The Flesh is Weak (P&R3)

by Tim Ellis

  He followed the motorbike into the car park of King George Hospital. Fire engines and police cars were blocking the main access points on the right of the main building, and people in a variety of uniforms were scurrying around like disturbed ants. Something had obviously happened to bring the two coppers out here, but what? If the fire brigade was here in numbers then it was either a fire, or an explosion followed by a fire.

  His Amy was lying in the Mortuary, what was left of her. Bastards – he ground his teeth as he searched for the person with the motorbike. Eventually, he found him hiding beneath the overhanging branches of a tree. Then he looked for the other person but couldn’t see them.

  The two coppers climbed out of their car and headed towards the chaos at the hospital.

  He waited.

  Then two things happened simultaneously. A black Transit van with blacked-out windows pulled into the parking space next to Parish’s car, and he saw the other person get out of their car on the far side of the car park.

  Now he knew where all the players were. He pulled the Glock from his waistband and screwed the silencer on.

  Keeping low, he eased himself out of the car, and headed towards the road so that he’d come up behind the man with the motorbike. As he got closer, he could see that whoever it was still wore a crash helmet.

  He took one shot, aiming for the back of the head, knowing that the helmet would contain the blood, bits of bone, and grey matter as the nine millimetre bullet ricocheted around inside the skull. The person crumpled to the ground like a marionette with its wires cut.

  Next, he focused on the other person, who was crossing the car park and moving towards Parish’s car. Standing petrified beneath the overhanging branch, he waited to see what the person was going to do.

  From their size and shape he guessed it was a woman. She ducked down and crawled under Parish’s car.

  Before he could make a move, the side door of the black Transit van slid open. Two people with ski masks on jumped out, dragged the woman from under the car, bundled her into the van, and slid the door shut again – it was all over within a matter of seconds.

  What the hell was going on? Who were the people in the van? It reminded him of a comedy spy film he’d seen a long time ago, and it might have been comical if Amy wasn’t dead and he hadn’t already executed two people.

  He waited – statuesque, but his brain was running a marathon trying to understand what had just happened, and what might happen in the next couple of hours.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They tried to find the person in charge, but it seemed that nobody was in charge. Eventually, they spoke to a senior fire officer from Seven Sisters and discovered there were fire engines and crews from Ilford, Goodmayes, and Newbury Park, but nobody had overall control.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Parish said.

  ‘It seems that all the fire stations got a call and responded, but this is Ilford and Goodmayes area of responsibility.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What about inside, what’s happened in there?’

  ‘There was an explosion.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but I’d heard there were three fatalities, do you know...’

  The fireman held up his hand. ‘Let me stop you there, mate. I’m afraid I don’t know much about what’s going on inside. We were the last to arrive, and we haven’t really got going yet.’

  They wandered through the crowds trying to find someone who knew what was going on. It was chaotic and Parish wondered whether someone had created this situation on purpose.

  There were two security officers on the main hospital doors preventing people from entering. Parish flashed his warrant card at the short fat one.

  ‘Do you know who’s in charge?’

  ‘Yeah, the Chief Executive is inside. We’ve got an Emergency Disaster Plan that she’s putting into effect, but its out of date and there’s a bit – well, a lot – of adlibbing going on. She’s not been here long, but I can see someone getting the bullet for this.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The Reception thoroughfare resembled rush hour at Liverpool Street train station. There were people, beds, trolleys, gurneys, and an assortment of other contraptions with wheels moving left to right and right to left, and Parish wondered whether any of them actually knew where they were going.

  A woman in a light-grey jacket and skirt that matched her short grey hair seemed to be the focus of people’s attention.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Parish said.

  ‘Which one are you?’ the woman said.

  ‘I’m Parish, this is Richards.’

  ‘Okay, I want you to...’

  Parish held his warrant card up. ‘Detective Inspector Parish.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Sorry, I’m expecting plumbers, insurance investigators, a representative from a company that provides temporary wards and...’

  ‘...Mortuaries?’

  ‘No, I don’t think they do those. We’ll have to redirect the dead bodies to Redbridge Primary Care Trust or the Roding Hospital, although that will cost...’

  ‘Can you tell me what’s happened, nobody outside seems to know what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘I know, it’s chaotic. From what I’ve been able to ascertain there was an explosion in the Mortuary...’

  ‘I’ve been told that three people were killed?’

  ‘Yes, and dozens injured. We’ve had to close A & E to outside emergencies while we deal with those hurt in the accident. The fire brigade has recovered three bodies...’

  He wished she’d shut up and just answer his questions. ‘Is Doc Michelin one of them?’

  ‘I’m afraid...’

  ‘What about the forensic anthropologist from Sheffield University?’

  ‘I don’t...’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to be rude, Mrs...’

  ‘It’s Dr Janice Stewart, actually. I’m the Chief Executive of the hospital, and I’ll be talking to your superior...’

  ‘He died today, you had him in your Mortuary.’

  ‘Oh!’

  A man with a brown coat on, a pot belly and body odour barged in trying to get Dr Stewart’s attention. ‘Someone wanted A- Positive blood?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Dr Stewart said to Parish, ‘but I’m trying to organise a disaster.’ To the man she said, ‘Take it to the ICU, please.’

  ‘Look, I apologise if I seem a bit impatient, but I had a living friend, a dead boss, and twenty-one skeletons that were evidence in a murder investigation in that Mortuary. I’d appreciate some information, or directing to someone that can help me?’

  She opened her mouth to say something, but was distracted by a woman in a white coat walking by and moved away.

  ‘Come on, Richards, it looks as though the only way we’re going to find out what’s going on is if we go down to the Mortuary and take a look.’

  He began shouldering his way through the zombie-like crowds that appeared to be moving around aimlessly.

  ‘It might be unsafe, Sir.’

  ‘If you’re scared you can stay here?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Have you got a better plan?’

  ‘Well no, Sir.’

  ‘So, we’ll go with my plan then?’

  ‘We should be careful.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’ve survived this long without your expert guidance, Richards.’

  ‘Neither do I, Sir.’

  The lifts were out of action, so Parish headed toward the stairs. There were blackened and bleeding people being helped up by other injured people. Some wore uniforms, while others were clearly patients. A fireman carrying breathing apparatus in one hand and coughing phlegm into the other had stopped to catch his breath halfway up.

  ‘Is it bad down there?’

  ‘The fire’s nearly out, but there’s a lot of smoke.’

  ‘There were three dead, any idea where they’ve taken them?’

  ‘
Covered up in the corridor... You’re not thinking of going down there are you?’

  ‘I’m a copper, I need questions answered. Nobody up here seems to know what’s happening.’

  ‘There’s a lot of debris, but these Victorian buildings were built to withstand earthquakes. Watch your footing though.’

  ‘You want to see a doctor about that cough while you’re here,’ Parish said.

  The hint of a grin rippled across the fireman’s mouth. ‘Yeah, occupational hazard, so they tell me.’

  At the bottom of the stairs the smoke was black and thick like a pea-soup fog in old London. There were no lights on and neither of them had a torch.

  ‘Are you sure we should be doing this, Sir?’

  ‘No. You stay here, I’ll go on alone.’

  ‘I will not,’ Richards said. ‘Where you go, I go.’

  ‘Hey?’

  Parish looked up the stairs in the direction of the shout – it was the fireman.

  ‘You’ll need this.’

  A heavy torch spun through the air towards him and he caught it.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said.

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘That was nice of him wasn’t it, Sir?’

  ‘Sometimes people are nice, Richards. It’s simply that we get to meet most of the ugly ones.’

  Richards held on to Parish’s jacket as he led the way along the basement corridor towards the Mortuary. The light was of little use, but they did manage to find the three bodies covered over with plastic sheeting.

  There didn’t seem to be any more live people this close to the centre of the explosion, and apart from the sound of a small fire burning itself out and falling debris, it was eerily quiet.

  Parish knelt down next to the corpses, pulled the plastic sheeting away, and shone the torch on their faces. Two of them he didn’t recognise – one was a balding old man with long grey hair at the sides, and the other was a middle-aged nurse with gold studs in her ears, but he did recognise Libby Fischer.

  ‘This is the woman who was reconstructing the faces,’ he said to Richards.

  ‘Do you think that happened in the explosion, Sir?’

  She was pointing to a straight gaping wound across Libby Fischer’s neck.

  ‘No, I don’t, she’s had her throat cut.’

  He pulled the sheeting further down.

  ‘Oh God, Sir,’ Richards said turning away.

  Her top had been ripped open, and there were knife wounds across her breasts and abdomen. Not enough to kill her, but it was clear she’d been tortured because her nipples had been sliced off.

  ‘They wanted to know what she knew, and she would have told them.’ He pulled the sheeting up and covered over the dead bodies again.

  ‘What about Doc Michelin?’

  ‘Let’s see if we can get in the Mortuary.’

  He stood up and headed further along the corridor. The doors to the Mortuary were gone. Inside, it resembled a scrap-metal store, there was twisted metal everywhere. Shards of bone crunched underfoot, and Parish guessed that there wouldn’t be much left of the twenty-one skeletons.

  They carefully threaded their way through the wreckage that used to be the King George Hospital Mortuary looking for any sign of Doc Michelin, but he wasn’t there. Parish had the idea that maybe they’d find the Doc’s severed head, but they found no part of him.

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t here, Sir.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have left Libby Fischer here on her own, he was too much of a gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  He made his way to the bank of ten freezers. All of the doors were hanging open. He found the Chief with his legs half out and pushed him back in before Richards could see, then went along the doors and closed each one. The electricity had been disconnected, but he thought the dead deserved more respect than decomposing in a burnt out Mortuary.

  ‘Right, let’s go. This is a crime scene and we need to make the fire brigade aware, and get forensics down here.’

  Once they were at the top of the stairs looking as though they’d been victims of the explosion with their filthy clothing and blackened faces, Parish rang Sergeant Holmes.

  ‘It’s quarter to four in the morning, Sir?’

  ‘I’m impressed you can tell the time, Holmes. Now, grab Watson and get your arses down to King George Hospital. There’s been an explosion at the Mortuary, Libby Fischer has been murdered, all our evidence has gone up in smoke, Doc Michelin is missing, and nobody here has got a clue what’s going on. The Fire Brigade and the hospital staff think it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I’ll phone Toadstone and get a forensics team down here, but I need you to make sure we don’t lose any more evidence. Are we clear?’

  ‘We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.’

  He phoned Toadstone and told him what had happened.

  ‘I’ll come down and make sure everything is being done right, Sir.’

  ‘Appreciate it, Toadstone.’

  ‘By the way, Sir...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They didn’t destroy all the skeletons – I kept one to study in my lab’.’

  ‘Keep it to yourself, Toadstone, but I think you might be up for a knighthood this time.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Sir, and I’m really sad about the Chief.’

  ‘Yeah thanks, everyone feels bad.’

  ‘I hope Mary isn’t too upset?’

  ‘She’s coming to terms with it.’

  ‘Give her my love.’

  ‘You’re confusing me with Cupid, Toadstone.’

  He disconnected the call.

  ‘What, Sir?’

  ‘He wanted me to give you his love.’

  ‘He’s sweet.’

  They walked outside and found the same senior fire officer they were talking to before.

  ‘Have we worked out who’s in charge yet?’

  ‘No, but everything seems to be getting done.’

  ‘That’s not good enough. The Mortuary is a crime scene and I need access controlled to preserve any evidence. I’d be grateful if you could find the senior officers from the other crews and bring them here.’

  He found the other officers and with Parish’s help they eventually agreed that the Illford crew would be in charge because they had a Fire Investigation officer, the Goodmayes crew would help, and the other crews would go back to their respective stations.

  By the time the fire brigade situation was resolved Holmes and Watson had arrived and began establishing a controlled environment to carry out a murder investigation. Shortly afterwards, Toadstone and a four-person team of forensic officers pulled up in an unmarked white Transit van to begin the identification and collection of evidence.

  ‘One of the three dead bodies under the plastic sheeting in the corridor outside the Mortuary is a woman who’s been tortured and had her throat cut,’ Parish said to Toadstone and Sergeant Holmes. ‘Doc Michelin is missing, and obviously there’s no Mortuary in the hospital at the moment. Find one of the other pathologists and have them take the body to Redbridge hospital for a post mortem.’

  ‘Do you think Doctor Michelin died in the explosion, Sir?’

  ‘You’re getting confused again Toadstone. Am I sat in a tent at the fairground rubbing a crystal ball and asking you to “Cross my palm with silver?”’

  ‘I’ll get my team moving should I, Sir?’

  ‘An excellent plan, Toadstone.’

  Parish and Richards began walking towards the car park.

  ‘I’m tired, Sir.’

  ‘Unfortunately Richards, we’re not likely to be getting any sleep until tonight because it’s now morning.’ He checked his watch. It was five-twenty. ‘We’ll go home now, get cleaned up, change our clothes, eat breakfast, and then go and brief the Chief.’

  ‘I can’t get used to a woman being the new Chief. When you say, “the Chief” I keep picturing the old Chief in my head.’

  ‘And you will for a time, Richards. The brain takes great deli
ght in playing tricks on us.’

  ‘We need a break don’t we, Sir?’

  ‘Still stating the obvious I see?’

  ‘Well, here’s something that’s not so obvious, why was it so chaotic tonight? I mean, four fire stations were called out, the hospital didn’t have a clue what was going on, and if nobody knew there was a murder, and the explosion was set deliberately, why did we get called out?’

  ‘All good points, Richards,’ he said and it occurred to him as they reached the car that maybe someone got them here on purpose, that maybe someone was trying to kill two birds with one explosion, that maybe they’d walked straight into a trap.

  But these thoughts came too late.

  The side door of the all-black Transit van slid open.

  Four people wearing ski masks poured out. Two grabbed him, and another two pounced on Richards.

  He felt a needle penetrate his neck, and the last noise he heard before a black curtain descended over his conscious mind was a plaintive cry from Richards, “Sirrr?”

  ***

  John Linton watched as the black Transit van reversed out of its parking space and drove slowly towards the exit. He was tempted to take the motorbike, he hadn’t ridden a motorbike since his teenage years and this one was certainly one worth riding, but the rifle was in the car and he needed that.

  He walked quickly to his car, drove out of the car park and began following the van. He’d made a number of conjectures. First, the people in the van were the same people who had killed all those children – and his Amy. Second, they had caused the explosion in the Mortuary to destroy the evidence and lure the two coppers to the hospital. Third, he’d guessed it was the Mortuary because that’s where all the skeletons were and that’s where they were doing the facial reconstructions, so the coppers would obviously turn up. Fourth, the woman was the person trying to kill Parish, but he had no idea who the motorcyclist he’d killed was. Fifth, the people who killed Amy were systematically destroying all the evidence, and anyone who knew anything about them. Sixth, it was up to Staff Sergeant John Linton to make sure they didn’t get away with taking his Amy away from him after all these years. Seventh, Amy would never have a final resting-place because these fucking bastards had committed the final sin and destroyed her skeleton.