I Follow You

by Peter James

  When the nurse had finished, Valentine announced, theatrically as always, ‘Knife to skin!’

  He pressed the razor-sharp blade to Georgie’s abdomen and slowly, crunching it through the skin and the muscle tissue beneath, sliced down her abdomen, the blade chased by a ribbon of blood. Just as he reached the end of the incision, he was startled by the sound of the theatre doors crashing open. He looked up.

  Kath Clow stood there in her day clothes, perspiring heavily, accompanied by a security guard.

  ‘Stop! Marcus! Stop!’ she yelled. She saw Neil Wakeling looking at her in astonishment, and the eyes of all the rest of the team frozen on her.

  ‘Have you gone mad, Kath? Get out of here.’ Addressing his team, imperiously, Valentine commanded, ‘I will not have this – get that woman out of here at once. This is a sterile environment, she is contaminating my theatre and putting my patient at serious risk!’

  ‘I don’t think so, Marcus.’ She walked across towards him, followed by a security guard, and then a second who came running in, panting. ‘Put that scalpel down!’ she demanded.

  ‘Guards, I am the senior consultant in this theatre – I’m ordering you to get that woman out of here now, she’s gone mad! She has no right and no authority in this procedure, do you understand me? I’m ordering you to remove her this instant.’

  The guards looked uncertainly at Valentine, then Clow, then Valentine.

  ‘Disobey me and I’ll have you both fired on the spot for contaminating this theatre!’ His voice rose to a bellow.

  Kath Clow put out a hand to stop the guards. ‘There’s only one thing contaminating this theatre, Marcus. Would you like to explain to everyone why you made a phone call to the switchboard, half an hour ago, pretending to be a teacher at my son’s school, saying there was an emergency? Can you explain to everyone in here why you wanted me out of this theatre? Was it so you could abort the perfectly healthy foetus of a perfectly healthy woman, pretending she has cancer? Just how sick are you?’

  There was a moment of complete silence. He took a step towards her, placing the scalpel down on the tray, as two scrub nurses staunched the bleeding, eyes wide in disbelief, but clinical professionalism on autopilot.

  In a flash, all smiles, he turned on the charm. ‘Kath, this is ridiculous, come on. This operation has to proceed to save this woman’s life. I don’t know what’s going on, there’s clearly someone very mischievous at work here.’

  ‘There is, Marcus,’ she said calmly, holding her ground. ‘And it’s you. You’ve logged on to my computer nine times in the past week, without my knowledge, and you’ve tampered with this patient’s records. That’s a criminal offence. But I’ve also a suspicion you’ve committed a much bigger offence, even, than this.’

  ‘Kath!’ He was still feigning complete innocence, continuing the charm offensive. ‘Kath, come on, we’re colleagues and good friends – has someone been poisoning you against me? What on earth are you implying?’

  ‘Poisoning me? You mean, like the way you’re poisoning Roger Richardson? Now get out of this theatre.’ She took a threatening step towards him.

  As she did so, Marcus grabbed the scalpel back off the tray and held it out, brandishing it like a dagger. ‘Get back, you mad woman, and get the hell out of my theatre. This is an outrage. I’ll have you bloody struck off for this.’ He glared at the guards. ‘Get this woman the fuck out NOW! This operation to save my patient’s life is continuing. Do you hear me? Remove her immediately.’ He took another step towards Kath, nodding at the guards. ‘Do you know who I am? I’m Marcus Valentine and I’m the senior doctor in this room. Do what I say immediately or I’ll have you both fired. I call the shots in my theatre and this operation is continuing.’

  The two guards hesitated.

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ Kath Clow urged. ‘This man’s a monster.’

  Waving the scalpel, threatening, staring wildly in every direction, Valentine stepped back and commanded the scrub nurses to apply clamps. ‘I’m in charge here,’ he shouted, his voice close to hysterical. ‘This operation is continuing.’ He looked at the hesitant nurses. ‘CLAMPS!’

  Kath took a step towards him and he lunged at her with the scalpel. ‘Get away, I’m warning you.’

  She took a reluctant step back. ‘Marcus! Stop this. Please! Stop this!’ Then she raised her voice to a shout. ‘Everyone, listen, this patient does not have cancer!’

  Valentine turned to the two scrub nurses who were standing, paralysed by confusion. ‘Clamps, do what I say, CLAMPS! This operation is continuing!’

  As they began to clamp the cut skin back, a new voice called out from the doorway. ‘Marcus, stop immediately! This operation has to cease!’

  It was the hospital director, Anthony Maitland.

  ‘Don’t listen to her, she’s out of her mind!’ Marcus shouted back. He leaned over Georgie’s abdomen and Kath could see he was about to plunge the scalpel in.

  She launched herself at him, oblivious to any danger from his blade, striking him head-first in the ribs, unbalancing him and sending him, arms flailing, crashing to the hard floor, the scalpel skittering away out of his hand. An instant later the two security guards were on top of him, pinning him down.

  ‘You idiots!’ he gasped. ‘Don’t you know what you’re doing?’

  Kath stood over him. ‘Yes, Marcus, we do. We know exactly what we’re doing. Just in time, eh?’

  100

  Sunday 8 March

  Spring had come early to Jersey this year – although on this glorious March morning it felt more like a summer’s day on the island. For the past week the temperature had hovered around 19 degrees Celsius and yesterday’s front-page splash in the Jersey Evening Post had screamed about global warming.

  But the happy couple pushing their baby daughter, in her smart pram, along the Victoria Avenue promenade weren’t worried about that, or anything much today. They were just enjoying the moment, as was Kathy Lucy Richardson. Eyes wide open, reaching out a tiny hand, she was spinning one of the brightly coloured plastic discs in front of her.

  And Georgie was enjoying finally having closure.

  There had been a different headline in the Jersey Evening Post two months ago.

  TOP ISLAND CONSULTANT GUILTY OF MURDER

  Followed by another just two weeks ago, after Marcus Valentine’s second trial.

  ISLAND OBSTETRICIAN SENTENCED TO 36 YEARS

  Georgie and Roger had been called as prosecution witnesses, and on all the other days had been in the public gallery for both of Marcus Valentine’s trials. They had felt a deep need for closure on the man who had so very nearly destroyed their lives. She had been surprised, when the first jury came back with their guilty verdict on the murder of Robert Resmes, that she hadn’t felt much emotion. It was the verdict in the second trial, of the attempted attack on her and their unborn baby, that really hit her, making her sob loudly and uncontrollably in the public gallery while Roger squeezed her hand. It was the realization of just how close Valentine had come. If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking and incredible bravery of Kath Clow, this little miracle in the pram, who had brought so much light and joy into their lives, would have died in the operating theatre on that day in January, last year.

  Claire Valentine had been in court every day, too, also sitting up in the packed public gallery, accompanied by someone who looked like she might be her sister. She’d acknowledged Georgie and Roger on the first day with a bleak smile and seemed about to say something but then didn’t. With every day of the trial she had looked increasingly hurt, upset and more pale, frequently closing her eyes and shaking her head. In disbelief? Shock? Or numb acceptance that the man she had married was a monster?

  She had looked particularly bleak when a witness statement from Marcus Valentine’s former wife, Elaine, had been read out, stating how he had bullied her and that she had always believed, when she had fallen pregnant, much to his anger, that he had given her something to cause her to miscar
ry.

  At one point, Claire had been called by the defence to give a character reference for her husband. She stood in the witness box and the statement she made, to everyone’s astonishment, was as damning as the worst of any of the evidence. ‘I know you are expecting me as the dutiful wife to say good things about my husband. That he is a loving father, a brilliant and caring surgeon, and a generous benefactor to local charities. But I can’t. I can’t. Yes, for a long time I’ve had my doubts, but he is the father of my children. Our relationship was becoming troubled, but it’s only when I have sat here in this court, listening to everything that has been said about Marcus, that I realize how badly he has needed help, for so many years. I’m so sorry for all those people he has hurt—’ Then she broke down in tears.

  The judge had ordered a recess for fifteen minutes.

  The man in the dock was a far cry from the assured charmer Georgie had sat next to at his and Claire’s dinner party less than eighteen months ago. He looked broken and had aged twenty years. The same prosecutor in both trials had been brilliant. Brutal. And justified. At no time did she feel remotely sorry for Valentine. Not even after learning about his horrific upbringing, which his defence barrister had detailed over two full days in the first trial, and had repeated in the second.

  The judge had adjourned sentencing, awaiting the outcome at the end of the second trial, and then pending psychiatric reports. Finally, that sentence had been delivered this past Friday morning.

  Valentine would never again be a danger to any patient. He had been struck off the medical register immediately following the first verdict. Georgie had sat in the public gallery, watching the judge address him on Friday. In a voice laden with contempt and barely restrained anger, he had passed sentence:

  ‘Marcus Valentine, please stand. You have been found guilty of murder at trial, and of attempted murder and of grave and criminal assaults. As you know, the sentence for murder is life, and under our law we have to set a mandatory minimum period for you to serve. The murder was aggravated by the fact that you did so to avoid the consequences of your previous actions. Were you being sentenced for that offence alone, a mandatory minimum period of twenty-seven years would, the Court feels, be appropriate.

  ‘But the count of murder does not stand alone. You have also been found guilty of these additional crimes. You attempted to destroy an unborn baby and you committed a grave and criminal assault on the baby’s father by your deliberate neglect. Usually grave and criminal assaults attract a far lower sentence than we are going to hand down today. But in the court’s experience, this is the most serious case we have ever encountered. You abused the trust not only of a patient, but of the health service and your colleagues, for purely selfish ends. The consequences, had you not been thwarted, are almost too awful to contemplate. It was the most evil of plans.

  ‘We have heard from your defence counsel about your childhood, in which you were undoubtedly deprived of the love and affection that is the duty of care all parents owe to their offspring. There are many people who endure childhoods that are wanting in affection. Or indeed who are bullied in many different ways by their parents. But that does not give them an excuse to go out into the community as adults and commit crimes. Especially none as wicked as yours. When you entered the medical profession, you would have taken an oath to do no harm. In your warped obsession with Georgina Maclean, you utterly flouted this oath, you threw it to the wind.

  ‘The Court’s view is that these assaults should add significantly to the minimum period you are to serve, to reflect the horror that right-thinking people must feel when hearing of your crimes. You will serve a further term of nine years in prison, consecutively. Therefore a total of thirty-six years.’

  For a while they walked in silence, wrapped in their thoughts, Roger pushing the pram and Georgie lending a trailing hand. Out of kindness – and perhaps a little curiosity – she’d called Claire after the initial verdict. It had gone to voicemail and, not knowing what to say, she hadn’t left a message. She’d tried again on Saturday, after the sentencing, but again it went to voicemail. And again, she’d left no message. What could she say that would mean anything to the poor woman?

  Roger said he’d heard, from another medical client, that Claire Valentine was leaving the island, taking the children to the mainland, because they’d never escape the shadow of their father, here.

  It was a good decision, Georgie thought. But, despite all she felt about Marcus Valentine, she couldn’t help feeling something for the woman who had been so sweet to her at that dinner party, and who had extended the hand of friendship.

  They were passing the busy patio of the Old Station Cafe, every table occupied by people enjoying their al fresco drinks or brunch. Some with young children. Conversation and laughter. Normal life. Something she had for so long craved.

  They’d married in beautiful St Brelade’s Church last summer, officiated by Mark Bond, a vicar they adored, a former rocker who wore an earring and welcomed their choice of a Van Morrison song for their wedding march.

  Georgie would never forget just how close she had come to losing Roger. His life had been saved by a brilliant surgeon, who had opened him up shortly after Valentine’s arrest and had confirmed the tear in his bowel. And she would never, ever forget seeing Marcus Valentine’s face over her in those moments before she fell unconscious from the anaesthetic.

  There had been times during the first trial when Valentine’s defence counsel had put up such convincing explanations and arguments that she really did think the jury might acquit him. It was the evidence of Edouardo that had been a major turning point for the prosecution. He had seen Valentine’s Porsche parked a short distance from the Bel Royal Hotel at the very time Valentine had claimed he was waiting at the hospital for Resmes. And dear Edouardo, despite all Valentine’s barrister’s ferocious cross-examination and some difficulty in getting his point across, in a language that wasn’t his mother tongue, had stood his ground. He had said, clearly and loudly, that he had been returning his clown outfit to his office in the Bel Royal when he had seen Valentine emerge, run to the car and drive off at speed. That evidence was corroborated by the police interrogation of the car’s navigation and tracker systems, which put the Porsche there at exactly this time.

  Georgie wondered for a long time if the drone triggering the accident that nearly killed Roger had also been of Marcus Valentine’s doing, but just a few months ago a mother had walked into St Helier police station and confessed it had been her eleven-year-old son who had been flying the drone – and he’d been too traumatized to own up after hearing the extent of the accident he had caused. No doubt something that would haunt the poor boy’s conscience for the rest of his life.

  They’d named Kathy as a salute to Kath Clow. And Kath sure deserved that tribute. She had delivered both their healthy, bonny baby and the news that Georgie was completely clear of any signs of cancer. If they wanted a bigger family – and looked sharp about it, she said – well, hey, why not?

  A brother or sister for Kathy? Georgie could scarcely believe that was a possibility. But . . . she had just missed a period.

  On the far side of the cafe, Roger suddenly stopped and kissed her. ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘No amount of money can buy what I’m feeling.’ She kissed him. ‘It’s strange we’ve stopped just here.’

  ‘Why?’

  She pointed at the traffic lights. ‘Remember I told you about that idiot in a Porsche who almost ran me down?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She pointed. ‘It was right here.’ She stood for a moment, reliving that instant. ‘Kathy’s a miracle baby in so many ways. How she came along when I’d all but given up hope of ever having a child. How I could have lost her then on that crossing. She and I were saved by a split second. And when I was in the operating theatre I was just minutes, if that, from Valentine killing her – and he would have succeeded if Kath Clow hadn’t rushed in.’ She hu
gged Roger, hard. ‘And I was so close to losing you, from that vile man’s attempt to kill you, too.’

  Roger hugged her back. ‘And if I’d turned up to that party just five minutes later, which you were on the verge of leaving, you and I might never even have met. Timing, right?’

  Georgie looked at him, content and smiling. ‘Timing. Yes. Timing is everything.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The notion of an author toiling away in a garret in blissful solitude is a romantic one, but for me not an entirely accurate one! I write alone, and I’m seldom happier than when I’m at my laptop, hammering out the first draft of a new novel, but I’m very conscious my books would never happen without an enormous amount of help and input from so many other people.

  One question we novelists get asked repeatedly, more than any other, is: Where do you get your ideas from? Well, my answer for this book is very simple. My wife, Lara, is a keen runner, who has competed in thirteen marathons. She had the spark of an idea about three years ago, while using a running app that plots your route, distances, times and all kinds of other data. Part of the fun of the app is to compare your times against other runners – as a runner myself, I know they are a competitive lot. But one day, she acknowledged a stranger who was running the same route as her, around local Sussex country lanes and footpaths. A short while after she got home, she discovered he had started to follow her on the app. That in itself didn’t initially bother her, but then she realized that, by looking at her start and finish point, this stranger could easily work out where she lived. And patterns in her routes, timing and locations could open up a wealth of information that, in the wrong hands, could be dangerous.

  From the moment Lara told me this, the idea for this book took root. I debated whether to write it as part of the Roy Grace series, but I felt I could write a more claustrophobic story just keeping the focus entirely on the principal characters themselves. But, as with most of my novels, I had a huge amount of research ahead of me, both in understanding the world of my medics in the story and learning more about the island of Jersey, our new home, and I felt totally overwhelmed by the enthusiasm and the level of help I received from so many people in Jersey, and in particular from the General Hospital and the States of Jersey Police.