by Peter James
His stomach churned with excitement and he couldn’t sit still. He paced around the hospital corridors, aimless, for a while, constantly looking at his watch and at every clock that he passed. Time was passing slowly, agonizingly slowly. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt like this. Not since he’d been at medical school in Bucharest and had the hots for Alina, who’d been giving him sly glances for some while. It had taken him weeks before he finally asked her out. But he’d left it too late. Quite apologetically, she’d told him she now had a boyfriend.
He’d been determined, with Tilly, not to make the same mistake again. He was taking her to an Italian restaurant he liked in town, which stayed open late. And after then, who knew?
He only had a couple more days of being with Mr Valentine. Then, after the weekend, he would be moving on for the next month, to shadow Dr Clow, who seemed a nice lady.
He looked at his watch again. Still an hour to go to Tilly! But time to start getting ready. He went into the changing room, undressed and dumped his scrubs in a laundry bin, then washed, sprayed himself with aftershave and dressed in the fresh white shirt he had brought along especially for this evening. But as he checked his appearance in the mirror, he felt a sudden hollow sense of panic in the pit of his stomach.
No. Shit. No!
His jacket wasn’t in here. Quite apart from needing its warmth, his wallet was in it. He remembered now, earlier today, before he’d changed into scrubs, sitting in Mr Valentine’s office, while the obstetrician showed him different images of ovarian, cervical and vaginal cancers. It had been hot in the room and he’d removed his jacket, hooking it behind the door.
He hurried along the network of corridors, passing a yellow warning triangle placed by the cleaners, and arrived at Valentine’s door. It was locked. Of course. He always locked it.
A short distance away, Resmes heard the whirr and bang-bang-bang of a hoover. Rushing up to the cleaning lady, whom he’d always greeted with a smile and a hello, he explained his predicament. Without questioning him, she used her swipe card to unlock the door.
As he switched on the light and entered the freshly tidied room, he saw to his relief that his jacket was hanging where he’d left it. Unhooking it, he put it on.
A ping startled him. The alert of an incoming text, from somewhere in the room. Frowning, he looked all around. The desk was neat and tidy. No sign of a phone. He saw a photograph of a tall, fair-haired woman pinned to a noticeboard, along with photos of two small children and a baby. He saw a copy of the ‘Happiness’ graph that Cardigan seemed to have taken great pleasure in showing him pinned beside the family photos.
He peered up at the file folders and reference books, neatly arranged in height order on the shelves. At the whiteboard with its several notices attached by coloured magnets. All arranged with mathematical neatness and precision.
Ping.
The sound came from right behind him.
He turned. Stared at a metal filing cabinet. Was it from in there? Had Mr Valentine inadvertently left his phone there? But why – how – could he have put it in there? He was such a meticulous man, surely he wouldn’t have left the hospital without his phone – especially as he was on call this week? How odd, how puzzling.
There was so much that was puzzling about Mr Valentine. And worrying.
When the surgeon had opened up Roger Richardson, Resmes had been absolutely certain he’d noticed a tear in the bowel. Yet subsequently, when he’d ventured to mention it, Mr Valentine had been aggressively defensive.
Why? Especially when now the man’s recovery was not going as well as had been expected. Wasn’t that a sign something might be wrong? That maybe in all the heat of the moment, Mr Valentine might have missed something? Sure, he had a great reputation as a brilliant surgeon and Resmes had already learned much from observing him across many differing procedures, but he wasn’t a trauma surgeon. All of the surgery Resmes had witnessed him doing, to date, had been carried out in Valentine’s own time and at his measured pace. Splenectomies were not his specialty – might it be possible, even for a surgeon of his experience, to have missed something because his focus was elsewhere?
He closed the office door behind him and stared around for a moment, then decided to ring Marcus’s number to see if it was his phone and to put to bed these thoughts. The number was on his speed-dial on his own mobile.
It began to ring, but there was no sound from the filing cabinet. The obstetrician answered, curtly, on the second ring. ‘Yes, Robert? What’s up?’
Flustered, he blurted, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Valentine, sorry to disturb you. I – I just wanted to check what time and where I should meet you tomorrow?’
‘I’ll be at my consulting room in the Bon Sante clinic at the Hotel de France until 11 a.m., Robert. I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on, so rock up at the hospital about 11.15, unless there is any emergency, OK?’
‘Yes, thank you, I’ll be there then.’
Valentine ended the call.
Resmes stared at the cabinet. So he had another phone, inside it? Why? What was this all about?
His concerns about Marcus Valentine had been deepening throughout the day. He still did not buy the consultant’s explanation that what he’d seen in Roger Richardson’s bowel was scar tissue. It was a tear, he’d been sure of it. And yet, before he told anyone else and began making very serious accusations, he had to be absolutely certain of his ground.
He went over to the cabinet where the phone ping was coming from, and tugged the handle, but as he had anticipated, the file drawer was locked. Would Marcus have the key with him or would he have concealed it in the office somewhere?
He stared nervously at the door, terrified that Marcus might come in at any moment. Taking a deep breath, he began opening and carefully rummaging through each of the drawers in the desk. In the bottom left-hand one, under a pile of documents, he found two small, thin keys attached to a metal ring. He lifted them out and tried the first one in the lock at the top of the cabinet, turned it, and bingo!
The first two drawers, stacked with orderly hanging files, each of which he checked through, revealed nothing. But halfway along the files in the third drawer down he noticed a bulge. And there, nestling between the green sleeves, was a phone, a few years old but, as the display showed, almost 96 per cent charged.
Which meant it had been handled recently.
The message that had pinged was an alert from Jersey Telecom, but he could also see part of a message on the home screen which made him deeply worried.
Almost certain that the phone would be password-protected, and well aware it was none of his business to be touching it, he was curious to know what it was that Mr Valentine wanted to keep locked away – from his colleagues and perhaps from his wife. He swiped up and saw:
Enter Passcode
He had no idea what that might be. He did know the surgeon’s date of birth and tried a couple of combinations of that, without success. Then he had another idea. On a street below the Snow Hill car park he’d passed a mobile phone repair shop that offered in its window display to repair or unlock any phone. He googled it and saw its opening time was 8.30 a.m.
Marcus Valentine would be going straight to his private clinic first thing. That gave him almost three hours in the morning to get the phone unlocked, take a look at it and return it to the filing cabinet. He felt this was easily doable, and a low-risk strategy – he’d be back in no time.
He closed and locked the cabinet, replacing the keys where he had found them, slipped the phone into his pocket and left the office, jamming the door lock with a strip of cardboard, excited about his date and very curious about what the morning would reveal.
57
Wednesday 16 January
Georgie remained at Roger’s bedside until 8 p.m. Throughout the evening, he had barely opened his eyes. Finally, the nurse who had taken over from Kiera Dale suggested she went home and got some rest. It was like they were all trained to say this, she t
hought. He had been stable for some while, which was a good sign, and she promised to let her know if there was any change in his condition.
She drove back to their flat on autopilot, parched, having drunk nothing for hours, she realized, and shaky from lack of food. And worried as hell. They had expected her beloved to have been sitting up this morning, starting physiotherapy.
OK, he was stable now. But what did that really mean?
As she entered the flat and switched on all the lights, she was trying to take comfort from Kiera’s words, earlier. Gulping down a large glass of water, she peered inside the fridge. There was some bread, a lump of Cheddar, some coleslaw, coconut yoghurt and a bottle of white wine. She opened the freezer and rummaged through the contents: fish pies; curries; a vegetarian Wellington containing beetroot and cheese which they’d bought as an experiment; and lamb moussaka.
Nothing appealed.
She made herself a bland cheese sandwich and ate it in front of the news, which did nothing to lift her from the deep gloom she felt.
Roger should have been improving throughout the day. Instead he was deteriorating, slowly, as if his life was steadily trickling away.
Why? What was going on? The medics were concerned, she could see it in their eyes. Kiera had done her best to reassure her, but she needed more than reassurances. She wanted to see his blood pressure rising and his heart rate lowering.
She glanced at her watch. It was almost 9 p.m. She should have an early night and try to sleep, but she felt wired. Maybe she could have a bit more cheese.
As she stood up to go to the fridge, her phone rang, startling her.
Shit. Was it the hospital?
She answered.
‘Miss Maclean?’ asked a male voice she did not recognize.
‘Yes?’
‘This is the control room of G4 Security. We have you listed as the principal key-holder for the Bel Royal Hotel.’
‘Yes, correct.’
‘There’s an intruder alert showing. Are you able to attend please?’
That bloody hotel. This was all she needed, but she had an obligation to Mr Vautier, having taken advantage of his generous offer of the gym all these months. With Roger unwell and perhaps not able to fly for a while, she needed the goodwill and the income more than ever, while she could still work. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Yes, I can be there in about a quarter of an hour.’
‘Thank you. When you get there, let us know if there is anything you are uncomfortable about and we’ll ask the police to attend.’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
It was probably just another false alarm; she’d drive there and check it out. The hotel was fitted with motion-sensors, and one had gone off in the night on a couple of previous occasions. The first time it had turned out to be an infestation of ladybirds around a sensor – gathered there, the pest control man had later told her, because it was warm. On another occasion a cat had got in somehow and then not been able to find its way out. Perhaps it was another animal trapped.
Leaving everything on the island work surface, she texted Lucy so at least someone knew where she was, grabbed a torch and the hotel keys, pulled on her warm fleece jacket and hurried out to her car.
58
Wednesday 16 January
Fifteen minutes later, the headlights of Georgie’s Golf picked out the blue-and-white Bel Royal Hotel sign with its three gold stars. As she turned in through the pillared entrance and wound her way up the steep, twisting driveway, she was feeling increasingly apprehensive. It was bad enough coming here alone in the daytime, let alone late at night after an intruder alert had gone off.
Hopefully and almost certainly it would turn out to be another false alarm. But she wasn’t going to take any chances, and as one precaution she’d already locked her car doors. She had decided that if she saw a vehicle parked anywhere on the premises, or any sign of a broken window or open door, she would stay put and dial 999.
The wind had risen and the leaves of the dense shrubbery on either side were shaking and rustling. Shadows jumped all around her. A rabbit darted across in front of her. Cresting the rise, she could see the lights of St Helier way in the distance, which increased her sense of isolation. Creeping the car down the ramp towards the rear of the hotel, her eyes tracked the darkness either side as she approached the entrance to the staff and gym car parks. She was debating whether to stop here or go round to the front first. But then, as she saw the row of wheelie bins and the builders’ overflowing skip in her headlights, two ruby-red dots glowed in the darkness to her right. Then they vanished. A rat?
Yech.
She decided to check the front first. But she would have to come back to the rear as her key only let her in through the gym entrance. Putting the car in gear again, she crawled along the side of the building and then turned right, along the front of the hotel. The car rocked in the wind, which felt much stronger around this exposed side of the building. To her left, on the other side of the drive, was a wide terrace for drinks and dining when the weather was fine. It was empty now, all the chairs and tables and parasols stored away, the swimming pool drained.
She halted, switched off the engine, and without giving herself time to dwell on it, picked up her torch and got out, taking a deep breath. The wind batted her hair around her face and tugged at her clothes. Music travelled from somewhere below. Rag’n’Bone Man, she recognized wistfully. Roger loved Rag’n’Bone Man, ever since they’d seen him live in London a year or so back.
She played the beam across the balconies of each of the guest rooms along the two-storey facade, checking for a broken or open window or patio door, then across the panoramic curved glass wall of the dining room, and finally into the darkness at the end of the building, just in case someone was lurking there. Although why would any intruder in their right mind be hanging around after setting off the alarm, she thought, trying to comfort herself. But, of course, the alarm was silent – they might not necessarily have noticed they’d set it off.
So, it was possible that if there was an intruder, and not a cat that had slipped past the maintenance workers earlier, or a spider’s web across a sensor, or rodents chewing through a wire, that the intruder might still be in the building. But there was nothing of any real value to take, other than the almost-new gym equipment – and that would be heavy work. The hotel was tired, its refresh only just starting. All the televisions were several years old; there was no cash on the premises, no valuable art. Also, there was no vehicle that she could see. A burglar wasn’t going to be able to carry much away from here by hand. And, despite outbreaks of drunken violence on weekends in some of St Helier’s bars and pubs, the island still, mercifully, had a low crime rate.
No, she convinced herself – almost – that if there was a genuine intruder it was more likely to be youngsters pranking about than a burglar after serious loot.
She got back into the car and drove round to the rear of the building again. Ignoring the delineated parking bays, she pulled up as close as she could get to the gym door and jumped out, clutching her torch and the keys. Her first duty would be to check the master alarm box for the hotel, which was located in the corridor between the gym and the kitchen. Hopefully, that would give her the zone where the alert had been triggered. Then would follow the task she did not look forward to, walking along the dark, cold corridors to the zone and checking all the rooms within it.
Payback time for the generous deal the hotel owner had given her. Although at the moment, having to deal with this, it didn’t feel quite so generous any more.
A few years back, she’d done a kick-boxing course and really enjoyed it. But when the time came – if it ever came – would she actually be able to use her now rusty skills? Maybe.
As she unlocked the glass door to the gym, she reminded herself of the kick-boxing basics, and suddenly felt a lot more positive. She was still plenty supple enough to deliver a KO delivery to someone’s chin. So long as she kept her presence of mi
nd in a confrontation.
She entered the freezing-cold room and switched on some of the lights, glancing round at the silent equipment and the motionless egg timers. One overhead neon light flickered with a buzzing sound. Just as a precaution, totally unnecessary, she knew, she locked the door behind her and removed the key, then glanced up at the offending tube. It often did this and then settled down – she decided to leave it. Then she walked across the gym and stopped by the rack of kettlebells, hesitating. Why not? She picked up a relatively light one, happier now she had a weapon, and entered the corridor to the kitchens, almost immediately finding the light switch with her torch beam.
She walked along the worn carpet, which smelled old and musty; the walls on either side needed a lick of paint. She could almost hear her heartbeat in the silence, and could feel it fluttering like a trapped bird inside her chest. Her eyes shot in every direction, darting at shadows, gripping the kettlebell tightly in her right hand and the torch in her left, until she reached the alarm cupboard. Setting the weight down on the floor, she opened the door and stared at the large panel. A small red light was flashing, showing her the problem area.
INTRUDER ALERT ZONE F
That zone covered ten rooms at the far end of the first floor of the building as well as the dining room.
She entered the code and the light stopped. It was replaced by a message on the panel display.
SYSTEM RESET?
She did not want to reset the system until she had checked the zone, otherwise if there was a fault, she could risk it recurring and being called out again in another hour’s time. She’d see if she could spot anything wrong and, if not, she’d have to call the emergency engineer. Either way, it was going to be a while before she could go home. Although tonight, she didn’t mind. With the constant shadow of worry stalking her, she knew she would just lie in bed awake, counting down the hours until she could go back to the hospital. To Roger’s bedside.
