‘If you’re a member of one of the casinos, you can visit either of the other two as a guest and still enjoy the discounts and preferential treatment that members receive.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Neither did I; my wife mentioned it to me. Apparently it’s common knowledge if you’ve ever become a member. Works in the same way as being a member at one of the council’s leisure centres. Anyway, don’t you find it odd that he joined the Acropolis casino in 2007 and visited it monthly, but then just stopped in 2009?’
‘Maybe he joined Gamblers Anonymous, it’s not so strange. Maybe he just got bored of losing his money.’
‘Or maybe he started visiting one of the other two casinos as a guest. The Acropolis is the closest of the three casinos to his home.’
‘Don’t guests have to sign in when they arrive?’
‘Apparently not, if they are a member elsewhere. He could have been visiting the Acropolis every week for the last four years, but we have no way of proving it.’
‘It’s thin, Kyle; it’s not even worthy of being classed as circumstantial.’
‘I know, Guv, but it’s an angle we can pursue. If we can get hold of his bank records, maybe we can see what kind of debt he ran up. It’s worth a look, don’t you think?’
Vincent nodded and winced at the pain the action caused.
34
Davies was still at Vincent’s bedside when a doctor in a white lab coat arrived. Vincent had drifted off to sleep about ten minutes before, but the noise of the door opening woke him.
‘Mr Vincent,’ the doctor’s voice boomed. ‘How is the pain? Are the nursing staff looking after you?’
He smiled a response, but the doctor’s head was already buried in the notes on Vincent’s flipchart.
‘I see, you are on a diluted dose of morphine; is it making you feel nauseous at all?’
He shook his head, but still the doctor didn’t seem to notice.
‘I’m Doctor Walker, by the way,’ the doctor said, glancing up as if suddenly remembering his manners. ‘I was the one who operated on you yesterday.’
‘Operated?’ asked Vincent. ‘That explains these bandages around my waist. Was it shrapnel you removed?’
‘Well, yes…but…err…not exactly,’ replied a now puzzled-looking doctor. ‘You do know why you’re here, don’t you? Somebody has come and spoken with you haven’t they?’
Vincent looked at Davies for validation and then said, ‘I’ve not spoken to any doctors yet. A couple of nurses have been by to plump my pillows but that’s all. In fairness, I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep most of today so somebody could have popped in and seen I was asleep. I’m generally fit and healthy, I’m sure I’ll be out of your hair sooner rather than later.’
Dr Walker laughed nervously. ‘There’s something we need to…to discuss, Mr Vincent. Would your friend mind giving us five minutes to talk about your condition? Please?’ he added looking towards Davies.
Without thinking, Davies stood, ready to head for the exit when Vincent spoke up and said, ‘It’s okay, doctor, I’m not embarrassed. Kyle, you can stay; it’s no secret that I’ve suffered some bumps and bruises.’
‘I really think it would be better if we spoke alone, Mr Vincent. I mean, I have a responsibility to protect your medical records and…’
‘He stays!’ Vincent said firmly.
Davies looked at Walker for confirmation. The doctor shrugged his shoulders and perched on the end of the bed.
‘Where to begin,’ he said cautiously. ‘You were brought in late on Wednesday, Mr Vincent following the incident at your flat. You were unconscious when you were taken into the emergency department, and there were clearly superficial burns and abrasions on your face and upper torso. A C.T. scan was performed to check the condition of your brain to understand if any swelling was causing your unconscious state, but we were satisfied that it was probably shock rather than anything more serious.’
Walker paused to allow the information to sink in.
‘Anyway, the lead in the resuscitation suite identified that you had several pieces of sharp metal protruding from your back and torso and felt there was a chance that some of the foreign objects may have penetrated deeper. On closer examination a small haemorrhage in your gut was discovered and you were opened up to stem the bleed. The object, a nail of some sort, was successfully removed and the haemorrhage was clipped.’
‘You said you found a nail?’ Vincent interrupted, his mind choosing to focus on detection rather than what was being explained. ‘So the fucker left a bag of debris with the bomb. God, it’s lucky I survived.’
Davies nodded his agreement, ‘Someone up there must love you.’
‘Quite,’ Walker said, regaining control of the conversation. ‘While you were in Resus, an abnormality was discovered an inch away from where the nail had penetrated. It was the reason I was consulted on the nature of what had been discovered.’
Walker tried to smile warmly but his thin lips made his expression look awkward; empathy was clearly not his strength.
‘Tell me, Mr Vincent, how have you been feeling recently? Any sickness or bloating? Have you felt a loss of appetite, or perhaps noticed any weight loss?’
‘You have looked a bit off colour these last few weeks, Guv,’ Davies chipped in.
‘I’ve had some odd eating patterns the last few weeks and I’ve probably not been eating three square meals a day, but nothing out of the ordinary. You know what it’s like being a copper, you’ve got to fit food in when you can.’
‘Any vomiting?’
‘A little but, as I say, I’ve been grabbing food when I can so I’ve probably had one or two more takeaways than I should have,’ Vincent lied, unable to remember when he had actually cooked a proper meal that hadn’t been picked up on the way home.
‘And how long has this sickness been around?’ Walker pushed.
‘Umm…’ Vincent thought carefully. ‘Maybe a few weeks. You need to appreciate the level of stress my job carries, particularly this last week. Kyle will testify to that won’t you?’
Davies murmured his agreement.
‘Do you have regular check-ups with your GP?’
‘I’ll be honest with you, doc: I’ve always believed that if it ain’t broke…you know what I mean?’
‘So when was the last time you were in a hospital or saw your GP?’ Walker urged.
‘I don’t know, doc, I can’t remember. It’s been a while. Why? What’s wrong?’
Walker let out a restrained sigh before looking Vincent straight in the eye.
‘We found a growth, Mr Vincent, on your small intestine,’ Walker said, pausing to allow the magnitude of the statement to sink in. ‘We performed an ultrasound scan on the area to establish the nature and size of it…and…we also performed a biopsy, and…I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Mr Vincent, it is cancerous.’
Vincent felt like he had just been stabbed in the heart: the wind knocked out of him.
‘Shit!’ Davies whispered.
Vincent blinked several times, unsure what to ask or say next, his mind racing. He could feel the urge to cry building, but he forced himself to focus on the practicality of the situation to stem the urge.
‘Is it..?’ he began.
‘Malignant?’ Walker offered quietly. ‘I’m afraid so. Given the size of the growth and the likely length of time it has been developing, I’m sorry to say, there is nothing we can do to prevent the inevitable.’
‘Shit!’ Davies whispered again.
‘So you can’t operate? Remove the bloody thing?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Vincent, but no. This tumour has been present for some time now, I would estimate. That you have only been ill for a few weeks is something of a blessing as I would have thought it has been growing for at least the last six months.’
‘Six months? Jesus!’
‘I am sure there must be a billion and one questions racing around your mind at this moment, but in m
y experience it is important that you take a bit of time to think about what I have said, and to allow the news to sink in. I will go now, give you some time to digest, and then I’ll return in an hour or so and we can talk in more detail about your care.’
‘My care?’
‘Your palliative care, Mr Vincent. I can refer you to a place where they can give you the dedicated attention you require until…well, I’ll be back in an hour or so.’
‘Doc?’ Vincent asked as Walker opened the door. ‘How long do I have?’
Walker stopped; he always hated this question.
‘It is difficult to calculate these things, Mr Vincent. With a change to your diet…you could have maybe six, possibly eight…’
‘Six to eight years?’ Davies interrupted, desperate to cling onto hope. ‘That’s not too bad, Guv, is it? I mean, gives you time to enjoy a bit of early retirement.’
‘Weeks,’ Walker finished. ‘Six to eight weeks. The nature of the tumour is aggressive. You will find the nausea and vomiting will grow worse over the coming days and I regret to say it will reach a point where you will want to refuse all forms of food, and at that point we will need to feed you intravenously to ensure you are getting the necessary nutrients. As I said, it’s a lot to take in. I’ll go get some pamphlets for you to read and then we can talk in an hour or so.’
With that, Walker was gone, leaving Vincent and Davies in silence. Neither man said a thing for ten minutes while they concentrated on what they had learned.
‘You should go,’ Vincent eventually said with a strained voice.
‘No, Guv, don’t be silly, you need a friend right now. I can stay. Mercure will understand when she realises what has happened.’
‘I don’t want you to tell anyone. At least…not yet,’ he paused. ‘It’s okay, Kyle. I’m a big boy. You run along; I’ll be okay.’
‘No, Guv,’ Davies replied.
‘Please, Kyle,’ Vincent shouted. ‘Go! I need some space.’
Davies sensed Vincent was close to breaking point, the strain in his voice impossible to ignore.
‘Okay, Guv, I’ll go, but I’m coming back first thing tomorrow, whether you want me to or not,’ Davies replied firmly.
Vincent closed his eyes, so that Davies wouldn’t be able to see tears building up. He rolled over so his back was to the door. Davies didn’t know whether to say anything else and after a minute, turned and left the room.
35
The catering assistant came and collected the tray of uneaten food and this interruption was followed by an onslaught of nurses and doctors checking his pulse, blood pressure and level of medication. After Davies had left, he had tried to drift off to sleep, hoping that in a dream-like state he wouldn’t have to remember that his death sentence had just been signed. But sleep wouldn’t come. It was hardly any wonder, as the constant traipsing in and out of staff would have made slumber near impossible anyway.
Walker hadn’t returned as he had promised and nobody had been courteous enough to advise why or to confirm when he might appear. For all he knew, the doctor might not return until the following morning. He felt helpless. Ironically, he had been cheating death all week and now, in this vulnerable state, it had caught up with him. Looking at the various pieces of equipment and pipes in his body, he knew this was no life. Sure, the wonders of modern science meant that there were machines that could take over some of his body’s functions and perhaps maybe buy him an extra couple of days, maybe even a week, but what quality of life would it be? Jack Vincent had never been a layabout. He was far too interested in keeping active. He wasn’t the sort of man who could happily laze by a swimming pool in basking heat. On the limited occasions when he had set foot abroad, he had always opted to visit places of significance; the churches of Rome, the art galleries of Paris, the ruins of the Parthenon in Greece. How could he spend his remaining life in a hospital bed, unable to get out and do what he wanted? The thought of lying still watching daytime television felt like death itself.
This is the reason why, just after nine o’clock, he sat up in bed and systematically began to unstick the monitoring pads attached to his chest, while he looked around the room for his clothes. Eventually, spying no clothes and aware that he was not qualified to remove the I.V. tube from his arm, he called for a nurse. Sitting on the bed with his legs over the side, she knew his intentions as soon as she entered the room.
‘Back in bed, mister,’ she urged warmly, having experienced many a patient trying to escape before.
‘Thank you, but no,’ he replied. ‘If you can detach this tube for me and tell me where I can find my clothes, I’ll be on my way.’
‘Dr Walker hasn’t agreed to discharge you, as far as I’m aware, Mr…Vincent,’ she added, glancing at his chart.
‘I don’t care,’ was his response, deciding that with so little time left, what was the point in maintaining manners? ‘I want to leave and there is nothing you can do to stop me.’
He fixed her with a determined look.
‘Where are my clothes?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied honestly, holding his stare. She eventually had to blink, and conceding defeat advised that she had only just started her shift and knew little of his case, other than that he was under close observation. She said she would go and speak to one of her colleagues about his belongings but would also have to page Dr Walker to advise what was happening. He waved her away dismissively and walked over to the small en suite facilities to attempt to clean himself up.
He ached slightly as he clambered off the bed and shuffled across the floor. It was definitely the after effects of the surgery, rather than the bumps and bruises sustained by his fall in the flat. The nurse returned within ten minutes and, to her credit, was holding a bag of clothes in her hands.
‘Your clothes were largely destroyed by the fire and your trousers had to be cut off you when you arrived…one of your colleagues left these for you,’ she said, passing the bag over.
Presumably, Davies must have left the clothing. The polythene bag held a pair of lace up white trainers, a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt. There was a small receipt in the bottom of the bag that revealed the ensemble had cost under a tenner. He almost laughed aloud.
The nurse advised him she had paged Walker but was uncertain where he was. Vincent said he would explain his intentions to the doctor, if he arrived before Vincent had finished dressing. The nurse looked frustrated with him, but accepting defeat, volunteered to replace the bandages around his waist with fresh dressings. He knew she was doing it to delay his departure but on the plus side, it would mean he wouldn’t need to return for replacements so soon after.
There was still no sign of Walker by the time she had stuck the last piece of bandage down and he had slipped the sweatshirt over his shoulders.
‘You do know I can’t prescribe you any pain medication, don’t you?’ she asked as he tied the trainers up. ‘The pain will get worse; you still have morphine in your system but that will wear off eventually and the pain will return.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he replied determinedly, pushing past her and moving towards the door. He had found his wallet, including his warrant card on the bedside table and was relieved to find it intact after the fire. He was also pleasantly surprised to see a twenty pound note within. Hailing a taxi from outside the hospital’s main entrance, he climbed in and recited his postcode. It was only when they were five minutes into the journey that he realised just how absurd was his destination of choice.
He had nowhere to go. From what Davies had told him, his flat was nothing more than a shell and it had been reported that the whole building would likely be torn down and rebuilt; the property-equivalent of a car write-off. All he had left in the world were the clothes on his back, which amounted to less than ten pounds. It was like yet another bitter twist of the knife between his shoulders.
He told the taxi driver to take him to a hotel and when asked which one, he spouted out the first name
he could think of.
The Southampton Park Hotel is situated off Cumberland Place, across the road from Watts Park and a five minute walk from Southampton High Street. He had stayed there once when his landlord had been fumigating the flat. It was an old building, complete with creaking floorboards and a lift that sounded like its brakes would fail at any moment causing it to fall. That said, the hotel boasted a decent-sized indoor pool, a spa area and the best cooked breakfast he had eaten in the city. He was just appreciative that they had a room free for him to check into. The student on reception had looked at him quizzically when he had entered without any luggage but Vincent had kept conversation to a minimum. The ultimate benefit of this hotel was that nobody would know he was here.
Opening the door to the room, he just made it to the bathroom before retching up bile into the toilet; he was already getting used to the practice. Sitting back on the bed, he flicked the television set on for background noise and allowed his eyes to close.
He was angry. Angry that he had spent his life doing what he could to prevent crime by carrying out detailed investigations of those who had perpetrated wrongs. What kind of a conclusion was he facing? Where was his reward for a life in service? He had chosen career over family; work over pleasure. He knew he hadn’t lived a saintly life: time spent with prostitutes would delay canonisation, but he had lived a good life otherwise. He had never killed anybody, never stolen and never committed adultery, so why was he now being punished?
He did not believe in God. He hadn’t since being forcibly dragged to Sunday School as a boy and then witnessing his mother’s early death. He had questioned why all those years ago and received no response. The silence now just confirmed what he had always suspected: that the world was full of fools who believed in a being that simply did not exist. Even that monster Laboué had had faith in a God-like being that had allowed him to be executed by the gang who stormed the safe house. What was the point in it all?
The phone in the room started to ring. Vincent’s eyes slowly opened, and locating the source of the noise, he lifted the receiver.
Shadow Line Page 21
