Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2)

by Lewis Hastings

  Food. Yes, she needed to eat. Her eyes were burning due to the intense computer work she had been conducting for the last few weeks – a visit to the optician was overdue and this explained the gentle headache. Once again, Carrie O’Shea; the Detective.

  But the headache was worsening.

  Cade looked at his phone, noted the five missed calls and slid it across the desk. He did not know who had called, the message simply said ‘Private’. He carried on writing his report but was distant, removed from his role, thinking about her.

  Constantin had slipped out of the flat, onto the pavement and quietly into the darker side of the discreet but very upmarket road. He was rapidly heading towards the nearby refuge of a grey stone historic building, where he would wait, as an arsonist waits for the firefighter, stimulated by the sight of his destructive pastime and if providence was on his side he could plan the next phase whilst he waited for the drama to unfold. It just didn’t get any better.

  He wrote off the feeling of being watched as simply the result of drug-fuelled paranoia. But he was being watched. He knew it.

  His plans were simple. More money, more drugs, more, of whatever he wanted. Jackdaw and that rent boy of his who had got him drunk on cheap vodka in that dowdy English drinking establishment; they could all go to hell.

  He was on his own now, unhinged, rogue and afraid of no one, and of course, relishing every moment.

  For the first time in years, he regretted his weakest of moments; accepting a Class A drug from a stranger. His skin itched, and he involuntarily scratched, paying attention to the inside of his right wrist, and there it was, the blue mark, the wave, the ink that enslaved him. He scratched at it until it bled. He needed to cut it out, piece by piece.

  O’Shea walked into her lounge, slipped off her jacket and immediately thought of Cade – ‘Come home now, it’s my turn, I want to take up some of your valuable time.’ Her eyebrows raised at the thought of what she might do with him.

  She stepped out of her shoes; the relief was instant; it had been another long day. She dropped her skirt to the ground and flicked it skilfully with her left foot onto the sofa. Her shirt followed, but she expertly draped that over a dining chair, taking a moment to align the seams purposefully with the back of the seat. No longer quite as obsessive, but always driven by the past, Carrie O’Shea was changing slowly.

  Her sheer blue lace bra found a temporary but indicative home on the bedroom door handle, it was so good to get it off. She kicked off her matching knickers catching them in one seamless motion and laying them on the edge of the bed. Just so.

  If that didn’t encourage him into their favourite room of the house, then frankly nothing would. It had been days; it felt like weeks.

  Free of the encumbrances of the day and freer of her clothing she brushed her teeth, layered a mist of Chanel No 5 onto her neck and shoulders and walked without restraint around her flat. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. She stood, side on and ran her hand alongside her breast, across the flat of her stomach and paused before thinking about heading a little lower.

  ‘Carrie, you are a very bad girl. That sort of behaviour will have to wait until Inspector Cade gets home. And when he does, you are going to be a complete and utter slut. Every one of your lurid dreams will come true this evening.’

  She glanced backwards and spoke into the mirror, “It’s been weeks Jack, we owe it to each other…”

  Her eyebrows raised twice in succession. She playfully slapped her own wrist and walked towards the homebuilt darkroom – if she couldn’t be playful she might as well be creative. And what better way to be creative than photography. As Jack once said as he dragged her towards the compact, naturally dark room, ‘Come on you, let’s get in here and see what develops.’

  She grinned as she walked across the open-plan lounge-diner but then sensed it again.

  She felt confused, as if her blood sugar levels had plummeted, now the nausea was increasing. Her arms felt heavy, and yet weak, she became unsteady, as if drunk.

  Her mind was on fire. Had she been drugged? Had Fox done this to her? Was he waiting outside to capitalise upon her situation?

  “No, no…” She could hear her own words clearly, almost with complete clarity, but her physical motor skills were failing more quickly than she was able to react.

  The imperceptible veil of gas was consuming her, wrapping its arms around her and crushing the air from her lungs; ivy encasing its host, clambering, twisting, turning, relieving her of oxygen, smothering her soul, quietly wishing to swathe her in its life-depriving clutches.

  “Air, get to clean air…get on the floor, crawl.” Her voice was now detached but guiding her towards safety.

  She was confused and now hyperventilating, her heart rate quickening, panic was setting in, completely unaware why this was happening to her. She leant forward and grabbed the darkroom door handle, trying in vain to stabilise herself. The door eased slightly allowing a more concentrated blanket of gas to escape, now it was present at every level and insidiously entering her.

  There was no sense of the oft-discussed bitter almond smell in her home, perhaps if there had been she would be in a more enviable position than she was now. She detested almonds. Her mind was still trying to process what was happening, she knew she was being attacked, but her attacker was absent.

  ‘It must be the chemicals. The chemicals. The chem…’

  It must be her fault. Her eyes blinked repeatedly as she tried to focus on the row of brown bottles, lined up perfectly on the white shelf. Then, as she slipped to her knees, she saw the open tray, full of liquid. Her last thought would be that this was a deliberate act. The diminutive young policewoman who had impressed so many with her attention to detail, her immense spirit and sheer resolution had lost the battle without as much as a fight.

  She was forlornly unaware that her pristine, naked body lay next to the room that had become her emotional escape. She was hopeless, helpless and dying.

  Around two hundred parts per million of the deadly cocktail had combined in the air to deprive her of her life and her dignity. Just another seventy units would have killed her instantly. Time was her nemesis.

  As grey as the shadows he hid among Constantin could feel himself becoming tired. He needed another meeting with his opiate mistress, but she was locked in his car, calling his name.

  His alternative mistress was the obvious solution. He recalled now, among the fog of war that clouded his mind and judgement, that he had intended to see Lucy, it was to be, possibly his last night with her.

  It was coming back to him now, flooding back and encouraging him to make contact. He slid his phone from his pocket and held down the number three.

  Oblivious to the chaos Lucy dried her freshly manicured hand and answered the phone.

  “Connie my darling, I’ve been expecting you. Guess where I am?”

  He was in no mood for games.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m in the bath. Come over, you know where I keep the key. I’ll wait right here for you.”

  She turned on the tap with her equally immaculate toes and soon felt the temperature rise.

  Nicolescu processed her words and visualised her in the ornate claw foot cast iron bath.

  “There is something I have to do first, then I will come to you.”

  Lucy Thomas hated secrets, but she loved a satisfied client more.

  “OK Connie, but is there something you should be telling your Lucy?” She paused, long enough to create an uncomfortable silence. “Don’t burst my bubbles sweetie…”

  “OK. OK! I tell you, but if you mention this…to anyone, I will come over there and… drown you. I mean it. Make me a promise.”

  “I cross my legs and hope to die.”

  ‘Open them, more like…’

  And then he did what he always did with his transvestite lover – he told her where he had been, what he had done, about the last twenty-four hours. As he sheltered in the darkene
d stone-arched doorway and she slipped deeper into the steaming bath, he told her everything.

  But he stopped short of informing her what he was yet to do.

  Valentin was still watching, the Imperial Eagle to his former comrade, the startled Baby Rabbit. But what he saw suggested that the rabbit had claws.

  ‘Why are you standing there Constantin Nicolescu? What exactly are you waiting for? And who are you talking to on your phone I wonder?’

  The younger of the two Romanian males lifted a glass to his lips and savoured the Armagnac that left liquid honey-brown tracks on the inner surface of his favourite lead crystal glass.

  This time he said it aloud.

  “Come on, what are you doing, who are you waiting for?” He deliberately read his lips, trying to decipher the conversation.

  He dialled Cade again.

  “Jack Cade. This had better be important!”

  “Jack, it is Valentin, I have been trying to ring you. Something is wrong at your girlfriend’s house. You need to get there quickly.”

  “Thank you, my friend, but I no longer have a girlfriend since she chose to find another man. Goodbye…”

  The caller was unaware of Cade’s history, of the wretched end to his previous marriage, of betrayal and disappointment. Cade himself was torn between the past and the present. His head refused to trust her a moment longer, but his heart, his heart knew that something was not quite right. Such a shame his foolish male pride would not relinquish the vice-like grip on the situation.

  “Cade stop! Your girl is not with another man. I watched them at the door of her flat. She kissed him on the cheek and waved goodbye. I think they are old friends, nothing more.”

  The words came from a man described as a prolific assassin and now rather strangely; he was an ally, and his words seemed to provide solace to Cade. He shook his head, both physically and mentally. It was what he wanted to hear and now was back in control of his dreaded emotions.

  “OK, so will you answer me a question Valentin?”

  “Jack, we have no time for questions, you need to get to the flat.”

  “Just one. How do you know all this?”

  “I have a camera on your home Jack, it has been there for a while, your colleague’s too. I observed Constantin Nicolescu entering your girlfriends home, he entered carrying a small bag and left with nothing.”

  “And?”

  “Jack! Need I remind you? He is a murdering drug addict who wishes to kill you all for taking away what he valued.”

  “What?”

  “The boy he was with at the house in Kent. He is dead yes?”

  “If you mean the one he probably shot, then yes.”

  “He is no longer thinking…rationally. You have been hunting him, no?”

  “Yes. He is wanted for many things including murder and attempted murder, other offences too…”

  He cut him off as the sentence was looking likely to be long and drawn out.

  “I think Constantin will be nearby, watching you. I lost him in the darkness. Go to the flat Cade. Now!”

  “OK, I’m going.” He started walking quickly, then spoke again.

  “Valentin?”

  “Yes, I am still here.”

  “Are you watching Roberts too?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is he home yet?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you – I owe you. Goodbye.”

  He dialled the Control room, intending to compress four paragraphs into two lines but was put on hold and forced to listen to crime prevention advice on a monotonous looping recording. He left a brief but informative message before hanging up and auto-dialling Roberts.

  “Jason it’s me, get to Carrie’s place as fast as you can. I’ve got back-up on the way.”

  “What’s happening Jack?”

  “I have no idea but a call from our Romanian assassin friend tells me something is very wrong. I’ll ring for an ambulance, see you there.”

  “Jack, cancel the ambulance, they are on strike, went out at six o’clock tonight, them and the underground staff. Industrial action over pay and conditions. I’m not that far away, I stopped to get some…”

  Cade cleared the line, grabbed his phone and a set of car keys from a nearby wall hook. Bypassing the lift he ran down the stairs to the ground floor. Floor after floor, it seemed to take an eternity before he burst through the fire door and into the car park.

  He looked around the parking area. No one left. He was on his own in one of the busiest police buildings in the country. He dialled the number for the police control room again.

  “Inspector Jack Cade from the Operation Breaker team. I’m en route to an address in Old Queen Street, South West One. Get me some backup and a medic.” He cleared the line once more and accelerated out of the building.

  The Vauxhall’s engine was being caned, each gear propelling the car forwards and into the red line. He brought the car to a rapid halt at the junction of Tothill Street and Dartmouth Street. This was the way he walked her home, but it was one-way.

  He shoved his left index finger onto a dashboard switch which illuminated a set of blue strobes, sat inconspicuously behind the grill and conventionally very discreet.

  Adopting the old adage of it being better to ask for forgiveness than permission he drove across the main road and up the one-way street, mounting the kerb to his left to avoid parked vehicles.

  At sixty miles an hour, he knew that if somebody pulled into his path, he was doomed.

  They did.

  The elderly male businessman, who had also had an incredibly long day, had indicated to his right, looked over his left shoulder and pulled away from the kerb. He had done everything by the book, just as he had over fifty blemish-free years of driving.

  The Vauxhall struck the front right-hand wing with a jarring thud, sending glass and most of Cade’s pride cascading across the narrow London highway.

  He looked at the other male and could see immediately that he was uninjured but about to explain to Cade in words of limited syllables just what he thought of the police officer’s driving.

  But his opportunity was lost as Cade was out and running. He paused, shoved a business card into the pinstriped-driver’s hand and ran north. As he ran, he reached into his pocket to answer his cell phone.

  “Cade.”

  “It’s Jason. I’m here, where are you?”

  Roberts could hear that his colleague was running, but had no idea just how far away he was.

  “Do I wait for you?”

  “No. Yes. We go into together. I’m a minute away.” He hung up.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cade was running faster than he ever had. His chest was wracked with pain as he piled air into his lungs, his arms trying their best to propel him forward. He rounded the last corner, having left one highly overpriced street for another.

  He reached Roberts and scanned his entry card onto the door reader.

  He took a brief moment to look up and down the street, gulping in air, trying to stand up straight. As with his workplace, the streets were deserted. Had he somehow missed an apocalyptic episode?

  “Go, get inside.”

  They crashed up the stairs, oblivious to the need to maintain a covert approach. The main door to the flat was locked. Cade stepped back and rammed his right foot against the lock. Nothing.

  He tried again, and again. Already exhausted he could sense a battle lost.

  Roberts stepped forward.

  “Jack, no offence but move. This door is going in.”

  He took two steps back and propelled his foot straight through the door panel which gave way instantly. Cade was so fast to react that he pushed the door inwards with his partner’s leg still hanging through the door panel. At any other time, it would have been hysterically funny.

  Cade was moving quickly, but sensed a significant odour. It started to affect him almost immediately. He called out to Roberts.

  “Jason, stay out, get out! Call t
he fire brigade – there’s a chemical leak in here.”

  As he was shouting Cade could feel himself plummeting, his eyes burned intensely and nausea welled up from his stomach sending acid coursing through his system, scorching his oesophagus and making him retch.

  He instinctively dropped to the floor and in doing so probably saved his own life. The room was clear of any obvious vapour cloud but he was fighting a forceful battle – to see and to move.

  He looked across the lounge and saw her lying on the carpet, half of her naked body was inside the dark room, the other stretched into the lounge.

  Without pausing to question why she was naked he crawled, infant-like across the room, took a huge breath and prayed for salvation. He could hardly see now but his hands still worked. Grasping hold of her feet he pulled her towards him. Instinctively he wanted to hold her to his chest, to console her, but he knew that whatever the chemical was it was killing her and time was her only ally.

  “Jack! Meet me half way, wrap this around your face.” It was Roberts, offering lucid instructions to his friend and colleague.

  Cade grabbed hold of the item which he saw was Roberts’ jacket. He wrapped it around his face and with a boost of adrenaline shuffled backwards towards his loyal colleague.

  Roberts, never the strongest officer on the force, took hold of Cade’s legs and pulled with Herculean strength, bringing both him and O’Shea back into the doorway.

  A neighbour appeared. “Can I help?”

  “Get her into your flat and open up all the windows and call an ambulance.”

  Roberts looked at Cade and nodded.

  “Well done, mate. Look we need to get her to hospital. The clock may be ticking and we don’t have the first clue what is wrong with her. This is no accident Jack.”

  The neighbour did as instructed – he’d put two and two together and assumed the males were police officers. He knew what his neighbour did, but in three years had never questioned what exactly. In fact, he had hardly ever spoken to her.