by James Carol
54
The roar of the Eurocopter EC145’s engines filled my head. Even with the headphones on they were still deafening. My body was vibrating in time with the beat of the blades, a deep, dull throb that went right through me. The clouds were dark and low, and the helicopter skirted the bottoms of them, bumping and pitching through pockets of turbulence.
The guy at the stick was a working pilot so passenger comfort was way down on his list of priorities. He’d been told to get from A to B as quickly as possible, and that’s exactly what he was doing. He flew hard and fast, like he was headed into a war zone to pick up the wounded. It was like being on a rollercoaster, only way more fun. We hit another patch of turbulence and Templeton rolled her eyes. Her knuckles were shining white from gripping her safety harness.
We came in slow and low over the hospital, nose down, tail up. The pilot levelled out and we hovered suspended in the air for a couple of seconds, then landed gently on the grass. The engines whined down to nothing and the blades slowed to a stop, but it still took a moment to register that what I was now hearing was silence. Bristol was a hundred miles from London as the crow flies. From takeoff to touchdown the journey had taken forty-five minutes, half the time it would have taken in a fast car in good traffic with the blue lights flashing.
Glenside Hospital had started life as a lunatic asylum. During the war it was used as a military hospital, and these days it was part of the University of the West of England. The old asylum buildings could still be seen interspersed amongst the newer buildings. Glimpses of the Gothic, shadows of the manic and the mad.
The museum was housed in the church. It was past closing time, but Hatcher had got someone to call ahead to say we were coming. Templeton knocked on the heavy oak door. It was dark and cold, and I wanted to be in California more than ever. I stamped my feet to get my circulation going, flapped my arms against my jacket in a vain attempt to find some warmth. Templeton didn’t notice the cold, or, if she did, she wasn’t letting it show.
A key rattled in the lock and the door swung open. Elizabeth Dryden introduced herself and waved us inside. Dryden was well past retirement age, seventy plus, maybe even eighty. She was thin and birdlike and moved in slow motion like she was suffering from arthritis. Her white hair was tied up in a severe bun and she wore a tweed suit. A pair of spectacles hung from the chain around her neck and she spoke with a plummy BBC accent that was straight out of the fifties.
The building still smelled like a church, old wood and incense and candle smoke imprinted into the stones. The pews were all gone, replaced with static displays that traced the history of psychiatric care from the late 1800s onwards.
‘The police weren’t particularly interested in the theft before,’ said Dryden. ‘Why the change of heart?’
‘We believe it may be linked to a current case,’ I said.
‘An important case, judging by the fact you’ve flown all the way from London. When the theft originally happened, it took the best part of a day to get a policeman out in a car. Your accent. You’re American.’
‘Originally from Northern California.’
‘And now you work for the Metropolitan Police.’
‘I’ve been brought in to consult on a case.’
‘This has something to do with those women who were lobotomised, doesn’t it? You think our orbitoclast was used on them?’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Of course I’ll help in any way I can.’
‘Can you show us the display the orbitoclast was stolen from?’
‘Certainly. This way.’
Dryden led us through the nave and turned right into the south transept, her keys rattling in time with her footsteps. She stopped at a static display that depicted a man strapped to a table. Thick leather straps held his arms and legs in place, and another strap was fixed across his forehead. His head was tilted back as far as it would go to give easier access to the eye sockets, and there was a man in a white coat and a white mask to give the illusion that this was a medical procedure. A small glass-topped display case contained the equipment used. An orbitoclast had pride of place in the middle of the cabinet.
Dryden saw where I was looking and said, ‘Obviously that’s not our original.’
‘Can I see it, please?’
‘Certainly.’
Dryden unlocked the display case and lifted the lid. She used both hands to pick up the orbitoclast, handling it like it was a religious artefact, and passed it to me.
The orbitoclast was lighter than I expected, but at the same time it felt heavier. I had a sense of its history, a sense of the atrocities that had been carried out with it. The metal had blackened and roughened over the years. I studied it carefully, looking at it from all angles, then passed it to Templeton. She didn’t want to take it. She gave it a perfunctory once-over then handed it back to Dryden like she couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. Dryden put it back in the case and fussed with it, moving it a little left and a little right until she was satisfied it was in the exact same position as before.
‘What happened?’ I asked her.
‘The thief walked up to the display case as bold as brass, smashed the glass, grabbed the orbitoclast then ran out. It was all over very quickly.’
‘Can you tell me anything about the man who did this? Anything at all?’
Dryden’s face wrinkled into a puzzled frown. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got your wires crossed there. It wasn’t a man who stole it, it was a woman.’
Templeton glanced at me and her eyes flashed with excitement. We were both thinking the same thing: the subservient partner.
‘I noticed the security cameras when we came in,’ said Templeton. ‘I don’t suppose you caught her on film?’
‘I did. Would you like to see it?’
‘That would be great,’ said Templeton.
Dryden took us to a small room that had once been the vicar’s office. Everything was made from heavy dark wood, lots of carvings and frills and ostentatious ornamentation. There were faded religious paintings on all the walls, and a large crucifix hung behind the desk. Chances were nothing had changed since the building was used as a church. Dryden sat down at the computer and pulled up the CCTV footage.
‘Sorry, but we only have a couple of cameras,’ said Dryden. ‘Usually we keep the footage for seventy-two hours, but we archived this footage for insurance purposes.’ She fired a pointed look in Templeton’s direction. ‘We also kept it in case the police ever decided to treat this as a real theft as opposed to a student prank.’
‘We’d like to see whatever you’ve got,’ said Templeton.
The footage was black and white, grainy. The cameras were old with a low frame rate so the picture jumped around like a badly shot silent movie. There were two short clips, neither one longer than twenty seconds.
In the first clip the unsub walked up the nave with her head angled to the left, away from the camera. She was wearing a hat and her coat collar was pulled up high. Black thick-framed spectacles. Maybe she needed the glasses, maybe it was part of her disguise.
The second clip was a long shot taken from a camera in the north transept. We couldn’t really see the unsub, but we could see what she was doing. The scene played out exactly how Dryden had described it. The woman walked up to the case, smashed the lid, grabbed the orbitoclast, then made a run for it.
‘She knew where the cameras were,’ I said.
‘So either she’d already scoped the place out, or her partner had,’ said Templeton.
‘Could you play the first clip again, please?’
‘Of course,’ said Dryden.
I was watching closely, looking for anything that would help build a clearer picture of the unsub. Dryden played the clip a third time and I leant in closer to the screen. I told her to pause when the unsub reached one of the pillars. The pillar gave me a rough idea of height and size.
‘Not good,’ I said.
‘What?’ said Templeton.
&
nbsp; ‘Either we’re looking at a woman who’s five feet ten with a heavier than average build. Or we’re looking at a man who’s medium build, five-ten and has brown hair. I know which one my money’s on.’
55
Rachel pulled the blankets around her for comfort. There was so much pain, more than she could bear. She couldn’t think straight. Her hand was on fire and even the smallest of movements sent new blazes raging across her nerve endings. Most of the pain was located in her missing finger, which was impossible. How could something that wasn’t there hurt so much?
She shut her eyes and tried to find the sunshine, but the sunshine eluded her. She tried to imagine her father was with her, but she couldn’t find him, either. She tried to remember what her mother looked like, her brothers, her friends, but all she saw were dark shadow faces that had been warped and twisted by the pain. Adam had already taken so much from her and now he’d stolen her memories.
The lights suddenly came on, bright and blinding. Rachel glanced at the cameras and the speakers. She glanced at the door, glanced at the dentist’s chair, then looked back at the speakers and waited for her instructions.
The speakers stayed silent.
‘What do you want from me?’ A whisper rather than a shout, the words drowned by tears.
Silence.
‘What do you want?’
Rachel looked at her hand. The blackened cauterised stump contrasted brutally with the chipped red nail polish on her other fingers. Her hand was ugly. Even if she did get out of here, she would never fully escape. Not really. Every time she looked at her hand she would think of Adam. He’d scarred her for life. What had happened here would stay with her until the day she died.
Another wave of pain hit, scattering Rachel’s thoughts. She closed her eyes and prayed for the sunshine and this time she found it. She was walking along that golden beach, her hand wrapped in her father’s, the sand warm beneath her feet. He smiled down at her and told her that everything was going to be okay, and, for a brief moment, Rachel believed him.
‘I’m sorry,’ a voice whispered.
The sunshine dissolved and Rachel opened her eyes. The whisper had come from behind the door. Gentle, nervous, apprehensive. Eve rather than Adam. Rachel’s relief eclipsed the agony. She couldn’t have dealt with another visit from Adam, not so soon after the last one.
Rachel struggled to her feet and stumbled across the basement. She reached the dentist’s chair and paused for breath. Her hands were on the bloodstained armrest, palms down, supporting her weight. She saw the fresh tracks of her own blood and a fresh jolt of pain shot through her hand. Rachel took a long breath and stumbled across to the door. She slid to the ground and pulled a blanket around her shoulders like a poncho.
‘Does it hurt much?’ Eve asked.
Of course it bloody well hurts. Rachel shut her eyes, took a deep breath, got her emotions back in check. She didn’t want to upset Eve again. Not after last time.
‘Yes, it hurts,’ she said.
‘Would you like something for the pain?’
‘I don’t want to get you into trouble with your brother.’
‘Adam’s gone out. He’ll be gone for ages. Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.’
There was a shuffling on the other side of the wood. Footsteps faded down the corridor. Wait here. Where exactly did Eve think she was going to go? It was an asinine, naive thing to say, but that fitted with the picture Rachel had built up of Eve. Eve wasn’t that bright. She reminded Rachel of a female version of George from that old Steinbeck novel she’d studied at school.
More pain.
Rachel shut her eyes until the dizziness passed. The pain was still there when she opened them and she hoped Eve would hurry up.
Time passed slowly.
Footsteps in the corridor coming closer, a shuffling behind the door as Eve settled back down. The dog flap opened and a syringe dropped onto the floor. Rachel’s hand shook as she picked it up. She’d expected pills, not this. She hated needles.
‘You need to tap it to get rid of the air bubbles,’ said Eve. ‘Then you inject it into your hand.’
Rachel held the syringe with the tip pointing up and tapped the air bubbles to the top. She pressed the plunger and a small jet of clear fluid spurted out. She looked at the needle, looked at her shaking hand, then, before she could change her mind, she stabbed the needle into her hand and pushed the plunger. Her head spun, her vision blurred and there was a strange buzzing sound in her head. Somehow she managed to stay conscious.
‘Jesus,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘You shouldn’t say that,’ said Eve. ‘It’s not nice.’
‘I’m sorry, Eve. I won’t say it again.’
‘Put the needle back through the flap.’
Rachel did as she was told. Eve took the needle from her and their fingertips touched. Eve’s skin was soft and warm. It was the first human contact she’d had with someone who wasn’t Adam since she got here.
‘Thank you, Eve.’
‘That’s okay.’
Rachel leant back and waited for the drug to kick in. She hoped it would work soon, prayed it would. The pain was worse than ever.
‘I mean it, Eve. Thank you for everything you’ve done.’
‘Can I do your make-up now?’
‘Of course you can, Eve.’
Eve shuffled to her feet on the other side of the door, the lock disengaged with a click and the door opened. Rachel looked up and saw Adam standing there.
‘Hello Number Five.’
The face belonged to Adam, but the voice was all Eve.
56
Hatcher was sitting in the Cosmopolitan’s bar, nursing a whisky at a secluded table at the side of the room and looking even more worn down than ever. I took the chair opposite, picked up the drink he’d got for me, saluted him with the glass, then took a sip.
‘If ever I saw a man who needed a drink,’ I said.
‘One drink? Try a dozen. They’ve taken me off the investigation, Winter.’
‘They can’t do that.’
‘They can and they have.’ I looked over at the bar while I processed this. The barmaid was different but the same. Young, blonde, attractive.
‘Templeton wouldn’t like it if she caught you staring,’ said Hatcher. He smiled a challenge at me, daring me to deny it.
‘There’s nothing going on between me and Templeton.’
‘The rumour mill says there is.’
‘The rumour mill is wrong.’
‘So you’re not meeting her later? And you didn’t meet her last night, either?’
I didn’t know where he’d got his information from, but wasn’t surprised he’d got it. Gossip spreads around a cop station quicker than wildfire, and it doesn’t take much tinder to get the blaze started.
‘There’s nothing going on,’ I said.
Hatcher narrowed his eyes. ‘You sure about that?’
‘I’m sure. It’s not going to happen, Hatcher. We’re from different worlds. End of story.’ I sipped my whisky. ‘Okay, tell me what happened.’
‘William Trent was the final nail in the coffin. He’s going to sue, and he’s going to get a payout because his lawyers are better than ours, and I’m the place where the buck stops because I authorised the arrest.’
‘You said the final nail. What else did they use against you?’
Hatcher sighed. ‘The press conference. It’s out that it was a sham. There are a lot of reporters calling for my blood.’
‘They’ll get over it.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
He had a point. ‘Give it a couple of months and all this will be forgotten.’
Hatcher drained his glass and shook his head. ‘No it won’t. It doesn’t matter how many successes you have, how many arrests you make, it’s the cases you screw up that everyone remembers. You know the score.’
I did, only too well. Too many good careers had been ruined because one stupid mistake got blown
all out of proportion.
‘They shouldn’t have taken you off the case,’ I said.
‘Go tell that to my boss.’
‘I will if you think it’ll do any good.’
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘I’d go toe to toe with the Commissioner if I thought it would get you reinstated. You’re a great cop and you’ve got great instincts. Hell, look at your record. There was a reason they gave you this case. Thirty years’ worth of reasons.’
Hatcher forced a smile. ‘Thanks again for the vote of confidence.’
‘I’m not saying this to be nice. You’re the best person for the job. End of story.’
‘Whatever you say.’ Hatcher drained his glass. ‘Another?’
‘Why not?’
Hatcher made his way over to the bar. His shoulders were slumped and his feet were heavy. He looked totally defeated. This job could do that, even to the best. I hated seeing Hatcher like this. It was a waste of resources. To catch these unsubs, we needed our best players on the field, not on the sidelines. I glanced at my watch. It had just gone eight. Because of the unscheduled trip to Bristol I’d arranged to meet Templeton at nine instead of eight. Hatcher came back with our drinks and sat down.
‘Who’s replacing you?’ I asked.
‘Detective Inspector Daniel Fielding. He’s a safe choice. He’s closing in on retirement and he’ll play everything by the book.’
‘Playing by the book won’t work. These unsubs have read that book and that’s one of the reasons you haven’t caught them.’ I sighed. ‘This is all about politics. I hate politics. What else can you tell me about Fielding?’
‘He looks great on TV and the press like him.’ Hatcher shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes. ‘Who am I kidding? Fielding will smile and say all the right things, and everyone will eat up whatever crap he decides to serve them. But when it comes to actual police work he’s incompetent.’
‘He wouldn’t be your first choice, then?’
‘First choice? He wouldn’t be my last choice.’ Another shake of the head, another rub of the face. ‘Rachel Morris is going to end up like all the other victims.’
