Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1)

by Paddy Magrane

  They were soon jogging down a corridor towards a bank of lifts, dodging hospital staff and slow-moving patients shuffling along in dressing gowns.

  On the hospital’s third floor, the reception at Kennet Ward was manned by three nurses – one with her head deep in paperwork, two others sharing a joke as they adjusted a saline drip. The corridor beyond was alive with activity – families sitting outside rooms, doctors clustered in small groups with nursing staff – and it was only as Eleanor approached reception that Sam saw, much further down the corridor, two policemen.

  ‘Stop,’ whispered Sam, grabbing her arm.

  Eleanor looked at him. He nodded in the policemen’s direction. ‘I bet they’re here for Jane Vyner,’ he said, his voice still low. ‘It’s a road traffic accident. They will need to interview her. I’m not sure we want to be drawing attention to ourselves by lying.’

  Eleanor’s arm, which had tensed against his hand, relaxed a fraction.

  The people in the corridor parted as a trolley was wheeled through their midst. A small group in green scrubs accompanied it. As it neared, Sam could see that the figure on the trolley – what was visible of her – was a woman.

  The patient was in a surgical gown, spotted with blood on her legs and arms. There was a large dressing to the right side of her head. Her eyes were closed.

  As they passed, one of the figures in green handed a piece of paper to another in the group.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Crescent-shaped deformity so…’

  ‘Come on, come on. No time to hesitate in these situations.’

  ‘Subdural haemorrhage?’

  ‘Good. But not good for our patient. That said, for a car crash of this severity, she’s bloody lucky it’s not worse.’

  The group moved on.

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Eleanor, with a shudder. ‘She’s in a right bloody mess.’

  ‘And unconscious for some hours yet.’

  Sam, who still held Eleanor’s arm, felt her tense again.

  ‘I have to talk to her.’

  Chapter 23

  Reading, Berkshire

  It was 8pm when Eleanor and Sam returned to the hospital. Five hours had passed since they’d seen Jane Vyner on her way to surgery. They’d hidden in a dark corner of a pub for the afternoon, nursing one soft drink after another. Sam had insisted on a table with a view of the front and back doors.

  Returning to the hospital seemed to Sam like tempting fate. There was also the matter of the lie that needed to be told to gain access to Jane Vyner, who just might be out of surgery and awake, if still heavily sedated. If her family were present – or the police – it was out of the question.

  The lift doors opened on to Kennet Ward and a view of the town spread out in front of them, a mass of lights in a darkening cityscape. To their right was the reception desk and beyond, the corridor, now dimmed. Compared to earlier, it was eerily quiet. The reception was unmanned. Further down the corridor, there was no sign of the police, nor indeed anyone else.

  They moved down the corridor, through a set of swing doors into a ward. There were around twenty beds, about a quarter of which were occupied. Patients, many of whom were on drips and connected to heart monitors, appeared heavily sedated, barely reacting to the presence of two strangers wandering through their midst, scrutinising them.

  The doors ahead of them suddenly swung open and a tall male nurse in a lilac uniform rushed past before either of them had a chance to ask where Jane Vyner was. As the man passed, Sam caught a glimpse of his face – narrow eyes that flared briefly as they took in Sam and Eleanor.

  Sam felt an inexplicable chill run through him, as if he’d seen a ghost. He took Eleanor by the elbow, moving her swiftly through the next set of doors.

  They were now on a corridor of private rooms. Sam and Eleanor scanned the windows to see if they could spot Jane Vyner. As they began to wonder whether they were in the wrong ward, they heard a commotion at the far end of the passage.

  The door to a private room was open and Sam and Eleanor saw two nurses and a doctor moving about the bed. The doctor was standing over the patient conducting chest compressions while one of the nurses was pumping a bag connected to a mask over a woman’s mouth and nose. Despite the commotion, Sam could hear the sound of an automated, American-accented voice: ‘Analysing rhythm,’ it said. There was a pause, then: ‘No shock required; resume CPR.’

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ said Eleanor.

  The doctor and nurse continued their ritual for a few more minutes. Then the metallic voice uttered the same three phrases. The doctor stopped for a moment, feeling the woman’s neck. He shook his head, then looked at his watch.

  ‘Time of death, 8.10pm,’ he said.

  ‘I just don’t understand it,’ said one of the nurses. ‘I passed by a quarter of an hour ago and Miss Vyner seemed comfortable.’

  Sam’s blood ran cold. Suddenly he remembered where he’d seen that face before. The narrow-eyed nurse was the man who’d chased him through the cemetery.

  The hospital, a place packed with skilled staff and sophisticated equipment dedicated to preserving and prolonging life, now felt as defenceless as the woman lying on the bed before them. Sam glanced over his shoulder. The walls of the empty corridor seemed to close in on him, their escape route suddenly loaded with danger.

  Chapter 24

  Reading, Berkshire

  The narrow-eyed man reappeared in Sam’s mind more menacing than ever before. This had to be his work.

  A thought occurred to Sam, one that made his mouth go dry and the breath catch in his throat. They’d led the man right to Jane Vyner.

  Eleanor was standing in a state of shock, staring at the now slower activity around Jane Vyner’s bed. The doctor was filling in a form while a nurse pulled the sheets back over Vyner, as if making her comfortable. Another nurse gently closed her eyes.

  Sam was desperate to get Eleanor out of here and by as public and busy a route as possible. If the narrow-eyed man was prepared to snuff out a woman in the midst of a hospital ward, Sam suspected he wouldn’t hesitate to take them out in whatever way was convenient.

  ‘Come on,’ said Sam, placing a hand in the small of Eleanor’s back. ‘We need to get out of here.’

  Eleanor, numbed by what she’d seen, snapped into the moment.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll explain when we’re out of the hospital.’

  Eleanor stiffened but still allowed Sam to lead her back the way they’d come. The ward felt darker and more threatening now, as if someone might spring from the shadows at any moment.

  As they approached the lift and stairwell, Sam began weighing up their two escape options. The lift, though direct, was a confined space and a primal instinct – one forged in his early childhood – was screaming ‘no’. The stairs seemed a better option – more open, and with a number of potential escape routes.

  Sam closed his eyes and re-opened them. Focus, he thought. As far as he could see, the murderer was no longer on this floor. In reality, what were the chances of him being on a floor below, waiting for a lift to descend from the third floor in the hope that it contained Sam and Eleanor – and they were alone? Sam pressed the button.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ said Eleanor.

  Sam watched the red light above the button he’d just pressed. It was still on ‘0’. Finally it inched to ‘1’, then stopped. He turned to look into Eleanor’s eyes for signs of runaway anxiety. She was clearly hyper alert, but didn’t appear to be in a state of extreme alarm. He risked the truth.

  ‘The male nurse we passed,’ he said, ‘the man in lilac.’

  Eleanor nodded, frown lines appearing across her forehead.

  ‘I’ve seen him before. He was the one who pulled a knife on me in the cemetery.’

  There was a ‘ping’ heralding the arrival of the lift. The doors opened to reveal a trolley on
which a sedated elderly man was lying, his chest connected via a series of pads and wires to an ECG monitor. Behind him were three men in green still wearing surgical bandannas.

  The sight of these professionals seemed to calm Eleanor. Sam watched her take a deep breath as the trolley moved past. They then moved into the lift.

  They were silent as the lift descended, Sam experiencing every second of the journey as an eternity.

  On the ground floor, they passed through the crowded corridors to the hospital’s main entrance. Outside, a wiry man wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown was sucking on a cigarette as if it were oxygen and he’d just escaped a blazing building.

  They crossed a road to the multi-storey car park.

  The lift was out of order so they began to climb the stairs. They had two flights to ascend before they reached the level where the car was parked. The stairs, tagged in graffiti and smelling of disinfectant and urine, were well-lit, yet Sam was now sure that an attacker was behind every corner.

  On the second floor they walked slowly towards the car. There were now just a handful of vehicles in the car park. If the murderer knew that Eleanor drove a Mini – which, given his knowledge of their movements, was highly likely – then he was probably waiting for them.

  Eleanor reached into her coat pocket for the car fob. She pressed it and the Mini’s lights blinked to attention. If the narrow-eyed man hadn’t seen or heard them coming yet, he would have now. The car was on its own at the end of a row which meant that Sam could see right around – and underneath – it as he approached. There didn’t appear to be anyone hiding nearby. But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t watching from another place.

  They reached the car, Sam’s mind now alive with other possibilities: the car exploding the moment the engine started; the lights of another car facing them head on as soon as they turned to leave.

  Eleanor handed him the keys, clearly too shaken to drive.

  Sam started the engine then eased the car slowly out of the space and towards the ramp down to the first level.

  There were no explosions, no other headlights. They passed through the barrier and out into the street.

  Whatever relief Sam felt soon evaporated. Traffic was moving painfully slowly, their swift escape from Reading thwarted.

  Sam looked ahead and behind, to his left and right. The driver to his side, a man in his fifties; the woman on the pavement in a dark tracksuit and baseball cap. Suddenly he saw threats everywhere.

  Chapter 25

  Downing Street

  ‘He did what?’

  The generously proportioned private apartment above the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s official residence, 11 Downing Street, had, since Blair’s day, been the home of the Prime Minister. The Chancellor, meanwhile, had been forced to move next door, to the pokey one-bedroom flat above Number 10.

  Stirling hadn’t reversed the tradition, insisting on the larger apartment. As far as he was concerned, the business of Government went on long after you’d shut the front door of your home. If that home happened to be a broom cupboard, surely that affected the quality of the decisions made?

  Right now however, seated at the kitchen table, a rapidly shrinking bottle of single malt on the table before him, the idea of superior decisions being made about the future course of the country seemed fanciful. There was nothing lofty about the conversation taking place – one that was largely conducted in strained whispers. In fact Stirling felt as if he had descended into the ninth circle of hell and was sitting, waist deep in ice, with the big man himself.

  It was the PM who’d called the meeting. That morning another of Frears’ poisonous little messages had appeared on his BlackBerry. It had taken till late in the evening to find a moment to talk. Charlotte and Aidan were in the sitting room, slumped in front of a film. The kitchen door was closed.

  Frears had told him how Eleanor Scott was now with Keddie, what his team had learned from Diana Tennant and what had happened since, including Jane Vyner’s death.

  ‘This is an operation that requires on-the-spot decision-making. I made a call. Or would you rather I had cleared it with you first?’

  ‘But we’re not even sure she knew anything.’ Stirling’s voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘She was Scott’s lover,’ said Frears.

  According to the information gleaned from Diana Tennant, it was a short-lived affair, a matter of months. This, thought Stirling, might explain why it was news to him.

  ‘We could not afford to have her mouthing off to Eleanor Scott and Keddie.’ The Guardsman enunciated his syllables with nauseating precision.

  ‘But your man smothered her, for Christ’s sake!’ The words caught in Stirling’s throat.

  The Prime Minister could hear the sound of a car chase from the television in the sitting room across the hallway, brakes screeching, accelerating engines, then gunfire.

  He longed, right then, to disappear, to evaporate into thin air. His reality had become, in the blink of an eye, the most terrifying place imaginable. He poured himself another inch of whisky, downing it in one. The peaty liquid burned a passage down his throat to his stomach. A temporary warmth. His body felt icy.

  ‘There were nursing staff and other patients around. He had to act fast.’

  Stirling said nothing.

  ‘He took precautions,’ continued Frears.

  Stirling was still silent, his eyes locked on to a set of breakfast cereal boxes arranged on the granite top opposite him.

  ‘Where did you get this man from,’ muttered Stirling, ‘Broadmoor?’

  ‘Given the task in hand, you should be grateful it’s him doing your work,’ hissed Frears back. ‘You came to me because you had no one else to turn to. I assembled the best team I could, given the difficult circumstances. This man was thinking on his feet – we both were – which is exactly what a rapidly changing situation demands.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have –’

  ‘Have what?’ snapped Frears.

  ‘– acted with a little restraint?’

  Frears said nothing. The answer was obvious.

  Stirling ran the fingers of both hands through his curly hair. He then gripped the locks and pulled till his scalp hurt in the hope that he would wake some dormant brain cells to provide a miraculous route out of this almighty mess. They didn’t.

  Frears was right of course, but he couldn’t help but see a long trail of shit leading all the way to his door. First Scott commits suicide, then his former lover totals her car.

  Think, he thought. Think. An alternate narrative began forming in his head. He felt his blood pressure lowering. Scott had overdosed. There was evidence. Vyner, driving recklessly out of her mind with grief, had been involved in a massive traffic accident. Her injuries had been so severe, she’d died in hospital. There was, if Frears was to be believed, no evidence of foul play.

  But what about Keddie and Eleanor Scott? Perhaps a fresh approach was necessary. Perhaps the dogs needed to be put back on the leash. Perhaps they could negotiate, avoid a pile-up of corpses. He reached for the whisky bottle, then pulled his hand back. He couldn’t think straight and the malt wasn’t going to help. Whenever decision-making was required of him in Government, there was always an Oxbridge cleverdick around to sound ideas against. But now all he had was a murderous soldier.

  ‘It’s like I said the other day, Prime Minister,’ said Frears, as if hearing Stirling’s thoughts. ‘Right now, we’re in the containment business.’

  ‘If we’re really in the “containment” business,’ snapped Stirling, ‘then how come my son managed to slip out?’

  ‘We were very stretched,’ countered Frears. ‘Besides, he was unmedicated, which wasn’t our fault.’

  Fair point, thought the PM. That was Charlotte’s department, and she’d screwed up. Another thought, one that made Stirling feel even colder, suddenly entered his mind. What if Frears himself needed ‘containing’? If, even with the considerable payments he received from a trust buried
deep in Charlotte’s family’s accounts, he decided to blackmail him?

  Stirling shook the thought from his head. Too much. This had to be taken one day at a time. One hour at a time.

  ‘Where are they now?’ he asked, his voice still quiet.

  ‘We’re not sure. We lost them outside Reading.’

  Stirling groaned. ‘You “lost them”.’

  Frears titled his head a fraction. Stirling sensed that sarcasm was on its way. ‘We don’t have the resources of MI5 at our disposal to track calls or monitor CCTV. Unless you’d like to ask them to give us a helping hand.’ Frears smirked. ‘But we do have people at all the base points – the family home in Sussex, Eleanor Scott’s place in London, Keddie’s house, Charles Scott’s flat. They will show up.’

  Stirling let his head fall backwards, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. He had to assume the Guardsman was right. That Keddie and Eleanor Scott would reappear. And they weren’t right now heading for a tête-à-tête with some hack from the Guardian.

  He sighed, then brought his head forward, looking Frears squarely in the eye. Directness. That would help, he thought. The Guardsman clearly felt that he was not taking enough responsibility for this.

  ‘When you do catch up with them, I’m wondering whether a new approach might be helpful? Maybe attempt to negotiate. Avoid any more bodies.’

  Frears frowned. ‘My man at the hospital is certain they recognised him. They know we’re active. That, without doubt, we have a secret that we will kill to keep hidden. The time for conversation – for discovering what they may or may not know – is over.’

  ‘And you think you can make it look like an accident?’ He felt his stomach drop, his bowels loosen. He’d known Eleanor Scott since she was a baby. Smart child. Always asking bloody questions.

  ‘All we require is the right opportunity.’

  Stirling swallowed hard, barely able to believe he was speaking the words. ‘Then let’s hope such an opportunity presents itself.’