Picking up all the photographs and cutting them out, he arranged them all on the floor in front of his TV set, trying to select the photographs that best captured the bridge from the angle that most closely matched the picture in his mind. Out of all the photographs that he had taken, he eventually picked only eight. He gathered the rest of them up and put them in a folder which he hid away in a cupboard.
Sitting with the four photographs in his hand, he poured himself a drink, sat down on his sofa, and stared at them.
Although Peter was a hundred percent sure that it was the same bridge, none of the photographs showed the bridge from the exact angle he had seen in his mind. They were all taken too low down. Pictures for postcards or promotional photographs. Sadly none of them had been taken by a murderer leaning out of a window, while a freshly butchered corpse lay patiently on the bed behind him.
Peter shuddered.
Over the past few days he had started to have new visions. As before, at first, everything that he had seen was jumbled, confused, nonsensical, but as time passed the images had solidified, assembling themselves together into a sequence that made sense.
Actually, that was a lie.
They made no sense. None at all.
In fact, they made so little sense that he had not yet even told Susie about it. Peter was confused and he didn't want Susie to start doubting him, or wondering if he was beginning to lose it. He needed Susie to believe him. He couldn't do this himself.
So, when Peter finally realised that the new vision or dream sequence depicted another murder, but this time of a man, a German soldier from the Second World War, he began to question himself. He didn't need Susie to do that too.
It got worse.
In this new experience that was freshly delivered to the mind's eye of Peter Nicolson, reporter extraordinaire, clairvoyant and madman, Peter was dressed as an American GI.
He was lying on top of a German soldier, slowly pushing a knife into the man's chest.
He could feel the German's rotten breath on his own face, and he could see the German's eyes as he died and the lights slowly went out.
And then he was digging in a forest. A dark forest, at night time. Burying the poor bastard that he had just killed.
Why would an American GI bury a German soldier? Since when did the American Cavalry ride over the brow of the hill, kill the Germans and then bury them neatly and tidily before moving on to Berlin?
There was something else though that confused Peter even more.
The current theory that Susie and he had agreed upon was that the experiences/ visions/ brutal murders that he was seeing in his mind's eye were experiences that previously belonged to the person whose kidneys now lived in Peter's abdomen.
Although his renal consultant Dr Jamieson was reluctant to reveal any personal details of the kidney donor, it was Peter's impression that the kidneys he had received were in quite good shape and were from a young to middle-aged man.
Okay, so if the Second World War with the Germans ended in 1945, how on earth could the previous owner of his kidneys have fought and killed Germans in hand-to-hand combat in a war that ended over sixty seven years ago? It just didn't make sense!
Unless he was now remembering the experiences of the father of the person whose kidneys he now had?
Was that possible?
Fuck, if so, when was this thing going to stop?
Was he going to wake up tomorrow remembering in great detail how he killed the Romans as they swept up the beaches to invade England?
The whole thing was beginning to make him sick.
It had to stop.
Two days ago he had been back up to see good old Dr Jamieson in the hospital. A fat lot of good that had been. Peter hadn't told him everything about seeing the murders in his mind, but he had told him that he had begun to see flashbacks to a life that was not his own, to places and people and events that disturbed and confused him.
The consultant had been sympathetic. He seemed genuinely concerned. But he had continued to insist that it must be a hallucinogenic effect of the immunosuppressant drugs... the same old crap that he had trotted out the last time they had discussed it.
Peter doubted very much it had anything to do with the drugs. He had countered by mentioning 'cellular memory' to him, and he was sure that he had seen the consultant visibly flinch before regaining his composure.
"Ah...'cellular memory'...yes, I have heard of that. Although I think that is more of an urban legend than a scientific explanation. No, don't worry about it, Peter. I'm sure that this will all settle down soon. Give it a couple more months and then we'll see."
Peter was surprised that the consultant hadn't said "...there's a lot of it going around. Take an aspirin and go to bed for a day or two..."'
Peter had practically begged for more information about his kidney donor: his name, age, nationality, where he died, how he died, anything he could get. But the consultant had simply looked at the notes in his folder, and apologised. "I am sorry, there is nothing we can tell you at this moment in time, without the approval of the deceased's parents or family, and I am afraid that it seems that such permission has still not yet been granted."
"Can you please, please try to get it for me?"
"Yes. I will try to find out more..."
It was so frustrating. Peter knew that a lot of the details he wanted to know were already written down in the folder on the consultant's desk: instead of having to search across half the world trying to find out who the murderer within his body was, the consultant could provide the donor's identity to Peter then and there!
Bureaucracy. Peter hated bureaucracy.
Peter was furious.
Yet, when he had left the hospital and calmed down, he knew that the consultant was partially right. There was nothing the consultant could do, and he was doing the right thing by not sharing details of the deceased with him. The process was there to protect people, and had to be respected.
On the other hand, the information was there. It was only a question of getting the correct permission to access it.
Peter would get it. One way or the other.
On the way home from the hospital Peter had thought about it more. Peter had not told the consultant everything. He had a good reason for that. Peter was a reporter. He found stories, and reported them. That was what he did.
And the story that Peter and Susie were working on together, he smiled when he thought of her helping him, was a cracker. Okay, it was perhaps a little too close to home for comfort, but when this was all done, when he had all the information he needed, this was going to make an award winning front page story. The stuff that every reporter's dreams were made of: a serial killer, not yet discovered, a trail of bodies, not yet discovered, a paranormal phenomena that almost no one knew about, a conspiracy cover up? (perhaps...he would need to look into that one more), and a happy ending (well, it would be once he stopped having these bloody dreams and visions) with the hero at the centre of the story leading a healthy, happy life and living till 100 years old! (Hopefully.)
For now, he was going to keep the story to himself.
So what next?
Aha...the simple part: just find a couple of dead bodies and catch -sorry, identify- the killer.
It was just as he was parking his car outside his flat in Lochend that he asked himself the question: "What happens if and when I find a dead body? How will I explain it? Will the police arrest me and charge me with the murder? "
Ouch.
He hadn't thought of that one.
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When he got in the door, Peter sat down at his dining room table and started to sketch out a plan. It was time to get organised.
Step 1: Identify the bridge in the dream
Step 2: Contact Angus, the policeman who had saved his life, take him out for a drink, and seek advice on how to find a body without being charged for its murder!
Step 3: Or
ganise and take further extended leave from work...hopefully his boss would let him take it without firing him, on the promise of an exciting story at the end of it!
Step 4: Pack and go on a road trip. Travel down to the bridge, wherever it was, and find the house where the woman in his dreams was murdered.
Step 5: Find the body.
Step 6: Find that name of the killer.
Step 7: Live happily ever after.
Step 1 had been much easier than expected. "Ironbridge, here I come!" he said to himself as he ticked that one off the list.
Now for Step 2. Sergeant Angus was on duty when Peter called and promised to get back to him later. When he did they arranged to meet up in Cameron's favourite pub, 'Bannermans' in the Cowgate in the middle of Edinburgh for an evening drink and a chat. Peter was also keen to get an update on the Craigmillar Estate: on strict instructions from his Editor and his mum Rachele, after his operation he had kept well clear of the place so that he could keep his stress levels down.
Sergeant Angus was a few minutes late, turning up at 9.45 p.m. instead of the arranged 9.30 p.m. As he got the first round in, Peter apologised for having such a poor response to the article they had placed to try and get the stolen Victoria Cross back. No one had come forward with either the VC or any information regarding who had taken it or where it was.
Sadly, it looked like old Mr Wallace would probably never see his Victoria Cross again. Either the thief didn't know what the value of it was, or most likely it was already in the hands of a private collector, probably somewhere abroad.
Peter soon discovered from Sergeant Angus that life on the estate had got worse. The boys from Portobello had moved in, and drugs were now popping up everywhere. Not surprisingly, crime and petty theft had increased: drug users needed quick fixes, and in their search for immediate satisfaction, they stole from their neighbours, often getting violent in the process. As Peter had feared, the neighbourhood in Craigmillar was on the edge of imploding inward upon itself.
"And what about Big Wee Rab?" Peter had asked, a surge of anger flooding through him just at the mere thought of the big bastard that had tried to kill him.
"No one has seen him. He's just vanished. The word on the street is that the competing gang from Portobello has killed him, clearing away rival management and allowing them to take over. Big Wee Rab, for all that was bad about him, was pretty much harmless in comparison with the professionals down in Portobello. I would almost miss him if it were not from the daily reminder I get from my ribs when I move too fast!"
"Do you buy that? That he's dead?" Peter asked, another wave of anger surging through him. Until now, Peter had consciously made an effort not to think of the ignoramus who had tried to kill him, but with Sergeant Angus announcing the possibility that he may be dead, a picture of Big Wee Rab popped into his mind. Instantly, Peter was angry. Big Wee Rab was the reason that Peter was in this ridiculous situation just now, why old Mr Wallace had been mugged and burgled, and why the Sergeant was still in such pain from his bruised ribs.
"No...Mr Wallace thinks it was him who stole the Victoria Cross. He might be right. In which case I think he has left town. Gone somewhere else, anywhere else, along as it's far, far away from here," the Sergeant replied. "He probably also thinks that we suspect it was him that burgled Mr Wallace's place, and he'll worry that we might have some evidence. Bearing in mind that he is currently out on parole, the Court will throw the book at him. No...Rab's not dead... He's probably alive and kicking somewhere in England by now. If he's smart...which is dubious...he won't come back here in a hurry."
It came from out of nowhere, a sudden vision that shocked Peter in its intensity.
It was like a little movie that ran deep inside Peter's mind. One minute he was busy talking to Sergeant Angus, and then the next, he could see Big Wee Rab lying on the ground, sprawled out, probably unconscious. Peter was sitting on his chest. There was a gleaming knife in his hand. Peter reached forward, grabbed Rab's head, pulled it upwards, and stuck the knife in the side of Rab's throat. He pulled the knife around and underneath the front of Rab's jaw, slicing open his gullet from ear to ear. Blood started spurting everywhere...Peter reached up to wipe the blood from his eyes.
"Are you okay?"Sergeant Angus asked.
Peter blinked.
"Fuck..., no..., I mean, I don't know...give me a minute..." Peter replied.
He blinked again and looked around. The vision was gone.
What the hell was that about?
It could not have been a vision of the past, so what did it mean? Was it a premonition of the future?
"I'm sorry,...I'll be back in a second," Peter excused himself, getting up and making his way to the toilet, where he splashed his face with cold water and put some down the back of his neck. A few moments later he was sitting down opposite Sergeant Angus again.
"Listen, Sergeant Angus...you saved my life, so in a way I think there is some sort of bond between us now. I need to talk to someone in the police force about something, and it dawned upon me that I should just talk to you. I want to tell you something, but before I do, I need you to promise me, and I mean promise me, that you will not do anything with the information I give you, unless I give you permission to do so....Do you agree?"
"That's okay for you to ask, journalists are always protecting their sources...it's what you do. But I can't promise that until I know what you have done? If you've broken the law, then I'm obligated to ..."
"I've not done anything...that's the point. I just need to find out what someone else has done, and I don't want to get the blame for it..."
"Sounds ominous...Why not just tell me what this is about, and I will promise you that I will do my best to help you if I can. That's the most I can do for now..."
Peter was silent for a moment. Thinking. Weighing it all up.
"Okay, okay. I'll tell you everything. Honestly, I've not done anything wrong. But if I'm successful over the next couple of days, I might end up with a dead body in my possession, and I need advice on what to do with it, when I find it..."
Over two pints of beer and a couple of orange juices, Peter spent the next thirty minutes telling Sergeant Angus everything. When he was finished, Sergeant Angus was as white as a sheet.
Chapter Fifty
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Willow Farm Commune
Wales
3.05 p.m.
May 1st
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Big Wee Rab had done some bad things in his life. He knew that now. But thanks to the angels at the Willow Farm Commune he also knew that there was nothing that God would not forgive, if Rab asked for forgiveness.
He just had to ask.
To feel sorry for what he had done. To understand how his victims might feel as a result of 'the old Rab's' actions. To see things from their perspective.
In the quiet times that they were all encouraged to take, Rab began to think about old Mr Wallace. He knew that the right thing to do was to give the medal back. And he knew that he would do it.
The question was: 'how?'
Perhaps the best way to do it would be to give it to him face-to-face, to confess to him what he had done, and to say he was 'sorry'.
That would probably be the 'right' thing to do.
The only problem was that if he did do that, there was a strong possibility that the local constable would then also be quite happy to accompany him to the police station, shake him by the hand, thank him for the confession, and then lock him up until he was fifty years old.
Another possibility would be to post it to him with a wee note to say 'sorry'. The only problem with that plan was that if the parcel got lost in the post, Mr Wallace would never get the medal back, and never get the apology. He would never know that Rab was sorry.
Of course, there was one other possibility that would work. Rab could take it back himself, put it just outside his front door with a note, ring the bell, and then run away as fast as possible. Just like
they used to do when they were kids, running up to doors, ringing the bells, and then scarpering.
There was however another factor that needed further consideration.
Rab did want to give the medal back, and he was sorry. But, was he so sorry that he wanted to give up the £5000 reward that the Evening News was offering for its safe return?
£5000 was an awful lot of money. That was enough money and more for him to get to the south of France and start his new life. Was there any way that he could return the medal, claim the reward and still be sorry?
Perhaps, but as of yet, Rab had not figured it out.
He needed to think about it some more.
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A hundred and fifty miles away, Peter switched on his windscreen wipers and started to wipe the drizzle away so that he could seen the signpost ahead.
'Ironbridge... 2 miles'.
He was there. Almost.
He indicated right at the next junction, moved off and then started to course his way downhill as he entered the Iron Bridge Gorge. Small cottages punctuated the road on either side of him, and curving tree branches above formed a tunnel through which he drove slowly downhill. At the bottom of the road, he turned right past a pub on the corner, and started the final drive into the village. He had only gone a couple of hundred metres before the old Victorian buildings on his left suddenly stopped, revealing a wide expanse of forest, a small ravine with a river in the middle, and at the centre of it all, a metal pedestrian bridge that crossed the river beneath.
The second that Peter saw it he knew that this was the one: the bridge that had dominated his dreams.
A horn peeped behind him, and he realised that he had slowed down to look and was now holding up the traffic. Looking quickly about him, he saw that twenty metres ahead there was a row of empty parking spaces on the right side of the road, facing a line of old Victorian cottages that had been converted into little tourist shops.
BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS Page 23
