‘Woah! Sting? That really hurts, Harry. Fucking hell! Stop!’
Slim was shaking his head, snorting and groaning, his confidence, having resurfaced earlier, had fled again. Stress and fear were scrawled across his face and, for a moment, Harry wondered if Slim was really up for it.
‘The worst is over, bro. It may seem hard to believe, but trust me. When you get up, it’s… it’s a total mindfuck! Let’s get you up there to see for yourself — then you’ll find out what it’s all about, my friend! You’re not gonna bottle out on me at this late stage, are you?’ Harry again noted hesitation on Slim’s part, so added, ‘If you’re having second thoughts you can wait until these guys have all had a turn, but you did say you wanted to get it over with by being first up…’
For a few seconds Harry could see indecision, a brief internal conversation taking place behind Slim’s eyes, but then the lad bit his lip and nodded.
‘Okay, I've come this far, bro… But you will stop if I say so?’ His eyes flicked to Glen and then Harry, who just winked back at him.
‘Deep breaths, sweetie.’ Tamsin crooned the words to Slim, taking one hand, then the other as she positioned herself in front of him. ‘Just say if you want to go up, down or stop. No pressure. Okay?’
Harry stood back and observed as Glen gradually tightened the wires while Tamsin encouraged Slim to rock forward then back. They were in the middle of the room, directly under the rigging and, as the tension on the hooks embedded in Slim’s back started to pull him towards the ceiling, he groaned, then murmured, but always nodded when Tamsin checked he was happy to continue.
Finally, on tiptoe, Slim was almost off the ground.
‘Are you ready?’ Tamsin, still holding both Slim’s hands checked before nodding to Glen. One final tug on the pulley and Slim was airborne.
As Tamsin let go of his hands to join her friends clapping and laughing, Slim was hoisted higher still. He was suspended, hands by his sides, head flopped forward on his chest, the image he created similar to a suicide by hanging.
Only, he was alive and conscious.
Tamsin and Shazza stood in front and behind him respectively, and pushed him gently to and fro, with Slim now flying across the room like a drugged version of Peter Pan.
‘Dude, this is awesome!’ His head came up and he beamed a huge grin at Harry. ‘This is better than ecstasy! Yo! Swing me faster, girls!’
Harry’s face lit up, a brilliant smile aimed at Slim, their new bond unbreakable, signifying the beginning of an enduring friendship — the kind of relationship reserved only for those who have shared a life-affirming spiritual experience.
He turned and pumped up the music, the volume now at max, the metallic roar of hardcore punk rock pounding the walls as Slim floated above their heads, a euphoric expression creasing his face.
***
Fiona arrived at the Intensive Therapy Unit and strode directly to the nurses’ station to confirm where Gerald was located. This time she would not be fobbed off. She would insist on waiting with him until he recovered so that she could interview him the moment he was sufficiently aware. He had been out of surgery for hours already, so surely she would not have to wait long.
‘The priest’s been called… I’m sorry, Sergeant, but it doesn’t look like he’ll pull through. There were complications. He lost a lot of blood from internal bleeding, his liver is in terrible condition and his heart was already weak. At his age…’
‘Oh shit!’
Fiona had seen a priest loitering when she had been here earlier, so without another word to the nurse, who was clearly about to object, she strode to the door labelled ‘G Butler’ and let herself in.
She was no medic, but she could see he was in a bad way, and paused as she realised the holy man was still with him, offering comfort. She shuffled into the room, pulled up a chair beside the bed opposite the priest, and let him finish what she assumed were the last rites. As she sat, she took one of the old man’s hands in hers, without even realising she was doing it.
Fiona had no idea about religious mumbo-jumbo, despite her parents’ Caribbean origins. They were secular, though would, if pushed, claim they were Christians, but had never forced her to worship anyone or anything. For that, she was ever grateful. She had no time for formal religion. It had always been, to her mind, the cause of so much distress and heartache around the world.
‘Are you a relative?’ The kindly eyes assessed her, and mistook the hand-holding as a sign of familial relationship rather than a natural response from one human being to another in distress.
She puffed a little air through her lips, then pulled out her warrant card as she spoke. ‘No. Just here on business. Did he say anything to you? Can he still hear me? Can he speak?’
The priest, probably a little put out by her demeanour, her demanding tone, nodded. ‘Gerald can hear and has managed to speak. He said a few things, a little garbled, though I took it as his confession.’
‘Can you tell me what he said?’ She was hopeful, but then immediately disappointed as the priest stood to leave.
‘No, I’m afraid not young lady. That conversation was between Gerald and God alone. Good day to you.’
Well, she thought, that certainly put me in my place.
The moment the door clicked closed behind the clergyman, she took hold of the green oxygen mask covering Gerald’s nose and mouth and gently pulled it below his chin.
He can’t be that close to death if the priest left him alone. And anyway, it’s just for a minute. Won’t do him any harm.
With those thoughts justifying her actions, she started to interrogate her witness. She noted the unhealthy yellow hue of his skin and wondered what had caused that discolouration, but then reminded herself why she was there, determined not to be distracted by his medical status. As the mask slipped from his face, Gerald managed to pry his eyelids open, though she was not sure how much he could see through the narrow slits. Despite this limited movement, Fiona could see the yellow had spread, discolouring the whites of his eyes. It was difficult to tell how alert he was, but she would ask him her questions anyway.
‘Gerald. Can you hear me? I’m a detective and I need you to answer a few questions, if you can. Is that alright? Just blink once if you can hear me and you understand.’
He did.
Then, his eyes, as if struggling to make the effort, slid sideways, trying to focus on hers.
‘Good! Stay with me Gerald.’ She gave his hand a squeeze, careful not to crush the fragile bones she could feel under his parchment skin. He looked to her as if he was a hundred years old or more, but the contents of his wallet had confirmed he was just about to turn eighty-two.
Except, he won’t live that long.
The thought spurred her on, the words jumping from her tongue, eager.
‘You said something to the jogger who found you. I need to ask you, did you really tell him you thought that horribly disfigured man was put there for you to find?’
Gerald tried to speak, but all he managed was a gurgle, splutter and a weak cough, so she said, ‘Blink once for yes, twice for no. Okay Gerald?’
One slow, purposeful blink, then his pupils were focused back on hers again.
‘Do you think you know who the person is, the person who did this? Just blink for me, sweetheart.’
Again, a single languid movement of the eyelids, this time with a hint of moisture welling from the tear ducts.
Fiona was excited, itching for a breakthrough, but wondered how she could get this old man, given his current state, to tell her the name of the person he thought had committed this deed. She assumed the freshly forming tears were just a reaction to the horror he had seen, or maybe they were just moistening the lenses as he forced his lids to respond.
As she was about to ask another question, the door opened and the Ward Sister confronted her, presumably summoned by the young woman at the nurses’ station.
‘You were told earlier, you can’t be in here. Leave the
poor man in peace. We’ve made him as comfortable as we can. The last thing he needs is some overenthusiastic copper badgering him when he should be coming to terms with his situation.’
Fiona, frustration propelling the words, snapped at the nurse. ‘On the floor immediately above us, in this very hospital, there’s a man, at least, what’s left of him, who’s been dismembered and disfigured, probably tortured, then left for dead on Clapham Common. Gerald here,’ she added, turning back to her interviewee, ‘thinks he knows who did this. Now, just give me a moment longer.’ Without waiting for another comment from the nurse, she asked him, ‘Please try and whisper the name to me my love. It’s really important… If it is the last thing you can do before you leave us, please do this one thing.’
She heard a gasp from the nurse, but ignored it. The old man had already heard the last rites from a priest, and apparently made his peace with his maker, so he would hardly be shocked by her request, even if Florence bloody Nightingale was.
He blinked, once.
Brilliant!
As Fiona turned her head and leaned in, her ear almost touching Gerald’s lips, he whispered one word.
‘Barry? Is that what you said, Gerald?’
She looked at his eyelids, but this time they closed twice.
Shit!
The machine monitoring his heart then started running erratically, the beeping as urgent as the hand the nurse placed on Fiona’s shoulder, insistent, tugging at her conscience, trying to encourage her to leave. The detective could see for herself that the effort the old man was making was weakening him.
Killing him...
‘One minute!’ She grunted her anger at the sister, shrugged the hand away, focused back on Gerald. His eyelids had started fluttering, then dark brown drool appeared at the corner of his mouth, dribbling down his chin into the oxygen mask. Fiona’s voice, sharpened, like a needle, probing, urgent. ‘The name! Tell me his name, Gerald.’
He opened his mouth and a flaccid yellow tongue quivered with effort, so she moved her ear in close again, barely in time to hear him squeeze out a single word.
Gerald’s very last word, uttered immediately before his throat rattled and his final breath left him.
‘Good grief! You are heartless! I can’t believe you did that. And for what?’ The sister, her face flaring red, unhooked the monitors and then punched the buttons on the beeping machines until the alarms ceased. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. I’ll be making a formal complaint to your boss, young madam.’
Fiona, already halfway out the door, knew what her immediate boss’s reaction would be, so stopped, turned and channelled her best impression of a Gorgon’s face at the old dragon.
‘His name is Detective Inspector Carver. He’s based at Scotland Yard. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding him through the switchboard. My name is DS Fielding. I report to him. Thank you for your help today… Always appreciated when fellow public servants do everything they can to help us in our enquiries.’ With that, she slammed the door and power walked past the nurses’ station, heading for her car.
She would have liked to ask the old man more questions, and normally, with an interview terminated before she had completed the task, she would have been disappointed. But not today.
No, she was absolutely delighted with the result — and she was certain the DI would be too. Her fingers were trembling with excitement as she hit the speed dial on her mobile phone.
She ignored the signs on the walls indicating that phones were not to be used in the wards and corridors, despite the disapproving glances aimed at her as she barged through the crowded Accident and Emergency Department towards the double doors of the exit.
‘Sir, great news! I’ve got a solid lead from my interview with the old man...’ Fiona could hear her own voice, at least an octave higher than normal, her shrill enthusiasm bubbling through the ether into the DI’s ear.
So what?
This was her moment of glory. She was convinced. She may just have found the key to crack this case wide open.
The single word she had gleaned from Gerald’s dying lips.
***
‘I think you should see this, Doc. Before you make up your mind.’ Winston’s baleful eyes scanned Doc’s face for a moment, then he sighed. ‘You already have, haven’t you? I might’ve known… You still need to watch this.’ Diamond nodded to one of the six security guards, each seated before a bank of screens, their combined gaze monitoring almost one hundred cameras located throughout the hospital complex. ‘You have the latest Harding incident for me?’
The guard responded by tapping into his control console. The top right hand screen in front of him turned black, then the three letters REC appeared. He explained to Doc as he worked.
‘We track every patient and every member of staff throughout the day, so we know their exact location at any given time. That way, we can be sure not to expose vulnerable inmates to those who are potential aggressors. Among other things… The live pictures you can see are just a fraction of the total being recorded, most for both sight and sound, twenty-four seven. For every screen you can see right now, there’s another five cameras observing every corridor, ward, security door, social area, staff room and so on. We also monitor the grounds outside, approach roads, access points, gates, and of course, the footpaths between the nine blocks. This was recorded four weeks ago.’
Doc was silent, just keen to get on with his meeting with Harding. He kept his frustration brewing below the surface, unwilling to show his impatience, respectful of Celene’s instructions to Diamond — instructions her security boss was now fulfilling.
‘Your man was being escorted to the Visitors’ Centre.’
Winston had taken over the narrative, and Doc, still thinking, Get on with it! logged that piece of information for later inspection. He would remain silent, if only to keep things moving. He glanced at his watch, certain that Carver would not wait for him if they kept this up.
As the screen focused, Doc instantly recognised Harding, even though it was many years since he’d had any dealings with the criminal. The recording showed Harding with his escort, a male nurse, strolling along a footpath between red brick buildings towards the inmate entrance to the Visitor Centre, seemingly passing the time of day. Without warning, Harding spun on his toes and slammed the elbow of his right arm into the side of the nurse’s temple, flooring him, but instead of a futile run for the nearest gate or perimeter fence, he sprinted across the grass, vaulted a chest high wall, and disappeared from view.
‘One blow and he knocked that nurse out cold. Harding’s kept himself in excellent physical condition, despite his age.’ Diamond’s observation merely confirmed Doc’s own conclusion. ‘Late fifties but just look at him go.’
The screen flickered and then showed a new camera angle. This time, the path leading from the exit at the back of the visitors’ block.
The guard, satisfied he had the correct recording, pointed to the two men on the screen, a different couple, but again, an inmate with a nurse, walking away from the rear of the building.
‘This chap has been treated for paedophilia, with a great deal of success. He was due to be released to a less secure facility for three months before being completely discharged into the community… And here comes Harding.’
Doc thought he knew what was coming, and braced himself for the attack that was about to take place. Harding, like a wraith materializing from the shadows, leapt a knee high hedge and pounced on the two men from behind. It looked to Doc as though Harding had flown into them, one knee in each of their backs, felling them instantly, before delivering a swift kick to the nurse’s face. Harding was as lethal as ever, he thought, as the murderer’s hand arced time and again, plunging his home-made knife into his victim’s belly and crotch, then he stood, facing the camera, legs spread, arms wide, hands in the air, making two fingered gestures at the viewers.
Doc felt a frisson of admiration in some dark corner of his mind, then a wave
of self-loathing for the lapse. He grunted and Winston seemed to take that as a signal of his disgust at the violent assault.
‘Incredible, eh? Less than a minute passed between the moment he whacked that nurse escorting him, to this point.’ Winston reached his bulky frame over the guard’s head and let his finger trace the numerals on the twenty-four hour clock displayed in the corner of the screen, just as four guards in riot gear appeared from off camera, two pairs covering the path from each direction. They did not hesitate, just tackled the vicious inmate to the ground in a flurry of limbs.
Doc could see Harding laughing, not even trying to resist, and for a moment, despite this video being sound free, he heard that raucous, humourless noise jangling inside his skull. He shook it away, urging himself not to let the bastard get to him.
Again.
Doc was older now. Wiser too.
No, Harding would not get under his skin. Would not goad a response from him.
Not this time.
***
‘Sorry, Jack. That’s the best I can do.’ Acting Detective Superintendent Sadie Dawson, known throughout the Metropolitan Police Force as Soundbite Sadie, shrugged at her least subordinate subordinate officer, the white tips of her luxury French manicure tapping the cover of a thick file on the desk in front of her as she spoke. ‘The Brentwood Beast case has sucked our resources dry over the last six months —’
‘Yeah! But we caught the bastard didn’t we?’ Jack bounced out of his chair, almost upending it, as he bent forward and added his own angry finger, jabbing at the file. ‘He’s been charged this morning, thanks to my team’s efforts. We worked our nuts off for this arrest, boss. I expected a pat on the back, not to be punished for my success.’
For a moment, Jack could see impatience telegraphed across Sadie’s brow, almost imperceptible though it was, the woman’s mask so perfectly managed and presented to the world. He realised his outburst, having deflated his own anger, may just have inflamed hers. Her eyes, grey granite pebbles, stared at his. She was impassive on the surface, but he was sure the woman had some emotions, buried somewhere deep within.
Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2) Page 6