Enemy Within: A heart-wrenching medical mystery (British Military Thriller Series Book 3)

by Nathan Burrows

  “Okay, so you won’t tell me who it is. But is it serious, or are you just scratching an itch?”

  Lizzie, who had just taken a sip of her orange juice and lemonade, coughed and spluttered as she tried not to laugh. “You really are a nosy old bastard, Tom Fowler,” she said a moment later after using a piece of tissue in her pocket to wipe her mouth.

  “That’s Mr Fowler to you, Sergeant Jarman,” Tom replied. “I am, after all, the SWO.” He put his plate-like hands out and looked around the bar as if he was defining his empire. “Come on, Lizzie. I’m asking you as a mate. I worry about you, you know that. If you’re going to be shagging someone on a regular basis, I need to know that they’re okay.”

  “Oh, thanks, Dad,” Lizzie replied, grinning. “Well, his name’s Adams, and you’d have to call him sir.”

  “You’re knobbing an officer?” Tom asked, a pretend look of horror on his face.

  Lizzie smiled as she replied. “I think technically it’s the other way round.”

  “But you didn’t answer my other question.”

  “What question?”

  “Is it serious, or just an itch scratch.”

  Lizzie’s face was serious as she considered Tom’s question. The truth was, she didn’t know.

  “A lady’s got to have some secrets, Tom.” At her reply, Tom threw his head back and laughed so loudly that the bartender looked over at them in surprise. “What’s so funny?” Lizzie asked, slightly irritated with her friend.

  “You may be many things, Lizzie,” he said, still laughing, “but a lady is definitely not one of them.”

  16

  Adams stood at the head of the trolley, holding the bag and valve mask in his hands. Hannah had taken over the compressions a few moments before, and Raj was on the phone in the corner of the resuscitation room. He replaced the handset and walked back over to them.

  “The cardiothoracic reg is up to his elbows in a ruptured aortic aneurysm,” Raj said. His voice was sombre. “The consultant’s on his way in but he lives on the coast so will be a while.”

  “What are your thoughts, Raj?” Adams prompted, although he knew what the answer would be.

  “Okay, so we have a young female with a single stab wound to the rear of the cardiac box.” Raj was referring to an area of the chest that was below the clavicles, between the nipples, and above the bottom edge of the ribs. Every course Adams had been on had reinforced that any penetrating wound within that area was bad news, whether from the front or the back. “She was initially conscious and talking, but deteriorated quickly after the paramedics arrived. On arrival, she went into PEA, followed by asystole within minutes. She’s now had twenty minutes of CPR with five doses of adrenaline. No spontaneous circulation or shockable rhythm.” Raj closed his eyes for a moment. “My guess is either a haemorrhagic tamponade or ventricular rupture.”

  “Neither of which is survivable,” Adams added, “without a thoracotomy. Even then, the odds are poor either way.”

  Raj closed his eyes again, and Adams knew he was praying silently for the poor woman’s soul. Wherever it was.

  “I think we should call it. Does everyone agree?”

  Adams nodded his head. Hannah pumped one or two last compressions before stopping. She stepped down from the stool she had been standing on.

  “Yep, I agree,” she said, glancing at the monitor as she did so.

  Adams looked down at his patient and sighed. He reached forward and pulled a sheet over her chest, folding it back and leaving the woman’s face and one of her arms exposed.

  “I’ll speak to the police,” he said. “Hannah, could you tidy her up a bit please in case there’s family?”

  “Of course,” Hannah replied, reaching down for the woman’s hand. She held it like a child’s, and Adams could see a tear at the corner of the nurse’s eye. He wanted to put his hand on Hannah’s and comfort her, but he didn’t.

  “I’ll leave both of you to it,” Raj muttered. “I’ll come back in five minutes for the formalities, but if you need me, I’ll be in the main department.”

  Adams pulled the curtains around the bay as Hannah, mumbling softly under her breath, started smoothing the patient’s hair. He walked to the door of the resuscitation room and cracked it. There was a police officer standing a few yards away from the door, and Adams jerked his head to invite him into the room. As he approached, Adams could see the paleness of the young officer’s face. He looked to be in his early twenties, and youthful at that.

  “We’ve just called it,” Adams said as the door closed behind the police officer. “Time of death is 21:20.” The police officer went even paler, and for a second Adams wondered if he was about to faint. “You okay, mate?”

  “Um, yeah, I’m fine. Just don’t really like hospitals, that’s all.”

  “You and me both. Come with me, let’s grab a cup of tea.”

  Adams, keen to get some sugar inside the young officer before he keeled over, led him to the crew room, which was on the other side of the resuscitation room. There were several nurses sitting around the room, getting ready for the night shift. Adams mumbled some instructions to one of the older nurses, who immediately went into full-on mother mode and started fussing around the police officer.

  “I’ll be back in a sec, mate,” Adams said. “Just need to send a quick text.” He left the crew room and walked into the courtyard in the centre of the department, reaching into his pocket for his phone as he did so. When he looked at the screen, there was a text message from Lizzie.

  Am at Honington. U ok? xxx

  Adams checked the time of the message. It had only been sent a few moments previously. He tapped out a response.

  Shitty shift. Going to be here for a while.

  He waited for a moment in case Lizzie replied straight away. He could give her a ring when he got back to his flat if it wasn’t too late.

  By the time Adams got back to the crew room, the police officer was looking much better. He was sitting on his own, the staff having gone into their shift handover.

  “You look a bit happier, mate,” Adams said as he sat down opposite the man.

  “Yeah, I feel it,” the police officer replied. “Amazing what a cup of tea and a few biscuits can do. I’ve called it in, and it’s been upgraded to a murder enquiry.”

  “Have you got an identification?” Adams asked. As far as he could remember, the woman hadn’t been brought in with any personal effects. He watched as the police officer fished in his pocket before pulling out a driving licence.

  “We found her handbag about a hundred yards away from where she was stabbed.” The police officer handed Adams the licence. “No cash or credit cards, but this was in a side pocket.” Adams looked at the woman’s face. In the photograph on the licence, she was trying not to smile. She had brown shoulder-length hair, brown eyes, and was much prettier in the photograph than when lying dead on a trolley. He looked at her date of birth and realised that she was only a year younger than Lizzie.

  “What are you thinking, a mugging gone wrong?” Adams asked.

  “Could be,” the police officer replied. “Way above my pay grade though.”

  “Any family?”

  “There’s a boyfriend who a patrol car’s gone to get. She dropped her phone when she was attacked and there were three missed calls so we called him. No news on parents or next of kin.”

  “Where did it happen?” Adams looked again at the woman’s face on the license before handing it back to the police officer.

  “Down on Riverside. You know the park next to Cow Tower?”

  Adams nodded. He’d been to the park many times. There was a fourteenth century circular artillery blockhouse there that had originally been part of Norwich’s medieval defences. The brick tower dominated the small park and the river that flowed next to it, and Adams had often wondered what stories the tower could tell if it could talk.

  “Poor woman,” Adams replied. “Over to your lot now, I guess.”

  Just
as Adams said this, the crew room door opened, and Hannah’s head appeared.

  “Adams, the boyfriend’s here. He’s in the relative’s room,” she said.

  “Does he know?” Adams asked.

  “Not yet.” Hannah disappeared back into the main department and Adams got to his feet.

  “Um, do I need to tell him she’s dead?” the police officer asked, also standing up.

  “Have you done it before?” Adams thought not but asked, anyway. As the police officer shook his head, the colour started draining from his face again. “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll tell him. Probably a good idea if you come with me, though.”

  Adams took a deep breath as he walked toward the door to the crew room, followed by the relieved-looking police officer. This was a part of his job that he disliked the most, knowing that he was about to change someone’s life forever, and not in a good way. The words he was about to say would remain ingrained in someone’s memory forever.

  Best he choose them carefully.

  17

  General Waterfield stood at the bay window that dominated his home office on the top floor of his house. It was almost dark outside, with the remnants of a glorious red sunset on the horizon.

  “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,” he muttered to himself.

  In his hand was an old-fashioned whisky tumbler crafted of pure crystal. It had an owl engraving running around the glass and a satin finish. Its companion was in a silk-lined box in his drinks cabinet, a blocky looking Victorian mahogany thing that Amelia hated. Waterfield, in contrast, loved the cabinet, which was why he had paid over two thousand pounds for it. That would have bought him four sets of the Lalique Owl tumblers but, seeing as he never shared his whisky with anyone, it would have been a waste. One thing Waterfield hated was waste.

  He sipped his Johnny Walker Blue Label, wishing that he could taste the subtle and balanced wistful smoke that the box it came in promised, but he just didn’t have the palette for it. All he could taste was whisky. Waterfield sat in his chair, another antique that had cost a pretty penny, and put the tumbler down. He picked up a remote control from the desk and turned on the television mounted on the wall before selecting the news channel to see what was happening in the world.

  Waterfield loved the room he was sitting in. It was his and only his. Even Amelia didn’t have access. He knew she wouldn’t ever come in here if he asked her not to—his wife was nothing if not true to her word—but he kept it locked regardless and made sure that he always had the key. Everyone had secrets, even the Chief of the Defence Staff, and secrets were to be kept, not shared. Even with a spouse of almost forty years.

  On the television channel, the newsreader was looking at the camera with the BBC’s usual deadpan expression as he recounted the headlines. A suicide bomber in Kabul. A resurgence of Coronavirus in Southern America. The news reader was quick to point out that it wasn’t a new variant, so no one needed to be concerned. A train crash in Mexico and a famine in sub-Saharan Africa. Waterfield tutted at the last piece of news.

  “That’s not news,” he muttered. “There’s always a bloody famine somewhere in Africa.” He took another sip of his whisky, wishing that the bloody idiot reading the teleprompter would hurry up and get to the weather. Waterfield knew he could look the weather up on his phone, but that wasn’t the point. He wanted the weather as delivered by Jennifer and, according to the schedule, it was her turn tonight.

  In the briefcase next to his chair was a bunch of reports that Waterfield should really read, instead of waiting for his opportunity to leer at a woman on the television whom he had never met and never would. But it was the simple pleasures that he enjoyed, not reading about the latest recommendations to the Defence Board about the acquisition of new marine platforms or tanks. Waterfield had never been in a tank in his life, and he was quite happy with that. There were far too many things designed to kill them for his liking.

  On the screen, the news reader started talking about a troop build-up by the Russians along the Ukrainian border. Like the famine in Africa, Waterfield knew it wasn’t news, but he listened to the report, anyway. He knew far more than the BBC did about that particular area and just that afternoon had a conversation with a very senior general in Moscow that would never be made public. Even the buffoon of a Prime Minister wouldn’t know about it. There was no reason to involve boys in men’s work, nor civilians in military affairs. There was nothing to worry about in the Ukraine, Waterfield had been told. Which was why he was worried about the Ukraine.

  “And now, it’s over to Jennifer for the weather,” the newsreader said, lightening his voice to let the viewers know that the doom and gloom he’d spent the last few minutes reading out was now over. “What have you got in store for us?”

  Waterfield watched the weather forecast, paying close attention to the predicted wind speeds. Jennifer, in his personal opinion, had been chosen more for her appearance than her meteorological ability, although the BBC would no doubt strenuously deny it. She was slim but well-proportioned with flame red hair that curled over her shoulders. Using her long, toned arms, she pointed out what the weather had in store. Just as Waterfield had thought, it was going to be perfect sailing weather. Flat calm in the morning, but he had business to attend to anyway, and then a light to moderate southerly breeze after lunch.

  He took another sip of his whisky, wondering briefly if Jennifer enjoyed anal sex before deciding that she almost certainly loved it. Then he wondered if she realised there were probably hundreds, if not thousands, of men who were wondering similar things. A proportion of them were probably masturbating as she waved her arms around the green screen, turning occasionally to show them the outline of her perfect breasts and flat stomach.

  “Dirty bitch,” Waterfield laughed as Jennifer told the viewers that was all for tonight before the news reader came back on to introduce the news wherever you are. Waterfield had no interest in the local news, even if it was occasionally interested in him.

  He drained his whisky and got to his feet to re-fill the tumbler. He looked at his watch. It was quarter to ten. Amelia would be getting ready for bed in her en-suite, plastering her face with whatever the latest fad was for keeping the inevitable at bay. She would be in bed by ten at the latest and fast asleep by five past, her satin eye mask ensuring that not the slightest bit of light disturbed her beauty sleep and helped by the handful of sleeping pills she took every evening. That was fine by Waterfield. He had an appointment to keep in Holt at midnight.

  The appointment was a longstanding and very discreet arrangement with a woman who some might consider had dubious morals. Waterfield couldn’t care less about morals, the woman’s or anyone else’s. She labelled herself as a luxury companion for discerning gentlemen, and she was indeed that. Any money that changed hands, and a lot of Waterfield’s money did, was for time and companionship only. Anything else that happened between the woman and Waterfield was a matter purely between consenting adults, which they both were. He had needs that Amelia hadn’t satisfied for years, and he also had some that would have horrified his wife. ‘Lady Jane’, as Waterfield’s companion called herself, thrived on them.

  She also bore more than a passing resemblance to Jennifer, who did the weather.

  18

  The first thing that Titch did when the sound of the van had receded into the distance was rip the pillowcase off his head. The second was to shove his fingers as far down his throat as he could until he started vomiting. He knelt on the ground, momentarily surprised to feel wet leaves under his knees, and leaned forward to get as much of the disgusting whisky out of his system.

  After he had been lifted out of the van, still tied to the chair, the instructions had been very explicit. He was to remain in the chair, with the hood on his head, until he couldn’t hear the van anymore. Unseen hands had reached down and cut the tie wraps.

  “Stay where you are,” the big guy’s voice had said as some of the others giggled in the background. Titch had d
one as instructed, his eyes closed underneath the pillowcase.

  Titch retched again and spat a globule of saliva onto the ground. He put his hands down to pat the earth, not able to see anything in the pitch black of the night. His first impression had been right. The ground was covered with wet leaves and, as he moved his hands around, he could feel sticks and moss. There was no wind that he could feel, but he could hear leaves and branches rustling. Titch swore under his breath as he realised he’d been abandoned in a wood or a forest.

  When he was sure he wasn’t going to vomit any more, Titch gingerly got to his feet. He was still naked, and his abdomen ached from vomiting. But he didn’t think much of the whisky had got into his system. He certainly didn’t feel drunk. He put his hands out in front of him to make sure he didn’t walk headfirst into a tree, and shuffled around with his feet, digging his toes into the soft ground. A few moments later, he found what he was looking for. There were deep ruts in the soft earth from the van. Using his feet to navigate, he followed them.

  As he shuffled his way forward, making slow progress but keen not to lose touch with the tracks, he thought back to earlier in the evening. As far as initiation ceremonies went, this one was pretty harmless. Titch had heard some horror stories about some bases and how new arrivals were welcomed. He still had his hair. He hadn’t been beaten up or sexually abused. No-one had tried to shove a mortar tube into his rectum. Being force fed whisky and abandoned in a wood was pretty tame in comparison.

  Above his head, the canopy of trees thinned out enough for Titch to see some stars. A few moments later, he could see enough of the sky to identify the pole star. He was heading due east, and the van had been driving for less than ten minutes after it had left the base. Given the rural roads surrounding RAF Honington, he couldn’t be more than a couple of miles away. All he had to do was to find the base in the dark.