by Peter James
Then she sat up, rigid. Staring around, groggy and tired. Trying to remember. Where were her clothes? They were nowhere to be seen.
Puzzled, she walked over to the closet. Her jeans, T-shirt and jumper were all in there, neatly on hangers.
She frowned. Was her memory playing tricks? She never bothered to put her clothes away at night, always just laying them on the chaise longue.
Naked, she hurried out into the living room, certain that she’d kicked off her boots and slung her coat on a sofa. But they weren’t there either. Her coat was hanging on a hook inside the front door, along with her and Roger’s hiking puffas.
Where were her boots?
She went back into the bedroom and across to the row of closet doors, opening the one containing her shoe racks. Her boots were in there, neatly together, where she normally kept them. On the rack above them were her three pairs of trainers. She always just shoved them in, haphazardly. But now they were all neatly lined up – and what was even stranger, the laces of each trainer were neatly folded and tucked inside the shoe.
Had the sleeping pill Marcus had given her buzzed her memory? Or was it the stress she was under making her forget?
Or . . .?
Oh sure, girl, some Good Samaritan came in during the night and tidied everything away for you. Obviously. Just like the Tooth Fairy.
She went into the bathroom, stepped into the shower and turned it on. As the jets of water struck her, she was still puzzled, trying to cast her mind back.
Shit, she thought. I’m a mess.
62
Thursday 17 January
Robert Resmes arrived on his bike at the phone repair shop shortly after 8.25 a.m., wanting to ensure he was first through the door when it opened and didn’t get stuck in a queue. The sign said its opening hours were 8.30 a.m. to 6 p.m. He padlocked the bike to a railing and for the next ten minutes he stood on the pavement in the narrow street, freezing cold and hungry – he’d not had any breakfast.
Finally, just when he was beginning to wonder if it was going to open at all today, a young man about his own age, with wide-rimmed glasses and lopsided hair, appeared inside the shop, flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN and gave him an apologetic nod before slipping behind the counter.
Resmes entered and handed the phone he’d found in Marcus Valentine’s drawer across to him, giving an explanation that his girlfriend had bought it on Gumtree and it had arrived without a code, then stood waiting while the young techie peered at it, before saying, ‘Shouldn’t be a problem – you wanna wait?’
‘Sure, if it’s going to be quick, yes.’
On wall-mounted shelves all around were used phones, chargers, covers and an array of other accessories. Through an open door into a back room, the medical student could see an older man with an eyepiece, holding a tiny screwdriver in one hand, working intently on the innards of a dismembered phone.
The young techie disappeared into the back room. Resmes waited, thinking back with a big smile to last night with Tilly Roberts. What a night! Truly! They’d chatted so easily over their meal and a sublime bottle of red wine, the beautiful nurse scarcely taking her eyes from his. She had seemed genuinely disappointed when he’d said goodbye to her, turning down her invitation to come up to her place for a coffee with the truthful excuse that he had an early start. And besides, he didn’t want her to think he was the kind of guy who wanted to jump into bed with a girl on their first date. He really wasn’t.
Especially not with Tilly Roberts. She was very special and already deeply under his skin. His mind buzzed with memories of her lovely face, her scent, her laughter, the cute, delicate way she held her wine glass by the stem with her slender finger and thumb.
‘Let’s do it again,’ she’d said without any prompting. ‘Soon.’
‘Tomorrow?’
She’d leaned forward and given him a long, lingering kiss on the lips. ‘Tomorrow wouldn’t be quite soon enough!’ she’d said, adding that she had a day off and was going to go to the market and would love to cook them a meal.
Resmes had barely slept; he lay in bed much of the night, thinking about her. What a lady. Back in Romania a friend at medical school had once described another girl he had gone out with – and whom he had been sweet on – as a keeper. Unfortunately, she had dumped him. But that’s what Tilly was, he could feel it in his bones. A keeper.
It was going to be a struggle to concentrate on his work today. He was already willing the hours away until evening.
‘All done!’ said a voice, snapping him out of his reverie. It was a few minutes past 9 a.m.
The young man stood in front of him, handing him the phone and a slip of paper on which was written the code. ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘A tenner will be fine.’
Robert Resmes paid the money and thanked him, then unlocked his bike and pedalled, in light drizzle, towards the hospital, five minutes away. He stopped outside a cafe, hesitating, overcome with curiosity about the contents of the phone, and decided he had time. And he was ravenous.
He went in, ordered an omelette and coffee, then sat down with the phone, punched in the code and firstly noticed there were hardly any apps loaded. Immediately he went to the texts to see what the one he had partially read on the screen had said in full.
Super sexy new pussy pics. Hope you enjoy!
He opened Photos. There was one album only. This was labelled ‘Favourites’. He tapped on it.
A vast number of photographs of a red-headed woman appeared. He immediately recognized her as Georgina Maclean. Why on earth was she on Marcus’s phone?
He began to scroll through them. In several she was running along Victoria Avenue promenade, with the date showing December of last year. Then all dressed up at a dinner party. He recognized several of the group of people around the table, including Marcus, Kath Clow and other colleagues from the hospital.
Next was a screenshot of a laid-out running kit from an Instagram feed. Screenshots of maps with routes marked and running times. More photos of Georgie taking part in what appeared to be a parkrun. Then her running in January around St Aubin’s Bay. More running photos. Dozens more.
As he scrolled on through them, he came to a series of photos that really disturbed him. Georgina and the man he recognized instantly as Roger Richardson sitting snuggled up together on a sofa in the living room of what he presumed was their flat. The lights were on. Night-time. The sequence showed them chatting intimately. Kissing.
Resmes was so engrossed he failed to notice the arrival of his coffee, and his omelette and toast.
Was Marcus Valentine spying on the couple from outside their home, he wondered? What other explanation could there be?
Jesus.
He was sickened looking at them.
Sickened by the realization that the highly esteemed consultant surgeon had some kind of obsessive streak. That this was a man who, up until a couple of days ago, he had deeply respected.
Resmes continued looking through the album and was shocked again. He saw several pictures of the woman he recognized as Marcus Valentine’s wife. Close-ups of her naked body whilst she was clearly asleep. Then followed close-up after close-up of different women’s pubis areas. They were interspersed with occasional pictures of naked breasts and stomachs. And some extreme close-ups of vaginas.
Some had a hospital background and were evidently taken during medical examinations.
Many were taken in the hospital, here in Jersey.
These weren’t case-study records, it was porn. Medical porn.
Valentine clearly had a very sick and disturbed mind. Sadly, Resmes knew his initial gut concern on seeing the text message had been right.
He dug his fork into his almost stone-cold omelette and ate a mouthful. Then he drank some coffee. Thinking. And the more he thought, the less he liked the conclusion he was leaning towards.
The tear in Roger Richardson’s bowel he was certain he had seen. Followed by Valentine’s dismissal of the suggestion. His scornful ri
poste that it had been scar tissue.
Really? Scar tissue?
Resmes might be a student, in his early years in the medical profession, but he was pretty confident he could tell the difference between scar tissue and a cut – or tear.
Was it possible – was it remotely possible – that Mr Valentine had deliberately ignored the tear in Roger Richardson’s bowel?
Because he had a motive? A secret thing for Georgina Maclean? Let her fiancé die and she would be his prize?
Unthinkable.
Was it?
The Romanian ate a few more mouthfuls of his breakfast, his appetite gone, gulped down some more cold coffee, left some cash on the table to cover his bill and a tip, grabbed his bike and pedalled furiously towards the hospital.
To his relief, the cardboard he had wedged in Marcus Valentine’s door was still in place. He let himself in, pocketing the piece of cardboard, then replaced the phone in the filing cabinet, exactly where he had found it. Still very concerned and trying to make sense of what he had found.
Staring at the door every few moments, hoping Mr Valentine did not come through it.
He’d been a small boy in the first years following the end of the monstrous rule of Ceauşescu, and his parents had talked often throughout his childhood about what living under his regime had been like. And Robert had vowed never, ever in his life to be cowed by anyone dictating to him. He was still smarting from Valentine’s fury at him yesterday, for daring to question him. And now the images he had seen were making him question the consultant’s integrity. It was a wild thought, and one that as a mere student he really had no business asking, but he asked himself, nonetheless. Was there a link between Marcus Valentine’s apparent obsession with Georgina Maclean and his ignoring the tear in her fiancé’s bowel?
After wrestling with his conscience for some minutes, aware that what he did next could have a serious impact on his future career, he made his decision. He had to follow his conscience. He hurriedly opened the bottom left-hand drawer of the desk. Just as he did so, he heard a knock on the door.
He froze.
Another knock.
Jesus.
Then silence.
Shaking, he rummaged through the papers and put the keys back at the bottom of the drawer. Holding his breath, he waited. Several minutes passed until he felt the coast was clear.
63
Thursday 17 January
Kath Clow sat in her office, checking through her notes for the day ahead. She was well aware that Georgie was booked in for a 2.30 p.m. colposcopy. And she hoped so much, for Georgie’s sake, it would show everything to be OK. But she had already decided she would get a second opinion from Marcus to double-check it for her, whatever the result. She had many good reasons for trusting his judgement.
When her son was younger, he’d had a lot of abdominal pain, and after multiple investigations and appointments with paediatricians, it was Marcus who saw this was a Meckel’s diverticulum. And soon after she had joined this department, she learned he had saved her predecessor from a potential medical negligence case that could have ended his career.
With Marcus’s expertise in the field of oncology, he’d spotted an anomaly in a colposcopy. An early sign of an aggressive stage-2 tumour that her predecessor had very nearly dismissed as old scar tissue from a biopsy. Ever since, she’d made up her mind to defer to Marcus’s judgement on anything she was uncertain about, as did all her colleagues in this department. And aside from his professional expertise, she valued and trusted him as a friend.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ she called, fully expecting her registrar with yet another query.
Instead she saw a nervous-looking, dark-haired man in a blue suit, shirt and tie, sporting a light beard.
‘Excuse me, Dr Clow,’ he said, by way of introduction, ‘I’m your new student – I—’
‘Robert Resmes?’ she queried.
‘Yes.’
‘I was expecting you tomorrow for your prep meeting – you’re starting Monday with me, I believe?’
‘Well, no, yes – tomorrow we have one hour – and yes, that’s right. Monday. I’m really looking forward to it – you see, I think obstetrics is what I want to do, because it means dealing with happy, excited people!’
She frowned. ‘Well, mostly, Robert. But you also have to deal with heartbreak, too, at times.’
He nodded. ‘I understand that.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Thing is, I wanted to come and talk to you because I have a – I don’t know how to put it, exactly – I have a concern. It is a difficult situation – I – people say you are a nice lady, and I thought – maybe – I could ask you?’
She smiled at the nervous young man. ‘Ask me what?’
‘You know the aeroplane crash on Monday?’
‘Of course. Terrible.’
‘I was with Mr Valentine, in theatre, when he removed the spleen of one of the people involved – one of the pilots. Roger Richardson – I believe he is the fiancé of one of your patients?’
‘Yes. I know of his splenectomy.’
‘Well, the thing is—’ He scratched the back of his head, nervously, aware he was perspiring under her friendly but inquisitive gaze. ‘The thing – I saw something that I don’t think Mr Valentine noticed.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m sure I saw a tear in Mr Richardson’s bowel – a very tiny one – that Mr Valentine had not seen.’
‘Did you tell him?’ she asked.
‘I tried. But he didn’t take it well. He insisted it was old scar tissue.’
She continued to stare at him, good-naturedly. ‘What is making you question his opinion, Robert?’
He hesitated. Was he making a complete fool of himself? ‘Well, it’s because Mr Richardson is not recovering at all well. I understood he should be out of bed and walking about before now. But he is not.’
‘This is your third year as a medical student, right, Robert?’
He nodded.
‘I think it’s great that you are being so observant, I’m impressed. You clearly have the makings of a fine doctor, whatever discipline you choose to specialize in. But it’s still very early days in your studies. What you’re going to discover as you learn more is that one seemingly healthy person can be up on their feet twenty-four hours after a major operation, such as a splenectomy. Another can take much longer. Everyone is different.’ She shrugged. ‘It would be great to have a magic wand and see every patient respond the same way, but that’s not what happens.’
He gave a reluctant nod. Before he could say anything, she went on.
‘I really think, Robert, that you ought to accept Mr Valentine’s opinion. He is extremely experienced, a very fine consultant. If it’s of any comfort to you, if I had any problems at all, he would be the first person I’d go to.’
She was being defensive, he thought. Protecting her colleague? Would she feel the same, he wondered, if he were to show her the photographs on Mr Valentine’s phone?
But then at some point he would have to explain how he had come by it. That he had broken into the consultant’s filing cabinet and taken it to a shop to have it unlocked. He was really struggling with this dilemma. He had hoped Kath Clow might be an ally, but he saw danger signals.
‘Please don’t tell him I came to you, I don’t want him upset with me,’ he pleaded. ‘I just wanted to do the right thing.’
She smiled, warmly. ‘I won’t tell him, I promise!’ She put a finger to her lips. ‘Secret squirrel!’
He reciprocated the sign.
‘And, Robert,’ she said, as he turned to leave. ‘Don’t let this deflect you in the future. Always have the courage to do what you believe is the right thing.’
‘Thank you, I will.’
He made his way to join Mr Valentine. He looked forward to working with Kath next week, but he was feeling trapped between a rock and a hard place.
64
Thursday 17 January
Geo
rgie arrived in the Relatives’ Waiting Room of the Intensive Care Unit shortly before 11 a.m., still feeling groggy and unable to shake off the leaden tiredness she’d felt since waking this morning. As she sat down on a hard chair, she closed her eyes, still confused about how she could have tidied the flat without remembering. She wondered just how strong the sleeping pills that Marcus had given her were, or whether she’d taken one far too late at night and the effects were still working on her.
She dozed off, to be woken with a start a short while later by Kiera Dale’s voice.
‘How are you today, Georgie?’
Blinking awake, she stared around, momentarily confused by her surroundings, until she saw the nurse standing in front of her. ‘Sorry,’ she said. I—’
‘You look tired,’ Kiera said in a kindly voice. ‘Are you able to sleep at night OK?’
Georgie nodded. ‘Thanks, yes. I—’ She was about to tell her that Mr Valentine had given her some tablets, but then wondered if that might get him into trouble. ‘I guess not that well at the moment. I worry constantly.’ She glanced at her watch. 11.20 a.m. ‘How is Roger? Has he improved overnight?’
The nurse hesitated, before giving her a smile that was not matched by her expression, nor her body language. ‘Well, he’s stable, but to be honest with you, he’s still not making as much progress as we would have hoped by now. But as we all know, some patients do take much longer to recover from major surgery than others.’
‘Roger’s a fit man,’ she replied, lamely. ‘Surely he ought to be getting better by now?’
‘He has a very strong heart,’ the nurse said in reply. ‘That’s definitely helping him. We’re monitoring him closely.’
Georgie followed the nurse, stopping, as she did, for a squirt of the hand sanitizer at the entrance to the ward. As she entered the ICU, she was shocked at the sight of Roger. He was back on a ventilator, asleep, his skin looking mottled, and his heart rate was very definitely down from yesterday. He had compression stockings on his legs and Flowtron boots.
