallace heard the spring-loaded lock click securely into position.
Welcome home.
Connie ordered pizza from Il Baccio, but it wasn’t the same without John. She couldn’t believe how close they’d grown in such a short space of time. Without him there, her mind started playing to her insecurities. Maybe their intimacy was simply the product of his trauma. Maybe as time passed, Wallace was cooling on her. Maybe that’s why he had jumped at the detective’s proposition. Wallace had always been difficult to read, and lived in his own head most of the time, something that had infuriated Connie when they were together. She had learned to recognise the signs: a distant look, a total lack of engagement with anything or anyone around him. Entire conversations could be lost on him because he simply wasn’t there. Instead he was confined to his own mind, trying to give life to a creative concept, or, as was more common during their relationship, trying to solve a difficult problem. The problem that occupied him for the duration of their relationship – convincing the Masterson Inquiry of the truth of his testimony – was one that could never be solved. Wallace had turned in on himself, destroying their relationship and almost destroying himself in the process. He says he’s moved on, Connie told herself, but maybe he knows that’s exactly what you want to hear. With doubts plaguing her mind, she went to the 1970s Habitat unit she’d secured at a car boot sale, and opened one of the wonky doors. She was greeted by her small DVD collection and selected Magnolia. It was the only film that would adequately reflect her mood.
Wallace had finished his meal hours ago and was lying on his bunk counting speckles in the ceiling, when he heard the door open. He assumed it was Keith coming to collect the tray, but was surprised to see Bailey. Keith loomed at the policeman’s shoulder.
‘Give us a minute,’ Bailey told the heavy orderly.
Keith wavered; the visit was already a serious breach of protocol, but Bailey shot him a look he couldn’t disobey. When the orderly stepped away, Bailey hurried forward and pulled something from his jacket pocket.
‘I didn’t forget. Keep it hidden,’ Bailey said as he handed Wallace a small rectangular object wrapped in black cloth.
Wallace unfolded the material and saw the electrical pincers of a stun gun. Not a Taser, but at least it was something.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘What for?’ Bailey looked puzzled. ‘I never gave you anything. We don’t know who this guy is or how he’s tracking you. Keep your eyes open, and trust no one but me.’ He stepped away and turned towards the door. ‘And if you ever give me any more shit, you’ll be rolling out of here in a wheelchair!’ he yelled for the benefit of Keith, who was undoubtedly eavesdropping in the corridor beyond.
Bailey backed out of the cell. ‘You can lock him up,’ he instructed Keith, before stalking down the corridor.
Sporting a beaming smile, Keith entered and picked up Wallace’s tray. ‘You listen to the nice policeman. There’s a couple of guards who’d like to help him put you in that wheelchair.’ He smiled as he tapped Wallace on the head with the plastic tray.
Wallace resisted the desire to electrocute the orderly with the stun gun that was under his left thigh; it was intended for bigger prey. Instead, he simply smiled blankly at Keith, who left the cell and slammed the door shut behind him.
Wallace pushed the stun gun into the back of his trousers and lay down to count the speckles in the ceiling.
16
Connie felt washed out when she woke the following day. She wondered what she was doing to herself. When she’d left John, the loss had hit her hard enough to knock her into therapy. She’d opened her home, her bed and her heart to the man far too easily, and there was no guarantee they had any sort of future together. The dark cloud was still there, raining doubt on to h
er fertile imagination. Just roll with it, she told herself as she clambered out of bed.
Once showered, she pulled on a pair of old Levis, a sleeveless floral blouse she’d found in a vintage shop in Islington, and an oversized grey sweater. Shoes were her weakness, and she picked out a pair of Aubrey boots that she’d treated herself to in Kurt Geiger.
She sat at her dressing table and looked in the mirror. She knew she was blessed with great skin, which required very little maintenance. Mascara, eyeliner and lipstick were her cosmetics of choice. Once they were applied, she brushed her hair back into a loose ponytail and put on her boots. She went into the living room and picked up Wallace’s laptop bag. Slinging the satchel over her shoulder, she grabbed an apple and left the flat.
Sunday trains were few and far between, so Connie caught the 73 from the corner of Stoke Newington High Street. She climbed the stairs and took a seat at the front of the upper deck. The bus wound through the back streets of London and took just under an hour to deliver her to Victoria Station.
As she left the bus, Connie checked her phone for the text message she’d received from Riley Cotton. He had responded to her inquiry at 4:03 a.m. – Connie knew the exact time because the message alert had woken her up. She hadn’t seen him for years, but was surprised to discover that the address he’d given her was in Pimlico. Riley had obviously come a long way from the days when he was programming customer applications for Connie. A Java developer and amateur hacker, he was cocksure to the point of abrasive arrogance, even by the standards of the IT industry. He was difficult to work with and terrible at interviews, so Connie was pleased that he’d landed on his feet. She wandered along Victoria Street, looking for number 68.