Drawing Blood

by J G Alva

  “But why steal the body? After all the trouble you went to to make sure that there was a body. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Mr Mills, it is your intervention and poke-nosing that prompted that course of action. Had Scott been able to despatch you when he visited you at your apartment...but I am told you put up something of a fight.” Bodel stared at him. “In that way, you are as obsessively compulsive as Scott is. Did you not also fight to escape the prison that Grace assigned you to? You can’t imagine my shock when you turned up in my office, not after all the promises Grace had made about how securely contained you were. But I digress. The wallet that was left on the body – Gavin’s wallet – should have been enough to allay suspicion. I am good friends with the pathologist that examined Gavin’s body, or should I say the facsimile, but with you stirring up trouble I couldn’t risk a more thorough examination of the body Scott had left in place of the real Gavin Thompson. In the autopsy that had been performed, only a cursory examination to confirm blunt force trauma as the cause of death had been done. If, with suspicion guiding him, my friend re-visited the body, it would only be a matter of time before he stumbled across something that would make him question the identity of the corpse. With the body gone, however, no subsequent examination could be done.”

  Bodel smiled as if they all understood that the world was an imperfect place, and then said, “the police are on their way?”

  Sutton nodded.

  “It’s too late to run.”

  “Mr Mills,” Bodel said; he seemed regretful. “I have to leave. The fate of countless millions depends on my leaving and continuing my work. Were we to rely on your sense of right or wrong, then I fear sentimentality would kill all those untold millions, and I cannot allow that. So to prevent you from attempting something foolhardy and pathetically heroic, I am going to take Mr Thompson with me, and I am going to hold this hypodermic of potassium chloride to his neck, so that if you should try anything, he will be dead in moments.” Bodel smiled at him, holding the hypodermic up. “I do not like to rely on sentimentality but it seems you have left me with no choice. You won’t try anything, will you, Mr Mills? There’s a good boy. If you’ll kindly stand against the wall and let us pass, we’ll be on our way.”

  “Where is Janice Richmond?” Sutton asked again.

  Bodel paused, looking thoughtful.

  “I don’t know why you keep asking me that. I have no idea.”

  Why was he lying? She had to be here.

  Didn’t she?

  Sutton did as he was told because there was nothing else he could do, and as he stood against the wall, Bodel indicated for Gavin to get to his feet. Sutton’s body was vibrating with the need to stop them, to keep them there, to do something, but all ideas had emptied out of the sink pan of his mind, down some mental drain that was now stoppered with fear, panic, and anger. Hill was on his way, but would he get here in time to stop them? It had only been twenty minutes since he had called him; Hill was meant to call Bocksham, but where was he? If Bodel managed to get away now they might never find him, and he would never see Gavin again…he was too important for Bodel’s “work” to ever be set free.

  Sutton watched as Bodel and Gavin edged in to the next room.

  Their progress was slow, but eventually they made it to the stone steps, and started up them.

  Sutton moved into the lab, staring up at their feet as they moved up to the ground floor and then were lost to sight in the hallway.

  He raced up the stone steps and as he reached the top he heard a shot. It froze him for perhaps half a second before he rushed out from under the stairs and in to the hall.

  Gavin was there in the front entrance hall, standing, shaking, but alive, oh God, alive, and whole, and free.

  Bodel was on the floor at his feet, twitching as the blood jetted from a hole somewhere near to where his heart was.

  Sutton looked out of the front door and saw Detective Sean Bocksham there, gun in hand.

  “Get an ambulance,” Sutton said him.

  “It’s on its way,” Sean said, with a look at Gavin.

  Sean nodded at Sutton and then went away to check on it anyway. Gavin and Sutton stood over Bodel in the flashing red and blue emergency lights, staring down at him as he suffered, struggling for breath, struggling for life.

  It took him about another twenty seconds to die, and when it was done, they both walked out together, Sutton with his arm around Gavin.

  *

  CHAPTER 23

  TUESDAY

  Where was Janice?

  She had to be here somewhere, and yet a search of the house had not located her.

  Gavin sat on the bonnet of Hill’s car. An old worn blanket had been thrown over his shoulders, but he still shivered.

  Hill had turned up only moments ago, and was now conferring with Detective Bocksham. Sutton looked over, and nodded at Sean, who acknowledged his thanks with a tilt of his head in return. His one friend in the police force…had he gone to bat for him against Bodel’s complaint? He must have done, for there was no one else who would.

  Sutton tried Janice’s mobile again, but it just went straight to voicemail.

  Oh God.

  Where was she?

  “Sutton,” Gavin called, and he went to join him.

  Sutton stared at him, and then shook his head.

  “I never thought…”

  “You weren’t meant to think,” Gavin said. He looked terrible: pale, sores on his face, hollow cheeks, bags under his eyes. And the needle mark in his neck for good measure. “Duplicate,” he added.

  “Hm. I should have seen it though…”

  He was thinking about the cocaine. Gavin would never take cocaine.

  At least both he and Diane had been right about that.

  Gavin smiled a tortured but at the same time virtuous smile.

  “I’m too valuable.”

  Sutton put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Not just to Bodel,” he said.

  Gavin put his own hand over Sutton’s and gave it a squeeze.

  “Listen,” Sutton said. “The nurse you gave the key to, that was helping you. Janice Richmond.”

  Gavin nodded.

  “She’s missing. Do you mind…?”

  Gavin waved him away.

  “Go.”

  “You’re alright?”

  “Just go.”

  Sutton nodded, went to leave, but then hesitated.

  “That solicitor girl?” He said. “Diane Gable?”

  Gavin looked up, a slight frown on his face.

  “She loves you. Will you marry her and put her out of her misery? For me?”

  He left Gavin puzzling over it.

  *

  Sutton raced through the streets of Bristol.

  He did not remember much of the journey. There were a series of car lights flashing at him, horns were honked, but he only really came back to himself when he reached the house.

  Before leaving, he had taken one last look at Janice’s car. Safety glass had fractured and covered the seat, and the floor. Other than that, there was nothing else to find. Except…

  Snagged on what remained of the safety glass in the window frame of the car door were green wool fibres.

  It couldn’t be…and yet it seemed that it was.

  The house – and the night – remained quiet. It was a small semi-detached post world war two building in Emerson’s Green. A blue Ford Cortina was parked in the driveway.

  As quietly as he could, he edged passed the car and opened the gate. The garden was unremarkable: an empty stone pond, a small patio, a washing line. He entered the house through the kitchen door. He could hear nothing. He moved into the dining room, but it was empty; no sign of a struggle. On the stairs he heard the muffled sound of someone in distress from above. There was a pause, and then only what could be described as a squeal. Someone chuckled. Sutton felt his skin crawl.

  Quickly, quietly, he mounted the stairs. The bathroom faced him. The master be
droom was to his left. The door was open enough so that he could enter the room without moving it…perhaps giving himself away in the process.

  Veronica had tied Janice to the four corners of the bed with blue rope, so that she lay spread eagled. She was naked; her clothes had been cut from her with a pair of pink handled scissors that now rested on the floor amongst Janice’s shredded garments. Janice had something white stuffed in her mouth – underwear, Sutton thought – secured with more blue rope wrapped around her head.

  Veronica had neatly removed her own clothes, folded them and put them on the dresser. There was also cocaine on the dresser, next to the clothes. And two bottles of whiskey, one full, one empty.

  Veronica knelt between Janice’s legs. She had an empty whiskey bottle in her hands. Sutton could clearly see what she was doing. It was in that moment that he was not sure he knew himself. He was cold…and yet at the same time his veins were on fire. For a split second, it was as if he were down the hall watching what was happening on a monitor.

  Veronica turned then, aware of his presence somehow; perhaps he said something, some exclamation, he wasn’t sure. He was sure that none of her viewers would have recognised the face that Veronica turned toward him: red, blotched, straining, covered liberally in sweat, her tongue poking out from between her clamped teeth, her hair in a sweaty, moist tangle, stuck to her forehead in three curling fingers.

  Unbelievably, she giggled.

  “Sutton.” She held up the whiskey bottle. “This whiskey was going in her one way or another…but she surprised me by taking it both ways.”

  Sutton rushed at Veronica. He didn’t know what he was going to do.

  What he did do was hit her. Perhaps harder than he had ever hit anyone.

  He did not hold anything back. It came all the way from behind him and he put all his weight behind it.

  He caught Veronica on the chin. Such was the force of the impact, she flew backwards off the bed, as if pulled by a string; she seemed to pivot on the point of her chin in the air, as if the point of impact had been her centre of gravity. She flipped almost three hundred and sixty degrees, hitting the wall with her shoulder and sliding down it to slump, unconscious, at the foot of it.

  For a moment, the world stopped. He thought he might have killed her. He must surely have broken her neck.

  But then she groaned and turned her head slightly.

  He looked at Janice. She was staring at him, wide eyed, shaking. Terrified.

  “Janice?” He said, coming to her, wanting to touch her face but instead going to the rope around her head, finding the knot and fumbling at it, getting it undone, Janice choking until he got the material out of her mouth.

  “Sutton, Sutton-“

  She sobbed once, explosively, gulped air, and then began crying in earnest. Sutton attended to the rope around her wrists next, and then to the rope around her ankles.

  Once free, she turned on to her side and curled into a ball.

  “Clothes,” Sutton said to himself, never realising he spoke aloud.

  He went to the wardrobe and selected the first warm clothes he came to. He had to dress her very, very carefully. Not only was she sore, but every human contact made her flinch.

  Oh, Janice. My poor beautiful Janice.

  *

  “Janice,” Sutton said gently.

  The sobbing continued, seemingly endless…and endlessly heart breaking.

  “Janice, we should go to a hospital.”

  She muttered something between her sobs.

  “What? Janice, I can’t-“

  “No,” she said forcefully.

  “Janice-“

  “Not the hospital.”

  “You’re hurt. We need someone to-“

  “Not the hospital,” she insisted, and lifted her head to look at him. Her skin was pale, and stretched tightly over her skull. Her eyes looked huge and somehow manic. “I work there. People know me there. I don’t want people to see me like this, to know about…to know…”

  She screwed her eyes shut as if straining against memory.

  “Alright,” he said placating. “Alright. No hospital.”

  *

  He arrived at Sutton’s flat an hour and ten minutes after being called, looking tired and dishevelled and carrying a dark worn case. He wore a different suit, of navy blue, but it was still too small for him. Sutton noticed again that, were he to be so dressed, he could easily be a Christmas card Santa Claus.

  “Where is she?” Dr Waverley asked, as he came in to the hall.

  “In the lounge. The bleedings stopped.”

  He nodded as if he already knew it.

  “Lead me to her,” he said.

  He followed Sutton along the hall to the lounge, where Janice sat nursing a cup of tea, covered in a blanket. She did not turn at their arrival, nor give any sign that she knew they were there.

  “Well now, child, what’s the matter here?” Waverley said, placing his case on the coffee table and opening it. She did not respond. She flinched at his initial touch, and then allowed herself to be examined. He looked in to her eyes and also in to her mouth, grunted, and stood a moment looking at her.

  “I’m Dr Waverley,” he said to her. “How do you feel?”

  She did not respond. Waverley grunted and went back to his bag and pawed through it. “Are you dizzy? Light headed?”

  There was a wait, and then eventually she said, “cold. I feel...cold.”

  Waverley turned to Sutton.

  “Can we have a moment of privacy, old boy?” He said. “Do you mind?”

  Sutton nodded and went and stood in his bedroom for ten minutes, just staring at the wall, until Waverley called him back in.

  The doctor produced from his bag a bottle of pills. He unscrewed the cap, delved inside, pulled out a pill, and held it between his thumb and index finger like you might hold a butterfly.

  “Open up then, there’s a good girl.”

  Janice opened her mouth obediently and Waverley popped the pill in.

  “Now, wash it down with a nice sip of tea.”

  She did.

  “Good. Now. Let’s get you to bed. Are you alright walking?”

  Dr Waverley coached her to her feet and then allowed Sutton to lead her back to the bedroom, where almost automatically she crawled under the covers and closed her eyes, and before he had chance to leave the room he heard a muffled snore floating softly from her mouth.

  He returned to the lounge where Dr Waverley was standing at the windows looking out. The sky was beginning to lighten, enough so that he could see the docks and the multi-coloured blocks of the buildings that made up Hotwells at the bottom of the hill.

  “Nice place you have here,” he said, turning.

  “Is she going to be alright?”

  Dr Waverley nodded.

  “There’s bruising, and some cuts, but nothing serious. Physically, she’ll be fine.”

  He held the bottle of pills up.

  “She’s to take these every night before she goes to bed,” he said. “It’s a sedative, is all. Unfortunately, there’s not much one can do for what she’s been through except to offer support, in whatever form she’ll take it. I don’t have any on me at the moment but I’ll leave you a prescription for Valium, which she is to take every few hours. It’ll level her out, for the time being anyway.” He shrugged. “It’s a stop-gap solution, nothing more, but unfortunately it’s all we can do for her at this time. She’s got to get through it, and the only person who can do that is herself. Does she have family?”

  Sutton nodded.

  “Might not she be better there?”

  “I offered. She didn’t want to go.”

  “Hm. So I assume she’ll be staying with you for a while?”

  He nodded.

  “As long as she needs to.”

  “Good. In a week, she’ll be better. If she can get through it. If she isn’t better…well, you have my number.”

  He stared at Sutton gravely until he nodde
d.

  “Well,” Dr Waverley said, picking up his case. “If you don’t mind, old boy, I think I’ll be going. Got to be up in an hour for work, you know. Although at this point it seems a little foolish to go back to bed.”

  Sutton walked him to the door and said, “can I give you something? For your trouble?”

  He turned to him, and was surprised to see a delighted look on his face.

  “Not really,” he said. “This is all part of the glorious service provided by the NHS.”

  “Still,” Sutton said, feeling that he had an obligation to him for his time.

  The doctor stared, and then his eyes flicked over his shoulder.

  “Well,” he said. “I happen to be a great lover of art. And there’s a space on my wall that that painting right there would occupy very nicely.”

  He pointed, and Sutton turned and realised he was looking at the John J Muth original he had acquired some months back, a haunting scene in watercolours, a man and a woman, the woman kneeling at the man’s feet, their faces in shadow.

  Sutton went to it and took it from the wall and without a word gave it to him. Waverley was delighted all over again.

  “Call me any time, young man,” he said, and left.

  *

  CHAPTER 24

  EPILOGUE

  Boxing Day.

  Gavin’s lounge was warm and inviting. Diane and Hill sat on the long leather sofa, chatting, while Gavin busied himself with drinks in the kitchen. Sutton wondered how he could stand it, to be living in a place with so many bad memories; not just the abduction, but those lonely years after Rachel had passed…but Sutton supposed he couldn’t, which was why he was selling it.