Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

  Her exasperation moved to a professional level. ‘You know, we don’t generally let criminals access our records.’

  ‘They’re not criminals.’

  She became uneasy. ‘You were shot by the police?’

  ‘No. And before you ask, I’m not a criminal either. Obviously,’ he added, ‘you only have my word on that. But I’m really not.’

  There was an almost innocent sincerity in his voice that made her believe him. Or rather, believe that he believed it. ‘So who did shoot you? And why?’

  He hesitated before answering. ‘This morning – well, yesterday morning, now – everything was fine. Then suddenly . . . the people I’ve been working with for nearly a year tried to kill me. And I don’t know why.’ Again, he seemed completely honest in his reply.

  Connie looked back at his arm, shocked. ‘You’ve had an untreated bullet wound for almost a whole day?’ The pain he must have endured would have incapacitated most people by now. Yet he was still standing – even after being hit by a car. ‘Please, you have to let me help you.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Then where will you go?’

  ‘I . . . don’t have anywhere.’ The admission was almost plaintive.

  ‘Come with me. I can help you at home.’ She was surprised – shocked – by the offer even as she made it. Where had it come from? Waifs and strays: her mother’s voice in her mind, with gently mocking amusement. Wounded birds and lost kittens had often been brought home to be cared for.

  The man was equally surprised. ‘I . . . no, I can’t. Sorry.’ He turned to leave—

  ‘Connie! Is everything okay?’

  A voice from the loading bay. Martin was at the doors, regarding the scene with concern. She glanced back at the injured man. He was about to break and run. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said quickly. ‘He’s looking for A&E. I’ll take him round.’

  Martin gave him a dubious look, but nodded. ‘Okay. If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’ The porter waved in response, then withdrew.

  She looked back at her companion. ‘Come on, then.’ She gestured at her car.

  It was his turn to blink. ‘What?’

  ‘Like I said, I can help you at home. I’ll clean the wound and stitch it up for you.’

  His expression was almost suspicious. ‘Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.’

  ‘I’m a nurse – it’s my job to help people who need help. And, you know, I hit you with my car. It’s the least I can do.’ There was also, she admitted, a certain intrigue about the situation. ‘Come on,’ she repeated, entering the Saxo.

  He watched her askance, hesitating . . . then got in beside her. ‘Thank you,’ he said, still uncertain.

  ‘No problem.’ She restarted the car. ‘By the way, I’m Connie.’

  Another hesitation before a clipped reply. ‘Alex. Alex Reeve.’

  ‘Connie, Connie Jones. Nice to meet you, Alex. Even if it wasn’t exactly the best way of doing it.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘Yeah, I can think of nicer ones.’ He managed a half-smile, then shook it.

  Connie set off. ‘We’ll be there in about twenty minutes,’ she said, as she guided the car down the alley. The man – Alex – nodded.

  A voice at the back of her mind yelled in warning. What the hell are you doing? You don’t know this guy. He might rob you, rape you, kill you . . . She couldn’t argue. Had she seen another woman in the same situation, she would have been worried too.

  But she got no sense of threat from him. Even now, he seemed more likely to jump from the car and run.

  If he could stay awake, that was. Within minutes, she saw him flinch as he caught himself dropping off. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll be there soon.’

  ‘Thanks,’ came the tired reply.

  She drove on. Another few minutes, and she glanced sidelong – to see her mysterious passenger was asleep.

  CHAPTER 17

  Reeve struggled through a dark fog. The ground was glutinous, sucking down each footstep. But someone was chasing him, treading as lightly as a ghost.

  Right behind him, a gun coming up—

  ‘We’re here.’

  He jerked awake. ‘What?’

  ‘We’re here,’ a woman repeated. ‘At my flat.’

  The nurse from the hospital. Connie. She had offered to help him. Why? Was it a trap? Was Maxwell lurking behind her front door—

  Don’t be ridiculous. He had reached the hospital at random, met her by fluke. ‘Oh, okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

  They got out into the rain. Reeve surveyed his surroundings. A terraced street lined with cars, few of them new. Some shops nearby, graffiti-covered shutters over the windows. Even past three in the morning, he heard music thudding from an open window.

  It was alien in the details, yet familiar. He had grown up on a similar street, half the country away. The kind of place nobody chose to live, merely had to.

  ‘Sorry I had to park a bit away from the flat,’ Connie said. ‘It’s always hard to find a space. Can you walk?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ In truth he wasn’t, his legs bruised and his arm pulsing with leaden fire. But complaining would change nothing. He went with her down the street.

  It took about five minutes. Reeve tensed as a car approached, but it cruised past without slowing. Connie brought him across a side road to an end terrace. ‘This is it.’

  He took in the unattractive brick house. A narrow yard separated it from the street. It was on a slope, the road beside it leading downhill. Two floors at the front, three at the back. There looked to be a garden at the rear through a tall wooden gate.

  Connie went to the front door. Three wheelie bins in the little yard. When built, the house would have been home to a single family. Now, it had been chopped into separate flats. The other nearby houses were the same, or worse. No wonder parking was so hard. She unlocked the door. ‘Come in.’

  He followed her into a cramped hall. Narrow stairs led up and down. Junk mail sat piled on a windowsill over a small rusting radiator. A trio of electricity meters were crammed high and crooked in a corner. Skeins of wiring disappeared through ragged holes in the wall and ceiling. Whoever converted the house into flats hadn’t cared about doing quality work.

  Connie went past the stairs to a door. ‘Here.’ She ushered him through.

  She had done her best to make the flat cosy. A cheerful yellow sofa was covered in plush, colourful cushions. Pictures of faraway landscapes hung on the thinly-painted walls. Italian countrysides dominated, with some more exotic vistas amongst them. A counter with a laptop on it divided off a kitchen area. Two doors presumably led to the bathroom and bedroom.

  Connie took off her coat. ‘Let me get you a towel,’ she said. Reeve removed his wet shoes at the entrance, then peeled off his soaked hoodie. The movement tugged at his bloodied bandage. He drew in a breath. She caught it. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I think you’re right about the infection.’ More carefully, he worked the ruined garment clear of the wound.

  ‘I’ve got some antibiotics,’ she said, entering the bathroom. ‘I caught a throat infection last year. Hazard of the job.’ She returned with a fluffy white towel. ‘I should have chucked them out, but forgot. Some nurse, hey?’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  Connie gave him the towel. He quickly dried his hair and arms as she went through cupboards. She collected a large first-aid kit and assorted medical supplies. ‘Sit down,’ she said, indicating the sofa. He re-folded the towel to act as a damp-absorbing cushion, then sat. ‘Let me see.’

  A check of the bandage, with a disapproving bite of her lower lip. ‘It’s a mess. You sure you don’t want to go to A&E?’ He gave her a wordless stare. ‘Okay, right. I’ll see what I can do . . .’

  She c
arefully used scissors to snip open the dressing. Reeve sat stoically, then looked around at the sound of a crying baby. ‘Upstairs,’ said Connie. ‘Poor thing. Poor both of them, actually. Her mum’s on her own. Well, the dad occasionally comes around, but usually to argue.’

  She gently lifted the wet bandage. Reeve inhaled sharply as it came clear. Connie winced. ‘Ooh, not nice. I’ll clean it, but it definitely looks infected.’ The wound’s edges were inflamed. ‘Hopefully we’ll catch it before it gets too serious.’

  ‘Yeah,’ was all Reeve could manage in reply.

  She donned a pair of latex gloves. He assessed her as she worked. About thirty, long dark hair with golden streaks. A hint of Mediterranean olive in her skin tone. Tiredness around her friendly brown eyes. Unsurprising, if she regularly worked nightshifts.

  It took several minutes of intense pain for her to clean and sterilise the injury. Reeve regarded the wound, giving a moment of dark thanks for the discomfort. A fraction deeper, and the bullet would have blown his arm open. He wouldn’t be feeling anything right now – because he would be dead. Either after falling from the train, or passing out . . . and bleeding out. ‘Can you close it up?’ he asked.

  ‘I can,’ she said, before giving him a quizzical look. ‘And . . . I suspect you could too, if you weren’t the one who’d been shot.’

  He stayed silent, letting her draw her own conclusions. She narrowed her eyes – in amusement, not annoyance – then resumed her work. ‘Afraid I don’t have any anaesthetic.’

  ‘I doubt it could hurt any worse,’ he said, through his teeth.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Let me give you a painkiller.’ She brought a glass of water from the kitchen, then checked the first-aid kit. ‘Here. Tramadol.’

  He took the little plastic bottle. ‘Not exactly over-the-counter.’

  A flash of guilt. ‘They were going to be thrown away at work. And no, I’m not addicted to them or anything like that,’ she hurriedly clarified. ‘They’re just a lot stronger than anything you can buy at the chemist. Be a nurse for long enough, you realise you never know when you’ll need something. And I’d say this qualifies.’ She gave him the water. ‘Anyway, take two. They’re fast-acting.’

  He gulped them down, emptying the glass. ‘You couldn’t have given them to me before cleaning the wound?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she replied, with an abashed smile. ‘Were you thirsty?’ He nodded. She refilled the glass for him. He thankfully drained it. ‘Okay. Let me put on some new gloves, and I’ll get started.’

  Tramadol, Reeve quickly discovered, didn’t fully eliminate pain at this dosage. He barely contained a cry at one especially agonising tug of the needle. Connie cringed and apologised, but kept working. The wound gradually closed. ‘There,’ she said at last, relieved.

  He examined it. ‘Neat work.’ The sutures were small and precise.

  She smiled. ‘I was always good at needlework as a kid. I’ll get some more dressings to cover it.’

  Reeve leaned back as she searched her supplies. The baby had finally returned to sleep, to his – and no doubt the mother’s – relief. But he now heard other voices, from below. Both male. One aggressive and badgering, the other timid and hesitant.

  Connie heard them too. ‘Poor guy,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He’s stuck in a bad situation.’

  ‘Abusive relationship?’

  ‘No, no.’ She didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Anyway, let’s get this bandaged.’ She gave him a pill. ‘Antibiotics.’ He took the medication as she began to cover the wound.

  The job was done quickly and professionally. ‘There,’ she said, securing the dressing. ‘All done.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The painkillers had reduced the burning in his arm to a dull throb. He started to stand. ‘I’d better get moving.’

  ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous,’ She put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He was weak and tired enough that she succeeded. ‘You’ve just undergone surgery. Look, I’ll get a duvet. You can stay on the sofa.’

  ‘Really, you don’t have—’

  ‘I insist. As your medical professional.’ They shared smiles. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘even if you actually are a criminal or a murderer or something? Right now, I think I could take you.’

  Reeve wasn’t sure how to respond, until he realised she was joking. ‘Thanks,’ he said again.

  ‘Just for tonight, though,’ Connie told him as she got up. ‘You’ll have to leave in the morning.’

  ‘That’s fine. I . . . can’t thank you enough.’

  She returned with a duvet, sunflowers on its cover. ‘Here.’ A door banged downstairs; the louder of the two men was leaving. Brief relief on her face. ‘If you need anything, just call for me,’ she went on. ‘Otherwise, I hope you sleep well.’ She headed for the bathroom. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. She smiled, then closed the door.

  Reeve was asleep before she emerged. It was, again, anything but restful. The hunt continued, his pursuers drawing ever closer. One by one, every escape route was cut off. He was surrounded, helpless . . .

  Exhaustion finally dissolved the dream. One last thing remained before it too faded. The same thought as before, urgent yet inexplicable.

  Armed and ready . . .

  CHAPTER 18

  Hunger finally forced Reeve awake.

  He blearily opened his eyes. Grey daylight seeped around the curtains of an unfamiliar room. No, wait: he knew where he was. Connie’s home.

  That he was here told him how much his judgement had been impaired. If he’d been thinking straight, he would have kept running. But pain and exhaustion had made him accept help. That decision could have got him killed . . .

  Except it hadn’t. If Connie meant to turn him in, he would have been caught already. He’d been lucky.

  He checked his watch. To his shock, it was afternoon. He had been out for close to twelve hours. His left arm ached, but not badly. He checked the bandage. No new bloodstains.

  ‘Hello?’ he said. No answer. Connie’s coat and shoes were gone.

  A note on the table. He picked it up. Her handwriting was flowing and loopy, cheerful.

  Alex,

  You were still asleep when I had to go to work. Eat whatever you want. If you need more painkillers, they’re on the counter. Same with antibiotics. (Only one every 12 hours, please.) Your hoodie is ruined, so there’s an old jumper you can have. I won’t be back until late, so afraid I won’t see you. Good luck, and stay safe.

  Connie

  Reeve smiled. It was a nice way of saying don’t outstay your welcome. He didn’t intend to hang around. He had to find Maxwell.

  The jumper was on the countertop. It was a neutral colour-flecked grey. The style was also neutral, slightly tending towards feminine. He tried it. On her it would have been baggy; on him, somewhat tight. But she was right; his bloodstained hoodie was fit only for the bin. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  A train’s low rumble told him the flat was near a railway line. He looked for food. The fridge’s contents revealed she was vegetarian. He didn’t disapprove, but needed more than salad right now. The search continued. Bread, eggs, cheese, cereal. They would do. Protein so his body could repair itself, carbs and fat for energy.

  He noticed as he found a frying pan that Connie’s laptop had gone. Any other valuables had also disappeared. He didn’t blame her. Under where the laptop had been was a newspaper; the Guardian.

  He checked it. Was there anything about his encounter with the police? But it was a couple of days old, the main picture a young woman. He recognised her from Parker’s computer at Mordencroft. Elektra Curtis, that was her name; the up-and-coming politician. The hashtag #MakeThemPay was emblazoned on a banner behind her. He imagined she meant the rich and taxes rather than criminals and just
ice.

  Food was more important right now than politics. Reeve cooked a large late breakfast. Toast, a mound of scrambled eggs with cheese, grilled tomatoes. He started to eat, thinking. How would he track down Maxwell? His former mentor lived in London. So did nine million others. There was only one other fact about him that he knew for sure. Could he use that to find him? It was a long shot – but there was nothing else. So he needed information. Dates, times, addresses . . .

  Noises cut through his thoughts. Heavy footsteps in the flat above, pacing back and forth. The baby was crying again. He also heard argumentative voices; a man and a woman. The former was getting increasingly aggressive, the latter defensive.

  More than that. Fearful. Scared for her own safety, or her baby’s. Reeve felt an involuntary anger rise. Unlike whatever went on in the flat below, this was definitely an abusive relationship. He knew the tone even without being able to discern the words. A thud as a foot came down hard, and the man shouted. Now Reeve could picture his actions. One fist clenched, the other’s forefinger jabbing with each word. The chance of the jabs turning into a strike was growing. He should do something—

  No. He suppressed the urge. He couldn’t draw attention to himself. A deep breath, then he resumed his meal.

  But he could no longer focus. The voices grew louder, as did the baby’s cries. He could hear the man through the ceiling. ‘This is your fucking fault. You could have had a fucking abortion! But no, you wanted to make me pay for everything.’

  Reeve’s hands tightened around his cutlery. He knew what was coming. But he couldn’t intervene.

  Shouldn’t intervene. The rational part of his mind was acting purely on self-interest. But his surroundings reminded him that someone had selflessly – irrationally, perhaps – helped him. If Connie hadn’t gone against her rational instincts, where would he be now? Wandering the wet streets with an infected wound, hunted by the cops . . .

  ‘How can you even say that?’ the woman wailed. ‘You’re talking about our child. You didn’t want a baby? Maybe you shouldn’t have been too cheap to buy a condom!’