by Helen L Lowe
He made a noise under the tape as he tried to communicate. She ripped it off.
‘I don’t need a catheter – if you leave . . .’
‘There isn’t time to leave you – if you don’t go very soon, you’ll wet this bed and then the only way I can clean you up and change the sheets is if I pump you with more sedative. Honestly, sometimes you can be really thick.’
He wanted to shriek at her – call her all the profanities he could think of but instead he said forcefully, ‘Harriet – I don’t need a catheter.’
She lashed out at him with a powerful punch to his jaw, leaving him dazed with blood trickling from his mouth. ‘Never speak to me in that tone of voice – and call me by my proper title.’ She grabbed the lapel of her uniform to thrust her name badge towards him. ‘What does that say?’
He looked at the name badge and back to the crazy expression on her face. ‘Sister Johnson.’
‘Right – and that’s what you’ll call me from now on.’
She turned her back on him and busied herself with setting up a trolley for catheterisation. He watched as she worked and he had to accept that she had been telling the truth about her nurse training. She opened a dressing pack and laid it out flat. A catheter was emptied out of its sterile pack ready for use, a pair of sterile latex gloves, KY jelly, a kidney bowl, a catheter bag, a glass ampule of clear liquid and a large syringe. When she pushed the trolley up to the bed, Julian was nearly wetting himself with the thought of what was to come. He looked from the trolley to her face, still not able to convince himself that she was going through with the procedure.
‘There’s no need to get upset. It’s just a straightforward catheterisation. I’m sure you’ve done hundreds, if not thousands, as a doctor.’
She pulled the covers back and folded them down neatly to his thighs. His top half was covered with a clean white towel and his genitalia were exposed. ‘I’m sorry - I’m right out of local anaesthetic gel but I’ll use some KY jelly and try to be gentle.’
‘Harriet . . .’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Sister Johnson, please - don’t do this.’
‘I’m doing this to make you more comfortable. The alternative is to let you lie in a wet bed.’
‘Listen to me, please,’ he said, ashamed of his quivering voice, ‘I’m not ill and I’m not incontinent.’
She looked at him as a parent would look at a naughty child. ‘Now that’s enough, Julian. You know perfectly well you need looking after.’
She picked up a folded piece of paper towel from the trolley, shook it free of folds and tucked it under his flaccid penis, so that it lay on the paper towel. She put on the sterile gloves and placed a sterile disposable kidney bowl between his legs. The foreskin was pulled back for her to clean around it, and with a fresh swab she cleaned around the end of his penis and applied KY jelly to the urethral opening. She glanced up at his face.
‘Take some deep breaths, Julian. It’s all in the breathing.’ She firmly held the penis between her index finger and thumb and expertly but much too quickly slid the catheter all the way up the urethra, adjusting the angle of the penis to accommodate the natural bends and the prostate. Urine started to drain into the kidney dish.
‘Nearly finished,’ she said, as she drew up the clear liquid in the syringe. She connected the syringe to the Y connection on the catheter and pushed the plunger. ‘There - all done. Now, please don’t try and pull it out with the balloon inflated, it would be very painful and you could tear delicate tissues inside.
She gave the catheter a hard yank as if to prove her point. ‘As I said - it won’t come out without a considerable amount of pain.’
CHAPTER 43
12:30 p.m. Monday 10 April
Lizzie waited at the Serpentine Restaurant for half an hour before driving over to Sussex House. She rang the doorbell and waited. The door was opened by Harriet.
‘Can you let Julian know that Lizzie is here, please?’
‘Dr Hartman?’ Harriet looked confused. ‘But he moved out yesterday – early evening - about six or six thirty, I think.’
‘Moved out - but he only came out of hospital on Friday.’
‘Yes, I was surprised myself when he told me he was leaving.’
‘But he wouldn’t move out without telling me.’
‘Well - we had a rather unpleasant conversation about female guests staying in his room. He said he couldn’t live anywhere that had a rule like that, so he packed up his things and left. He said something about a hotel.’
Lizzie looked at the cars parked in the road. Julian’s mini had gone. ‘Did he leave a message for me?’
‘Not down here in the hall but he may have left one in his room. I haven’t had a chance to clean it yet. Would you like to see it?’
‘Yes, please - that’s kind of you.’ She followed Harriet up the stairs.
Harriet stood aside for her to go in first. The room was completely cleared of all his belongings, even the bed was stripped bare, and there was no sign of a note. She couldn’t hide her disappointment.
‘If he contacts you, could you tell him that Lizzie called today?’
‘Yes of course, dear.’ Harriet led her back downstairs and said goodbye at the door.
Lizzie stood on the doorstep and looked down the row of parked cars again but his mini was definitely missing. She went back to her car and took a moment to collect her thoughts. It wasn’t hard to imagine Julian losing his patience over a silly house rule but to leave without telling her was out of character especially after Saturday. He had been so happy when she left him. It just didn’t make sense.
She searched her handbag for her diary. It had her whole life between those small pages. On Wednesday 15 March she had written that she was meeting him on Portsdown Hill to say goodbye and that he would be staying at the Worsley Hotel in Bayswater. If he had checked into a hotel, it was worth checking the Worsley first.
When she walked through the revolving doors of the hotel, she saw a middle-aged man sitting at the reception desk. He stood up to greet her.
‘Good afternoon, Madam. Have you a reservation?’
‘No, I’m looking for Dr Hartmann and I was hoping he had checked in here yesterday.’
‘Dr Hartmann?’ He looked down at the large book in front of him. ‘Dr Hartmann did stay here a few weeks ago.’ He flicked through the pages. ‘Yes, he checked in on the fifteenth March and left five days later on the twentieth.’
Lizzie’s heart sank. ‘Could I leave a message for him, in case he checks in again?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He passed her a piece of paper and a pen.
She wrote a short message and passed it back to him. In her car, she thought she was going to cry but quickly pulled herself together. The only other place she could think of was his parents’ flat that he would be moving into. She didn’t have the address but Julian had taken her to see the outside of it.
She drove around the roads in Bayswater, desperately trying to remember the way. After half-an-hour, she pulled into a road that looked familiar and saw the house. She parked the car and walked up to the front door. There was a list of tenants and different doorbells for each flat and she pressed the one for the ground floor’. A young woman came to the door.
‘Hello, I’m looking for Julian Hartmann - he’s the landlord of the ground floor flat.’
She pulled a face. ‘I’m one of the tenants - he doesn’t live here.’
‘I know - I was just hoping he was here - I’m trying to find him.’
The girl shrugged. ‘Sorry, he’s not here but we’re moving out in a couple of weeks and he said he would be moving back in.’
Lizzie smiled at her. ‘Ok, sorry to bother you.’ This time, when she got back in the car, she couldn’t stop the tears or block out the feeling that something really terrible had happened.
CHAPTER 44
Paddington Green Police Station
2:45 p.m. Monday 10 April
DCI Chase had just finished interrogating J
ohn Erikson and was sitting in his office trying to shake off the idea that they had the wrong man for the Thames murders. Erikson had confessed to knowing about David Woods’ death, even though he said it was an accident; an erotic breath control scene gone wrong, and he had confessed to dealing in drugs but no amount of questioning, intimidation or bully tactics could get him to talk about the bodies in the Thames. The man may be a criminal and a sadist but a serial killer? Chase wouldn’t bet on it.
The phone on his desk rang.
‘Hello, Chase speaking.’
‘Gov - there’s a woman in reception who wants to speak to you.’
‘Did she give a name?’
‘Mrs Lizzie Harrison - she says it’s concerning Dr Hartmann.’
Chase paused. ‘Ok, put her in an interview room - give her a cup of tea. I’ll be down in a minute.’
When he walked into the room, Mrs Harrison jumped to her feet.
‘Mrs Harrison, is everything alright.’
‘It’s Julian - he seems to have vanished.’
‘Has he been discharged from hospital?’
‘On Friday and we had a day out together on Saturday. We agreed to meet up today for lunch and when he didn’t turn up I went to his lodging house. His landlady said he’d moved out. I saw his empty room.’
‘You haven’t had a row or something?’
‘No, and even if we had I would expect to find some trace of him. I’ve checked the hotel he used when he first came to London and the flat he owns that’s being rented out. It’s not like him - he wouldn’t just go off without letting me know.’
‘I’m sorry - I can’t think of where he could be but I’ll pass it on to the patrol cars to look out for him. Do you know his car registration number?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s a D reg. A red Austin Mini - he bought it new last year.’
Chase escorted her back to reception. ‘What’s your contact number - I’ll call if we hear anything.’ He gave her a pen and his notebook.
She wrote down her sister’s phone number and passed the notebook back to him.
‘When you get back he might have called and left you a message.’
She smiled weakly. ‘Yes, perhaps - but you will try and find him?’
‘Yes, we will but call me if he turns up.’
He watched her walk out of the station and across the road to her car. Although he gave the appearance of not being concerned, the hairs on the back of his neck had started to bristle; always a bad sign.
* * *
On the drive back to her sister’s house, Lizzie was stopped at every traffic light and even got diverted off around the back streets due to a suspected gas leak. When she arrived, she rushed into the kitchen to find the children wearing aprons, and covered in flour. Sally looked a little less messy but had flour on her nose.
‘Have there been any phone calls for me?’
Sally shook her head.
Lizzie turned away quickly so they couldn’t see her tears, and went back into the hall. Sally followed her.
‘What’s wrong – have you and Julian had a fight?’
‘No – he didn’t turn up – and when I went to Sussex House, his landlady said he’d moved out yesterday. I’ve looked everywhere for him – even that hotel he stayed in. I went to the Paddington Police Station and spoke to the policeman who had persuaded Julian to work with them.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Just that I shouldn’t worry and that he would probably contact me soon - he said the patrol cars would look out for him. I know something bad has happened.’
‘Did the landlady give a reason for him leaving?’
‘She said they had argued about him having females in his room.’
‘And did he?’
She hesitated. ‘Yes, me and Charlotte - that reporter I told you about that tried to help him find Sam.’
‘The one that slapped him?’
‘Yes, among other things.’
‘Well, maybe he’s gone to a different hotel - he’ll probably ring you later to apologise for missing your lunch-date.’ She linked her arm in Lizzie’s and led her back into the kitchen. ‘Meanwhile, you can help me with the girls. They got a bit excited when we started cracking eggs and I think they’re wearing most of the cake mix.’
CHAPTER 45
8:10 p.m. Monday 10 April
The cellar was in compete darkness when Julian was woken by the now familiar and sickening groan from the cellar door. He waited anxiously. There were sounds from Sam’s bed for several minutes before she appeared around the chimney breast. She turned the overhead light on and stood beside the bed looking at him.
‘I think you’re losing weight much too quickly, you’re wasting away before my eyes.’ She ripped the tape off his mouth.
‘Is Sam ok?’ Julian asked, through a dry throat.
She completely ignored his question and busied herself with changing the empty bag of saline on the drip-stand and fiddling with the intravenous tubing, tapping it to encourage trapped air bubbles to rise up into the drip chamber. Again, he noted her ability as a nurse. The catheterisation she performed earlier, although done without much care and concern for the patient, was performed expertly, and the way she handled the intravenous therapy was further proof, but where did she get her medical supplies from. The cellar was equipped like an NHS ward.
‘I’ve made a delicious soup in the kitchen. Will you behave and eat some?’
‘Harriet, please, tell me if Sam is . . . sorry, Sister . . .’
She lashed out at him; pounded her clenched fists down onto his head repeatedly until he was stunned into silence.
‘Next time you speak to me like that, it’ll be Sam who gets the beating.’ She wiped her bloodied hands on her pristine white apron and left the cellar.
He took time to come round, and had to force himself to speak with lips that felt numb and bruised. ‘Sam – can you hear me?’
There was no reply.
‘If you have tape over your mouth, can you make a sound?’
There was no sound.
‘If you can hear me – try to stay calm. Your mother will be looking for us, I’m sure it won’t be long before someone finds us.’
Harriet returned wearing a clean apron and carrying a bowl and a spoon. She raised him up on several pillows and placed a towel over his chest. She stopped and stared at him, seemingly shocked by the state of his bleeding face. She went over to the sink and came back with a bowl and flannel. It took several attempts to clean him up, and all the time she muttered under her breath with unrecognisable words that sounded like an evil mantra.
When she came back with the soup, he knew worse was to come. The first taste of it made him retch.
She glared at him. ‘I’ve spent my valuable time preparing this soup. You will eat it.’
Julian opened his mouth and accepted another spoonful but he struggled to swallow. The soup tasted like a pure salt sludge – it was impossible to eat and it made him retch again. Harriet was furious and grabbed his hair to hold his head still while she shoved in more. He gagged and coughed violently, and she was splattered with soup. She froze in horror and looked down at her white apron.
‘I’m sorry – I tried but . . .’
‘But what – are you saying my soup is so disgusting that you have to spit it out?’
‘No, it’s not that – it’s probably my throat . . .’
‘Do you have a problem with swallowing?’
He nodded, thinking it would put a stop to the force feeding. She looked at him thoughtfully and then appeared to make a decision before she clicked into overdrive. The next few minutes were taken up with clearing away the soup and removing his pillows so he was lying flat on his back. She walked towards the shelves that were full of instruments and, after selecting one, came back to the bed. She was carrying an endotracheal scope that was used in hospitals for intubating patients.
‘Sister – please, don’t . . .’
‘Q
uiet – you mustn’t strain your throat.’
She lifted the large bedhead off the bed frame and reached into the bed and gripped him under his arms to pull him right up to the top of the mattress, with his head hanging off the end. She sat down on a stool by his head and flicked the light of the scope on.
He couldn’t stop her. He tried to keep his mouth closed but she held his nose, and she nearly broke his front teeth trying to push the scope in.
‘Stop fighting me, Julian – think of Sam.’
She spent a good ten minutes examining his throat and trachea and no amount of gagging made her stop. When she had finished she stood up and left him with his head hanging off the mattress. She went back up the stone steps.
He tried to work out what she was planning to do but the only thing he could think of was that she was going to perform some kind of throat surgery. He was barely holding it together when she came back carrying a tray. He lifted his head to get a glimpse of the tray’s contents but it was covered by a cloth. It wasn’t until the trolley was pushed up to the bed that he saw a plastic funnel, rubber tubing, and a tall glass jug of white liquid.
Harriet took a large rubber sheet off the bottom shelf of the trolley and pushed it under his head and shoulders. He guessed she was going to attempt a tube feed but not using the modern method of a narrow plastic nasogastric tube. She was going to do it the old fashioned way with a wide rubber tube that had to be pushed down the throat.
‘You don’t need to tube feed me. I can drink and eat on my own.’
She ignored him and attached the funnel to the wider end of the tubing.
‘Sister Johnson, please - listen to me.’
She ignored him again and moved the stool closer to the bed, so that her white starched apron was directly in front of his face. ‘Open your mouth.’
