Children were digging sandcastles and some parents and teenagers were swimming in the sea.
It was on days like these that you wondered why people would ever want to go abroad to France or Spain, when you had all this on your doorstep.
Yet, by the weekend, the weathermen were predicting rain, storms and even possible hailstones.
Which is exactly why people did go on holiday to France and Spain.
When the weather in Edinburgh was great, Edinburgh was a city paradise offering everything you could possibly ever need within the space of a few square miles.
Yet, when the haar rolled in off the seas, or it turned cold or rainy, the city closed up and the tourists vanished into the museums and restaurants.
Still, Sergeant Angus loved his life here, and would never swap it for anything.
If only others were able to enjoy it as much as he could.
As he stared out across the sea, his thoughts inevitably wandered back to the estate at Craigmillar and old Mr Wallace.
What was he going to do?
He knew he must interview him, to question him, to follow up on the information he had received about the bullet from the Korean War.
There were questions that needed to be answered.
Obviously, he did not suspect Mr Wallace of doing the killing, but had he had a gun tucked away which had been stolen by Big Wee Rab when he broke into the flat?
Had Big Wee Rab sold the gun, or had someone killed Big Wee Rab and taken the gun and was now using it to wipe out the rest of Rab's old gang, of which now only two members survived?
Of course there was no guarantee that there was any connection between the old Korean war bullets being found, and Mr Wallace, but his gut instinct told him there was.
The problem was that, if it did turn out that Mr Wallace had been keeping a souvenir from the war which had subsequently been stolen and was now being used to kill residents of Craigmillar, Mr Wallace could be in for a lot of trouble. Since the massacre at Dunblane Primary School in 1996 in which sixteen children and an adult were gunned down in cold blood, the law had been changed and the Firearms (Amendment) Act 1997 and the Firearms (Amendment) (No. 2) Act 1997 were both enacted, which effectively made private ownership of handguns in the United Kingdom totally illegal.
The news that Mr Wallace was dying was very sad. Very sad indeed. Yet Sergeant Angus had a job to do, and he needed to talk to him sooner, rather than later. Ideally, Wallace would be able to help the Sergeant trace the gun, recover it and identify the killer. Before anyone else was murdered.
He liked Mr Wallace. Unfortunately he knew the stress would be very bad for him. That potentially, something like this could even hasten his death. Especially if charges were then levied at him for possessing a gun!
But what was the Sergeant to do?
If he did nothing, others might die.
If he did something, Mr Wallace could die.
.
He was still debating what his next step should be when his phone rang and incredibly, it was Mr Wallace himself.
The game had just changed.
Mr Wallace had just invited the Sergeant to come to his house that night at 9 p.m.
There were 'things' that Mr Wallace needed to talk about with the Sergeant. Apparently, he had important information that could help with their investigations.
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Peter was just passing the Lake District on the M6, when the number '7' appeared in his mind again. Bright red, the colour of arterial blood, pulsing, and large.
It was the first 'KK' related vision that Peter had experienced that day. He had hoped that now KK's true identity had been identified, that Maciek would leave him in peace.
It was with a feeling of great dread that Peter realised that this was not to be.
What had he expected? That the kidneys inside of him would immediately stop giving out KK’s neuropeptides? That the process that was creating the memories would halt?
Of course, the truth was that he had not known what to expect. He had just hoped...It was actually Susie's idea. She had suggested it. He had just gone with it, hoping she was right.
Well, now he knew that she was wrong!
Wrong!
Suddenly the number '7' appeared in his vision, so bright that he found it difficult to see, forcing him to swerve off the main motorway, slow down and stop on the hard shoulder.
Number '7'. Bright, vivid, pulsing. Larger than ever before.
Peter buried his head in his hands, pressing the palms against his eyelids.
"What the FUCK do you want! LEAVE ME ALONE YOU POLISH BASTARD!" Peter shouted at the top of his voice, raising his fist and punching the inside roof of his car.
Suddenly the vision stopped. The number vanished.
It was gone.
Peter sat up, slowly opening his eyes and looking around him. His eyes adjusted to the light and within seconds he felt fine again. He got out of the car, walked for a few minutes back and forth along a small stretch of the road, and then decided he was safe to carry on.
He drove on for a few minutes in silence. His mind a blank. And then the thoughts started.
What did it mean?
Seven?
In the gallery of death that Maciek had created, there were seven knives but only six named victims. Was there another victim that he had not known about?
Were there other murders that Maciek had committed but had not yet been revealed to Peter?
The instant that Peter asked himself the question, a series of pictures flooded his mind, forcing him to pull over again and stop the car. Images and pictures, sights and sounds, flooded his senses. At first Peter fought them, trying to stop them, to prevent them from flowing, but then he relaxed and let them stream through his consciousness. Was Maciek trying to tell him something? Was Maciek trying to answer his question for him...or did Maciek have nothing to do with it...was it simply Peter's consciousness that was trying to make sense of the memories that Peter had inherited from the physical body of Maciek and was now replaying them on-demand?
Whatever the reality of it was, the flashing images and pictures began to coalesce and assume some order, and Peter realised with a sickening shock, just exactly what they represented.
There were other murders. Maciek had killed many times. Randomly. At will. Because he had enjoyed it. Because he had not known how to prevent himself from doing it. He had killed simply because he wanted to.
His reign of brutality had spanned many years and several countries. How many he had killed Peter could not tell, but as the images flashed through his mind, repeating and forming patterns, he could make out and remember at least five other faces.
Then suddenly, they simply stopped.
Gone.
Peace and silence again.
Peter opened the door and vomited onto the hard shoulder. He retched three times, then climbed into the back seat and lay down.
As he lay with his eyes focussed on the ceiling of the car, he realised what the number '7' meant.
Maciek had killed many times, but most of the deaths had held no meaning to him. Of all the murders he had committed, six had been special. And each 'special' murder earned itself a place in the Gallery of Death. Killed by a special knife.
The question was: who was number '7', and why was he having that vision?
Peter's thoughts went to the brand new, virginal white knife that was now hidden and wrapped up in his small rucksack. It was clearly a special knife. Maciek must have been intending to use it for a very special murder.
Whose?
The number '7' flashed briefly in his mind again.
As the number faded and disappeared a sickening thought began to surface in Peter's brain.
Maciek had not yet killed 'Number 7'. Maciek had not yet selected 'Number 7'. But Maciek was NOT going to rest until the knife had been used, and until 'Number 7' had been found.
Peter shivered.
But Maciek was dead! He was gone. He could no longer think or reason...it was no longer possible for him to make any choices or decisions or commit any murders. So why was 'Number 7' still appearing in Peter's mind?
.
The answer was so obvious that Peter couldn't believe it when it dawned on him.
Maciek was dead. The Gallery was not yet complete. Maciek was now part of Peter. And therefore the responsibility of completing the Gallery and finding the 7th victim was now firmly down to Peter.
Peter would only find peace when he had killed and used the seventh knife.
As the realisation dawned on Peter, he began to shake his head violently in denial.
"No, no fucking way....fuck off Maciek...no fucking way! There is no way in hell that I am going to kill someone for you! ...Even if they deserved it, ...and I don't even know anyone who deserves to die!"
Before he had even finished the sentence, Peter had realised that it was not completely true: an image of a person, a man, appeared in his mind, clear and distinct, and subconsciously Peter approved the choice.
Big Wee Rab.
If anyone deserved to die, it was him.
He would be 'Number 7'.
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“Dr Jamieson, you have got to help me. Please, I need your help. Can I come to see you as soon as possible? Please, call me, or text me and let me know when we can meet. It’s an emergency. I am worried that if you can’t help me, I might do something that I will always regret.”
Peter had driven for another 30 minutes before he had pulled off the motorway into a service station and placed the urgent call for help to Dr Jamieson’s mobile.
He had never been so scared in his life before, driving up the motorway at ninety miles an hour, his hands shaking so much that he was worried that he couldn’t hold the steering wheel properly.
Obviously Susie’s approach to exorcising Maciek from his system had not worked. Up until now, Peter had just been trying to find out what Maciek had done, but now, within the past hour Peter was starting to have truly weird thoughts that no sane person should ever be having.
It had only lasted for a few minutes, but Peter had actually started thinking about killing Big Wee Rab. Not because he wanted to, ...or maybe because he did want to...or Maciek did...or ...fuck...FUCK...Big Wee Rab probably DID deserve to die for what he had done to Peter...after all it was because of him that all of this...ALL of this...was fucking happening! Yes, on the grand scale of things, perhaps in some other world, what he had done would be considered worthy of some form of capital punishment. But Peter did not want to be the person to have to carry out the sentence. Peter was a decent, law abiding, kind person. Not a killer. Certainly not a ‘Maciek’!
He needed help. Soon. He needed to put an end to this nightmare before he went insane and actually did kill someone.
But what? What could be done to save him now?
He was just driving past Lancaster Cathedral, its long tall, thin spire reaching majestically upwards, pointing to heaven above, when it dawned on him what the answer was. Like a divine answer to a prayer, the solutions was brilliant in its simplicity.
Maciek’s kidneys needed to be removed, and thrown away. Burnt. Cremated. Destroyed.
Peter needed to have another life-saving transplant operation.
Which meant that there were now two things that Peter needed to discuss with Dr Jamieson.
Firstly, that Dr Jamieson had to find him another set of kidneys, fast!
And secondly, they had to ask him to help stop the prescription of SP-X4 to other transplant patients, and reveal to the consultant the results of their research, thus proving that there had to be some sort of cover up going on. Susie and Peter could prove that SP-X4 was associated with every single patient who had undergone organ transplantation and then reported symptoms of 'cellular memory' phenomena in response to their newspaper article.
.
Peter had just left the motorway and had started driving along the A7 through the Borders to Edinburgh when his mobile rang.
"Peter, hi, this is Dr Jamieson. I got your message. Are you well? What is the emergency you were mentioning?"
"Doctor, thanks for calling back. I can't really talk just now...I'm driving back to Edinburgh from England. I really need to meet with you as soon as possible. I'll explain later, but my symptoms have got worse...and I've realised that the only solution is for you to arrange another kidney transplant for me. Urgently. When can we meet? I can explain it all then..."
"Oh dear," he heard the consultant exclaim at the other end of the phone. "This could be a problem...I'm meant to be going on holiday to the Caribbean for a month...we're leaving tomorrow..."
"This is urgent, Dr Jamieson. My partner and I also want to share with you the results of a questionnaire we did to 657 patients in the world who have reported cellular memory phenomena. All of them have reported taking SP-X4. The same treatment that you've given me. You have to stop the drug being sold in the UK!"
"Is this in response to your newspaper article?" The doctor asked.
"Yes." Peter answered.
"I would certainly like to see the results from your survey. It could come in very handy for a report that I’m just finishing off. Listen, I have a dinner arranged this evening. I can't get out of it. But can you come to my office at the hospital at 10.30 p.m.?"
"Absolutely. I will definitely be there. Hopefully Susie, my partner at the News, will be able to make it too."
When Peter hung up he felt much relieved. He felt sure that he would be able to persuade his consultant to arrange another transplant. His circumstances dictated an exceptional need for it to be done.
As soon as he relaxed, Peter's thoughts turned to Susie.
He couldn't wait to see her. It was strange. For the past week he had been absolutely obsessed with Carolina. The sex had been amazing, and he had been more attracted to her than any other woman he had ever met. Yet, the second that he had realised that it was not him that was attracted to her, but 'Maciek', it was like a bubble had burst, and the attraction had instantly evaporated. It had been a truly strange experience. And when he had found out the truth, he had felt just like a puppet, that had been dangled by its strings and led a merry dance.
The strange thing was, that although he had not guessed it in advance, Carolina had repeatedly mentioned or alluded to the truth. What was it that she had said several times...something like...'Peter, are you sure we haven't met before?' In spite of the new body, the different eyes, hair, build, and personality, Carolina had still recognised the Maciek within him and been attracted to him? How?
How was that possible?
Peter realised that Carolina must truly have loved Maciek. It was a shame. She did not deserve the truth, and what had happened to her.
His attraction to Carolina had been totally superficial. Yet, through it all, there had been Susie. She had been his constant. His feelings for her had not changed. He still liked her a lot, …more than a lot…and in Ironbridge he had realised that he wanted more. And, seemingly, Susie had been missing him a lot too.
What was it they said about absence and the heart?
Peter couldn't wait to see her again.
Perhaps, maybe, if tonight went well, something special might happen between them again. Life was too short for silly games. Peter was going to tell Susie exactly what he felt for her, and ask for a second chance.
A large, green traffic sign on the side of the road caught Peter's attention, giving directions and distances to the cities and villages ahead.
For the first time that day, Peter smiled.
Susie was now only seventy miles away.
Chapter Ninety One
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The Craigmillar Estate
May 8th
4.30 p.m.
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Mr Wallace looked at his watch. It was almost time to leave. He had sp
ent the whole day recovering from yesterday's activities, lying in his bed, sleeping and thinking.
At breakfast and lunch he had eaten two full and hearty meals, trying to help pump his body full of energy and build up his strength. He had just finished two bananas and a few digestives, and finished it off with a Mars bar, one of his all time favourite sweets. The sugar would kick in soon, and his energy levels would rise even further.
Over the past week, Mr Wallace had felt himself getting weaker and weaker. Each day was harder than the day before. The coughing was worse, and as soon as the painkillers wore off, he was wracked by pain. Tomorrow the doctor would be giving him a stronger painkiller that he could administer as and when he needed it.
Mr Wallace was dying. He knew it now. He could feel death's grimy claws wrapping themselves around him and pulling him down into the grave. Every day the grip was a bit tighter, the grave a little closer.
He did not have long to go.
The doctor, in a moment of absolutely honesty, had suggested a week at most. The cancer was moving faster than they had expected.
But Mr Wallace was not going to roll over and die yet. He still had a job to finish, and today he would accomplish his task. Tomorrow may be too late.
Mr Wallace had made a promise to himself to remove Big Wee Rab's gang from the estate and by tonight, all going well, he would have succeeded in his quest.
Apart from Big Wee Rab there was only one other gang member left: Davie was the quietest and most innocent of them all, but the word on the street was that under the influence of the 'Boys from Porty' he had come out of his shell. When part of Big Wee Rab's team he had always been in the background, never really actively participating in much. In fact, although he was part of Rab's gang, Davie had probably never really done anything wrong. Until now. Davie had changed.
People had recently seen him selling drugs near the shops, in full view of everyone, and he didn't seem to care.
And when Davie wasn't on the street, he was hanging out in his 'office', one of the empty flats on the north of the estate.
BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS Page 48
