by Andrew Grant
“Stop,” Melissa shouted.
The man turned and fired at her. She slipped, but was straight back on her feet. She took two strides, then dropped down into a kneeling position, her weapon raised. Two more shots rang out, and this time the guy went down. He didn’t stay down long either, but wasn’t as controlled as Melissa. His gun arm was flailing, jerking so wildly it would have been impossible for him to hit anything he was aiming at. But it was guaranteed he was going to hit something, if he pulled the trigger again. And given the numbers, his most likely victim would be one of the children.
Melissa started moving towards him, stooping down to reduce the target she presented. The guy’s gun twitched in her direction, then snapped back to his left. The other new agent was moving, too. Melissa took advantage of the distraction he’d created and charged forward, straight at the guy. He saw her coming, but it was too late to bring his weapon to bear. Melissa launched herself at his chest, sending him reeling, and the agent and I reached them just as he hit the floor.
“You take him,” Melissa said to her colleague, as she regained her feet. “Make sure nothing happens. We need him able to talk.”
It took a moment to spot anyone we recognised from the Kindergarten, but eventually Melissa caught sight of the boy who’d almost been hit by the smoke grenade. We started towards him, watching as he was bumped and buffeted by bigger children who were in a greater state of panic. Then Melissa suddenly changed direction. She’d spotted the two electricians. There were at the far side of the playground, standing near the boundary wall. They appeared relaxed. Detached from the madness around them. And with no sign of Toby Smith.
“Where’s the kid,” Melissa said when we reached them, slightly out of breath from pushing through the crowd. “Aren’t you supposed to be with him?”
“We were,” the guy who’d spoken outside the classroom said. “But he had to go to hospital.”
“What?” Melissa said. “Why?”
“Because of that weird red smoke,” he said. “Didn’t you smell it? The kid took a right lungful, and came over all queasy. So the other officers put him in one the ambulances, and off they went.”
Melissa shot me a worried glance.
“Which hospital are they heading for?” she said. “Did they tell you?”
“Of course,” the guy said. “St Joseph’s.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
I’d thought Melissa’s driving was aggressive on the way to Woolwich, two days ago. But that was before I saw how she cut through the traffic that afternoon between the school and the hospital. And she wasn’t just driving. She was using her phone, too.
She called Chaston, to find out if anything was happening at the Houses of Parliament.
It wasn’t.
She called Thames House, to ask them to intercept the kid’s ambulance.
They couldn’t.
She called St Joseph’s, to see if it had arrived yet.
It hadn’t.
With each new frustration her right foot grew heavier until I was tempted to pick up the phone myself and pre-emptively call an ambulance for the two of us. It was starting to seem inevitable we’d need one. The chances she was taking were becoming untenably crazy. And then, after a particularly near miss with a black cab, Melissa suddenly eased off the accelerator and revealed what was really bothering her.
“Did you hear what those other agents told me?” she said. “The ones who arrived with the fire engines?”
“No,” I said.
“I asked them how they got there so fast. I was thinking, it would take some serious hussle to get out of Thames House and still catch the emergency crews like that. And guess what they told me?”
“What?”
“They hadn’t scrambled in response to the fire at all. They were already there, staking the place out.”
“They were? Why? Have we crossed paths with another case?”
“No. Same case. Think about it. They just happened to have Geiger counters with them, and immediately test the water in the engines’ tanks?”
“So why were they there?”
“They were ordered to be. By Arthur Hardwicke. Last night. You know what that means?”
I took a moment to think.
“He took your theory about the school more seriously than you’d thought?” I said.
“No,” she said. “It means he doesn’t trust me. If he’d trusted me, he’d have told me they were being assigned, and we could have coordinated with them. Not been surprised when they showed up, guns at the ready.”
“But you’re the one who came up with the link between al-Aqsaba’a, the kid, and the school. How does that make you look untrustworthy?”
“He must have thought I suggested the school link so I’d be assigned to it. And sabotage our response to it. Which is exactly what it looks like I’ve done.”
“Not necessarily. The kid breathed in smoke. The protection detail are paid to be cautious.”
“I let the kid slip through my fingers. That’s the bottom line. If anything happens to him, they’ll say it’s my fault. They’ll say I did it on purpose. Mud sticks, David.”
“It doesn’t have to. And it won’t, if we get our hands on the poor little lad and make sure nothing else happens to him.”
There were spaces left for two ambulances at the Accident and Emergency entrance to St Joseph’s when Melissa pulled in, but she was in such a hurry to get inside that our car ended up blocking both of them. A hospital security guard saw us, and made a half-hearted attempt to intervene but he gave it up as a lost cause long before we’d entered the building and reached the reception desk.
“We’re looking for a patient,” Melissa said, flashing her ID card at the middle-aged woman behind the counter. “Name of Toby Smith. He should have been brought in by ambulance in the last five minutes.”
The receptionist took her time to reply.
“Who?” she said.
“Toby Smith,” Melissa said.
“You’re out of luck. Sorry. There’s no one with that name come in here.”
“It’s a complex situation. He might not have been using his real name. He’s around five years old. Male. Have you had any boys that age brought in?”
“I can’t tell you that kind of information.”
Melissa held out her ID once again, and didn’t move it until the woman turned to check her computer.
“Two boys were admitted this morning, yes,” she said. “One was five. The other, six.”
“Good,” Melissa said. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Where they are’s nothing to do with me. You’ll have to ask the triage nurse. She’s the one that decides who goes where.”
“OK. Where is she?”
“Round the next corner. You can’t miss her.”
The triage nurse remembered both the young boys who’d been brought in that day. Her words said the first one had fallen down stairs at home, but the expression on her face told us she didn’t believe the stepfather’s story. On another day I might have been tempted to have a chat with the guy, since she said he was still in the waiting room, but her recollection of the second kid meant that wasn’t a possibility. He was the right age. The right height. He was complaining of the right symptoms. He’d been brought in by the right kind of people. Two fit looking men in their twenties. Friends of the family, they’d told her. And we could see she didn’t believe their story, either.
She said she hadn’t been too worried by the kid’s symptoms, but had admitted him anyway so a doctor could take a closer look. She made a quick call, and told us we could find him in cubicle twelve on the main Accident and Emergency ward.
The ward was long and narrow, with a single row of beds along each side. There were twenty altogether. The spaces between them were wide, to allow for trolleys of special equipment to be wheeled in, and the floor was scuffed and scraped as a result. About a
third of the beds were occupied, and beyond them we could see the two banks of cubicles. But as we approached, we could see that none of them held any patients. We checked the numbers, to be sure, and there was no doubt. Cubicle twelve was empty.
“Do you think they transferred him?” Melissa said. “Or could they have released him already?”
“I don’t think it’s either of those,” I said. “Look at the cot. The sheets haven’t been touched. They’re immaculate. I don’t think he was ever here.”
“You might be right. But the nurse seemed so sure. I’ll go and ask her to check. You stay here. Maybe the kid just needed the bathroom or something.”
Five minutes crawled past, and aside from the two nurses who were bustling between the half-dozen beds that were in use at the other end of the ward, nothing happened. Melissa didn’t return. There was no sign of the kid or his escorts. I was beginning to worry, and when another five minutes elapsed and I was still on my own, I decided the time for waiting was over.
The shift must have just changed, because a new nurse was waiting behind the triage desk when I stepped back into the corridor. She hadn’t seen Melissa, she said, but that didn’t really help. She hadn’t been there long enough. All she could do was suggest I ask at the nurses’ station on the ward.
“Oh yes, I saw your friend,” the ward clerk said, when I’d found the little alcove where she worked. “About ten minutes ago?”
“That’s about right,” I said. “Did you see where she went?”
“Out into the corridor. She seemed in a hurry, so I assumed she was leaving. I think a man was with her.”
“A man? What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. I’m terrible with faces. But I think he works here. I’ve seen him before, coming out of the admin block. I mean, I think he was with her. He might have just been going out at the same time. I’m not sure.”
I didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“OK,” I said, pushing this new information temporarily aside for the sake of the child. “Never mind them now. What about the kid from cubicle twelve? Can you tell me where he went?”
“What kid?” she said. “Cubicle twelve is empty.”
“Exactly. That’s the problem. We’re here to find a kid, and the triage nurse told us that’s where he’d been sent when she admitted him.”
“No. That’s not possible. Sorry. There must be a misunderstanding. It’s been a quiet morning. We’ve only had one little boy brought in. He had a broken arm - a green stick, actually - which we dealt with. And he’s not here any more, anyway. He was discharged a couple of minutes ago.”
“The triage nurse said there were two boys. It’s the other one we need to find.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. He’s not here. See for yourself.”
“He certainly was here. The triage nurse remembered him. Is there anywhere else he could have got to, from the corridor, without coming in here?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, waving to one of the nurses. “Hang on a sec. Megan? Have you seen any kids around here? We might have a wanderer.”
“Not for a while,” the nurse said. “No. Christine had one earlier, though. A little lad. Complete brat. Something wrong with his arm, I think. Not to mention his manners.”
“No others?” the ward clerk said.
“No other patients. Does Serena’s little boy count? She was heading to the staff room with him, just now.”
“I didn’t know Serena had a little boy,” the ward clerk said.
“Nor did I,” the nurse said. “But you know what she’s like. Keeps herself to herself. And I assumed it was her son. It could have been a nephew or something, I suppose.”
“Who’s Serena?” I said.
“One of our physiotherapists,” the nurse said.
“How long has she worked here?” I said.
“She’s quite new. Two months? Three, maybe?” the clerk said.
“And you’ve never seen the kid she has with her, before?” I said.
“No,” the nurse said. “You’re not really supposed to bring your kids to work. But people do, sometimes, if their child care goes pear-shaped.”
“Was anyone else with them?” I said.
“I’m not really sure,” the nurse said.
“How can you not be sure?” I said. “Was anyone else there, or not?”
“Well, a couple of guys were near them,” the nurse said. “They were quite good looking, actually. Tall. And heading the same way. But they were hanging a few yards back.”
“Heading for the staff room?” I said.
“Right,” the nurse said. “A couple of minutes ago.”
“Show me,” I said.
The nurse, Megan, took me back out to the corridor and pointed to a badly scuffed pale green door midway down the far wall.
“That’s it,” she said. “But you can’t go in. It’s more of a changing room, really, than a staff room. It’s where we put our uniforms on. People might be getting dressed in there.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t look. Now, stand back. And whatever you hear, do not follow me in. Not unless I call specifically for you.”
I eased the door open and peeked inside. A privacy screen prevented me from looking any further into the room, but also made sure no one already in there could see me. I stepped through the door, let it quietly close behind me, and drew my Beretta. From there, I could also see the entrance to a closet on my right. A sign said Domestic Staff Only, but it would have been difficult to keep anyone else out. Because its handle had been broken. From the way its mechanism had been torn out of the wood, I’d say it hadn’t been an accident. And in the gap at the bottom of the door, there was another sign of something violent. The edge of a puddle of blood.
My hand was reaching out to open the closet door when I heard footsteps on the other side of the screen. One set. They were light, and fast. Then they stopped, and a woman started to speak.
“Don’t worry, my little angel,” she said. “Your two friends will be back in a minute. And I have great news. The doctors don’t need to see you. They don’t think you need any nasty injections, after all. All you need is a nice long drink of water. That’ll wash away the taste of that horrid smoke, and then you’ll be absolutely fine. You can go straight back to school and catch up with your friends. I bet they’re worried about you.”
I took two steps to my left, rounding the screen and emerging into the changing room itself. It was a rectangular space, large, but surprisingly gloomy because there were no windows. Grey metal lockers lined three of the walls. The space between them was filled with ancient-looking wooden benches. Four rows of them. They were parallel. Two people were sitting on the nearest one. A woman, in her mid thirties, hair tied back, wearing a white polyester uniform with the St Joseph’s logo on its tunic pocket. And next to her, Toby Smith.
She was holding out a large stainless steel thermos flask.
“Here, sweetie,” she said. “Take some of this. It’s nice and cold. Much nicer than ordinary tap water.”
“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to take it. “We never drink tap water at home.”
“You might want to rethink that policy,” I said, moving closer. “Bottled water’s bad for the environment. So do not touch that flask.”
The kid screamed, dived on the floor, and scrambled away from me under the bench. The woman took hold of the flask’s lid and started to twist.
“Stop,” I said.
She’d turned the lid half a revolution. I didn’t know how many it would take to open it. I didn’t even know for sure there was caesium inside the flask. But bearing in mind Melissa’s description of its effect, I was in no mood to find out the hard way. The kid wouldn’t need to drink it, to be in serious trouble. She could just splash it all over him. So I pulled the trigger. Twice. And then I called for Megan.
I didn’t fancy my chances of coaxing a scared five-year-old out into the open, after that.
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Chapter Thirty-Seven
Nurse Megan had hesitated to enter the changing room when I’d called for her. The sight of the woman’s body had stopped her in mid-stride. I was surprised, given most nurses’ professional familiarity with death. But in the end her concern for the kid outweighed her reluctance to come near the corpse. She finally crept in, keeping her back close to the wall, and tried to coax the boy out from under the bench. Even her most persuasive voice was no match for his fear, though, so eventually she settled for sitting on the floor next to him and holding his hand while we waited for the pair of diplomatic protection officers – the ones who’d been dressed as electricians at the school – to arrive and take over.
The kid’s removal left me with no excuse to avoid making a statement about the shooting to another pair of officers. It didn’t take too long, in the end. They didn’t ask anything too awkward. And I wasn’t too worried about what I said, anyway. I knew that even if MI5 didn’t make all record of it disappear, the Navy would.
When I was finished, I found that two more detectives were waiting to ask me about the blood I’d seen under the sluice door. It wasn’t a surprise, but I was still sorry when they confirmed it had come from the officers who’d accompanied Toby in the ambulance. Their bodies had been hidden there. Both of them had been shot at close range, with a .22. Presumably the physiotherapist woman had done it, to clear her path to the kid. She’d probably lured them inside somehow, because she wasn’t big enough to easily have moved their bodies. Or she’d had help, from someone stronger. Or who they’d have trusted. But whatever had happened, piecing it together wasn’t my problem. The only mystery I was still interested in at that point was Melissa’s whereabouts.
I hadn’t heard from her since she’d gone to talk to the triage nurse. There was no answer on her phone. Or Jones’s. Chaston didn’t know where she was. I even tried Leckie’s number. And no one at Thames House could tell me anything useful, either. As a last resort I swung by her apartment on my way back to the Barbican, but that was a fool’s errand, too. The place was cold and dark and empty.