After lunch, whilst Isabel took a nap, he wandered barefoot around the back garden nursing a large glass of Shiraz. It was a lovely summer afternoon, and the cool grass felt like deep velvet underfoot; the long garden seemed to come alive. A swarm of gnats spun frantically around the lid of his composter next to the summerhouse, a couple of song thrushes chirped merrily hopping from branch to branch of the elder in full bloom, its soft white flowers like tiny snowflakes. The soothing effects of wine and nature mellowed his anxiety.
Thirty minutes passed before he decided to wake Isabel. If she slept too long, she wouldn’t sleep later. He sauntered back down the path towards the French doors when his heart suddenly hammered hard in his chest.
‘Isabel!’ he shouted, frantically running across the lawn. He jumped over the patio wall to find her lying unconscious on the decking. She must have tried to get his attention before collapsing. Blake whipped his phone off the garden table and called an ambulance. The operator asked if she was still breathing and prompted him to place her in the recovery position. By some miracle her breath was slow but steady.
Ten minutes later the paramedics gave her oxygen before whisking them off to Royal Stoke in a blaze of blue flashing lights.
Upon arrival at the hospital the paramedics handed Isabel over to the Intensive Care team who performed extensive tests to determine why she’d blacked out. After a few hours they’d stabilised her and the doctor informed Blake a further MRI scan revealed a small tumour the size of a pea. He was upset and angry there’d been no mention of this after the first scan a week ago.
‘Mr Blake, I’m afraid the first scan didn’t pick this up because it was so close to the edge of the cranial injury. ‘I’m really sorry, now we’ve spotted it we can act quickly depending on the type of tumour it is.’
‘Has the accident caused this?’
‘No. The tumour appears to be a few months in growth, which means if your daughter hadn’t been knocked down, it may not have been discovered until she started getting severe symptoms later down the line. It’s a horrible twist of fate.’
Hearing this felt like a huge wrecking ball crashing into his head. He stood there paralysed, unable to speak. A sudden coldness spread through his body.
Lowering his voice to a whisper, almost not wanting to hear the words, he asked, ‘Will she survive?’
‘The tumour is tiny, and because we’ve discovered it early your daughter’s chances of recovery should be very good. However, until the biopsy results are back, we can’t be a hundred per cent. It all depends on what type it is; this will determine treatment.
‘When will you know?’
‘The biopsy will be done within the next few hours and we can fast track the results. I can appreciate this is very traumatic for you. As soon as the results come back I’ll let you know straight away.’
Like a badly produced reel-to-reel movie, disturbing images of his wife and son’s funeral in 2005 flashed through his mind. Sat shaking uncontrollably in a church full of mourners he’d felt desolate.
The consultant placed a hand on his arm. ‘Mr Blake, are you all right? Would you like me to call someone for you?’
Barely hearing the question he wandered without sense of direction like a zombie down the corridor and headed out of the hospital car park, a broken man with no destination in mind.
Later that day Blake received a call from the consultant, requesting his presence to discuss Isabel’s’ test results. Back on the ward the young consultant told him it was a grade-two metastatic tumour and chemotherapy wasn’t an effective treatment. In cases such as Isabel’s a specialised form of treatment known as ‘Proton Therapy’ had proved effective in destroying these types of tumours. Sadly, the NHS had limited funding for this kind of treatment, which was extremely expensive, and it was unlikely his daughter would receive this in the UK. If he could raise the funds, or get a grant from a cancer charity, then they could refer Isabel to the US where they specialised in this ground-breaking treatment.
Later that evening, with his daughter still in hospital, Blake sat in disillusionment in his kitchen nursing a double whisky. Eventually he called DS Murphy who helped him drown his sorrows with half a bottle of Glenfiddich. Around 3.30 a.m. they’d finalised a four-pronged plan to raise the money for Isabel’s treatment, which included applying for an urgent grant from the cancer trust, a JustGiving page in Isabel’s name, a major whip-round of all the officers at the station, and a loan against the house. First thing in the morning Murphy promised him he would hop over to the Evening Sentinel’s main office, directly across the road from the station, and call in some favours – God knows they owed him plenty - and hopefully get the story published with a link to Isabel’s JustGiving page within forty-eight hours.
CHAPTER 69
Murphy was woken by the lovely aroma of filter coffee, wafting into the open-plan kitchen and living room of Blake’s house. He’d crashed out on the sofa around four, managing three hours kip. Blake, on the other hand, understandably tossed and turned until around five before dropping through sheer exhaustion. He rang the hospital at 6.30 a.m. after dragging his bones out of the shower, which did little to refresh him.
The ambulance crew had reported the hit-and-run incident to the police, but as yet the driver and vehicle had not been identified. Murphy vowed he would put some resources into getting the bastards who did this.
‘Can’t understand it, Tom. How the bloody hell can no one have seen anything. Weren’t there any witnesses?’
‘Just an old couple who found Izzy. The scumbags who ran her down had already left the scene. It’s a really remote moorlands road, where she was found. There’s no cameras.’
‘Once I’ve been to the Sentinel, I’ll have a look at the case report.’
‘Get me a photocopy would you?’
‘I’ll drop it round after work. What time you back from hospital?’
‘I’ll be there most of the day. I’ll call you later.’
Pumped up with Italian coffee, Murphy left Blake’s house and joined the commuter traffic on Leek Road, heading towards the city centre. Blake had an early-morning appointment with his bank manager.
CHAPTER 70
Katrina Osborne shut the door of number 32 Cooper Street behind her, picked up her striped beach bag containing a change of clothes and make-up and headed towards the narrow passageway leading towards Foxley Lane. Ibrahim was picking her up at nine a.m. Thankfully Carl had already left for work forty minutes before.
The private-number-plated Audi Tropic was the only vehicle parked on the tarmac at the end of the alleyway. Ibrahim Benzar sat in the driver’s seat skimming through messages on his phone. It had only been a few days since their lunch date. She never imagined there’d be a third date so soon, and she was a little nervous at seeing him again. This time they were off to Buxton, a beautiful spa town in the Derbyshire Peak District. Ibrahim had booked them into the Manor Hotel opposite the park, which she thought was pretty presumptuous.
She climbed in and kissed him on the cheek. He placed his phone into the doorwell pocket, and responded by kissing her on the lips.
Twenty minutes into the journey they’d reached the steep hill leading towards Ramshaw Rocks. Ibrahim stuck his foot down, and as the road levelled off, miles of barren Staffordshire moorlands came into view.
Huge five-storey sandstone houses lined St John’s Road leading towards the town. Most of them were converted into hotels or nursing homes. Ibrahim turned left into Manchester Road. A minute later they’d parked outside the beautiful Victorian Manor Hotel. Their room wouldn’t be ready until twelve-thirty, so they sat on a tan studded sofa and ordered a pot of coffee. Katrina gazed out of the large Victorian bay window at two huge trees in full bloom, gently swaying in the summer breeze. The sun was just starting to break through the dense cloud cover which had lasted most of the morning, but was now thankfully beginning to roll away eastwards leaving patchy, but promising clear, skies ahead.
Classical
music piped subtly in the background of the empty lounge. A beautiful Red Admiral butterfly flew through the open window and danced around them, almost as if Mother Nature had choreographed it to perform. It was one of life’s sublime moments. Katrina thought.
They finished the coffee and decided to wander into town. Although small, Buxton’s architecture was very impressive; the magnificent Devonshire Dome being second in size only to St Paul’s in London.
Ibrahim took her hand in his as they crossed the road and strolled towards the Crescent; a grade one listed building currently undergoing a fifty million pound restoration to transform it back to its former glory of an eighty bedroom spa hotel. Derbyshire council were aiming to put the town back on the national and international map as one of England’s leading spa towns.
Turning round Kat pointed towards Saint Anne’s fountain; a steady stream of the famous Buxton mineral water poured from an aged bronze lion head into the stone trough below it.
‘Last time I came here was with my parents when I was a kid. You can drink the water from that fountain,’ she said walking towards it.
Ibrahim followed her. They stood waiting for a rambler to fill his small bottle before each taking a sip with cupped hands. It was warm, but refreshing.
‘Let’s take a walk around the park?’ Ibrahim suggested.
They entered through a gate in the cast-iron railings holding hands. It was such a beautiful Victorian park. The river meandered lazily through the middle, cascading over man-made waterfalls of rocks. A miniature steam train towing carriages full of excited kids, holding onto their parents tooted its horn and continued circling the track in the centre of the park.
‘Can’t believe the train’s still running; my dad used to take me on it,’ she reminisced.
Ibrahim leaned in and kissed her. ‘What’s happening with Carl? Does he suspect anything?’ he said changing the subject.
‘I don't think so.’
‘Where did you tell him you were going tonight?’
‘Said we’d been invited to a friend’s hen night, out of town.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Luna.’
‘And he believed you?’
‘He got suspicious about who was paying for me. I told him Lune had a six hundred quid tax rebate and was treating us.’
‘Okay, just as long as he doesn’t harm you. I’ll kill him if he touches you.’
‘That’s a bit extreme isn’t it? She gave him a worried look.
‘I suppose so, but I really like you Kat; I’d love us to spend more time together?’
She felt flattered, ‘Let’s just see how things work out. We might hate each other by tomorrow.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Ibrahim said placing his hand on her lower back, ushering her.
They followed the path over the bridge and doubled back, past the bandstand heading towards the town.
Later that evening Ibrahim had booked a meal for 7.30 p.m. at a petite Italian restaurant in the town. After, a lovely romantic meal they strolled back towards the hotel for a nightcap. Unfortunately because there weren’t many guests the bar had closed early, but Ibrahim managed to wangle a bottle of Prosecco and two glasses, to take up to their room.
Standing outside room fourteen, they kissed. Her lips felt soft and warm. Breaking off, he slipped the key into the door and ushered Kat through. Placing the glasses down on the dressing table he opened the wine and poured two generous measures. He removed his jacket and a hung it on the hook on the back of the door. Kat sat in the chair in the corner and removed her heels.
Ibrahim passed over the wine; she took a sip and looked at him.
‘I could get used to being treated like a lady,’ she laughed.
Ibrahim placed his wine down and padded towards her on the deep pale grey carpet.
‘Put some music on your phone. The Wi-Fi is pretty good I tried it this afternoon,’ Kat asked.
‘What do you want to listen to?’
‘Something slow and smoochy,’ she smiled.
‘Really?’ Ibrahim took her hand and pulled her from the chair into his arms.
‘What about the music?’
‘Okay,’ he fished his phone from his pocket and logged into his Youtube account. ‘I’ve got just the thing here,’ he said scrolling through his playlist, before tapping the auto-play button to start on Luther Ingram – If Lovin You is Wrong I Don't Wanna be Right.
He leaned it on the mirror and turned up the volume, then held her in his arms and embraced her.
Overcome with emotion Kat’s eyes welled, a tear ran down her cheek. Ibrahim wiped it away gently and kissed her again.
‘Don’t cry, everything will be OK, trust me.’
‘You’re an old romantic,’ she said holding his gaze.
They dropped onto the bed. He slowly unbuttoned her shirt dress and tossed it to the floor. She lay in her best lace underwear gazing at him, as he hurriedly undressed.
Unlike last time she wanted him to make love to her. Instinctively he knew, and responded by gently parting her legs and entered inside her whilst breathing on her neck. Slowly, his lips moved to hers and he kissed her, whilst softly stroking her hair. She climaxed as Bill Withers hit the last chorus of Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone.
CHAPTER 71
The following day Isabel’s story appeared on page two of the Evening Sentinel. Taking up half a page, including a photograph of her and Tom in happier times, it told of the compelling but tragic events that had led to the detective losing his wife and son in 2005, before tactfully moving on to Isabel’s illness and pointing sympathetic readers to her JustGiving page; summarising with a Crimestoppers’ number for anyone with information relating to her abduction and hit-and-run incident.
The newspaper started the ball rolling with a donation of four hundred quid from all the staff. This added to the two grand from the whip-round at the station, but left eighty-seven thousand to raise. Blake pleaded with his bank manager, but because he still owed forty thousand on his twenty-five-year mortgage, the slimy bastard offered him a loan against that of just fifteen-thousand, leaving a massive seventy-two thousand short fall.
The cancer charity said they were stretched to the limit with hundreds of grant applications for treatments in the current tax year. The hospital told him that, without treatment, Isabel might live another twelve months, a devastating thought he refused to consider. There was absolutely no way he’d let this happen, even if it meant selling everything he owned. Whilst it hurt like hell, it was a time for action, not wallowing hopelessly in self-pity. With a sense of renewed determination he called DS Murphy.
‘John! Just wanted to thank you and everyone at the station for all the money they’ve pledged, the support is overwhelming. I’ll try to call in on my way back from the hospital later.’
‘Mate, I know you’d do the same for me or any other officer. How’s Isabel?’
‘The hospital are keeping her under observation for the next few days. I’m worried about her coming home. She could have another blackout. I’ve asked the mother-in-law to come over and look after her.
‘Shit, that could be difficult. If you need extra help I could sit with her?’ he offered.
‘Thanks, appreciate it, just need to take it one day at a time.
‘How’d you get on at the bank?’
‘Bastards will only lend me fifteen grand.’
‘Seriously? Soulless parasites!’
‘I know, I’m gutted, but that’s the situation. I pleaded with him, but you know what they’re like. I’m going to sell my car and cash in some bonds. Still leaves around sixty-five grand to find.’
‘I’ve got three grand in savings you can have.’
‘No, John, you’ve done enough. I can’t accept that,’ Blake said, choked at Murphy’s compassion.
‘It’s only money; I want you to have it. If you don’t, I’ll donate via JustGiving.’
‘I’m not going to talk you out of it, am I?’
&
nbsp; ‘No.’
Holding back tears, Blake paused for a moment at his friend’s unbelievably kind gesture. ‘I don’t know what to say, John. Honestly, I’m touched.’
‘No need.’
Blake could hear Nick Pemberton’s familiar voice in the background.
‘Sorry, Tom, I’ve got to go; new info’s come through on the Gibson murder case. Have you looked at the hit-and-run incident report?’
‘Yeah, nothing to go on, apart from the old couple’s statement. They didn’t see anything, thank God they called an ambulance’
‘I’ll call you in the morning if anything else comes in. Apparently a witness has come forward in the Gibson murder case, says she recognises our man on the CCTV picture.’
‘Maybe some progress at last.’
‘Take care, mate.’
CHAPTER 72
Blake thrashed around the sofa like a man drowning in the deepest ocean. Beads of sweat ran down his face as his temperature soared. The same lucid dream tormented him regularly. His wife’s beautiful smiling face turned to the back of the car checking on little 8-year-old Dylan Blake.
Then without warning her head slams violently into the dashboard throwing her body round like a rag doll. The car spins before the huge force of impact with a dry stone wall leaves him unconscious.
Clouds rapidly pass through his flickering eyelids as blurred consciousness returns. Slowly his hand reaches out, but is touched by a silicone glove. He cries out for his wife and son. The paramedic shakes his head; his solemn voice delivers the heart-wrenching blow: ‘They’re gone.’
Early morning sun streamed through a chink in the curtains and glared off the glass coffee table. Blake shielded his eyes with a cupped hand, dragged his aching carcass off the sofa and reached for his mobile vibrating across the glass like an air hockey puck. He’d had another terrible night’s sleep.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 23
