BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS

by Ian C. P. Irvine

  Ironbridge

  May 4th

  1.30 a.m.

  .

  .

  Peter could not sleep.

  Physically he was exhausted, but his mind was just too alert. He had been lying in the dark for the past two hours, hoping that he would eventually nod off, but it was just not working.

  He opened his eyes, switched on the bedside light, grabbed the remote controls and pointed it at the TV.

  Flicking through the channels he came across one of his favourite films that he had already seen a million times: 'Gladiator'.

  Peter loved anything to do with the Romans. As a kid he had been fascinated by tales of the famous '9th Legion of the North', reputedly the only Roman legion to have been wiped off the face of the earth with no sign of the Eagle it carried ever being found again.

  At school they had been taught that the Legion had marched into Scotland and had been wiped out by the more advanced Scottish fighters, who were able to defeat the Romans using a new form of fighting which was later called 'guerrilla warfare' .

  Apparently, or so they loved to believe, the Scots were the fiercest fighters in the empire, and the Romans had never conquered them.

  It was probably all far from the truth, but ever since he had read the famous book 'Eagle of the Ninth', he had been hooked: devouring everything he could on the Romans, visiting Pompeii and Herculaneum on a school trip to Italy, and seeing endless reruns of 'Spartacus' and 'Gladiator'.

  When he switched it on, Gladiator was over halfway through but maybe it would help him to sleep, if he just watched the rest of it anyway...

  .

  It was towards the end of the movie now, Russell Crowe aka 'Gladiator' was in the amphitheatre with the evil Roman Emperor, all dressed in white, and they were fighting each other to the death.

  The scene was one of the most powerful in the film, one which Peter had seen so many times before.

  This time however, he saw it in a way that he had never seen it before. He watched in awe as Russell Crowe grabbed the Emperor and ever so slowly forced the blade of his dagger into the jugular of his neck.

  He looked on in fascination as the blade entered the Emperor's neck, and he struggled for breath. For the first time, Peter was drawn...really drawn....to the eyes of the emperor as he began to die.

  Peter was amazed by how the director of the film seemed to catch and so accurately portray that moment in which a man died: as the light went out from his eyes, and his soul transitioned from the earth to the stars...

  When the scene was finished, Peter grabbed the controls and tried to see if there was any way to replay the scene.

  Flicking through the channels, he realised that he had been watching ITV2, and it dawned on him that if he waited, he could watch the scene again on ITV2+1 in an hour's time.

  He switched back to ITV2 and tried to watch the end of the film, but for some reason he found it really difficult to concentrate.

  He got up and had a shower.

  He felt agitated. Restless.

  His mind kept going back to the scene in the film.

  He kept seeing and replaying that scene in his mind's eye over and over again, visualising the moment when the blade cut silently into the Emperor's throat, and his life blood began to drain away, as death washed over him, and his soul was liberated.

  Was that how it was, when you killed someone with a knife? It seemed so simple.

  .

  Thirty minutes later, Peter was sitting in front of his television set, watching the scene again on ITV+1.

  When it was finished, he switched on his laptop, rented the film on LOVEFiLM and fast-forwarded it to the same scene.

  He watched it ten times over and over again.

  The eleventh time he played it, he fell asleep.

  .

  --------------------

  .

  Peter woke late the next morning. His memories of last night left him feeling very uncomfortable. He wasn’t too sure exactly what had happened. He preferred not to think about it...And he promised himself, never to watch Gladiator again.

  He turned his attention to the day ahead.

  Peter had no real plan of what to do next.

  He considered briefly going back to Edinburgh, but realised that would serve no purpose. He was no further forward in discovering who 'KK' really was, and although he had discovered one body, he knew there were others out there. Probably buried anonymously and very deep in some field or ditch where no one would ever discover them.

  He thought of the relatives and friends who were being tormented by the unexplained disappearance of someone they loved: where had they gone? Were they alive or dead? Why had they not contacted home?

  Peter knew that only he could probably help these people. It was down to him to do his best to find out the true extent of KK's depravity and madness, to identity his victims and to locate them.

  He looked at his watch. It was 10 a.m. He wanted to check out of the hotel today and move on and continue on his quest, but where should he go? Where to next? Where was the next piece of the jigsaw puzzle and how would he find it?

  Sitting down at the desk in his room, he pulled across a piece of paper and started to make a list of all the victims that Peter thought he already knew about from his dreams.

  Firstly, there was the girl in room 326 in Switzerland. Murdered three years before.

  Secondly, there was now the body of a woman-Valentia?...In a grave in Ironbridge.

  He had dreamt also of killing a woman in a field, and then also another in a room whilst watching porn on a TV.

  That took the death toll to four so far.

  The dream he had had about killing a German had really confused him. Peter did not see how this could be possible, even if KK had been very old, which he knew was not the case. But, if the dream was somehow pointing to a murder in a way that he could not yet understand, then that would bring the death toll to five, with the first death of a man.

  As he was staring at the paper with the five itemised murders, from out of nowhere a number appeared in his mind: a big, vivid, red number '7'.

  He shivered.

  Peter blinked.

  The number appeared in his mind again.

  '7'.

  This time bigger in size than before.

  It hung there for a few moments, then slowly began to fade.

  Seven?

  Seven what?

  Then it hit him.

  KK had just told him that there were seven murders.

  Two others that he had not yet had any visibility of.

  Fuck, did that mean that there were even more horrors that Peter was going to have to relive and endure?

  And when would it happen? He was getting sick and tired and mentally fed up and exhausted by all this. He needed some mental peace. He needed to be 'himself' again, free from the intrusion from memories and visions and deeds and actions that had nothing to do with his own life!

  He stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the bridge below.

  "Seven?" he asked himself. "Who else and where?"

  Outside it started to rain, and he watched as he saw some people scurrying for cover.

  Walking back to the edge of the bed, he picked up the TV remote and flicked it onto ITV. Almost absent-mindedly he flicked through a couple of the channels, and eventually settled on a local English news channel.

  He lay back on the bed, his hands across his eyes, trying to think what he should do now. Where to go next?

  A word that the voice on the TV said caught Peter's attention. He sat up and started to listen to what was being reported.

  It was something about a demonstration by village residents against a proposed new wind farm that had just been granted building permission. The TV showed a reporter standing in front of a group of protestors standing outside a building, which was apparently a local town hall.

  Peter stared at the town hall.

  He got up from his bed, walked over
to the TV and knelt in front of it.

  Staring.

  He shivered.

  He recognised the building. He knew it.

  He had been there before.

  But where was it? Ironbridge? Had he seen it whilst driving through the town?

  He listened intently to what the reporter was saying, hoping to catch a mention of the village she was in.

  ...nothing...nothing...then suddenly..."and so, this is Alison Dent, signing off from the quaint and beautiful historic village of Knutsford. Untouched and unspoilt for hundreds of years, but now going to be dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century..."

  Knutsford?

  Where on earth was that?

  Opening up Google on his laptop it took only a couple of minutes for Peter to discover that it was about a hundred miles south east from where he was now.

  He stared at the map. Confused.

  Peter was convinced that he had never ever been there before. At least, never since he had become an adult, and certainly not as a teenager.

  Then it dawned on him.

  It was true, Peter had never been there before.

  But KK obviously had.

  .

  An hour later, Peter was in his car, driving south.

  Chapter Sixty Six

  .

  .

  Knutsford

  May 4th

  2 p.m.

  .

  .

  As Peter began to approach the entrance to the tiny town of Knutsford, he was once again overcome by an incredible, tangible feeling of déjà vu.

  Although he had never, ever in his life, driven down this road before, as he approached the main street, he knew, just knew exactly what he was going to see.

  On the right, there was going to be a petrol station, just before the road curved around into the main road. Just beyond the curve a road would disappear off to the left, curving around the back of the houses on the main road into the small town Primary School.

  There would be a row of shops on either side of the road, starting with a butcher, a baker, an estate agent...and then in the middle of the town there would be a pub on the left hand side...Further on there would be a small town cross in what used to be the centre of a busy market, and then just behind it would be the small town hall...

  The road would then curve to the left, heading out of the town.

  Knutsford was not a large town. It took Peter only a couple of minutes to drive through it, up a hill on the other side, turn around and drive back into the centre.

  He parked his car in the car park of the local pub, the Fox and Hounds, and sat there for a moment. Thinking.

  What next?

  The silence was broken by the ring of his mobile phone.

  "Hi, it's Peter here," he answered, not recognising the private number that showed on the front display.

  "Peter, it's Constable Gibbs here....from Ironbridge. You called and left me a message at lunchtime...asking me to call back?"

  "Hi Alex. Yes, I did." Peter replied. " Two things really...first of all, I just wanted to officially let you know that I had left town. Secondly, I wanted to suggest something, if you've got a moment..."

  "Certainly. How can I be of assistance?"

  "Great. Thanks for the tip yesterday about you actually finding traces of blood on the handle of the spade. I was thinking about that some more...blood on the spade in itself does not connect the spade to the crime...however, if you also find the same blood on the rubber mattress with the body, then you know that the blood probably could belong to the killer. Right?"

  "Possibly..."

  "Good...so...if you can get a DNA sample from the blood, I know how you can rule me out of your inquiry. It's important to me that you stop being suspicious of me, so that we can maybe work together on this. Like I said, I need someone to be my friend who works for the police force in England."

  "Okay Peter, what is your idea? How could you help us to rule you out?"

  "I give you a DNA sample from me, and you compare it with the DNA from the blood. That will prove that I didn't do it."

  "Not necessarily so. Just because you might not have the same DNA, does not mean that you didn't do it. There is no proof that the blood on the spade and the mattress...you were right...we did find some today...there is no proof that the blood belongs to the killer. For all I know you may have put the blood on the spade, and the mattress, after you killed the woman, and the blood belongs to someone else?"

  "...you're right. But maybe you will find DNA samples under the fingernails of the woman, or somewhere else...proving the connection between the killer and the victim in some way. Anyway, bottom line is that I told the hotel owner that you needed a DNA sample from me, so I got her to cut some hair from my head, whilst the receptionist watched on acting as a witness...and we put it in an envelope which is now sitting waiting for you in the hotel safe! Can you go and pick it up?"

  There was a small laugh at the other end of the phone.

  "Okay, okay. You win. For now. I'll pick the envelope up this afternoon, test it and then formally note any difference we find."

  There was a moment's pause.

  "So where are you now?"

  "South. In a village called Knutsford. Looking for another body."

  Another silence.

  "Peter, if you find anything, may I request that you please call me first?"

  "Only if you promise not to arrest me again..."

  "Thanks."

  Constable Gibbs hung up.

  .

  --------------------

  .

  Peter locked up the car, and stretched. He was tired. He'd not had a good night's sleep, and he was tired from the driving. He looked around him, seeking inspiration for his next step.

  A man opened the door to the pub and walked out, nodding and saying 'Hi!' to Peter as he walked past.

  Peter remembered the words of his father, so many years ago: "When you are looking for your next step in life, if a door opens up to you, go through it. And keep going until the next door closes..."

  If it was good advice then, it was still good now.

  Peter walked across the car park, through the door and into the pub.

  The pub was half-full, which struck Peter as being quite surprising given that it was not yet the weekend and Knutsford was so small and not exactly the tourist capital of the world.

  Then he saw a couple of placards and billboards lying on the floor and against the wall, and realised that they were all the protestors that he had seen on the TV that morning. Protesting was obviously thirsty work!

  "Can I help you?", a woman's voice caught him by surprise, and he turned towards the bar to discover who it belonged to.

  Quite literally Peter's heart skipped a beat when he saw its owner.

  She was gorgeous.

  About 176cm tall, slim, blond, a figure hugging black dress with low cut cleavage, and a large pair of beautiful round breasts that immediately drew Peter's attention. He felt an incredible, instant attraction to her, that literally took his breath away.

  For a second he was lost for words.

  Never, never, in his life had the simple sight of a woman affected him like this before. He felt drawn to her in a physical way that surprised him in its intensity.

  It was incredible. No,...she was incredible!

  She spoke again.

  "Can I get you a drink?"

  Her voice was soft, and warm. And so very familiar.

  Peter realised that he was not looking at her face, and, caught red-handed in the act of lusting, he turned bright red with embarrassment.

  He looked up.

  Soft, blue, sparkling eyes.

  He looked into them, deep into them, and immediately felt a connection. He felt an overpowering longing for her, an urge to reach out and hold her...to connect with her in some way.

  For a second in time, they stared at each other, each lost in their thoughts.

  Peter sensed
that the reaction he felt looking at her, was in some way shared by her.

  Then she broke the silence.

  "Do I know you?" she asked. "...I'm sorry...for just a second there...I thought, well...I was just sure that we had met before?"

  "No. I'm sorry. I don't think we have. And believe me, if I had met you before, I would certainly remember. My name is Peter."

  "It's nice to meet you Peter. Welcome to Knutsford...and my name is Carolina."

  Chapter Sixty Seven

  .

  .

  Knutsford

  May 4th

  3.30 p.m.

  .

  .

  The meal that Carolina had recommended was delicious. Peter had wolfed it down, not realising how hungry he was until he smelled the Cottage Pie she placed in front of him.

  He sat in the corner of the pub, trying to resist the urge to look across at Carolina every few seconds. He drank some tea, ate his late lunch, and then read the local paper.

  Several times he looked across at her behind the bar, and he noticed that she was also glancing back at him.

  Hopefully, the attraction he felt to her was mutual. Otherwise he was in danger of making a complete fool of himself. It had been a long, long time since he had ever been this attracted to a complete stranger. In fact, he had probably never ever been this attracted to anyone else.

  It was more than just sexual. Something else was going on too.

  The odd thing was, Peter had never really been attracted to woman with large breasts. He was strictly a small breast man. So why the incredible, overpowering urge to kiss 'Carolina'?

  Peter wanted to talk to her. No, ...he felt compelled to talk to her. Should he ask her out?

  Then he thought of Susie. Recently he had been missing her a lot, especially since they had slept together again. Could he be attracted to Susie and Carolina at the same time?

  "A penny for them...," a soft voice said to him, catching him by surprise.

  He looked up from his paper, straight into the mesmerizing eyes of Carolina.

  "Can I join you for a minute?" she asked.

  Hardly able to believe his luck, Peter nodded, gesturing to the seat beside him. "Please do..."

  She sat down.

  Neither of them said anything for a moment, then almost comically they both tried to speak at the same time.