by Linda Coles
“Well, I’m famished,” declared Jack, and stuck his head in the menu. “I don’t know why I’m looking because I know what I’m going to have.” He beamed around the table. “Chicken Jalfrezi.”
“Same here,” said Amanda. “Lamb Jalfrezi for me.” She placed her menu back down on the table.
Duncan didn’t fancy anything spicy, “I think I’ll stick with chicken Korma. I fancy mild tonight.” In reality, he fancied a boiled egg and soldiers at home with his girls, but that was a world away. His head was pounding.
The waiter returned with their drinks and Jack placed their order. Poppadums and chutney appeared in front of them and all but Duncan tucked in. He was beginning to feel quite unwell. He figured he should tell them what he knew, then grab a taxi back to the hotel and go sleep off whatever this was. He cleared his throat.
“Tell me where you’re up to, then, and I’ll see where I can fit some missing pieces, perhaps.”
Amanda began with a rundown. “We know now they are using an app, prepaying with crypto currency so no cash changes hands at the van. It seems they place their phone face up with the app showing on the screen, and that’s a signal for the dealer to glance and see the pre-paid order. Tabs are disguised as salt packets and slotted into the bag with the bacon sandwich. I’ve also heard special sauce mentioned – a code word, I expect. That’s as much as we know. But we figure it could be wider than our patch because of the technology.”
She sipped her wine and looked at Duncan. He was quiet. More sweat had surfaced on his upper lip and brow. Suddenly, in one swift movement, he leapt from the table and raced towards the back of the restaurant, looking for the toilets. Jack and Amanda sat speechless, looking at one another.
“He really didn’t look too well,” Amanda said. “His top lip was all sweaty. I think you should see if he’s okay.”
The waiter was approaching the table with their food, but Jack dutifully followed Duncan, hoping he wouldn’t be too long. He’d been looking forward to chicken Jalfrezi all afternoon. He entered the gents’ toilets and heard Duncan before he saw him. The retching sounded like it was coming up from the basement drains of the building.
“Hell’s bells. Are you all right?”
Duncan spat saliva into the bowl and wiped his mouth with toilet tissue. The room smelled of vomit. Jack waited.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Duncan said weakly. “I think. Maybe it’s a migraine.” He started to get up from his kneeling position but his legs were wobbly. He grabbed on to the tissue dispenser, ripping it from the wall as he stumbled backwards, sending it crashing to the floor. Another wave of nausea coursed through him and he retched again, this time missing the toilet completely and vomiting onto the floor. Jack stepped out of the way, but not before the splashes hit him.
“I think we’d best get you back to your room. Can you stand up?” He put his hand out and Duncan took it gratefully. Once Duncan was on his feet, Jack dampened a paper towel and handed it to him to wipe his face with. Beads of sweat coated his forehead. When Jack was satisfied Duncan was stable on his feet, he slowly led him back out to the restaurant and towards the front door. He caught Amanda’s eye but she could see all was not well. She set her napkin aside and hurried up to them.
“Best get him back,” Jack said uneasily. “Where’s your keys?”
“Hang on – I’ll drive,” Amanda said. “Let me go and settle the bill and I’ll meet you out front. Can you bring my car around?”
Jack nodded and took her car keys from her. Turning to Duncan, he said, “Wait here. I’ll be back in five.”
When Jack pulled up out front, Amanda was waiting with Duncan. Some of the colour had returned to Duncan’s face. He and Amanda both got inside.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Duncan said. “I’ve never experienced anything like this before. If it’s a migraine, I never want another.” He rested his head against the headrest, grateful it was only a short drive.
“It’s no bother, as long as you’re okay,” said Amanda. “We’ll catch up by phone, maybe in the morning? I hope you’ll be all right for your training tomorrow.”
“Me too. Sleep will do me good.”
Amanda pulled up at the hotel entrance and Duncan climbed out, looking only slightly steadier than he had a few moments ago. They said their goodbyes and both watched him go inside before driving off.
“Hell, I hope he’s all right,” said Jack anxiously.
“He’ll be fine. If he’s got a migraine, he’ll more than likely be fine now he’s vomited. A nice dark room and sleep is what he needs right now. It’s still early yet, so hopefully he’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll call him then.”
“You’re a regular Mother Teresa, aren’t you?” chided Jack. He was remembering back to when he had had appendicitis a while back and had vomited lavishly all over Amanda and his own car. To her credit, Amanda had looked after him like a champ that day.
He pulled out into traffic and they headed back to work. Neither of them noticed the surveillance vehicle that was still parked in the car park. But the two men inside noticed Duncan had returned.
Somewhat early.
Chapter Sixty-Six
He felt like death itself. Never before had he felt so ill, had such a splitting headache or been so violently sick. He’d made it back to his room, washed his face, and got straight into bed, leaving his clothes where they fell. It was darkness and peace he craved. The hotel curtains were thick and well fitted, so not even a chink of light from outside could get through. Still, he kept his eyes firmly closed.
But behind the blank canvas of his eyelids was a place for the devil to dance, and he was only just warming up. Imaginary insects, sounds outside his door, smells drifting from under it were all fighting for places as the devil took over. A beetle with hundreds of legs, like a millipede but with a hard oxblood red and green shell, crawled up the inside of his leg. Duncan reached down and pushed it away, sending it flying across the room towards the bathroom door where it righted itself and raced back to the bed. Only this time it was bigger. Much bigger. Duncan yelled out as he watched it grow in size then sat on the bottom of his bed and laughed at him. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a lingering odour in its place. Had someone burnt something? Was the hotel on fire?
On and on they went, torments in all shapes and sizes making him cry out in distress. With his eyes tightly closed he thrashed about, sweat beading on his face and chest as the hallucinations drove on and on. Duncan was oblivious to the world around him, floating in another dimension, unable to escape the pain as the devil played with his mind for his own pleasure.
Duncan was in a hell of his own.
At 9.30 p.m., Sam texted Duncan goodnight, a short message followed by a handful of kisses. But Duncan was oblivious. In fact, he was barely conscious and lying drenched in his own sweat, the soaked sheets knotted around him. By 12.30 a.m., the worst had passed, and he rolled onto his side in the wet bed, exhausted and drifting in and out of consciousness.
He didn’t hear the light click of the lock as his door opened and two figures entered, standing in the short passageway by the bathroom door. He didn’t hear their heavy breathing; he didn’t hear or see anything – just the remnants of the devil dancing inside his skull.
They waited for any movement, for their target to call out on hearing them enter, but any sound they had made had not disturbed him. The two men ventured the short distance forward towards the bed, one with an arm outstretched holding a gun, poised ready to fire, the other man slightly back out of the way. The long shape lying in the bed was only just visible in the darkness. A long moment passed and nothing happened. The man stood still, his arm outstretched and ready to shoot. Then, at last, the man lowered his arm and Luke turned to Clinton.
“I can’t do it,” he whispered. “You’ll have to do it.”
Clinton gasped. “What? No way! Get on with it!”
“But I can’t!” Luke’s voice was quiet and urgen
t as he tried to make Clinton understand.
“Too late. Pull the damn trigger and let’s get out of here! Come on!”
Luke turned back towards the bed and his target, who lay under the covers sound asleep. It had seemed a good idea at the time, an easy way to earn a few quid, but now as he stood in the darkened room, he wasn’t so sure. A slight movement followed by a groan from the bed made him jump. The target was coming round.
“Get on with it!” urged Clinton. “Take him now!”
But Luke was frozen to the spot. That was, until Duncan rolled over fully onto his back and groaned again. What Luke couldn’t see in the darkness was whether the target’s eyes were open or not, whether he was staring up at him. Oh God – perhaps he could see him. That would never do. Being identified was out of the question. It was all he needed to spur him into action. Raising the gun again, he pointed it directly at the man’s chest and fired. But his intended victim had other ideas, rolling quickly off the bed onto the floor at the far side.
Luke had missed.
“Shit!” he cursed. Duncan must have seen him; otherwise, why roll so quickly? There was no way he could leave the job half-finished now. It became a mad scramble.
“And again!” urged Clinton as Luke moved like lightning and fired again at the man, who was now lying on the floor. Even with a silencer, the noise of the gunshot filled the room. It was nowhere near as quiet as he’d assumed it would be, he thought, as though from a great distance. He peered across the bed. There was no way he could have missed from such close range. Duncan lay face down, not moving and not making a sound. He had to be dead.
Not wanting to risk the noise of a third shot, Luke shoved the gun into his waistband.
“Let’s go!” he urged.
Clinton didn’t need telling twice and both men bolted towards the door. Grabbing the Do Not Disturb sign as they left, Luke fastened it to the outside handle, then softly closed the door behind them. They slowed their steps now and walked briskly, as casually as they could, down the hall and into the nearby stairwell.
Neither Luke nor Clinton said a word until they were safely in their car. They’d left it parked a little way down a side street out, of the glare of any streetlamps or cameras. Adrenaline rushed through their veins, but both men were grimly silent. Luke started the engine and moved off down the side street, away from the main entrance of the hotel, as a precaution. Clinton looked back through the passenger wing mirror for activity – lights turning on or someone outside the entrance looking, perhaps, but there was nothing. It was a good ten minutes before either of them spoke.
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
At least, Luke hoped so.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
He’d been shot. Duncan lay face down on the floor, a bullet hole through his right shoulder. It must have gone right through because it had pierced his hand, which had been trapped beneath him during the fall. Being shot at point-blank range stung like all hell, he realized with a strange sense of detachment, but there had been little time to do much about it. Right now, he was grateful he was still alive and breathing, though he wondered if they’d be back to finish him off. He’d heard them leave. He’d also heard them whispering earlier, or had he imagined that part?
After a few moments, he figured it was safe to move. He tried to get himself back upright, or at least on his hands and knees, and call for help, but his head sloshed about like a wave pool and the pain in his shoulder and hand was excruciating. Nausea rolled over him again and he felt a fresh urge to vomit, but he knew there was nothing but bile left in his stomach. Everything else was on the curry house toilet floor.
Slowly, using his uninjured hand, he managed to get himself back up on to the bed and steady himself for a moment. Blood seeped down his front from his shoulder wound and mingled with the blood from his hand. Although it was good that the bullet had exited, he didn’t hold up much hope for his hand to work properly ever again – there were likely too many small bones damaged. He knew he needed to find his phone urgently before he passed out again, but the room was also a crime scene and he was aware he could be contaminating it by moving. But he had to get help or he would die, he told himself sternly, and since he hadn’t finished with his life yet, he’d risk contaminating the scene.
He took several deep breaths and then held the last one in his chest as he moved around the bed towards the desk. He knew he’d left his phone there earlier as he’d collapsed into bed. The pain was piercing, but he pushed through it with gritted teeth. Nothing seemed to work properly, but with his left hand, he found the table lamp and managed to switch it on. The pale lamplight felt like fire on his sore eyes and he squeezed them shut, groaning. Then, gingerly opening one eye, he spotted his phone and reached out with his good hand to retrieve it.
His hand shook as he struggled to unlock it. Blood made the screen slippery as he punched the keyboard icon and hit 999.
“I’ve been shot,” he told the operator. His voice sounded like it was coming from another room. He heard himself give his location and room number, asking if she might be able to locate DS Lacey or DC Rutherford from Croydon station.
He set the phone down on the bed and activated the speakerphone. There was a whooshing sound in his ears now. Dimly, he heard the operator instructing him to put pressure on the wound. He raised his left hand and pressed it onto his right shoulder, but the blood kept flowing. Well, shit, he thought. He was grateful for the soothing comfort of the operator’s voice. She sounded kind, taking his mind off the pain as best she could. Then at last, he heard the distant sounds of the ambulance coming for him – at least he hoped it was, because he was in danger of losing consciousness again, fighting the urge to lie back on the bed and never wake up again.
He closed his eyes and suddenly saw his girls, all three of them, dancing on the inside of his eyelids, giggling together, enjoying a game. Then Rochelle joined them, but she wasn’t dancing and giggling with them. She was off to the side, a look of concern on her face, watching Sam. What was Rochelle doing there? Then came whispered voices, a man saying he couldn’t do it, and Rochelle crying. And all the time his girls laughed and giggled and danced . . .
He tried to open his eyes again, but Mother Nature clearly had her own agenda for him right now. He slumped back and let her take him to wherever she had planned.
When Duncan awoke some hours later, he was in a hospital bed, wired up and bandaged up but still alive. A nurse hovered like a honeybee, working on his chart. She gave him a bright smile as he came to. His mouth felt like the bottom of someone’s old trainer, his throat raw where tubes had lain earlier. A drip was attached to the back of his good hand, fluids to ease his pain and fight off infection. He’d obviously been in surgery.
“Good morning Mr. Riley. It’s good to have you back with us.” What a killer smile she had, Duncan thought. Then he figured he must be okay if he’d noticed that.
Always the hot-blooded male.
Duncan tried to talk, but his throat wasn’t working. He uttered a hoarse croak and then gave up. Instead, he matched her smile with one of his own, though not as dazzling.
“Your throat will be a little sore, but only temporarily. Just nod or shake your head to my questions, okay?”
One nod.
“Are you in any pain?”
One shake.
“Great. You shouldn’t be. We operated earlier to stop the bleeding and stitch you up front and back, and your hand has been set, though it may take another procedure or two to get that finally fixed up. Time will tell, but you’re still with us – that’s the main thing.” Another dazzling smile. She went on, “There are a couple of detectives waiting to talk to you, but as you can’t talk at the moment, I’ll tell them to come back.”
One shake.
“Are you sure?”
One nod.
“All right, I’ll send them in when I’ve done with you.” She handed him a glass of water with a straw sticking out the
top. “The more you can drink, the better for you.” Duncan drained the glass. God, he was thirsty. She refilled it and set it down on the side table. With a quick rearrangement of his pillows and one last smile, she left the room.
He closed his eyes for a moment. That moment turned into half an hour, and similar visions filled his head again: Sam, the girls, and Rochelle.
Rochelle.
Pre-offence behaviour.
“A spouse that has a sudden and unexplained change in behaviour towards their partner. A significant change in a partner’s behaviour can mean the partner may have already begun to plan for a change in the status quo. Textbook stuff.”
It was like thick fog inside his head, but Rochelle’s words filtered through and started to make a modicum of sense.
When he opened his eyes again, Jack and Amanda were stood together at the side of his bed looking at him with concerned faces. He tried again to speak, to clear the frog that was preventing him from doing so.
“Shhhe. Wan. Mme. De.”
Each word was laboured and slurred, but Amanda understood immediately what he was trying to tell them. Only moments ago, she had spoken to DS Rochelle Mason, who, once she’d got over the shock of the terrible news, had told Amanda a theory all of her own.
And she was now en route.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Jack’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Rochelle had made the journey in record time and was standing with them beside Duncan’s bed now, her crash helmet in one hand, dressed in black leather from head to foot, catching her breath as Amanda brought her up to speed.
