Dean bashed his fist against the bricks in frustration, then re-crossed the road to check on Liz. ‘You okay?’ he grunted, reaching out a hand and pulling her to her feet. ‘There’s blood on your arm.’
She looked where he was pointing. Her sleeve had ripped away at the shoulder where the man had scratched her. Two red stripes marked the flesh beneath. Small droplets of blood welled up through the broken skin. She wiped them away with her palm. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Just a scratch.’
Dean gave her a grim look. ‘The bastard just slipped out of our hands. Was that a man or a monster?’
Liz shrugged. In her experience, the two were often the same.
They gave their statements to the commanding officer. There’d be a ton of paperwork to complete in the morning no doubt, but for now they could do no more.
On the way home, Liz’s phone rang, its shrill ringtone cutting through the shocked numbness of her thoughts. She answered it in a daze. ‘Hello?’
‘Am I speaking to Police Constable Liz Bailey?’ asked a voice. It was a woman’s voice, smooth as honey, yet a cold dread seized Liz’s heart.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Chanita,’ said the woman. ‘The nurse from the hospital. I said I would call you about David Morgan, if his situation changed.’
‘Yes,’ repeated Liz. Her heart was suddenly hammering inside her chest.
‘I’m so sorry. He passed away about an hour ago.’
‘Thank you,’ said Liz. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
King’s College Hospital, Lambeth, South London
Chanita Allen had arrived in Britain as a girl of eighteen, bringing nothing with her except a small suitcase packed with clothes, and a big heart full of dreams. The clothes in her suitcase had consisted mostly of thin summer dresses suitable for the Caribbean island she had called home, and they had quickly been replaced with warmer sweaters, coats and jackets. Over the years she had also swapped girlhood for womanhood, and yet she had never given up on her dreams.
The dreams Chanita brought with her across the ocean had been painted in the vivid hues of the Leeward Islands, and in particular the bright forest green of Montserrat, known as the emerald isle of the Caribbean. The island of Montserrat had once seemed to her like a paradise. With its sunny subtropical climate tempered by fresh trade winds, it had been an easy place to live. Even the occasional cloudbursts that brought rain across the ocean had been refreshing. The island was dense with beauty, from its smooth sandy beaches to the green forested heights of the Soufrière Hills and the Great Alps waterfall. Yet all the while, a malevolent monster had lain concealed within the heart of fair Montserrat. One day, heaven had turned to a fiery hell when the Soufrière Hills volcano erupted, spilling ash and fire across the emerald island, destroying Chanita’s home, and the lives of everyone she knew.
Some said that the old island gods had grown angry. At what, they could not say, for the volcano had slumbered peacefully enough for centuries. But whatever their reasons, they had devastated the island and left it almost uninhabitable. Whether they were justified in their anger was not for Chanita to say. Instead she clung to her dreams. For while life had thrown both joys and miseries in Chanita’s direction, her dreams endured, built as they were on simplicity and practicality. Her dreams had been nothing more nor less than to help others.
Years of working long hours in London hospitals beneath leaden skies hadn’t caused the dreams to fade, for the more misery and suffering Chanita encountered, the more she was able to help. She no longer believed in paradise, whether on an island or elsewhere, and she knew that the direction of her life could change in a heartbeat, but despite that, wherever she found herself, she made the world better by helping others.
Some people described Chanita as a saint, but Chanita didn’t believe in saints, and the outbreak of the bite cases had stretched even her patience to breaking point. The ward was as busy as any time she could remember. As soon as a bed was vacated, another patient filled it. Some, like PC David Morgan, passed away. Others, like James Beaumont, were discharged.
The bed occupied by James was now taken by an elderly patient with pneumonia, Mr Lancross. James had been a pleasant, polite boy, who hadn’t asked for much. Chanita had heard the story of how he’d saved the lives of a group of children, getting his arm bitten in the process. In contrast, Mr Lancross was a grumpy old man, forever finding reasons to summon Chanita to his bedside. He had called her again just now, probably for some trivial matter.
‘Yes, Mr Lancross?’ she said wearily, as she arrived at the old man’s bedside. The old man waved a weak hand at her and beckoned her close. He was in his eighties and had great difficulty breathing. It wasn’t surprising he was grumpy. ‘What can I do for you?’ Chanita asked him, not unkindly.
‘That man in the next bed. He frightens me.’
Chanita glanced sideways at the patient. Jack Clarke, according to his notes. Another bite victim, like James.
Chanita shuddered. She understood how Mr Lancross felt. The bite victims had a sinister quality to them. Even when they recovered, they still seemed damaged in some way.
She didn’t know what was going on, but the number of bite attacks had continued to rise in recent weeks. At first she’d wondered if it was a new strain of rabies, but the incubation period was far too short for that. Rabies normally took weeks to produce symptoms after a bite, but with this new condition, a bite could lead to anaphylactic shock within minutes. Most frightening of all was that the latest victims had been bitten not by dogs, or wolves, but by other people.
This man, Jack Clarke, was in his late thirties and had somehow found himself at the wrong end of a set of sharp teeth. He’d been admitted directly to Intensive Care, and had remained unconscious for most of the first week or so, before starting to show signs of improvement. His fever had gone, and he was recovering steadily from his infection. He was asleep now, and had been all morning. He still had an IV drip in his arm, and a breathing tube down his throat, but he was well past the critical stage.
She sympathized with the old man, Mr Lancross, but she didn’t have the authority to move patients around. ‘Mr Lancross, there really isn’t anything I can do. All the beds are full, and I can’t move people just because you don’t like them.’
‘There’s something wrong with him,’ grumbled the old man. ‘He keeps looking at me in a funny way.’
‘The man is barely conscious, Mr Lancross.’
The old man shook his head with surprising vigour. ‘He wakes up and stares at me. His eyes are bright yellow. I heard him say he wants to eat me.’
‘Eat you?’ repeated Chanita. A cold feeling gripped her. The old man was half-deaf, but the words sounded chillingly familiar. She glanced over at the sleeping man. His chest rose and fell smoothly. His restraining straps had been removed a few days ago. He didn’t look a threat. He probably couldn’t even climb out of bed on his own. ‘You probably just misheard him, Mr Lancross.’
‘The man’s a nutcase. He should be in a psychiatric ward. I don’t feel safe.’
The old man was right. The bite cases ought to be kept in a separate ward, even the ones that seemed to be recovering well. Until they really knew what was happening, the risk of mixing patients was too great. ‘I’ll speak to Doctor Kapoor and see if we can get this patient moved.’ She squeezed his hand and he gave her a toothless grin.
‘Thank you, my dear.’ He no longer seemed grumpy at all.
Chanita went in search of Doctor Kapoor and found him examining a patient in a nearby ward. The doctor seemed to have aged in recent weeks. The thin lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened into furrows. She wondered how many hours it had been since he’d last slept. ‘Doctor Kapoor? May I have a word?’
The doctor gave her a thin smile of acknowledgment. ‘Chanita. Of course.’ He finished with his patient and led her into a small staff office. ‘Do you mind if we sit down?
’ He dropped into one of the plastic chairs and removed his glasses, giving his dark eyes a rub. ‘What can I do for you?’
Chanita sat opposite him. Without his glasses, the doctor looked vulnerable and all too fragile. ‘It’s the bite patients, Doctor. I think we need to isolate them from other patients. They’re too dangerous.’
Doctor Kapoor frowned, the lines around his eyes deepening further. ‘I’m not sure we can do that. We don’t have enough beds. It would mean reorganizing the wards, reallocating staff, …’
She cut him off abruptly. ‘One of them just threatened to eat another patient.’
The doctor’s face crumpled at the news. Chanita realized that he was completely exhausted. ‘Which patient made the threat?’ he asked.
‘Jack Clarke. He was moved onto the ward two days ago, and he’s been sleeping most of the time, but …’
‘I know Jack Clarke. I moved him out of Intensive Care because another level-one trauma case was admitted and we needed to free a bed. I thought he would be safe to move.’ The doctor rubbed his eyes again. ‘Jack Clarke was the least sick patient. I didn’t know what else to do.’
Chanita hesitated, then took the doctor’s hands gently in her own. ‘We’re becoming overwhelmed, aren’t we?’
He smiled at her, suddenly shy and boyish at her touch. ‘Not overwhelmed. The official word is challenged. The Medical Director told me so himself, just this morning.’
‘So you’ve already spoken to him? Will he provide more resources?’
‘No.’ The doctor’s smile died on his face. ‘He’s keeping the situation under review. In the meantime, I suggest you keep a close eye on Jack Clarke.’
Chapter Thirty
Leay Street, Battersea, South London
When PC Dean Arnold arrived home, his wife, Samantha, was waiting up for him, an anxious look on her face. He pulled off his coat and shoes and kissed her on the cheek. He was surprised by how hard she hugged him to her.
‘Everything okay?’ he asked. ‘Did Lily get off to sleep all right?’ Their two-year-old daughter had been wakeful this past week as the last of her baby teeth painfully emerged from her gums.
Samantha brushed her long hair out of her eyes. ‘The teething kept her awake for a long time, but she’s gone to sleep now.’
‘I wish I could have been here.’ Dean checked the time on his watch. A quarter to midnight. Samantha looked exhausted. ‘You go to bed,’ he told her. ‘I’ll wait up and listen out for Lily waking. I haven’t seen her all day.’
His wife looked at him apprehensively. ‘You look dog-tired already, love. What happened?’
He sat down heavily on the sofa, letting the padded leather take the weight off his feet. ‘Another killing, up on the Common. The murderer was still at the scene, as bold as brass. Red-handed.’ An image of the man’s bloody hands clutching his victim’s heart flashed into his mind. ‘I chased him across the Common, but he climbed over a wall.’
‘I saw the story on the news. They said he’d been arrested.’
‘Arrested? No, he got away. It was damn frustrating. He was just yards away from me.’
Samantha shook her head. ‘They chased him with a helicopter and cars and cornered him by the old sewage works. He’s been arrested, love. He was a Romanian man. The police said they’d caught the Ripper.’
Dean let his body sag against the sofa cushions. ‘Well, good. I’m glad they got the bastard. I just wish I could have caught him myself.’
Samantha sat next to him, putting her arm around his shoulder. ‘You did your best, Dean.’
‘I don’t know what else I could have done. That man… he was barely human. I’ve never seen anything like it. He was a savage. When I chased him … I dunno what happened, Sam, he just ran straight over that damn wall like it wasn’t even there. I don’t know how.’
Samantha said nothing. It wasn’t words he wanted, but her warm touch. She held his big clumsy hands in hers. They were so small and delicate, and so full of tenderness.
He found himself wondering about the man who had been murdered this evening, his body defiled so horribly. Who was he, and was someone waiting anxiously for him to return home? If so, they would never see him alive, never hold his hands in theirs again. His thoughts drifted to the killer with the wild look in his eyes. He, too, could have been anyone. But he’d been caught at last. The world was safe again.
But for some strange reason, Dean didn’t feel any comfort from the news of the killer’s arrest. Perhaps he’d seen too much tonight. Things that he would never be able to forget. ‘I don’t know what’s happening out there,’ he said. ‘The Ripper, the Beast … the world’s going mad.’
‘You’re home now,’ said Samantha, leaning in close to kiss him. ‘You’re safe.’
‘I’m going to keep you safe too,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens. I promise I’ll keep you and Lily safe.’ Samantha released his hands and he patted her swollen belly. ‘And this one too. I’ll keep you all safe.’
She kissed him on the lips, then started to undo the buttons of his shirt. She kissed him again, longer this time. ‘Let’s go upstairs. We can wait up for Lily together.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Park Lane, Mayfair, Central London
Melanie Margolis languished naked in the hotel bed as her latest conquest continued to shower. She could hear the hot water gushing, hear him humming tunelessly as he scrubbed and soaped. She pictured him standing in the shower cubicle, rubbing his body with complimentary products, possibly imagining her hands on his skin again, reliving the experience. He was probably telling himself how lucky he was, or more likely, that he deserved a woman like her, that he was somehow entitled to her.
She would teach him a lesson about entitlement.
She flung the white cotton sheets away and slid out of bed, moving gracefully and silently on her bare feet. Cool winter light filtered through the window blinds and she couldn’t resist parting them to peep out. The hotel stood on Park Lane, and from her tenth-floor vantage point she could see right across the green space of Hyde Park, the silvery-blue curve of the Serpentine Lake snaking before her, the elegant lines of Kensington Palace and its royal gardens beyond. She adored this part of London. She could happily look at it for hours, but unfortunately she would have to forego that pleasure today.
Her clothes were still scattered across the floor of the hotel room, where she had allowed him to undress her. She gathered them up and dressed quickly. On the other side of the bathroom door the flow of water stopped, and she heard the glass door of the shower open and close, presumably as he reached for the towel. His humming resumed again.
She was dressed now. She picked through his clothing, also cast aside in passion. She found his wallet easily enough in his jacket pocket. Quality leather, stuffed with crisp bank notes, and a good collection of store and credit cards too. She took them all. She’d already found out his PIN when they checked into the hotel. It would be the same PIN for all the cards. It always was.
She left his phone in his jacket pocket. She had no desire to be mean.
The humming stopped and she heard the shower door open and close again. Quickly now. It would be easier if she were gone before he saw her. She straightened her hair in the wall mirror and crossed the room quietly, her heels leaving tiny indentations in the thick carpet. She slipped the chain off the door.
Behind her, the bathroom door opened and he stepped out, naked as a baby, a big grin plastered across his face. ‘Melanie?’ The grin quickly turned to disappointment. ‘Weren’t you going to say goodbye?’
‘It’s easier this way,’ she told him.
‘I see.’
He didn’t of course. Soon he would, and she would need to be long gone by then.
‘Will I see you again?’ he asked.
She admired his optimism. She could have laughed in his face, but there was no need to be cruel. He would discover the truth soon enough. She shook her head, making her long black hair sway from side to
side. Nature had been generous with Melanie’s hair. It was one of her best assets. That, plus her skin, her figure, and her devious and merciless guile.
He crossed the room toward her. ‘Let me give you one last kiss.’
Danger signal. She should run. He was still stark naked. She could be out and away before he had a chance of following. To stay risked discovery, or worse. But she had hesitated, and already he had halved the distance that separated them.
She pasted a smile on her face and stepped into his embrace. ‘A goodbye kiss,’ she said.
He was in no hurry for her to go. He made the kiss last, and she could feel that he wanted more. She extricated herself from the embrace at last, making it clear that his time was up.
‘You sure we can’t meet again?’ he asked, offering her the most charming smile in his arsenal.
She had to laugh at that. The guy certainly didn’t quit easily. ‘Best not.’ She opened the door and slid through the gap.
The elevators were a little way along the corridor. She swayed over to them and pressed the Down button. A green arrow blinked on. She wondered where she would head first. Her favourite department stores were all in easy range. With any luck she’d have at least an hour before he cancelled the cards. In that time, she could clock up a five-figure spend without breaking sweat. She already had an itemized mental shopping list. Start with diamonds, that was the number-one rule.
The number next to the green arrow was slowly counting down. 14, 13, 12 …
The room door opened and he stepped into the corridor. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘My wallet!’ He still had no clothes on, not even his underwear. Interesting. She wondered if she’d finally met her match.
The door to the elevator slid open with a ping. She held the wallet up for him to see, noting the look of consternation on his face.
A door to another room opened and a chambermaid emerged, wheeling a trolley stacked high with laundry. Her hand flew to her mouth at the sight of the naked man and she screamed.
Lycanthropic (Book 1): Wolf Blood Page 14
