by Helen Fields
‘Why don’t I say I heard about it from Gene Oldman before he died? We found betting slips in Oldman’s belongings. I can put together a backstory about using the same bookie.’
‘Great,’ Ava said. ‘Contact the tech team about getting us ears inside with no prospect of your cover being blown. And we’ll need backup as close as we can but not inside the block. If this is a professional operation they’ll have a man posted on security all night. What do you want to do about a weapon?’
‘Knife in my boot. If they do a body search, that’ll be perfectly normal for Wester Hailes. It’d probably look more suspicious if I wasn’t carrying a blade, to be honest.’
‘Agreed,’ Ava said. ‘Let’s get moving. I want the building plans obtained from the council, a full layout, better information about the occupants of each flat, and eyes on both building entrances all day today to get a feel for who’s coming and going. Photos of every single person seen entering and leaving, with control room working up identifications in real time and building up profiles. Sergeant Lively, a word in the corridor?’ He followed her out. ‘I’ll have to approve the operation with the detective superintendent. Did you want to talk to her first?’
It was an uncomfortable conversation to have. Until it had come to a recent halt, Lively and Detective Superintendent Overbeck had been having an extra-marital affair that had lasted several months. Ava had an unspoken agreement with Lively not to refer to it.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Doesn’t matter either way,’ he said. ‘I doubt she’ll even register my name, to be honest.’
‘Oh, fine, I’ll deal with the super then,’ Ava said. ‘Are you … okay?’
‘I’m not sobbing on my sofa watching Bridget Jones movies, if that’s what you’re worrying about,’ he smirked.
Ava figured she’d probed enough.
‘All right. You’re to brief me in person with all the security and tech arrangements. I’ll be heading up the operation in the vicinity. You sure this isn’t too risky? I can find someone else. There’s no pressure.’
‘And pass up my chance to be a hero? I figure this’ll get me a few months’ free beers, and I’ve told all my old stories to death. I’ll be fine, ma’am.’
‘You’d better be, you stubborn bastard,’ she said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Fifty press-ups twice a day was his target. That and staying on his feet, walking the perimeter of his room. If the opportunity came to escape, Bart had decided he wasn’t going to get caught just because incarceration had left him unfit. He was at number thirty-seven of his first set of the day when the noise in the corridor marked an unusual amount of activity. It was neither meal nor shower time. He stood up and peered out into the corridor, holding his breath.
The party detoured off into Skye’s room. Two men and two women, all wearing surgical gowns. The first woman carried a kidney tray, its contents obscured by a sheet of paper across the top. One of the men was pulling a drip stand. Another woman was pushing a machine with a large monitor with a variety of leads snaking from it. The final entrant into the room carried a video camera in one hand and a bulky tripod under his other arm. Each of them was gloved, mouths and noses covered by a mask. Just as Skye had described had happened with Malcolm.
‘Hey,’ Bart called out. Skye’s door shut firmly. ‘Hey!’ he shouted, louder this time. ‘Skye, fight them. Just fight.’ He slammed a fist against the door. The sound echoed uselessly back at him. ‘Use me instead,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t touch her, you bastards. Don’t you fucking touch her!’
No one reacted. No one came. They could hear him, he was sure of that, but Skye didn’t make a sound. She didn’t race to the window to take one last look at him. No guard bothered to admonish him. Because they were miles from anywhere, alone. Skye was all he had. The thought of being there without her was the death warrant of hope. He stood sentry at the glass in his door, watching as every now and again a gowned figure passed the window in Skye’s room, turning, motioning, doing God knew what. He wished he could switch his imagination off. In the end, it took remarkably little time. An hour, he estimated, no more.
Out they trailed, one after the other, pushing and pulling their equipment, walking casually, as if everything they’d done was perfectly normal. As if the woman in the room was a bona fide patient, not a kidnapping victim. There was no sense from their demeanour that they were ashamed of what they were doing, or that they feared discovery. Bart pressed his face against the glass. There was no sound at all from Skye’s room, only the ghost of her in his mind, standing at her door, pressing her fingers against the glass while he did the same. Holding hands in spite of the space between them. He gave up on the remaining press-ups and curled on his bed.
‘Bart.’ Skye was whispering to him in his dreams. He turned his head into the pillow. ‘Bart! Are you there? Please?’
Not in his head. The voice was coming from Skye’s room. She was talking more slowly than usual; and her voice was thick, low. He jumped from his bed, and skidded to his window. She was there. The section of her face that he could see was even paler than normal, the ends of her fingertips glowing white dots against the pane.
‘Thank God you’re alive. I thought … I just …’
‘They didn’t hurt me,’ she said. ‘It was weird but it wasn’t bad. I just don’t know.’ She paused. He heard the sob in her voice. ‘I just don’t know how much longer I’ve got now.’
‘Tell me everything.’
‘They set this camera up, and told me to lie on the bed. I heard you telling me to fight and I wanted to, really, but there was no point, Bart. They said if I just lay still I’d be okay. They promised me. I didn’t want it to hurt, whatever they were doing.’
‘That’s okay. I was wrong. You did the right thing. I was an idiot. I panicked. Don’t listen to me. It wasn’t fair to tell you to fight. I’m so sorry.’
She was crying. He cursed himself.
‘All that matters is that you’re okay now. Do you know what they wanted?’
‘They put this drip in my arm. I saw a bag with “saline” written on it, but they added another drug. I kind of fell asleep. I couldn’t move or speak, but I could hear them. They set the camera up in the corner of the room, I remember seeing that. I think they took my clothes off but by then everything was just fuzzy and my head felt blank. They dressed me again before they left.’
‘Anything else? Did you understand what they were saying to each other?’
‘The woman – the one who did most of the talking – spoke in French. And I have these weird lines on me …’ she broke off.
Bart gave her a moment.
‘What sort of lines?’
‘Pen markings, in a purplish felt tip. Over my stomach, my back although I can’t see it all. Round each of my breasts. Some on my face. Can you see from there?’
He tried.
‘It’s not clear,’ he said. ‘Do the marks make any sense?’
‘It’s kind of like an anatomy drawing. There’s a circle where my stomach would be, my liver, definitely my ovaries. Maybe they’re just teaching with us? Perhaps that’s all this is. Do you think that could be it? Maybe they let Malcolm go after all.’ Her voice got brighter, bolder. ‘They haven’t hurt us yet. It could be some military thing, practising for an epidemic. You know, top secret, they’ll explain it all to us when it’s over …’
Bart said nothing. The hope in her voice was killing him. He knew it wouldn’t end that way. So did she.
‘Shit,’ she whispered.
‘That’s all right. We have no way of knowing what’s going to happen.’
‘They did the same to Malcolm. Two days later he was gone. I have a mark.’
Her voice was muffled. Bart pressed his ear to the glass.
‘Say again,’ he said.
‘I said they didn’t hurt me. It didn’t hurt at the time, but it’s starting to now. I have a pin prick in my thigh. Quite deep. It’s not bleeding or anyth
ing, but it’s bruised.’
Bart frowned.
‘Think back,’ he said. ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’
‘It’s not like there’s a sequence,’ her voice was tense. ‘It’s all just a muddle. Voices, images. I wanted to sleep. Just to let it all go. My body felt so heavy. One of my eyes opened on its own, then there was a light, like they were trying to look all the way into my brain.’
‘Probably just checking your level—’
‘That was it,’ she blurted. ‘That’s when my leg hurt. I felt it, but I didn’t. I know that doesn’t make any sense. I knew something was happening to me, but it wasn’t painful then, just a sense of intrusion. They stuck a pin in me.’
‘Do you think you flinched?’ Bart asked.
‘I’m certain I didn’t. Does it matter?’
It did, Bart thought. It mattered a lot. Whoever was destined to view the video needed to see Skye as unresponsive, perhaps even comatose. It was a sales video of some sort, and she was the goods.
‘None of it matters,’ he said. ‘People are looking for us. By now, your family will have figured out that you didn’t just decide to leave. They’ll be searching for you. My mum will have raised hell. Sooner or later they’ll figure out something that’ll bring them to us. There’s still time. Hey, what cocktail am I buying you at The Newsroom? How many can you remember from the menu?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I can’t think.’
‘Yes, you can,’ he said. ‘We’ve just arrived. It’s busy but we get the last table. It’s a Friday night, or maybe a Saturday, but we both managed to get the night off work. The city’s mad with stag parties. It’s raining but not too hard. I’ve got an umbrella so you won’t get too wet when we leave.’
‘My brother would like you.’ He could hear that she was trying to be brave but her voice shook as she said it.
‘Well, next time we’ll invite your brother out too,’ he laughed. ‘But tonight is just for us.’
‘Martini,’ she said. ‘Nothing too sweet. With a green olive. In a tumbler. I don’t like those wide V-shaped glasses.’
‘I knew that,’ he said. ‘They’re too pretentious for you. Let’s set the date. First weekend back in Edinburgh. I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.’
‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘Hold my hand?’
Bart pressed his fingers against the glass, grateful to stop talking for a while. His brain was too overwrought for him to speak coherently any longer. Over the course of his conversation with Skye, he’d made a single, irreversible decision. The day she was taken, he would extract the loose metal screw that was sticking out of the plug socket in his wall, and open up a vein in his wrist. He’d already done a dry run and made a scratch in the right place. Without Skye to stay strong for, to imagine freedom with, his continued existence was just too painful to contemplate.
Chapter Thirty
The party was more upbeat than Callanach had been expecting. The human spirit was naturally optimistic, he thought, but more resilient in public than in private. He wondered if the laughter would stop as soon as each attendee climbed into their car or cab, or if the ebullience would last longer. Perhaps until they were in their own homes and safe to mourn their fates without feeling self-conscious. The thought made him want to call Natasha immediately.
‘Luc,’ Alex said. ‘Can I get you a drink? There are sodas or fruit juices. Must be tough to be around wine. I’m not sure arranging an evening based on an alcohol theme was the best idea here.’
‘It’s Paris,’ Callanach smiled. ‘How many of us are really prepared to give up wine, even when we know what the consequences might be?’
‘True enough,’ Alex said. ‘So what’ll it be?’
‘Just a sparkling water. I guess that means I haven’t given up hope yet, in spite of the prognosis. Desperation may be making me deluded.’
‘Is there really no other treatment?’
‘Treatment but no cure. I’m too far down the transplant lists to make that a viable option. Unless you’ve heard of something I don’t know about.’
‘I wish,’ Alex murmured. ‘Dr Bruno tells everyone during our training sessions that no patient is ever beyond hope, that miracles happen, and that we should encourage all the patients to ask about options, no matter how hopeless it seems. He says there’s no such thing as end game.’
‘Really? Sounds like that might give false hope.’
Alex shifted from one foot to another.
‘Not that Dr Bruno would do that deliberately, I’m sure,’ Callanach added smoothly. ‘He seems like a genuinely caring man.’
‘I’ll get you that water,’ Alex said.
Callanach watched him go. He was going to have to work the room, make his plight known to as many people as possible, then wait and see if his efforts bore fruit. He couldn’t approach Dr Bruno and ask why Lucille Blaise had gone into his hypnotherapy session without making it obvious that someone had spoken out of turn, yet the hypnotherapy wasn’t supposed to leave him with a gap in his memory. Lucille herself was missing from the gathering, although there was nothing amiss about that. Staff members would have other commitments in the evenings. He made a mental note to schedule an appointment with her. It wouldn’t be difficult to orchestrate a reason to do so. The clinic offered enough therapies that he could find endless questions about them all.
‘Hi,’ a woman said, offering her hand and giving him a demure smile. Forty, he guessed, a French national, well spoken, with long auburn hair and an attention-grabbing figure.
He shook it and smiled back, wondering if she was a patient or attending in a more professional capacity. She certainly didn’t look ill.
‘I’m Marie Delphine,’ she said.
‘Luc Chevotet,’ he replied.
‘I didn’t want to leave you standing alone.’ She slid her arm through his. ‘Come and meet some people with me.’
Callanach turned to look for Alex but there was no sign of him at the drinks table or anywhere else in the room. He allowed himself to be led towards a small group of people in one corner. Apparently the networking was going to take care of itself.
Two hours later and he was no further forward. He’d exchanged details with two other patients suffering liver complaints, his conscience twinging at the extent of his lies. Bruno Plouffe had spoken to him briefly, welcoming him before moving on to other people eagerly awaiting his attention. Alex had brought his water after a while, apologising for the delay, checking Callanach was all right. Other staff had made the effort to introduce themselves; some of whom had obviously read his file while others hadn’t. There was a system, one had explained. All staff were notified that a new patient was on the books, and his file could be accessed on their database for everyone to familiarise themselves in their own time.
Marie was the clinic’s marketing and public relations consultant, which explained her approach. She’d seemed to know almost everyone in the room, staff and patients alike. It was some sort of grant that paid for her time, although Callanach guessed the clinic wasn’t her only client, given the designer clothes and jewellery she’d been wearing. Using a bathroom break as an excuse, he sent a quick message to Interpol listing all the names he could remember, and asking for background checks.
Back out in the main foyer, in the absence of any familiar faces, he focused on a noticeboard instead. A poster with a single green leaf logo at the bottom caught his eye. Callanach pulled the pins from the corners and took a closer look. The leaf design was the same as Azzat had claimed was on the van that had delivered Malcolm Reilly’s body to the building site, but this was in a vertical position, as if growing directly up from the earth.
‘Are you a vegan? Laudable, but I’m afraid I’d struggle with it. I like steak tartare and lobster thermidor too much to make the sacrifice.’
Callanach looked over his shoulder to see that Marie had found him again.
‘I was looking at the logo, actually,’ he said. ‘I thought I
recognised it, but it must be a different brand. I’m not a vegan, though I’ve had to give up red meat since I was diagnosed, as well as a number of other things I used to love.’
‘Of course,’ Marie said. ‘How insensitive of me. I’m in awe of the people who use this centre. You all cover the pain of what you’re going through so well. Sometimes, I’m embarrassed to say, I forget what you’re dealing with.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Callanach smiled. ‘And you should forget. Who wants to walk around contemplating their mortality all the time? I know I don’t.’
Marie smiled back.
‘You’re empty-handed,’ she said. ‘Can I get you anything? I know you’re not drinking alcohol, but maybe orange juice or water?’
‘Maybe just some help, given your expertise in marketing. Is there somewhere I can find a particular logo? I have a vague image of it in my head, but I can’t quite remember the company it belongs to.’
‘What product was it advertising? That would be the best place to start. Pharmaceutical, food or beauty – just a category would get you started.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not sure. Sorry, that’s not much help is it?’ Callanach said.
‘Not to worry. Do you have an image of it somewhere you could scan? There are some great image-recognition apps around on the internet.’
‘Sadly, I don’t. It’s a leaf like this one, but on its side. I’m not quite sure about the colour of it. Pretty wide brief, right?’
‘It’s one of those universal symbols. Food is the most obvious product type, like the poster you’re holding, but nature symbols can be helpful in lots of different marketing situations. Promoting medicines you want the public to think of as pure but which are really just a cocktail of chemicals. Makeup and beauty products that would make you rethink your need to be beautiful if you knew what was in them. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Got a rotten product you need consumers to think of as natural? Use a sunflower or a leaf, a water droplet or a ladybird as a logo. Buyer sees the logo – the words that will spring into their mind are things like unprocessed, organic, safe, pure, wholesome, unrefined … I could go on. I have whole files of buzz words relating to images that show what consumers respond to. So don’t be fooled by the leaf, is what I’m saying. The product the brand is selling is as likely to be an opioid as it is your vegan burger there,’ she pointed at the image on the poster.