by Lenny Brando
“Ian isn't the hero type.” Alice rubbed her nose, then folded her arms. “Anyway, I don't need rescuing.”
Marks stared at her with unblinking eyes. “Are you sure about that, Alice?”
“Like I said, detective. It’s a metaphor.” She looked to the portrait once more. “It offers a different meaning to each of us.”
“Just as well the police deal in facts, eh?”
Alice looked away. “Yes. Lucky us.”
The hint of a scowl crossed Marks’ face. “That’s all for now, Alice. But we may need to talk to you again.”
“People are threatening me on Twitter. What about them? And I haven't even looked at Facebook yet, God knows what they’re saying there. Isn’t that illegal? Aren't they facts?”
Marks stood and smoothed down his suit. “Our section doesn't deal with harassment. If you feel you're in danger, you can contact your local police station. Are you in danger?”
She shrugged. “I don't know.”
“It’s emotional out there, but it will blow over. We reviewed the comments, and you apologised. My advice is to ignore it. Do not engage with people spoiling for a digital fight. They’ll soon get bored and look for someone else to target.”
As the detectives walked to the door, Alice asked, “Don’t you need the contacts for my last job?”
Marks stopped and gave the semblance of a smile. “There’s no need. We know an awful lot about you, Alice Madsen.” He wagged a finger at her, “Now, may I suggest two Aspirin and a good night’s sleep.”
16
When Ian heard the lounge door open, he left the kitchen and approached the detectives in the hall. “Well?” Ian asked. “Is everything all right? She’s not a suspect or anything?”
Marks raised an eyebrow. “At this stage, it appears she is just a witness.”
“Good. What about media briefings? The reports on new channels are still implicating Alice by innuendo.”
Marks nodded. “I’ll pass our conclusion to the appropriate people.” He edged towards the front door and Gilmore followed him. Marks held out his hand. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
Ian opened the front door and a cool breeze ran through the hall, ruffling Alice’s jacket on the table. Gilmore brushed against it and it fell to the floor. He didn't retrieve it, and Ian couldn't tell if he intended the slight.
“One more thing,” Marks stopped in the doorway and pointed at the estate agent’s board by the front gate. “What’s with that?”
“This is my parents’ house. We rent it off them, but they want to sell it, so the sign went up a few days ago.”
“When are you moving out?”
Ian shrugged. “We’ve only begun the search for another place, but we’re thinking 6 to 8 weeks.”
“Uh-huh.” He waved a finger at Ian. “You need to keep us aware of your plans and any change of address. Same goes if you intend to leave the country for any reason. Business, holiday, family. Anything. All right? You have my card. Call me.”
When they’d left, Ian picked up the jacket from the floor. He hung it at the end of the stairs and paused. After several deep breaths, he entered the lounge.
“How was that?” he asked Alice. He sat on the sofa opposite her, leaning forward, resting his chin on linked hands.
She shrugged. “Unpleasant. Both them and the conversation.”
“At least it’s over now.”
“I hope.”
“They said they’d let the media know you’re only a witness.”
“Will they put that on Twitter?”
Ian shrugged. “Somehow, I doubt it.”
She curled up on the chair. “What am I supposed to do? Everybody hates me.”
“That’s not true, Alice.”
She nodded and spluttered. “I’m not feeling well. I should go to bed.”
“Then give me your hand. Come on. I’ll help you to bed.”
She held out her hand, and he pulled her to her feet. She stumbled into him and he pulled her close. He thought he felt her return the hug but couldn't be sure. As he nuzzled into her hair, he caught the fading scent of her usual perfume. Wonderlust by Michael Kors. A reliable gift if he couldn’t think of anything else. He closed his eyes and inhaled. For one moment, he fooled himself into believing everything was normal. Then she wriggled free. “Sorry. I’m just not right after all this.” She rubbed her eyes like a tired child. “My bag. My phone.”
“I’ll get them.” He grabbed her bag, popped her phone into it, and helped her up the stairs into the bedroom where she sat on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands.
“I don't trust those police,” she said. “They pretend to be on your side, but they’re not. They have their own agenda, and I never know what it is.”
“I think these guys are all right.”
Alice scoffed. “Yeah, sure.” She stood, unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. Then she unclipped her bra and threw it at the laundry basket.
“You want me to get your dress?” An instinctive pang of want fluttered through Ian as he watched her climb into the bed.
“Thanks.”
He hung the dress in the wardrobe and picked up her bra from the floor. “I’ll stay up for a while, okay?”
“Sure.”
He leaned over and kissed her head, and she murmured at him. When switched off the bedroom light and stepped into the landing, she called out, “Hey Ian? Sorry if I was, you know...”
He nodded into the darkness. “It’s okay. Night.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, his mood soured. He sipped from a glass of wine, but the Gevrey-Chambertin had lost its lustre. It tasted bitter, and the bouquet didn't reach its earlier heights, as if the atmosphere in the house had tarnished it. He drank it anyway and poured another glass in the hope things would improve.
What should he do about Jo? There would be no chance of seeing her this weekend after all that had happened. A shiver of guilt ran through him, but he ignored it. Alice was witness to South Ken attack. Police just left the house. Call you early next week. Sorry. He sent the text to Jo then deleted it from the sent folder.
The notion police were questioning Alice in their house unsettled him, and the sooner the whole thing was over with the better. He thought about scrolling through Twitter but tweets regarding Alice would only frustrate and annoy him, maybe even prompt him to get involved in exchanges he couldn't win. He took a deep breath and told himself it would all work out.
Ian reached for the remote and switched the TV on. He watched an economic report for several minutes until they cut to a commercial break. The ads bored him, and he snatched at the remote to change channel. In doing so, he knocked the half empty glass to the floor, where it shattered. A dark pool spread on the cream tiles. “Damn it,” he cursed. He listened for any sound from above, but the house was silent, save for the background noise of the TV.
He hoisted himself off the stool and mopped up the wine. Shards of broken glass had spread around the kitchen floor and he swept them into a scoop. Just when he thought he had them all, a fragment crunched beneath his foot. The damn stuff got everywhere.
While he filled a fresh glass with the last of the wine from the bottle, he glanced up at the TV. The commercial break was over, and they re-ran a familiar clip.
“...A blonde girl drinking champagne. Short black dress. White jacket draped on a chair...”
17
On Saturday morning, people milled around the reception area in Hammersmith Hospital. Relatives yelled at the staff manning the main desk. Even the security people looked nervous. Cole glanced around and concluded even getting to the harassed staff would be a challenge. He would have to use his wits to find Daz.
He studied the signs for departments and wards. Arrows pointed this way and that way. He dashed up the stairs to the next floor. Corridors led in three directions. Staff in green overalls hurried past him, swirling antiseptic odours in their wake. When he raised his hand at one, she put
her head down and scurried off. He cursed her and followed a sign for a nurses’ station.
He couldn't find the station, so he pushed open several doors until he found a small office. Inside, a nurse sat behind a desk and tapped on a keyboard.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she said without raising her head.
He allowed her what he thought was a polite amount of time to finish what she was doing. That time passed. He drummed his fingers on the desk. She still typed.
“Excuse me,” he said.
She glanced up. “Yes?”
Cole smiled at her. “I’m looking for my brother, Daz, Darren Cole. They told me he was up here.”
Another nurse entered and placed several files on the desk without a word and then hurried out again. “Oh yeah?” The nurse at the computer pushed the new files beneath the pile by her side and her attention returned to the screen.
Cole nodded. “Yeah.”
He watched her work the keyboard. She typed a lot more characters than ‘Darren Cole’. Cole drummed his fingers again. “Have you found him?”
She stopped typing. “Sorry, just give me a minute here, please.”
“Too busy on Facebook, yeah?”
“Look, mister. I have 27 patient notes to type up. Plus the ones Parveen dropped on me.” She pointed to the pile of documents. “Some writing is impossible to read. If I type the wrong thing, a patient could get the wrong treatment, so I need to be careful with each entry into the computer, including this one. I should’ve finished hours ago. But I’m still here, barely earning enough to pay my rent. Trying to concentrate. We all are. It’s mad busy in here since last night, in case you didn’t notice. Visitors should get information from downstairs. This isn't a public office.”
Cole put his hands up. “I was there last night. In South Ken. You know what? I was on TV. You might have seen me?”
“Told you already. I was working. Sure didn’t have time for TV.”
“I stopped the terrorist.” Cole stood up straight. “He drove over my brother. Broke his leg. They wouldn’t let me visit after. Said to visit today. The people on TV called me a hero.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Did they really?”
“Yeah. They did. I’m Lewis Cole.”
She stared at Cole and sighed. “Oh go on then. What’s your brother’s name again?”
Ten minutes later, Cole stood at a counter, faced with an older nurse. “Yes?” she asked.
“Looking for Darren Cole. They told me he was here.”
“ICU’s down to your left, second door on your right. Ring the bell and wait for someone to let you in.”
“What? ICU? Why’s he in there?”
“Sorry. I can’t tell you. Data protection.”
“But I’m his brother.”
“Talk to ICU.”
Cole nodded his thanks and hurried in the direction the nurse had pointed. Ignoring her instructions, he pushed at the door, but it didn't open. He tried once more, pushing harder, again to no avail.
“You gotta ring the bell, mate.” Cole turned to see a middle-aged man sitting on a chair nearby. He peered at Cole over a tabloid newspaper.
“Why?”
“They restrict the number of visitors in the ICU. Rules, innit?”
Cole shook his head and rang the bell. He stood and stared at the door.
“Now you gotta wait. Can take twenty minutes, mate.”
“What?” Cole looked over at him. “You having a laugh?”
“Ain’t being funny at all. They say they’re dying in there.”
“My brother ain't dying.”
The guy shrugged, then disappeared behind the paper again. “Just telling you how it is.”
According to Cole’s watch, nine minutes later, the door opened. A nurse stuck her head out. “Yes?”
Cole looked at his watch and then at the nurse. “Here to see Darren Cole. I’m his brother.”
The nurse nodded and pointed to her watch. “You’ve got ten minutes. Bed four. And keep it low.” She stood guard as he passed her, and he heard the door click behind him.
The hospital smell filled his nostrils. It was stronger than outside as if they needed more of whatever stuff they used to sterilise things in the ICU. He wrinkled his nose while he looked around the room and counted out the beds. Several had curtains drawn around them. Each had a number at the end and his eyes swept to bed four. He hurried over and scrunched his face at the person with the plastered leg. Wires and leads connected him to machines. Who the hell was that? Can’t be Daz. He moved closer and the patient in the bed turned his head to him. When he gave a flicker of a smile and muttered something that sounded like “Lew”. Cole stared open mouthed.
“Daz? That you?”
Daz beckoned with his hand. “I’m that bad... huh?”
“No, mate. You’re looking good.”
“Yeah, right... M… muppet.” Daz’s voice was low and broken,
“No seriously. You’re in good hands.”
“Don’t feel… nothing. Pumped... You know...”
“What mate?”
“Gear...” Daz coughed and rasped. Spasms rocked him, and his eyes rolled. An alarm sounded from a monitor. Cole looked around with wide eyes. The nurse rushed over and pushed Cole aside. She fiddled with the machines and the alarm stopped. An Asian doctor appeared from nowhere and he too, brushed by Cole. The nurse turned and ushered Cole further away from the bed while the doctor attended to Daz. “You have to leave now.”
“But... I just got here... What’s wrong with him? He’s only got a broken leg, right?”
“I’ll get someone to talk to you outside. Outside, okay?” She put her hand on his shoulder and walked him to the door.
Cole stopped. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
The nurse didn't make eye contact. She just opened the door.
“Nurse?” Cole grabbed her, but she shook him off and pushed him through the door. “Nurse?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and the door shut with a soft click.
Ten minutes later the Asian doctor came out of the ICU. He took Cole by the arm to a quiet corner.
“What’s your relationship with Darren?” he asked.
“He’s my twin brother. Got no other family.”
“Okay. Father? Mother?”
“Mum’s dead. Ain't seen my father in years. Maybe he's dead too.”
“Okay. I’m Mr Rasheed Ibrahim, consultant neurologist. Would you like to sit?”
“No.” Cole stood taller and folded his arms. “Just tell me already.”
“Your brother has a few problems. In particular, he has a cerebral edema...”
“A what?”
“It’s a brain swelling. We need to perform a decompressive craniectomy to relieve it as a matter of urgency. We’ll need you to sign forms at the station down the corridor.”
Cole blinked, unfolded his arms and shook his head. “Is it, like, serious?”
Ibrahim looked grave, locked eyes with Cole, and nodded. “He will get the best care. I promise you that.”
“Will he be all right, like? He won't die, will he?”
Ibrahim took a breath and looked away. “All I can promise is that we’ll do our best.”
Cole zoned out, and the words faded. Cole recalled the image of Daz mangled on the ground outside the bar in South Kensington. Then, as if someone else worked his thoughts, a different memory played for him. A blonde drinking champagne. “Bitch,” he muttered. He repeated himself. Louder. He muttered and mumbled until he noticed Ibrahim’s hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Cole? Mr. Cole? Please don't get angry. It won't solve anything.”
Cole’s breathing laboured and a look of concern crossed the consultant’s face. But Cole brushed him off. “I’m not gonna get angry. I’m gonna get that bitch.”
18
DI Marks finished reading the latest updates on the case file and logged out of the system. He grabbed a folder, beckoned at DS Gilmore, an
d they took the lift down several floors to the interview rooms.
After Marks signed for the key to room three, he turned to Gilmore. “Remember, our objective in this interview is Alice Madsen’s level of complicity.”
Samir Hassan sat on a chair in the interview room. His eyes were puffy and swollen, and several cuts and bruises marked his face. Both hands were cuffed to the table, and despite his situation, he looked at Marks with undisguised contempt. Marks ignored him and switched on the recording system.
Marks stated the formalities with an eye on the recording level indicators. Satisfied everything was in order, he stared at Hassan. “Please confirm for the record that you have waived to right to legal representation?”
Hassan nodded. “Yes.”
“Right.” Marks stretched out his hands and cracked his knuckles. He pushed a photograph over to the table. “Do you know this person?”
Hassan reached to pick it up, but the chain on his handcuffs was too short. Marks pushed it within range and let Hassan study it. He blinked several times, then looked at Marks.
Marks jabbed at the photo. “Well? Do you?”
Hassan smirked. “Yes. Is Abeedah Zainab.”
“Spell that.”
As Hassan spelt it out, the two detectives exchanged a glance and they leaned in closer. “How do you know her?”
“She help me Friday. She jihadi also. Like me. We will be Martyrs.”
Marks pulled the photo back. “How did she help you?”
“She tell me where to drive van. Where many Kafirs drink.”
“Okay. Did she plan this with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Hassan shrugged. “She is good Muslim, no? She know waajib.”
“What’s waajib?”
“Waajib is the duty of every Muslim.”
Marks frowned. “Killing innocents is not part of that.”
Hassan shrugged. “Kafirs?” He tried to raise his hand, but the chain prevented him. Instead, he made a slicing motion across his chest, turned to one side and spat on the floor.