by Rob Ashman
His face felt odd. His customary fringe had been swept back and the grey hair dye had aged him ten years. The goatee beard itched against his skin and the tinted spectacles made it hard to see in low light conditions.
The woman who had performed his transformation had been quick and professional, ensuring that when he held a mirror up after she’d finished, he didn’t recognise the man staring back. He didn’t balk at her £700 fee, after all, a breakdown of her invoice would read: Make-up – £15, keeping my mouth shut – £685.
Marshall weaved between the cars until he came to a red Ford Focus with the registration number that matched the one in his head. He reached under the front wing on the driver’s side and pulled out the keys that were sitting on top of the wheel. He opened the hatchback. A holdall lay inside.
He locked the car and replaced the keys where he had found them. With the bag slung over his shoulder, he walked towards the entrance, the umbrella still blocking the view of prying eyes.
Marshall skirted around the side of the building and strolled down a pathway until he came to a concealed entrance. The lights from a hundred windows made it easy to find. The door was ajar, thanks to the stone wedged in the door jamb. Marshall folded his umbrella and went inside.
The place was in semi-darkness, with bare concrete walls and a set of steps leading up to the next level. Marshall stuck his head over the handrail to check the stairwell. It spiralled up to the top of the building. On the landing above he could see a green sign attached to the wall with the picture of a stick man running for a door. Above it was the word: Exit.
He yanked a set of blue scrubs from the bag and pulled the trousers over his jeans and slipped the tunic over his head. The name badge and lanyard read, Jason Bourne. He raised his eyes to the heavens, surely not? He rummaged around in the bag then kicked it into the corner under the stairs.
His footsteps echoed against the bare walls as he made his way up to the second floor. He put his ear to the door leading off the landing, took a deep breath and opened it. He stepped out into a long white corridor filled with bright, sanitised light and a handful of people. He checked his watch, it read 9.47pm.
Marshall made his way along a walkway that connected two buildings then turned left into a throng of people staring at signs and stepping out of lifts. Staring down another corridor and through a set of double doors he could make out his target.
A gaggle of people were crowded around a giant whiteboard filled with names and acronyms. The backs of their heads were nodding, the place filled with work-like chatter. The shift handover was in full flow. No one turned around.
A long desk separated the group from the general walkway and Marshall picked up a clipboard as he ghosted by. A half-round black ball housing the CCTV camera was mounted in the corner. He kept close to the wall to minimise his profile. The sound of call button alarms died away as he turned the corner.
Marshall kept his head down, glancing at the grey signs with blue lettering that were mounted above the doors: D1… D2… D3… D4. He looked through the glass in the double doors. The room beyond contained four beds, two of which were occupied. A woman dressed in a green uniform was standing at the side of one of them, topping up a plastic glass with fresh water from a jug. An emaciated woman lay asleep in the bed, her skin almost indistinguishable from the white of the sheets.
Marshall stepped away from the door and consulted his clipboard. He didn’t know who Jerald Ross was, but the fact that he had DNR in big red letters at the top of the sheet didn’t bode well for the bloke.
Come on, come on. He checked his watch – shit, this is cutting it fine.
He had wanted to farm out the job to a professional but the insistence of Bernard Cross that it needed to be sorted fast had made that impossible. He had also considered giving it to one of his boys but had quickly discounted that option. If you want a job doing well, do it yourself.
He peeked through the window.
Fucking hurry up!
The woman in green was standing at the sink, doing Christ knows what. He checked his watch again. Any minute now the place was going to be filled with people hoping to get through their shift with the minimum of fuss.
He went to look again. The door flew open and the woman in green busied her way to another side ward carrying her jug. Marshall put his shoulder to the door and slipped inside.
The old woman stirred in her sleep. Marshall ignored her. He was committed now. The woman in the corner was also asleep, though in reality it was a cocktail of drugs that kept her consciousness at bay. The large swathe of bandages wrapped around her head made her look like she was wearing a turban and the side of her face was bruised and swollen. A tube ran into her arm from a bag suspended next to the bed. The heart monitor silently kept time with every beat.
Marshall fished a syringe from his pocket and flicked off the cap, exposing the tip. He held it beneath the clipboard, his breath shallow, his senses on red alert.
He approached the bed, giving a quick glance over his shoulder. The canular inserted into the vein on the back of her hand had a second port. Marshall placed the clipboard on the bed and rotated her arm towards him to get a better shot. The needle pierced the membrane and the fluid coursed into her vein under the pressure of the plunger.
This would make her sleep.
Sleep forever.
Chapter 28
Kray found herself lying on a sheet of blue paper on a bed, staring at a blank blue screen. The front of her work trousers gaped open to reveal her belly and a small device was held tight against her abdomen with a blue strap.
A numbness slowly spread through her; that same feeling that had enveloped her while she was in Millican’s bathroom.
‘Are you okay up there?’ he had called up the stairs.
Fuck, how long have I been here? Her grasp on time and reality had slipped – badly.
‘Yeah, be down in a minute,’ she had yelled back.
Come on, pull yourself together woman!
And pull herself together she did. Kray re-emerged as though nothing had happened. She adopted a warm and funny exterior, while burying the urge to get the hell out of there. She had feigned a headache and went to bed. A fitful night’s sleep had done nothing to quell her anxiety in the morning. She left for work and, after making a few calls, had driven straight to the surgery.
Kray glanced across at the woman in the blue tunic who was busying herself donning surgical gloves. Her name badge read, Vickie Morgan.
‘This will feel a little cold.’ She squirted blue gel onto Kray’s belly and moved the device over her lubricated skin.
Why the fuck does everything have to be blue?
Images leapt onto the screen, blurring in and out of focus as the probe did its job. Kray held her breath.
Two hours earlier she had been sitting in the doctor’s surgery telling, what looked like a fourteen-year-old boy, that she had found blood in her underwear.
‘What colour was it?’ he had asked.
Fucking blood-coloured!
She held her tongue and played nicely throughout the consultation.
‘You’ve had a show. Spotting is very common and is usually nothing to worry about,’ the doctor had said once they had finished.
‘Usually?’
He had referred her to the maternity unit and her anxiety went through the roof when she realised it was the same hospital Chris Millican walked the corridors of on a daily basis.
‘Does it have to be that hospital?’
‘If you want to be seen quickly – yes,’ came the blunt reply.
She consoled herself with the thought that the part of the hospital responsible for bringing new life into the world was at the opposite end to the part concerned with administering to the dead. The chances of her crossing paths with her boyfriend were slim.
Kray watched the picture on the screen change as Vickie swept the probe across her tummy.
‘There, can you see? Baby is fine.’
; Can’t make out jack shit.
‘Yeah, just about. Is that the heart rate?’ Kray nodded at the bottom of the screen showing the number 134.
‘How far along are you?’ Vickie asked, her eyes glued to the image.
‘I’m not really sure, maybe five weeks.’
Vickie scrunched up her nose. ‘I think you’re more like seven to eight. Have you not got a date for your scan?’
‘Erm, no, not yet. I’ve been, well, you know, busy.’
Vickie nodded and smiled, but her face said it all. ‘It would be good to get that booked.’
It was Kray’s turn to nod and smile.
Vickie pushed a button on the machine and wiped the probe with a paper towel.
‘Is that it?’ Kray asked.
‘It is, unless you have something else you want to talk through?’
‘Err, no, no, I’m fine thanks.’
‘Have a chat with your doctor about coming in for another scan. Probably around the twelve week mark.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that.’ Vickie tore off a length of paper towel and handed it to Kray. She wiped the gel from her belly, fastened her trousers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The room began to spin. She gripped on to the mattress.
‘You okay?’ asked Vickie. ‘Take a minute. Would you like some water?’
‘Yes please.’ The room swam in circles. Vickie handed her a plastic cup. Kray took a sip and immediately felt better. ‘I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.’
‘That wasn’t very clever, was it? You need to look after yourself.’
No shit.
The room stabilised and Kray stood up. ‘Thank you,’ she said, heading out the door.
‘Take care,’ Vickie chirped. ‘Oh, and this is for you.’ She handed Kray a small grey and black photograph.
‘Umm…’ Kray stared at it and screwed her face up.
‘It’s your baby.’
‘Erm, thank you.’
What the fuck am I going to do with that?
Kray stuffed it in her bag and marched down the corridor, stopping at a vending machine to buy a bar of chocolate. She glanced at her watch. 10.25am.
I guess that can count as breakfast.
She chomped on the bar as she made her way out into the car park. As the sugar did its job she was in a world of her own, trying to process what she’d just seen. There was a person growing inside her. It had never felt more real.
‘Roz! Roz! What are you doing here?’
She froze at the sound of the voice, then turned around to see her boyfriend’s face creased up with confusion.
Marshall entered the back of the club and made his way up the stairs to the dance hall. He was still buzzing from the events of last night and had been awake since 5am. He couldn’t wait to give a full report to Bernard Cross, hoping that his efforts would go some way to appeasing the weasel-faced bastard. If it did, it was difficult to tell. Having Johnson and Johnson breathing down his neck had taken the shine off it, but at least he hadn’t got his face rammed into the tablecloth.
The club was a hive of activity with people polishing and hoovering for all they were worth.
‘Morning, Eddie,’ Josh called out from behind the bar, busying himself by filling the optics.
‘Josh.’ Marshall raised his hand.
‘A package came for you,’ said Josh.
‘Oh, what is it?’
‘Don’t know. I left it in your office.’
‘Cheers.’ Marshall headed to the service stairs behind the stage. At the top he turned left and entered a small office, closing the door. Sure enough, a box was sitting on his desk. He opened the drawer and took out a pen knife. The blade made short work of the packing tape. He opened the flaps to reveal a piece of paper sitting on the top with a handwritten message scrawled across it.
I will call at 11am today.
Marshall peered inside to find the delivery contained oblong bricks wrapped in newspaper. He lifted one out, and using the knife, opened up the corner. His eyes widened. In no time, ten bricks were stacked on his desk, each one containing one thousand pounds.
Chapter 29
Kray’s heart leapt into her mouth. She tried to swallow it back down.
‘I didn’t expect to see you this morning,’ Millican said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, err…’ It took a while for her grey matter to get to work. ‘My head is so full of these damned cases I wasn’t concentrating and wound up in the wrong part of the hospital.’
‘Where do you need to be?’ He wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
Her brain finally woke up. ‘Intensive care. There was a person admitted yesterday that’s of interest to us. She was struck by a car and is in a bad way.’
‘Bloody hell. You have taken a wrong turn. You’re miles off.’
‘Yeah, I know. Anyway, why are you here?’
‘I couldn’t park in my usual spot because they were repainting the lines and I ended up here. I left my wallet in the car, so had to come back. Do you have time for a coffee?’
‘No, I need to get to the ICU.’
‘Is it the Asian woman?’
‘What?’
‘The woman who was hit by the car – is it the Asian woman?’
‘Yeah, it is. How do you know?’
‘She was transferred to us early this morning. I’m not sure who–’
‘Transferred to you? She’s in the morgue?’
‘Yes, I thought you knew. She died last night on the ward. I presumed that’s why you were here.’
The scars across Kray’s back ignited. ‘No, I didn’t know. Fuck!’ She slammed her arms to the side of her body and turned away.
‘I’m sorry,’ Millican said, not knowing exactly what he was apologising for. ‘I think she was suffering from a major bleed on the brain and–’
‘I need you to do something for me.’ Kray turned and placed both hands on his shoulders. ‘Go to the mortuary and preserve the body. Don’t let anyone touch it until I get there. Can you do that?’
‘Erm, yes. Can you tell me what this is about?’
‘I can’t explain now, just do it.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Millican ran in one direction while Kray ran in the other. She snatched her phone from her pocket and dialled. Tavener answered.
‘Hey, are you feeling better now? I got your message that you had a doctor’s appointment this morning.’
‘Never mind that. Get your arse down to the hospital and meet me in ICU. Ward D4.’
‘Isn’t that where we saw the Asian woman?’
‘Get here as fast as you can and send a CSI unit. And get somebody to seize the CCTV footage on the ICU ward for last night.’
‘Christ, Roz, what is this?’
‘I’ll explain when I see you.’
‘Roz, are you running?’
‘Fucking trying to.’
Kray dialled off and kept the phone in her hand as she belted into the hospital entrance. She took the stairs two at a time, constantly uttering the words, ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’.
She burst through the double doors and ran past the nurses’ station. One of them looked up. ‘Can I help you?’ Kray wasn’t listening.
The doors to D4 banged back against their hinges, frightening the old woman in the bed half to death. Which, given her condition, was unwise, as she didn’t need the help.
An orderly dressed in green was tugging the sheets off the empty bed in the corner. At her feet was the bag containing the Asian woman’s belongings along with a yellow sealed bucket marked Medical Waste.
‘Please step away from the bed.’ Kray was panting like a seventies porn star. She held up her warrant card. ‘I’m DI Roz Kray, can you step away from the bed please?’
The old woman let out a gargled shriek. ‘Terrorist! Terrorist!’ she yelled at the top of her voice.
Kray turned and showed her badge. ‘No, madam, I’m a police officer.’
‘Terrorist! Te
rrorist!’ the old woman continued to wail, pulling the bedclothes over her head.
‘What’s your name?’ Kray asked the man dressed in green scrubs.
‘Jack, my name is Jack.’
‘Okay, Jack, move to the other side of the room, away from the bed.’
‘Terrorist! Terrorist!’ came the muffled screams from the quaking mound on the bed.
Kray scanned around. ‘Where’s the drip?’
‘It’s in the bucket.’
‘All of it? The tubes included?’
‘Yeah, all of it. Look, all I’m doing is changing the bed.’
The ward sister shoved open the door, a slight but fearsome woman in her late forties wearing a dark blue uniform. ‘What is going on here?’
The old lady let out another scream.
‘I’m DI Kray.’ She flashed her badge again. ‘What happened to the woman who was in that bed? The woman with the head injury.’
The ward sister moved closer and whispered, ‘She passed away last night.’
‘How? How did she die?’
‘From the injuries she sustained when she was struck by a vehicle. She’s down at the mortuary. We will know more when–’
‘I want you to clear this ward and seal it off. And I need to secure everything that is around the bed.’
‘Why?’
‘Never mind why. Can you do that for me?’
‘Terrorist! Terrorist!’ The old woman had found her voice again.
‘And… tell her I’m not a terrorist.’
‘Why do you want me to do that?’
‘Because I’ll need to interview her and she’s not going to cooperate if–’ Kray doubled over, clutching her side. ‘Ooh… shit!’
‘Are you okay?’ asked the ward sister.
Kray straightened, then winced again in pain. ‘It’s just a stitch.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. A colleague of mine will be arriving soon, can you get this patient into another room while I–’ Kray’s phone buzzed in her pocket. ‘Excuse me.’
Chapman’s voice boomed down the line. ‘Roz, the CCTV and ANPR have come back. I think we need to have another chat with Marshall.’
