Department 18 [04] A Plague of Echoes

by Maynard Sims

  “I know this sounds trite, but why me?” Crozier said.

  “Well, there seems little doubt that you were targeted. An old adversary getting their revenge maybe.”

  Crozier shook his head. “Unlikely. I’ve rarely have direct dealings. Had it been you or Carter, or even McKinley for that matter, I would have said that was the most likely scenario, but I spend my life stuck behind a desk. I haven’t been out in the field for nearly twenty years.”

  “But you are head of Department 18.”

  Crozier shook his head. “No, sorry, Harry. You’re barking up the wrong tree with that theory. No, there has to be something else. Something we’re missing.”

  Bailey poured himself a glass of water from the jug and sipped it. His lips were dry and his mouth tasted foul. Once upon a time he would have got rid of the dryness and the taste with a large scotch. These days he didn’t dare contemplate it. He’d fallen off the wagon twice before and he knew from bitter experience how hard it was to climb back on.

  “Sorry, gentlemen,” Bridge said. “Time’s up.”

  “You’d better go,” Crozier said and watched as Bailey got to his feet, a vague, faraway look in his eyes.

  “Are you all right,” Crozier said.

  Bailey shook himself. “Just tired, I guess. It’s been a long day.”

  “Mr. Bailey?” Bridge said.

  Bailey stared at her, but to Bridge it was if he were looking straight through her.

  “One more thing,” he said and then turned and launched himself at Crozier, clamping his hands around his boss’s throat.

  “Stop!” Bridge yelled and ran across to them, grabbing Bailey’s arm and tugging, trying to make him release his grip. Bailey let go for an instant and swung his arm back, catching Maria Bridge across her nose, breaking it with a loud snap and knocking her to the floor. And then his hand was back at Crozier’s throat, squeezing the life out of him.

  With blood pouring from her broken nose and with a kaleidoscope of colored lights playing in front of her eyes, Bridge hauled herself to her feet and stumbled to the door. “Nurse!” she yelled. “Somebody! I need help in here!”

  She wheeled back into the room. Crozier’s face was turning blue and the display on the VS machine was jumping as Crozier’s body and brain started shutting down. Bridge’s vision was starting to dim as unconsciousness threatened to overwhelm her. She staggered back against the wall, colliding with a small metal cabinet on wheels and knocking its contents to the floor. An alarm signal from the VS machine filled the room, a high-pitched squeal that pierced through her dimming thoughts, galvanizing her into action. She heard the sound of running footsteps in the corridor. Her fingers closed around something metallic and heavy and she pitched herself towards the bed.

  “And I woke up here,” Bailey said to Carter who sat across the table from him in the police interview room.

  Carter stared back at him, noting the diagonal gash on his forehead and the bruising around his eyes. “What happened to your face?”

  “The doctor happened. Maria Bridge laid me out with a stainless steel bedpan.” Bailey smiled ruefully. “She saved Simon’s life in the process.”

  “For the second time today,” Carter said. “Quite a woman.”

  Bailey nodded and then buried his face in his hands. “What a bloody mess. I should never have gone to the hospital. I was too tired. My defenses were down.”

  “So you were possessed?”

  “Have you a better explanation?”

  Carter shook his head.

  “Simon and I have been friends for years,” Bailey said. “You know better than most that he can be a pain in the arse, but me trying to strangle him? Come on, Rob, you know me better than that.”

  “So why call me and not a lawyer. I take it you used up your one phone call.”

  “I don’t know any solicitors…none who would work for me anyway,” Bailey said candidly. “I figured you might be able to sweet-talk the Detective Inspector. I need to get out of here tonight. That’s the second time today an attempt has been made on Simon’s life. There might be a third. I need to be there.”

  “And the last time you were with him, Harry, you tried to throttle him. Not a good recommendation. Even if I can get you out of here, you’re not going to be allowed anywhere near him.”

  “But you’ll try?”

  “I’ll do what I can.” Carter stood and left the interview room.

  He found Susan Tyler in her office. The door was open but he knocked anyway and waited to be invited in.

  She looked up from her paperwork at his knock. Her hair was mussed and she looked frazzled. “The answer’s no,” she said and looked down at her papers again.

  “You don’t know what I’m going to ask yet.”

  “I don’t need to. The answer’s still no.”

  Carter walked into the office and stood looking down at her. “You know Harry Bailey loves Simon Crozier like a brother,” he said.

  “Yeah, I have a brother who says he loves me. When we were kids he’d knock seven shades of shit out of me when our parents weren’t looking.”

  “With everything that’s happened tonight, how can you sit there and just take this at face value?”

  She looked up at him bleakly. “So far I haven’t got a fucking clue what’s going on here tonight. It’s as if I’ve stepped through the television screen and entered the Twilight Zone. But to counter that, I have an assault victim in hospital, fighting for his life after, not one but two murderous attacks. I have the corpse of a very talented young solicitor, ripped to shreds in this very station, on my watch, by an eighty-two-year-old psychopath, and I have a Chief Super, spitting nails because the Home Office has clipped his wings, and who’s taking his frustration out on me. So thank you very much for thinking of me, but I’ll be happy to take your friend’s attack on Crozier at face value. He’ll be charged with attempted murder and be arraigned at the Magistrate’s court in about six hours time.”

  “But you can’t…”

  She stood up, cutting him dead. “I can and I bloody well will,” she said angrily. “I don’t know what kind of cases you work at your department in Whitehall—I should imagine cases like this—but I’m just a copper, albeit a bloody good one. I don’t like mysteries. They make me itch…and everything that’s happened today itches like a bout of German measles. The case against Bailey is solid. Three witnesses, a doctor and two nurses. Do you really think I’m just going to let him go on your say so? Think again, Mr. Carter.” She pointed her chin at the door. “We’re done here.” She sat down at her desk and flipped open another file.

  Carter paused in the doorway. “Actually it’s four.”

  Tyler glanced up. “What?”

  “You have four witnesses. You’re forgetting Crozier himself.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s three.” She glanced at her watch. “Bailey’s assault burst both external and internal stitches. As we speak they have Crozier back in theatre, trying to repair the damage Bailey caused, and trying to save your boss’s life, again. The prognosis isn’t good. So I’ll settle for three witnesses. It will be enough.”

  Carter held her eyes for a moment and then turned and walked from the office, closing the door behind him.

  The Irishman yelled out in pain as Maria Bridge smashed the bedpan into Harry Bailey’s face. As O’Brien’s consciousness snapped back into his own mind, he clutched at his head, folded at the knees and fell to the floor, lying there on a deep-piled rug, his legs twitching as his entire body went into spasm. It was as if every muscle was cramping, sending wave after wave of excruciating pain burning into his brain. He closed his eyes tightly and clenched his teeth as he tried to fight the agony, sucking air into his lungs and releasing it slowly, controlling his breathing and trying to reduce his accelerated heat rate.

  He knew what was happening.
This body was finally giving out. The exertions of the past twenty-four hours were too much for it to handle. Harry Bailey had been a step too far. He should have taken the easier option, a nurse, or maybe even the doctor. Ego had prompted him to choose Bailey, just to see if he could master him. And he had. Okay, the man was tired and his defenses were down, but it was more satisfying to rise to the challenge. Much more satisfying. Had it not been for the doctor wielding the bedpan, he would have finished the job and Bailey would now be sitting in a cell charged with murdering his boss. That would have made the day complete. As it was, tomorrow would present another set of challenges, and he wasn’t sure he was up to them.

  Gradually the pain ebbed away, leaving him hollow. Shakily he got to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom. His stomach lurched and he vomited into the toilet bowl. Wiping his mouth with a handful of toilet paper, he staggered across to the sink, filled it with cold water and submerged his face, holding his breath and keeping it under water for forty-five seconds. Finally he surfaced and wiped the water away with a towel, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror.

  Death itself stared back at him. His face was porcelain white, his eyes had sunk into black holes, a livid, red wheal bisected his brow.

  “Christ, you look a mess,” he muttered to himself and ran his tongue around his mouth, stopping at a back molar. He pressed the tip of his tongue against it and felt it move. Putting his finger and thumb into his mouth he grabbed the loose tooth and pulled. With a soft popping sound the tooth came free. He held it out in front of him, turning it this way and that, examining it with a kind of morbid fascination, and then dropped it into the sink. The dissolution of the body always started with the teeth. He’d lost count of the bodies he’d inhabited over the years, but the end of their useful lives had always been precipitated by the loss of teeth, followed soon after by the shedding of hair and fingernails.

  He estimated that this body probably had no more than three weeks left to it. It was a shame. He’d become quite used to it. Now it would have to join the ever-increasing group of hosts he had used and burnt out. Unlike Schroeder he had never mastered the preservation of the host bodies. But then Schroeder was much more experienced. He envied him that.

  Walking through to the bedroom, he scooped up the phone from its cradle and carried it through with him. Collapsing onto the bed, he used his thumb to punch out a familiar number. The phone at the other end seemed to ring for an age but finally it was answered.

  “Yes?” the man said.

  “It’s Michael.”

  There was a long pause, broken only by a soft wheezing sound coming from the other end of the line.

  “Leon Sultan came to see me,” O’Brien said, interrupting the pause.

  “Oh?”

  “He was expecting me to check in with him.”

  “That’s right. You didn’t.”

  “I’m checking in now. I don’t report to Sultan. If I want to talk to someone, it will be the organ grinder, not the monkey.”

  “But he’s such a useful monkey. My eyes and ears in a world gone mad.”

  O’Brien shivered. It may have been the after effect of the collapse, but more likely it was the sound of the man’s voice. It sounded like beetles scratching their way across tissue paper.

  He shook himself. “So, has Sultan brought you up to date?”

  “He has.”

  “And your thoughts?”

  “If you’re satisfied that Simon Crozier is no longer a problem, Michael, then I’m satisfied. You are satisfied, aren’t you?”

  O’Brien hesitated. There were so many ways he could have handled events today, more successful ways, more covert ways, but he’d been showing off, grandstanding. Vanity and hubris, two of his more significant failings. “Yes, I’m satisfied,” he lied. “I would have preferred Crozier dead, but the man seems to have as many lives as a cat. Saying that, he’s been taken out of the game in a significant way. I really don’t expect him to cause you any more problems.”

  “And the files?”

  “I’ve deleted all the digital data. The paper backups will be destroyed later today.”

  There was a slight chuckle on the other end of the line. “Good, good. I knew I could rely on you, Michael.”

  “So you’ll tell Sultan to back off?”

  “Oh, I’ll tell him, Michael. Whether he listens…”

  When O’Brien hung up the phone his brow was furrowed by a deep frown. The old man had told him everything he needed to know. From now on in he would have to watch his own back, because there was no one out there to watch it for him.

  He dropped the phone onto the rug beside the bed, lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Within minutes he was asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  McKinley arrived at Department 18 headquarters early, just after six, and fully expected the place to be deserted. He took the lift up to his office, switched on the computer and sat down at his desk. He checked his emails, responded to the most urgent ones, and then went through to the room next door to make himself some coffee.

  He was surprised to see Trudy Banks standing at the counter, sipping from a large mug. She started when he entered the room, slopping her coffee onto the grey vinyl tiles. “John,” she spluttered. “I didn’t expect anyone in this early.”

  She seemed unnaturally flustered, a pink blush starting at her throat and working its way up to her cheeks.

  “Nor did I,” McKinley said easily. He studied her for a moment. “Is everything all right? You seem a little jumpy.”

  She held his gaze for a moment and then looked away. “The attack on Simon must have shaken me up more than I realized. Why are you here so early?”

  McKinley shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep, I guess. And I’ve got things to catch up with. Besides, I like the place when there’s nobody here. It’s almost peaceful. What about you? It’s not like Crozier’s going to be giving dictation any time soon.”

  Trudy winced.

  “Sorry,” McKinley said. “That was insensitive.”

  Trudy shook her head. “Don’t apologize. The sooner I get used to the situation, the sooner I can move on from it. Anyway, Simon will be back here soon enough, cracking the whip with all his usual charm.”

  McKinley moved to the counter and poured himself a large mug of coffee from the jug. He sipped it and grimaced. “Rocket fuel,” he said.

  Trudy shrugged. “I like strong coffee, I guess.”

  McKinley took another sip, suppressing a shudder. “Do you know what Crozier’s been working on recently?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just wondered if there was a particular case he’s been devoting his time to. You’d know if anyone would.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re his PA. It stands to reason.” He watched as something passed over her face. Evasion, caution…he couldn’t decide.

  She shook her head. “Nothing springs immediately to mind,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Looking for connections. I wondered if he’d been poking around a wasp’s nest and got himself stung.” He continued to stare at her over the rim of his coffee mug, his eyes unblinking, questioning.

  Shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny, Trudy set her mug down on the counter. “Well, there’s nothing I can think of. You’d have to ask him.”

  “That could be a problem.”

  “I mean, when he gets back. Look, John, I’d better get on. I want to phone the hospital before I start work, just to see how he’s doing.”

  “Fine,” McKinley said easily as she turned to the door. “Nice pendant, by the way,” he added quietly.

  Trudy turned back into the room. “Pardon?”

  “The pendant.” He took a step towards her reached out and lifted the silver charm on its chain. “I’ve never seen you wear it before. Had
it long?”

  “A while. I bought it at Portobello market. I don’t wear it very often though.”

  “You should,” McKinley said. “It’s a Respark, an African totem, worn to ward off evil spirits. A very useful thing to wear around here, I should think.” He let the charm drop.

  “Really,” Trudy said. “I had no idea. I just thought it was pretty.”

  “That as well,” McKinley said with a smile.

  Trudy turned and headed back to the door.

  “Let me know how he’s doing, when you hear,” McKinley said.

  She glanced back. “I will, John. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it,” he said to her departing back, and then he went across to the counter, poured his coffee down the sink and set about making himself a fresh one.

  He took the steaming cup of coffee back to his office, sat down in front of his computer and wondered why Trudy was so jumpy. He didn’t buy her explanation of a reaction to Crozier’s attack. He knew Trudy to be a very capable, unflappable woman. That she would undergo a personality change because her boss had been stabbed seemed unlikely. Last year when the Department’s head of research, Martin Impey, had been attacked in the British Library and hospitalized, Trudy, a personal friend of Impey, hadn’t missed her stride.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. No, there had to be something more. And the fact that she was now wearing a Respark prompted more questions. Although McKinley was American by birth, his family had originally come from Kenya, and his grandmother was steeped in the lore and legends of Africa and, as a boy, he would often sit at his grandmother’s knee, listening to her stories of evil spirits and ancient curses with rapt attention. It had prompted his interest in all things supernatural and, when he discovered his own psychic powers at only eight years old, it had been the elderly matriarch of the family who had nurtured and encouraged him to embrace them.

  She wore a Respark all the time, even when she slept, and to her it was more precious to her than her wedding band. It seemed unlikely that Trudy would have picked up such a powerful and treasured totem at a market stall. He could be making something out of nothing, but he would mention it to Carter and Bailey anyway, to see what they thought.