Someone To Save you

by Paul Pilkington

  How could Jane do that to those little ones? Try to kill them all?

  Shirley turned over the page of the photo album and inspected the next set of now-tarnished memories.

  How had things gone so wrong? Jane had been such a strong person, such a good, devoted mother. Life had been hard of course – they didn’t have much money, and it was difficult looking after three children since the father had left without warning, a year ago. But she seemed happy, and the children had everything they needed. Shirley and her husband Eric had helped out.

  But now Jane was dead, by her own hand, and Alison was missing.

  Where was she?

  Tears splashed onto the album, trickling along the plastic covering and pooling on a photograph of Eric and Shirley, with Eric holding his smiling daughter aloft.

  Vincent McGuire. She blamed him for this.

  Vincent had come into Jane’s life two months ago, sweeping her off her feet and promising her more. Jane had met him when she’d been out shopping at the local arcade. He’d offered to carry her bags, and things progressed quickly from there. But despite Jane’s platitudes, Shirley had never been sure of him. He had been fine with them, had eaten at their table and talked politely, said the right things, but there was something about him that made her feel uneasy. Maybe it was just the natural reaction of a protective mother who had seen her daughter hurt once too often by a man. But part of it was the uncomfortable reality that from the very beginning Shirley did not believe that this dangerously good-looking man would really want to settle down with a single mother of three children. And unfortunately she had been proved right. He had called Jane and coolly ended their relationship the day before her death.

  She tried to tell him the news – that because of him, Jane was dead. But the mobile phone number that they had for him was no longer working. That said it all really.

  She’d told the police about him. Maybe they could track him down.

  Shirley removed her glasses, rubbing her tired, irritated eyes. She’d hadn’t slept properly now for forty-eight hours. Her little girl was gone and she longed to be held by her husband. But Eric was at the pub. He’d been out for hours now, and she could only hope he wasn’t getting drunk like he’d done the previous night. He’d taken Jane’s death the hardest, but as usual was bottling up his emotions, neither displaying his own turmoil nor offering sufficient sympathy. She broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. These attacks of grief, regular since the police had come knocking, came on like a sudden thunder storm of despair.

  The phone rang.

  She nearly didn’t answer it, letting it ring five times before dragging herself off the sofa. But then she thought it might be the police. It wasn’t.

  It was her granddaughter, Alison.

  Sam jogged back to the flat, increasingly uneasy at the thought that there was someone out there, unidentified, targeting him and Louisa. Who was this guy? Could it be someone connected with him, like the police had suggested? And if so, were they following him right now? They’d been watching him at the London Eye, taunting him, so why not here too? He slowed as he reached the high street, crossing at the lights opposite the tube station. And then his mobile rang.

  The caller ID read unknown.

  He snapped his phone open. ‘Hello?’

  No reply.

  ‘Who is this?’

  Sam stopped against the wall of the tube station, as the last of the commuters passed him on their way home. Was this the same person as before? ‘Is it you, Richard?’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Marcus?’

  He watched a businessman just ten or so metres away from him, on the opposite side of the tube station entrance. He was on the phone. But the call ended and he strode across the road, towards a waiting bus.

  ‘Hello?’

  The line went dead.

  Continuing home he reflected on the silent call and what it might mean. He reached the flat, glancing back as he pulled out his keys and let himself in. On the mat behind the door was a hand delivered letter. Recognising the handwriting immediately his stomach went into free-fall.

  12

  Sam took a deep breath and knocked on Louisa’s office door. He’d spent half the night wondering whether to show her the letter. It wasn’t that he wanted to keep secrets, but he worried about the ramifications of opening all this up again.

  ‘Come in.’

  Sam met Louisa’s gaze as he entered the room. She looked guilty, and the upturned novel on her desk betrayed the reason for it. ‘Caught me,’ she said, holding the book up. ‘It’s pretty good you know - helps me to relax. Well actually, it’s rubbish really, but the relaxing bit is true.’

  Sam forced a smile. Louisa had always been a bookworm. That’s how she and Cathy had met, at the school book club, all those years ago.

  Louisa watched as Sam took the seat opposite, her face changing. ‘You okay? Has something happened?’

  Sam nodded, bringing the envelope from inside his jacket and placing it on the desk. ‘This was waiting for me when I got home last night.’

  Louisa took one look at the handwriting and grabbed the envelope, almost tearing the letter out. She read intently, biting on her bottom lip.

  ‘I wondered if he’d contact me,’ Sam said, as Louisa continued reading, her face full of concentration. ‘But it’s been so long since the last time, that I decided he wouldn’t. I thought he might just want to move on.’

  Louisa looked up from the letter. ‘He still says his innocent.’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘How do you feel about that?

  ‘Marcus saying he is innocent doesn’t change anything,’ Sam replied. ‘The police had the evidence.’

  Louisa nodded. ‘I know.’

  And yet here he was again, protesting his innocence, just as he had done in the previous three letters of correspondence that Sam had received during the fifteen years of his incarceration. The first letter had arrived a year after the court’s verdict. Marcus had sworn that although he couldn’t remember what had happened that night because he was so drunk, there was no way he could have hurt Cathy. He just couldn’t believe it of himself. But he said that he didn’t blame Sam for not believing him. Sam had shown that first letter to his father, who, enraged, promptly threw it in the bin. Whilst the second letter, a year later, reiterated the points from the first, the third mailing, took Sam by surprise. Marcus wanted to meet with him. That was three years ago.

  Louisa looked back at the letter, then up at Sam. ‘He wants to see you.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘I can’t Louisa. I can’t meet with him.’

  ‘It might help,’ Louisa offered.

  Three years ago Sam had come to that conclusion, if only briefly. He’d even gone as far as contacting the prison and arranging a time to visit. He hadn’t told anyone. His parents would have been devastated. And he just didn’t know what Louisa would think. But on route to the prison he changed his mind. What did he expect to gain from sitting face to face with Marcus? He’d thought maybe it might help him move on, or at least understand what had happened, but how could it? What could such a meeting ever really achieve? So he had turned around. And that was the last he had heard of Marcus. Sam had never revealed to anyone just how close he had come that morning.

  ‘It won’t help,’ Sam said. ‘I just want to forget about him, Lou.’

  ‘You’ve got to do what feels right for you,’ she acknowledged, handing Sam back the letter. Sam glanced down at the address at the top of the page. Marcus was living in a flat in Rotherhithe, a rundown area of London, just south of the river. Why had he moved down here? He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘Were things okay last night?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘No more calls, no visits from Richard Friedman?’

  ‘Everything was fine,’ Louisa replied. ‘I had a good night, actually – it was nice to go out with the girls and just try and forget about everything. It really helped me to relax, for the firs
t time in ages really.’

  ‘Good, that’s good.’ He paused, feeling bad for the bubble-bursting news he was about to give. ‘I got another call last night, when I was out running, just before I found Marcus’s letter.’

  Louisa’s mood immediately darkened. ‘From the same person?’

  ‘I assume so. It was a silent call.’

  ‘From my phone?’

  ‘No, not this time. It was from an unknown number.’

  She looked troubled. ‘You don’t really think it could be Marcus, do you?’

  ‘Why not?’ Sam replied. ‘You asked me to think of someone who might hold a grudge against me. The caller mentioned Cathy’s murder, there was the newspaper article in your locker. And when you add in the fact that all of this has only started happening since he’s been released from jail. Then that note from him, hand-delivered. How does he know where I live?’

  Louisa shrugged.

  ‘You don’t think it could be him?’

  ‘I can’t see it Sam,’ Louisa admitted. ‘It just doesn’t make sense to me. Why would he write to you, saying he’s innocent and wanting to meet you, but at the same time doing all this?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s playing some kind of twisted game, wanting to stick the knife in some more.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ he said. ‘But it’s a possibility, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess so. But you said it wasn’t his voice.’

  ‘Maybe he disguised it.’

  ‘Are you going to tell the police?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Sam said. ‘What would I tell them? I’ve got no evidence that Marcus is involved.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Louisa agreed.

  ‘And then there’s still Richard Friedman.’

  ‘I still feel bad, you know, about dropping him as a client.’

  ‘It’s for the best.’

  ‘I know it is, but still...’

  ‘Even if he didn’t steal your phone, and he isn’t the one calling me, he still crossed the line in a big way.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Louisa admitted.

  ‘Maybe this will put an end to it.’

  ‘I hope so. You were right, Sam, it was getting out of hand. Something had to be done. Sometimes I just don’t know when to let go of something, admit defeat. I really appreciate your support.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘So what are you up to today?’

  ‘Not much,’ Sam said. ‘I’m off to see Prof Khan in a minute, and then I’ll check up on how Sophie’s doing. Not sure what I’ll do for the rest of the day.’

  ‘So you’re still off your list?’

  ‘Sure am.’

  ‘It will be good to have a break,’ Louisa said. ‘Professor Khan knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Maybe. You know me though; I like being busy, especially with Anna being away.’

  ‘I know. But it’s only for a day or so.’

  ‘I know. And at least the press interest has died out. Carla left a message for me. There’ve been a few articles in this morning’s papers based on the press release, but no-one has contacted the hospital today.’

  ‘That’s great, Sam. You’re yesterday’s news.’

  She smiled and Sam smiled back.

  ‘Sam, my boy, do come in.’

  Sam entered Professor Adil Khan’s office. The room was an oasis of calm in the hectic world of the hospital. It reminded Sam of the rooms of the Colonial Empire that he’d seen in films – deep brown, ornate mahogany furniture, carved wooden lamps, and decorative rugs. Professor Khan had brought all the furniture himself, flown over from Pakistan on his appointment eighteen years ago. It wasn’t hospital policy to allow such a thing, but for one of the world’s leading surgeons, the request met no resistance. The room was also a temple to arguably Adil Khan’s greatest love – cricket. He’d combined his medical training with a passion for the sport. A gifted batsman, he had represented the national side at under twenty-one level, before suffering a serious leg injury following a car accident. Damage to the tendons in his left leg put paid to his cricket career, but left him free to focus his energy and passion into medicine.

  ‘Do sit down,’ he said, gesturing to the impressive carved wooden chair. As ever, his jet black hair and beard was neatly trimmed, his styling immaculate around his broad physique. His suits were made to measure by his good friend and personal tailor in Islamabad. Why pay for Savile Row when you could have the best, he would say. ‘You like it?’ he said, noticing that Sam had spotted a new addition to the wall behind his desk – a signed photograph of Imran Khan, the legendary Pakistani cricketer, no relation. Their conversations often turned to cricket, with Professor Khan knowing that Sam too had played the sport, for Lancashire schools.

  ‘Impressive. You got that last week?’

  Professor Khan nodded, looking back at the photo. ‘I was speaking at a charity dinner he arranged in Karachi. The photo was a thank you present.’

  He turned back to face Sam, examining him with those intense deep brown eyes, his hands steepled on the desk. It was down to business. ‘And how are you, Sam.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Sam replied. Professor Khan stared back. ‘Well, as good as can be expected.’

  ‘Are you enjoying your time off?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Adil Khan smiled. ‘I imagine you’re not.’

  ‘I understand though,’ Sam added. ‘I did need the break.’

  He nodded slowly, bringing his hands up so that the tips of his fingers touched his bottom lip. ‘I’ve been working in medicine for longer than I can remember. I love my profession, Sam. Maybe I love it too much. There are times when I’ve worked on when I should have rested. I realise that now.’

  Sam stayed quiet. The Professor was teeing him up for unwelcome news.

  ‘You’re a very talented surgeon Sam. Very talented – one of the best young surgeons that I have worked with. And I don’t say that lightly. You’re also very dedicated. You really care for your patients – don’t underestimate the importance of that. One can be technically brilliant with a scalpel, but if he doesn’t care for his patients, be cognisant of their human needs, he can never be a truly great surgeon.’

  Sam was pleasantly surprised about such open praise. Professor Khan was notoriously coy when it came to his opinion about those working under him. ‘Thanks. That means a lot.’

  ‘I’m not looking for thanks,’ he replied. ‘I’m seeking your co-operation.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  Adil Khan sat back, his hands still joined. ‘I would like you to refrain from operating for the next seven days.’

  Sam had been right to suspect imminent bad news. He couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  ‘I know you wish to work,’ he said. ‘I understand totally. But this is for the best.’

  ‘But the interview, it’s less than two weeks away. If I’m…’

  Professor Khan held up a hand. ‘Trust in me, Sam. And more importantly, trust in yourself, in your own ability and what you have already demonstrated in the years that I have worked with you. You are young, but I believe more than ready to step up to consultant level, of that I am sure. One week without surgery will make no difference, believe me, but one week with surgery might.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Adil Khan leaned in. ‘You have been through a great trauma, Sam. You are strong, but still, everyone needs time to recover mentally. Do you feel at one hundred per cent?’

  Sam fought the urge to lie. ‘No.’

  Professor Khan opened his palms. ‘Then there you are, Sam. You make a mistake in the operating theatre this coming week, because you are not one hundred per cent, and your career is jeopardised. You rest for a week, after a major trauma where you are a hero, and you ensure you are ready for the interview. Do you agree?’

  Sam nodded. There was nothing else he could do.

  ‘A very wise deci
sion, Mr Becker. Enjoy your recuperation.’

  Sam emerged from the office, still smarting from the decision. Professor Khan was right of course, but it didn’t make the thought of seven days without surgery any more bearable. It would be hell. And Miles would be sure to gloat, seeing Sam’s absence as a sign of weakness that might sway the interview panel. It might not affect Professor Khan’s judgment of who was the best person for the job, but he was only one assessor out of seven.

  He made his way across the hospital to ICU. Sophie was still stable, and had improved slightly, but the situation remained grim. Sam was glad to see both Tom and Sarah at her bedside. He stopped off to tell Louisa about the meeting with Professor Khan, before heading off down to the Thames, with no particular destination in mind. He found himself drawn back to the Tate Modern, and that drawing. It was as he was standing there, captivated by the image, looking for some hidden meaning that might unlock Richard Friedman’s personality that his phone rang.

  It was Inspector Paul Cullen of the British Transport Police.

  ‘Sam, I’d like to talk to you about the incident at the weekend. There’s been a development. Are you free to meet me now, somewhere in central London?’

  13

  ‘Sam, glad you could make it at such short notice.’

  Paul Cullen rose from his seat to greet him, his hand outstretched. Sam met his firm but unthreatening grip and nodded a hello. Cullen was wearing a casual open neck shirt and blue chinos, evidently dressing for off duty, or at least to make it appear that way.

  ‘Thought I’d take the liberty and get one in for you,’ he said, gesturing at the pint of lager on the table.

  ‘Thanks.’ They both sat down but Sam left the lager alone. He would hear what Cullen had to say first. ‘Your colleague isn’t with you?’

  ‘DS Beswick?’ Cullen said. ‘He’s ill. Flu, his wife said. So I’m working on my own for the moment. I think I prefer it, really.’ Cullen glanced around. The Islington pub was busy with mostly old white Irish men, drinking dark ale. ‘Hope you don’t mind the surroundings. I used to come here a long time ago, back in my training days. It hasn’t changed a bit.’