Front Runner

by Felix Francis

  “You nearly gave yourself a massive hernia,” the doctor said sternly by way of reprimand. “If you had split the internal sutures, as well as the external ones, you could easily have had your guts out all over the floor.”

  “But I didn’t,” I said, smiling at him.

  My guts had nearly been all over the floor for another reason, I thought, courtesy of my friend with the carving knife.

  —

  A UNIFORMED POLICEMAN came to see me as soon as the doctor had finished his stitching even though I was still feeling absolutely lousy and utterly exhausted.

  “Call Detective Inspector Galvin,” I said.

  “Why?” asked the policeman.

  “Because I’m not well enough and too tired to tell the story twice.”

  I closed my eyes.

  Why was someone trying so hard to kill me? Three times now, in rapid succession, I’d escaped an untimely death.

  I had been assuming that all three attempts were connected. But were they?

  Clearly, the second and third had been, but shutting me into a sauna didn’t follow the pattern of the other two. Had I simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time at Dave Swinton’s house?

  The two most recent attempts by the same two men had shown a certain determination to succeed on their part.

  It had only been good fortune that I’d been awake and out of my room when they had appeared in the hospital, and I could hardly rely on my luck holding every time they came looking for me.

  What was it I knew or had done that was so important it was worth killing me over?

  —

  D.I. GALVIN came to see me at nine-thirty on Friday morning as I was snoozing, back in bed in my room on the ninth floor of the hospital.

  “I told you I needed a guard,” I said to him before he even had a chance to speak.

  “OK,” he said. “I agree. You were right.”

  “So can I have one now? Those two guys have tried at least twice to kill me. In my book, that demonstrates an undeniable degree of persistence. I reckon they may well come back for a third try.”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange,” D.I. Galvin said. “Can you add anything to your description of the man with the knife?”

  “He now has a scalded face,” I said. “I threw boiling milk at him.”

  I told the detective everything that had happened from the moment the door buzzer was pushed until the time the knifeman ran for the stairs.

  “It seems you gave rather better than you got,” he said.

  “I had some catching up to do.”

  “We are trying to establish how the men got in. There’s nighttime security in the ER that’s meant to prevent members of the public wandering through to the rest of the hospital.”

  “Surely this place has closed-circuit TV?” I asked.

  “All over. It’s being looked at even as we speak. Any luck with the mug shots?”

  “Not so far, but I’m only about halfway through and there’s one or two I now want to go back and look at again. I had a much better look at the knifeman last night than I did at my apartment. I have a vague feeling I’ve seen his face before.”

  “I’ll leave the iPad with you, then. Give me a call if you spot anyone familiar.”

  “Talking about giving people a call, is there any chance someone could fetch my phone? I dropped it during the struggle in my apartment hallway and I feel totally lost without it.”

  “Ah, yes, that reminds me,” said D.I. Galvin. “I have your front-door key.” He dug in his pocket and placed the key on the bedside table.

  “Did you hear what I said? Could someone please fetch my phone?”

  “We’re finished there now,” the inspector replied, not properly answering the question. “Is there no one else who could go for you?”

  “I suppose I could ask my sister to go.”

  “Good,” he said, standing up. “You will need to make a formal statement about the incident here last night. Can you write it yourself?”

  I nodded. Another bloody statement. And I still had to do the one for D.S. Jagger. “I’ll do it later,” I said wearily.

  “OK. But, in the meantime, keep looking at the mug shots. I’ll be back later for the statement.”

  “How about my bodyguard?” I said.

  “I’ll arrange for a uniformed officer to be present in the ward’s reception area. The nursing staff are demanding it anyway.”

  Good for them, I thought.

  The detective went away and I went back to my snoozing. But about an hour later I came face-to-face once more with my would-be assassin.

  —

  HE WAS YOUNGER and had a mustache, but I was certain it was the same man—my friend with the carving knife.

  Mug shot number 282.

  He was indeed one of those I’d gone back to have another look at, having passed over him before. It was the dark, unfeeling eyes that gave him away, the same eyes I’d stared deeply into when I’d been convinced he was about to kill me. They were not eyes I would forget in a hurry.

  Just the picture of him sent shivers of fear down my spine.

  “Two-eight-two,” I said to D.I. Galvin when I called him using the hospital phone.

  “Are you sure?”

  “A hundred percent.”

  “Two-eight-two, you say?” I could hear him tapping it in on a computer keyboard. “Right, got him.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Lawrence. Darryl Gareth Lawrence. Ever heard of him?”

  “No,” I said with certainty.

  “He was born sixteen July 1978. Originally from Port Talbot in Wales, his last-known address was in Streatham, south London. He’s got previous—lots—mostly for violence, including wounding with intent.”

  “With intent to do what?”

  “Cause grievous bodily harm. Sentenced to seven years at Southwark Crown Court in 2008. He was released on parole in November 2012, having served two-thirds of his sentence. According to his record, he’s been out of trouble since then, but that only means he hasn’t been arrested for anything.”

  “Well, you can arrest him now for wounding with intent to commit murder.”

  “I’ll get on it straightaway.”

  He hung up.

  In some strange way, I felt slightly safer knowing who was trying to kill me. All I needed to know now was why.

  20

  After speaking with D.I. Galvin, I called Faye and asked her if she could fetch my cell phone from my apartment. She came to the hospital at noon to get the key.

  “The phone should be on the floor in the hallway,” I said. “And the charger as well, if you can find it. That’ll be on the countertop in the kitchen next to the microwave.”

  “Nothing else? How about some clothes?”

  “No. I’m fine. I have clothes.”

  I did think about asking her to get my laptop, but I could do most things via the Internet with just my iPhone. Furthermore, my laptop was somewhere in my bedroom and I wasn’t at all sure I wanted Faye exploring more of my home than was absolutely necessary. To be honest, I would have been much happier if the police had agreed to retrieve my phone. I knew that asking my sister to go there was a mistake.

  Faye was a naturally tidy person. She had been since childhood, and she had unsuccessfully tried to instill into her younger brother the same culture of neatness and order. Hence, since Lydia’s departure and the move to my new apartment, I had resisted all of Faye’s attempts to come over to check up on me.

  And now here I was sending her there unaccompanied. I must be crazy. But I really needed that phone. And surely whatever the state of the place, sending Faye was better than asking Henri to go.

  Only after she had gone did I worry about her security.

  What if Darryl Gareth Lawren
ce and his sidekick were waiting in the bushes outside my front door?

  But why would they do anything to Faye? Lawrence had specifically asked the nurse, Where’s Hinkley? It was me they wanted, not my sister.

  Nevertheless, I was greatly relieved when Faye returned about an hour and a half later with my phone plus charger.

  “How are things?” I asked.

  “It’s not very tidy,” she said in an accusing manner.

  “That must have been due to my attackers. Or possibly the police forensic team.”

  She looked at me. “I don’t suppose either of those would be responsible for the stack of dirty mugs and plates in the sink, or for the washing hung on the back of your sofa, or even for the clothes lying on the floor of your bedroom.”

  I looked rather sheepishly at her.

  “And they surely wouldn’t have packed up those moving boxes and left them in the hallway. How long have you been there now? Nearly a year? Isn’t it time you unpacked?”

  “I will,” I said.

  And I would. I’d tidy the place too, especially if I was going to entertain a certain Miss Henrietta Shawcross there anytime soon, as I dearly hoped I would be.

  “So, are you getting out tomorrow?” Faye asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I had to have some of my stitches redone this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “A few of those on my abdomen split open.”

  “You haven’t been doing those push-ups again, I hope,” Faye said with a laugh, but she must have seen something in my face because she stopped laughing. “What happened?”

  “I had some unexpected and unwanted visitors in the night.”

  “Not the same men?”

  I nodded.

  “But that’s dreadful. How did they know you were here? And how the hell did they get in?”

  “That’s what the police are trying to find out,” I said. “But at least we now know who one of them is. I recognized him from a police photo.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Someone called Darryl Lawrence.”

  She stared at me with a blank expression.

  “I’ve never heard of him either,” I said. “But he’s had lots of previous convictions for violence and has spent time in prison.”

  “Why is he coming after you?”

  “I don’t know. I can only imagine that someone is paying him to kill me. The police are searching for him, so we might find out more when they find him.”

  Faye was distressed.

  She had been under the erroneous impression that the attack at my home had been as a result of a random burglary somehow gone terribly wrong. To discover her little brother was being specifically targeted by a hired killer came as an unwelcome shock.

  “But who would want to kill you?” she asked desperately like a mother wondering how anyone could harm her beloved child.

  “That is exactly what I’ve been trying to figure out.”

  “It’s that bloody job of yours,” she said angrily. “Why can’t you do something safer? Q has connections and you’re smart. I am sure you could get a nice safe banking job in the City.”

  What Faye meant by the City was the City of London, the financial square mile at the heart of the metropolis.

  “I don’t want a safe banking job in the City,” I said. “I’d be bored to death. I like what I do.”

  “It’s so dangerous.”

  Maybe that’s why I liked it, but I wasn’t going to say so.

  Not today.

  —

  FAYE STAYED FOR most of the afternoon, sitting quietly reading a book, while I wrote out two formal statements, one for D.I. Galvin concerning the previous night’s events and the other for D.S. Jagger about my conversations with Dave Swinton and my twin excursions into his sauna.

  “Can I read them?” Faye asked when I’d finished.

  “I don’t think you should,” I said, but I knew I had little or no chance of preventing it. Throughout my life since I was eight, Faye had always been the one in charge. And while I might not always do as she wanted—especially in the employment department—she usually got her way. If she was determined to read my statements, she would.

  I meekly handed over the handwritten sheets and lay awkwardly on the bed while she sat on the chair next to it, reading them through from start to finish.

  “Jeff,” she said eventually, “I just can’t believe all of this. Is it really true?”

  “Every word,” I said.

  I was prevented from having a further ear bashing by the arrival of the detective constable from the Thames Valley Police.

  “I’ve already written my statement,” I said, and I took it from Faye to give to him.

  He stood reading it through, then asked me to sign it in his presence. “I’ll need to get this typed up properly on a Section 9 form. You’ll have to sign again, but this will do for now.”

  The policeman departed with the folded sheets of paper in his pocket.

  “Please, will you come and stay with Q and me when you get out of here,” Faye implored, almost in tears. “I don’t want you going back to your apartment. It’s not safe.”

  “OK,” I said, giving in gracefully, “I will. But only until the police catch Darryl Lawrence.”

  That seemed to satisfy her.

  “Anyway,” I said, “how are you feeling? It should be me looking after you, not the other way round.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just tired all the time. It’s the bloody drugs.”

  “You don’t have to stay,” I said, knowing full well that she believed she was acting as my bodyguard. “There should be a uniformed policeman outside in the reception area to keep me alive and well.”

  She stood up and went to have a look.

  “He’s chatting up the nurses,” Faye said in a tone that expressed disapproval.

  “Sensible man,” I said. “At least he’s here.”

  I hadn’t altogether believed that he would be.

  “I’ll go, then,” Faye said. “I need to get home and make up the bed in the spare room.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble,” I said.

  “It’s no trouble.” She smiled and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Now, you be careful.”

  It was a serious instruction.

  —

  HENRI CAME to see me soon after six o’clock, wafting in wearing a full-length camel-colored coat with a hood. She looked gorgeous.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” she said. “I had to finish something at work.”

  I just beamed. I was so pleased to see her.

  Henri removed her coat to reveal a stunning black-and-red tartan dress, with a wide black leather belt, and knee-high black suede boots with stiletto heels.

  My heart went all a-flutter. Where was Dr. Shwan when you needed him?

  “Wow!” I said.

  “Do you like it?” She smiled and did a twirl. “It’s all new.”

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. I wore it for you.”

  Wow! again.

  “But I had expected you to be a bit smarter,” she said. “What happened to the jammies I bought you?”

  I was again wearing a faded blue hospital gown.

  “They’re in the wash,” I said.

  “Had a little accident, did we?”

  “Something like that, but not what you’re thinking. A few of my stitches burst open and I bled on them.”

  She looked concerned.

  “Surely that shouldn’t happen.”

  “No,” I said without elaboration.

  “I should have bought you two pairs. Shall I go and get you some more?” She reached for her coat.

  “No,” I said again, this time more
decisively. “Please stay. Unless, of course, you can’t speak to anyone wearing a hospital gown.”

  “I’ll make an exception,” she said, smiling. “Just this once.”

  She stayed for two hours, at one point delving into her copious handbag to find a half bottle of Chablis and some glasses, together with some freshly packed sushi.

  “Red Cross parcel,” she said, giggling.

  “The food here’s not too bad, except everything is overcooked. And it’s pretty bland, as they use little or no salt.”

  Henri turned up her pretty nose. “I like my salt,” she said. “And I can’t live without freshly ground black pepper.” She produced a small silver cylindrical object from her purse and proceeded to grind black peppercorns from it onto her food. “I’m fed up with going to those big lunch and dinner events at swanky London hotels and not being able to get hold of a pepper mill. They all think you’re mad asking for one. So I bought myself this to carry with me.”

  “Handy,” I said.

  She popped another piece of raw fish into her mouth and washed it down with some wine.

  “I see you got your phone back,” she said, nodding at it on my bedside table. “I can call you again now.”

  “Yes, please do. My sister fetched it for me.” I picked it up and used it to take a photograph of Henri sitting on the edge of my bed, looking fabulous in her red tartan dress.

  “Let’s see,” she said. I showed her. “Not bad for an old one.”

  “Old one?” I said. “You’re not old.”

  “Thirty,” she said. “Can you believe I’m going to be thirty in February? I remember thinking that people aged thirty must be so old they were nearly dead and now I’m almost there myself.”

  She studied the picture. “At least I can’t see any wrinkles yet.”

  She started flicking through the other pictures on my phone.

  “Hey,” I said in mock complaint, “that’s private.”

  “Good God, that’s Martin and Bentley,” she said, looking closely at the screen. “How come you have a photo of my cousin on your phone?”

  She didn’t ask it in an accusatory manner, she was just interested. I leaned forward and peered at the image. It was the photo of the two men who’d been arguing at Newbury, taken through the window of the Hennessy hospitality area with the racetrack in the background.