by T S O'Rourke
A recent examination of her cerebrospinal fluid, or CSF, as she had begun to call it, revealed that changes were taking place in her body that would inevitably lead to a worsening of her condition. Although she had always been quick to tell her husband about such problems, Sarah had so far neglected to.
The CSF was acquired by means of a painful procedure known as a lumbar puncture, and gave a pretty good indication of what was happening with regard to the nervous system. The test could also highlight abnormalities in the protein content, which was what had happened.
Changes in the protein content of the CSF, she had been informed, indicated that there were abnormalities in her immune system and that would account, to some degree, for the worsening of her symptoms.
Dan had made every effort to understand his wife’s condition, but it was just beyond him. Multiple Sclerosis just seemed so damned complicated and uncertain. Sure, everyone knew it was a progressive disease that affected the nervous and immune systems, but no one knew the causes, or why some people were more likely to suffer from MS than others.
Carroll, like most of his police colleagues, liked a clear-cut reason for things happening. Only with MS, he had never really received any answers that ever helped him to understand the disease.
Sarah had attended all of the relevant meetings in the early days, when the local support group offered her hope and an outlet for her feelings. It was a god-send for her and for Dan, who had had a great deal of difficulty in coming to terms with his wife’s affliction. But after three years of hearing the same stories, Sarah had called it a day and retreated to a semi-solitary life in their north London home.
It had been four years before she had needed to get a wheelchair and she had been more or less confined to it ever since. Only during the early periods of remission had Sarah left the chair. But by now she was so used to life in the chair, that the muscle wastage in her legs denied her any real mobility – even during a remission period.
Dan had been working late for many nights now in an effort to come up with the goods on the escort killer case and he had done his best to get back as early as was possible. Only it just wasn’t really possible of late.
The information that he and Grant had received from Eileen had opened up all sorts of possibilities for them – and as a result they were to be found working into the wee small hours of the morning for most of that week. And it was at night that Sarah needed her husband the most.
It was fine during the day, when the carer from social services came to clean up or to cook some food, but later in the evening, when the daylight had faded, Sarah began to grow heavy of heart, with the grey gloom of depression coming over her. Daytime TV and the early evening news gave some interest, but the quiet of the house, the feeling of isolation and the fear of having an accident when no one was around, preyed on her mind. Several times she had knocked over pans of boiling water and she was once very close to setting fire to the house, when a chip pan overflowed onto the cooker. Only her quick thinking saved the house and, no doubt, her life.
No more would she tackle the chip pan – at least not until Dan came home from work – or the pub, where he was apt to spend much of his free time these days.
Despite his tendency to come home drunk, Sarah loved her husband with all of her might. Lesser men would have left their spouse in similar circumstances, she thought, but Dan had stood his ground, offering whatever help he could in an effort to make her life a little easier. He had even suggested giving up his job on the force in order to look after her, but she had refused. There was no way she could let her disease rob him of his career. It had already robbed her of her old life and she refused point blank to lose anything else to it.
She had often felt as though she were a burden on her husband, a dead weight that stopped him from living a fulfilling life. He hadn’t always been such a heavy drinker, Sarah thought, as she watched the clock on the kitchen wall. It was eight thirty and there was still no sign of her husband. He had left the house at seven thirty that morning, and hadn’t even had breakfast – despite her protestations.
No, Dan would be home when Dan would be home – there were no two ways about it. And he would probably be slightly drunk. Sarah knew why this was, but couldn’t bring herself to discuss it with him. Their sex life had all but vanished two years before and, since that time, Dan had taken to the bottle. It was almost as if he was seeking satisfaction in alcohol, rather than in a normal sexual relationship. Sarah couldn’t discuss the problem with him. She just wasn’t able. And despite many attempts on Dan’s half to get them some professional help to deal with it, Sarah wouldn’t have anything to do with counsellors or sex therapists.
He had told her many times that it didn’t matter if she was incontinent, but Sarah had simply clammed up and refused to discuss the subject. Apart from finding the discussion of sex embarrassing, she thought that her incontinence was unforgivable. And because of these factors, their sex life had disappeared.
She often wondered if he had slept with other women in the last couple of years. It was something that she preferred not to think about, but it was one of those questions that occasionally reared its ugly head as she sat alone in the darkening light of the kitchen, watching American chat-shows on TV. Sure, like any man, he needed sexual release, but somehow Sarah believed that he wouldn’t be unfaithful to her. Not after twenty wonderful years of marriage. And indeed she was right – until recently, that was.
She had grown suspicious of Dan’s recent behaviour owing to his seeming air of guilt, his change in tone, and the fact that he hadn’t looked her straight in the eyes for a few days. Something had happened recently – of that she was sure. But although she knew that something had happened, she could in no way blame him. She loved him too much.
Dan arrived home at ten thirty five, with the smell of drink surrounding the breath of fresh air that he brought into the kitchen. It had been raining all day long, and his overcoat was soaked right through.
‘I think you should get out of those clothes as quick as you can, or you’ll catch your death,’ Sarah said, softly.
‘It’s just a little rain – it won’t kill me. It’s stronger stuff I’m made of....’ Dan replied, hanging his coat over the edge of the radiator.
‘There’s a bit of salad in the fridge and you can put on a few chips if you like. I haven’t been feeling the best today.’
‘Why, what’s wrong? Is it getting worse? Have you seen the doctor, or should I ring him for you?’ Dan asked, anxiously.
‘Calm down. I went to have a CSF examination last week. And before you say anything, I didn’t want to alarm you. It’s just a simple procedure, and you’ve been very busy with your work recently....’
‘But I would’ve taken some time off and brought you to the hospital....’
‘There was no need. Besides, I know how much you hate hospitals. Remember coming in drunk the other night with those stitches in your forehead? I don’t think I could repeat what you called that poor young doctor who dealt with you....’
‘So, what happened?’
‘The results were phoned over to me the other day, but I could’ve saved them the time and money. My symptoms are getting worse again. My hands are shaking nearly all the time now, and I’ve lost a lot more feeling in my legs. The left one is almost paralysed, like the right one....’
‘Well, let me know what’s happening in future, will you? I feel as if you don’t want to let me know what’s going on.’
‘I don’t, sometimes. But then, neither do you.’
‘But it’s just work – it’d bore you to tears. And we’ve still only got a few leads for the case I’m on at the moment....’
‘The doctor said he’d be putting me on a new drug that has come on to the market. It’s called Interferon, Beta Interferon. It’s supposed to help the immune system and reduce the severity of the attacks....’
‘Well, it certainly sounds good,’ Dan said, leaning down to kiss his wife on the lip
s. ‘What is it, a course of pills?’
‘No – it comes as weekly and daily injections. They’re going to teach me how to do it myself, so I don’t need a nurse visiting every day.’
‘I don’t fancy that,’ Dan said, removing the chip pan from the oven, where it lived between fry-ups.
‘Well, if it makes me feel better then it’s worth a try....’
‘And it’s been properly tested?’
‘Oh, God, yes. But they say that there can be some side-effects, like depression.’
‘Ah, you never suffer from depression, do you?’ Dan exclaimed, as he rooted through the freezer in search of a bag of frozen chips.
‘They’re on the top shelf,’ Sarah said.
‘We’ve made some ground on the investigation. Nothing special, but it could prove very useful over the next few days. We think the killer might be a soldier – or ex-soldier. You see, there was a woman attacked down at King’s Cross recently by a guy who fits our description.’
‘Have you given a description to the media yet?’
‘That’s not up to me. If it was they’d have had it ages ago. I don’t for the life of me know what they’re waiting for. It’s as though they want him to strike again so we’ll have more clues to go on. It’s madness. We’ll catch him – it’s just a matter of time, that’s all.’
‘So you’re confident?’
‘We’ll get him.’
‘When you say we, I assume you mean Grant and yourself. How are you getting along?’
‘I dunno. The guy’s a mystery. He has such a weird by-the-book approach to working it’s amazing that he ever made detective constable. Most guys who make it to DC only do so because they have a bit of flair for the job – but Grant has as much flair as an eighty year old nun.’
‘Give him time, he’s probably only just getting used to you, that’s all.’
‘Maybe, but I’m sure as hell not getting used to him,’ Dan said, opening a can of beer that he had found in the fridge.
Chapter 20
A purple estate, with two aerials, driven by a blondish man who could be in the army. Sounds simple enough. Except, without the registration you would have to go through hundreds of cars, and then cross-match the cars with the owners, the owners with army records. And to top it all off, the SAS were not likely to give a humble police force information on a member of the service. At least not a serving soldier.
So Eileen had gotten into the car and had been forced to give the guy a blow job. Why had he not tried to kill her? Why had he killed the other two and not Eileen? Was it because he was in his car? Was it, perhaps, because he liked what she had done? Maybe he was sick of killing hookers – who could tell. But then he did still have the knife with him, Carroll thought, sitting back in his chair. He knew that the search had to begin somewhere, and it was at the Ministry of Defence that he would make his first tentative inquiries.
Grant had taken it upon himself to start the vehicle check, obtaining a list of all recent model purple estate cars in the area. And as the car in question had a second aerial, he checked all cars operating on a hackney or taxi basis listed as well. If the guy was using a two way radio he was either a CB enthusiast, a courier or a hackney driver, of some or other description.
Carroll’s efforts were met, at every hurdle, with red tape. The sort that only the civil service can provide in such abundance. The Ministry of Defence was, to say the least, sceptical of the man on the phone trying to make an appointment to see someone in charge of personnel. Particularly when he mentioned the Special Air Services.
Having been transferred from one desk-bound war-hero to the next, Carroll soon found himself talking with what he imagined to be a Sandhurst man. The tone in his voice gave away an air of the upper classes, while his approach and confidence in conversation exuded power and influence. Must be a Major of some description, Carroll thought, introducing himself.
‘My name is Detective Sergeant Dan Carroll, Metropolitan Police. Who am I talking to?’
‘Major Reginald Whalley, I’m head of the personnel section attached to these offices.’
‘Major Whalley, I’m trying to establish the whereabouts of one of your men,’ Carroll said.
‘And why, may I ask, are you looking for one of our servicemen?’
‘It’s in connection with a police matter that I’m currently investigating.’
‘What is the name of the individual you’re looking for, and what regiment is he attached to?’
‘Well, you see, that’s where we start to get into difficulty. I don’t actually have a name as such, but I believe he would be an SAS or ex-SAS man aged between thirty and thirty five.’
And you don’t have any name or information as to where he was stationed?’
‘Not at present, I’m afraid.
‘Well, Detective Sergeant Carroll, I’m afraid that there is precious little that we can do for you. Unless you have his service number, regiment and name then you could be looking for years....’
‘But there can’t be that many serving in the SAS, Major....’
‘Well, that’s something I can’t discuss – especially over the telephone. As I’ve already said – unless you have some details, like a name or service number, then there’s no hope of finding the man or woman you’re looking for. Now if that will be all, I’m very busy this afternoon....’
‘I need to get in touch with whoever it is that deals directly with the regiment, as I’m going to have to go through their records,’ Carroll said, vainly hoping that he would get a name, maybe a phone number.
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that information over the phone. I’m sure you understand....’
‘I’ll be over to your offices in an hour and you can give me the information in person, Major.’
‘Well, I’m afraid....’
Carroll put the receiver back down onto the cradle, rubbed his jaw and looked across at Sam, who was staring blankly at the computer terminal in the squad room.
According to the vehicle registration records, there were over five hundred purple estate cars to be found in London at any given moment. Of the five hundred, there were approximately three hundred in North London. And of the three hundred, there were ten listed as either company fleet vehicles or registered hackney cabs. There was no way to check how many of the three hundred purple estate cars in North London had a CB radio on board.
Grant looked across at his partner and sighed.
‘Well, we’ve cut the field down a bit, anyway, I suppose. There’s only ten purple estate cars registered in North London that are used as commercial fleet or hackney vehicles. I’ll get the list printed out,’ Grant said, hoping that Carroll may have another morsel of information with which to progress the investigation. By the look of him, Grant thought, he didn’t have anything new.
‘The MOD is tight-lipped, to say the least,’ Carroll said. ‘They seem to have a slight problem with telephones, so I’m gonna have to take a run over there myself. Fancy coming along for the ride?’
‘No, I’ll get to work on this list and see if I can’t make a little headway on who might own the car.’
‘Hey Ho Silver! See you later, Tonto!’ Carroll said with an air of fatigue in his voice.
Grant didn’t look up from what he was doing.
****
There was never anywhere to park in central London. Despite the large number of parking meters and traffic wardens, there was always a distinct lack of parking spaces. This didn’t bother Carroll too much. All he needed to do was make it obvious that it was a CID squad car and it would be left alone.
Getting past the security man on the front door was the first obstacle. But on presenting the guard with his badge, all was quickly sorted out. A quick phone call from the security booth, and Carroll was sent up in the elevator to the third floor.
As the elevator door opened, Carroll saw a long line of doors stretching down a hallway that seemed to go on forever. Everything looked the same. The only
indication that there was any life in the building came from the little black and white nameplates which were stuck on each door. The nameplates read like a military role of honour. Major this, General that, and then into the civilians, draughted in, Carroll thought, because the soldier boys couldn’t quite manage all of the paper shuffling on their own. Just like the Met, he thought, smiling.
Carroll continued walking down the hallway until he came to room 101, where he saw the nameplate for Major Reginald Whalley. He knocked loudly, and the door was at once opened by a young woman in a rather worn looking wool suit.
‘Detective Sergeant Carroll?’ she asked, politely.
‘That’s right. Major Whalley is expecting me.’