Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  “No.”

  “Sorry about the film.”

  “We can always go tomorrow. Anyway, there are chores to do. Can’t run out of clean underwear, can we? “

  Ash raised Jemma’s hand to her mouth and kissed it. “What would I do without you?”

  Jemma smiled. “Run around naked?”

  THE GUARD CLOSED the cell door behind Ash and locked it. “Corky.”

  The man lying on the bed didn’t react, so she tried again, louder. “Corky. It’s Blade.”

  At her words, Martin Cork sat up slowly and turned towards her. The tear-tracks down his unshaven cheeks almost broke her heart.

  “Blade.” His eyes and voice were dull, and she wondered if he was on tranquillisers. “They told me you were coming.”

  There was a single chair. She pulled it closer to the bed and sat down. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Jeff’s family … the funeral …” She trailed off, conscious that she was making matters worse.

  “The last thing they want is my help.” Corky hung his head, his long hair forming a curtain around his face “Can’t blame ’em,” he muttered. “I can’t stand the sight of me either.”

  She grasped his hand. “They’re in shock and grieving. They’ll come around in time. Jeff would have wanted them to. They know that.”

  “Do they? I killed him. Killed my own partner.” His voice dripped horror and self-loathing.

  She leaned forward. “No you didn’t.”

  He looked up then and met her gaze, his eyes haunted. “I’ve seen the video footage. And the fingerprints on his throat, they’re mine.”

  “You thought you were killing a hostile.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “It’s every excuse. In your right mind you would never have harmed a hair on Jeff’s head. You know it, and so does everyone who knows you. Once they’ve had time to think clearly, his family will know it too.”

  “I wish I could believe that.” There were deep shadows under his eyes. She remembered how that felt.

  “Look, I know what you’re going through.”

  For a long moment he didn’t speak, then he said softly, “Sam?”

  She nodded. “Things’ll get worse before they get better. But they will get better.”

  He shook his head, and she was reminded of a bear that had been baited, left bewildered and stunned by its wounds.

  “Someone else killed Jeff,” she went on. “They used your body to do it, that’s all. You have to hang onto that.”

  “I should have been able to beat the conditioning. It was Jeff, for God’s sake.” His eyes brimmed, and he turned his face away. “And now he’s dead.” Grief thickened his voice.

  She gripped his hand tighter. “But you’re still here.”

  “I wish I wasn’t.”

  Ash sucked in a breath. “Jeff wouldn’t want that.”

  His broad shoulders sagged, and he bowed his head. After a moment he gave a single nod.

  Thank God. “What you have to focus on now is catching the killer.”

  Corky’s head came round, eyes blazing. “I hope he rots in hell.”

  “So do I.” Ash bit her lip. “Thompson told me you’ve been debriefed. But they didn’t come up with much.”

  “I’ve tried to remember. Over and over. Tried to work out how they got to me and when and how.” He looked at her. “Aston even tried hypnosis, but nothing came back to me. Nothing.”

  “Perhaps in time, if you don’t push it … Somewhere there’s a clue to the bastard’s identity. And sooner or later we’ll find it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “We will.”

  She glanced at her watch and released his hand. “Sorry, Corky. I have to go. One of my informants got shot yesterday—he’s in the hospital. I said I’d meet Jemma, then go and see him.”

  “How’s that working out—you and Jemma, I mean?” That Sam’s old friend could spare a thought for her in his distress touched her.

  “Great. After Sam I thought …” She shrugged. “But it’s working out really well.”

  His eyes glistened, and he looked away, and she knew he was thinking of Jeff Morand. She got to her feet and knocked on the cell door. Through the reinforced glass, she could see the guard rising from his chair.

  “Hang in there, big guy.”

  Then came the sound of the door being unlocked, and with a last pat of Corky’s shoulder, she left him to it.

  ASH PARKED THE Lotus in the hospital carpark and got out. While Jemma scurried over to the permit vending machine, she leaned against the car and pondered what questions to ask Janus. Which reminded her … She patted the pocket of her jacket and felt the bulge that was the wad of banknotes. Janus had always preferred cash—less traceable.

  Jemma returned. “I bought us a two-hour ticket. That should be long enough, right?”

  “Plenty.” Ash attached the permit to her windscreen, and they set off towards the main entrance.

  “Why are hospitals like mazes?” grumbled Jemma, as they gazed at the crowded directions board in the lobby.

  Ash pointed to the legend Intensive Care Unit and the red arrow pointing right. “That’s what we want. If Janus is still there, of course. The nurse I spoke to said something about transferring him to an ordinary ward soon.”

  “He must be doing well, then.”

  “Conscious but sleeping, was how she put it.”

  They set off along an endless corridor, past a garish painting by a local artist that made Ash feel nauseous, then followed more arrows right, left, right again. A choice of stairs or lift faced them.

  “Stairs,” said Jemma. “We’ve had two big meals today. I need to work it off.”

  Ash acquiesced with a grin. After meeting up, they had headed for a bistro not far from the hospital. Good food, Jemma’s company, and deliberately light-hearted chatter had gone a long way to dispelling the gloom left by her visit to Corky.

  A sign on the wall of the stairwell indicated they had reached the floor they wanted, so they exited and followed the arrow to ICU Reception. Ash walked past the unoccupied rows of red plastic chairs to the counter and waited for the freckled young woman behind it to finish her phone call—she was giving directions to a relative by the sound of it. At last she put down the phone and turned a smiling face towards them.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” said Ash “We’re here to see Ja … er, Neal Travis.”

  “Relatives?” The receptionist’s fingers clattered over the keyboard.

  “Friends.”

  Information flashed up on the screen, and the receptionist’s smile faltered. “I’m so sorry, but I have bad news. Mr. Travis passed away half an hour ago.”

  “What?” Resting her palms on the counter, Ash leaned forward. “There must be some mistake.”

  “Yes,” chimed in Jemma. “We were told he was doing so well they were considering transferring him to an ordinary ward.”

  “Oh?” The receptionist turned back to her keyboard. “Let me check for you again. One moment please.” Keys clattered, then she shook her head, her expression apologetic. “I’m afraid the information I gave you is correct.”

  Damn! One minute Janus was recovering well, the next he was dead? Something smelled off. “What did he die of?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information except to his next of kin.”

  “Tell me anyway.” Ash pulled out the ID that said she worked for the Home Office and slapped it on the counter.

  The receptionist gaped at it, swallowed, and studied her screen once more. “Um. It says respiratory arrest.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Until the post mortem. Yes.”

  “Not good enough,” said Ash, her voice hard. “I want to talk to someone prepared to guess at a cause of death. Now.”

  A tug on her jacket made her glance round. “Be nice,” mouthed Jemma. She sighed, plastered on a smile, and turned back to the receptionist. It only made
the woman more nervous.

  “Would Mr. Travis’s named nurse do?”

  “Who?” said Ash.

  “The nurse allocated to oversee his care.”

  “Fine. Get her.”

  At that, the receptionist breathed easier, and once more her fingers clattered over the keys. “It was Nurse Jones.” She peeked at Ash. “I’ll call her for you, shall I?”

  Ash nodded.

  “I should warn you,” she continued, regaining her self-assurance as she picked up the phone and punched in a number, “that they’re rushed off their feet this evening, so it could be a while.” She indicated the chairs. “Hello?” She turned away from the counter. “Sue here from Reception. Can I speak to Megan Jones?”

  “Come on.” Jemma grabbed Ash’s elbow. “Let’s leave her to do her job and go and sit down for a bit.”

  Ash allowed herself to be led to the waiting area, but she was too jazzed by what had happened to sit.

  Jemma watched her pace up and down for five minutes. “You’re making me dizzy. Not to mention wearing a hole in the carpet tiles.”

  Ash chose a red plastic chair with an unobstructed view of the ICU’s swing doors and flung herself into it with a grunt. She slid low and spread her legs in an unladylike manner. “I’ve a good mind to barge in and take a look at the body myself,” she grumbled. A chuckle made her look at Jemma. “What?”

  “Would you even know what to look for?”

  She sat up. “Unexplained puncture marks for a start.”

  Jemma blinked. “The old air-bubble-in-the-bloodstream trick?”

  “No.” Ash remembered Jemma was still new at this. “It’s slow; it’s also hit and miss. And an IV is as good a way to introduce an air bubble as an injection. I was thinking more of poison—there must be plenty of the stuff lying around in a hospital—or a needle in the brain.”

  “In the ICU?” said Jemma. “With people around?”

  “If the killer got hold of a nurse’s uniform or some doctor’s scrubs …” Ash shrugged. “Why not?”

  The ICU’s doors swung open, and a short, round-faced woman in a nurse’s uniform came out. She spied Ash and Jemma and headed towards them, then stopped in front of them and folded her arms in a no nonsense manner.

  “I’m Megan Jones. I understand you’re from the Home Office and have been asking about a patient named Neal Travis.”

  Her voice, with its pronounced Welsh lilt, sounded familiar. Ash realised this was the woman she had spoken to on the phone just over an hour ago. She stood up.

  “Ashley Blade. And this is my colleague Jemma Jacobs. What can you tell us about his death?”

  “Other than it was unexpected, and we tried everything we could to resuscitate him, nothing,” said Nurse Jones. “But we hope to learn more from the post mortem.” She looked around, distracted. “In fact we’re waiting for a porter to collect the body. I wonder where he’s got to? We need the bed.”

  “Could it have been foul play?”

  Nurse Jones’s eyebrows shot up. “This isn’t a spy novel. Mr. Travis had suffered major blood loss and trauma. There are numerous more plausible and compelling causes of death than foul play.”

  Ash balled her hands. “He was shot. It’s not that far fetched to imagine his killer might have come back for another go, surely?” I should have foreseen this and posted a guard. Sorry, Janus.

  “Well, no. But the log shows he had no visitors.” The nurse’s cheeks flushed. “Are you implying that someone in the ICU—”

  “If I may butt in,” said Jemma, her tone conciliatory. “No, we’re not suggesting that you or any of your staff had a hand in his death. But is it possible that someone posing as an ICU doctor or nurse could have gained access to the patient?”

  “Well, of course it’s possible, but not very likely.”

  Ash had had enough. “I want to see the body.” She started towards the swing doors, but halted as Nurse Jones interposed herself.

  “Very well. I’ll take you in to see him. But on two conditions.”

  Having won the battle, Ash could afford to be magnanimous. “Yes?”

  “Of our thirteen beds, twelve are occupied. Don’t upset the other patients or their visitors. “

  “Agreed,” said Ash. “And?”

  “Wear an apron and gloves like everyone else.”

  “I’ll put on a bloody balaclava and wellingtons, if that’s what it takes.”

  For the first time, Nurse Jones smiled. “That won’t be necessary.” She turned and headed for the swing doors. “This way, please.”

  With an exchange of glances, Ash and Jemma followed.

  Just inside the ICU were lockers full of equipment. From these, Nurse Jones produced three sets of sterile white gloves and plastic yellow aprons. The latter were supposedly knee length, but when Ash had pulled hers over her head and tied it at the back, she discovered it reached only half way down her thighs.

  Nurse Jones collected her notes from her desk, and led them single file across the cavernous room, over shiny floors that smelled of disinfectant past beds where relatives with bags under their eyes sat beside loved ones festooned with cables and catheters. ICU staff cast curious glances as they passed, then returned to tending their patients and beeping machines.

  The curtains had been drawn around the bed at the far end of the room. Nurse Jones slipped through a gap, and Ash ducked her head and followed. Jemma brought up the rear. The contrast with the rest of the ward was startling. No wires and tubes connected this patient to a wheezing ventilator, syringe driver, or bank of monitors. The machines were silent, power lights off, screens dark.

  Nurse Jones pulled back the sheet. “You wanted to see him,” she murmured. “Well here he is.”

  “Thanks.” Regret rose in Ash as she regarded the buck-toothed burglar. The hospital gown had left Janus’s arms and legs bare. His skin was pale and waxy, and had acquired a blue-grey tinge, but at least he looked peaceful. Beside her, Jemma drew in a shaky breath, and Ash wondered if she was remembering the bloody scene in the cavern.

  “Are you okay?” she murmured.

  Jemma nodded.

  Taking her at her word, Ash moved around to one side of the bed, and gestured Jemma to take the other side. She turned Janus’s head to one side, then leaned over and scrutinised the back of his neck for marks. Nothing. I was so sure.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Nurse Jones.

  “Unexplained puncture marks.” Ash glanced at Jemma. “Check his right arm.” With a nod, Jemma set to work—fortunately Janus’s body hair was relatively sparse.

  Ash gripped his left hand and lifted. “What was this for?” She pointed to a puncture wound in his forearm.

  Nurse Jones checked her notes. “IV.”

  “Okay.” Ash continued her scrutiny. Nothing untoward. Jemma was having the same lack of success. Ash moved down to Janus’s left leg. Still nothing.

  “What’s this?” asked Jemma suddenly. “Did you inject something here?”

  Nurse Jones joined Jemma, stooped, and examined the back of his right calf muscle. “Hm. It looks like an injection.” She straightened and flipped through her notes, her concern growing. “There’s no record of it here.” She threw Ash an apologetic glance. “I’ll make sure that the post mortem focuses on it.”

  Ash gave her an absent nod. “If you would, please.” She was scanning the ward for CCTV cameras but couldn’t see any. “I don’t suppose there’s any video footage?”

  “Monitoring is restricted to the maternity unit, I’m afraid. To stop babies being taken.”

  “Wonderful.” Ash pulled Jemma to one side. “Looks like we’re going to have to do things the hard way: question the ICU staff and any relatives who visited other patients today, and see if they noticed anyone who went near Janus’s bed. Chances are, they won’t remember much.”

  Jemma nodded. “Want me to phone HQ, get some trained interrogators down here?”

  Ash considered the suggestion. Though her in
stinct was to get stuck in at once, it was probably unwise. Dealing with members of the public, especially those under stress because their loved ones were in intensive care, was not her strong suit.

  “Good idea,” she told Jemma. “Get us some backup.”

  ASH SEARCHED HER pocket for her front door keys. “It just doesn’t add up.”

  “I know,” said Jemma.

  It’s not Abdusamad’s MO at all. Firearms, explosives—yes. But a drug used only by anaesthetists? Whoever killed Janus must have had a medical background.”

  It was just after midnight, and they had spent hours at the hospital, reading witness statements and waiting for the now prioritised post mortem results. Janus’s system contained traces of anectine. The drug had triggered instant respiratory paralysis, stopping first his lungs then his heart. It was unlucky—if he’d still been on a ventilator, he’d have survived. At least it had been quick.

  Ash sighed. It had been a shitty day. All she wanted now was a hot bath and a long sleep. She selected a key, slid it into the top of the three locks, and turned it.

  “Maybe Abdusamad hired someone with medical knowledge to do the hit?” said Jemma. “That would explain why no one recognised him from that picture you showed them.”

  “Maybe people just saw what they expected to see. Wearing hospital scrubs, acting like he had a right to be in the ICU. In that get-up, a killer would be all but invisible.”

  Ash opened the final lock and pushed open the front door. She heard the faint snick of a lever releasing. Reflexes honed by years of experience took over, and she threw herself backwards, her outstretched arm tumbling Jemma down the steps too.

  A roaring boom drowned out Jemma’s yelp of protest, and a flash of light seared Ash’s retinas. The shockwave boosted her several feet into the air, turned her head over heels, and dropped her onto the road, driving most of the breath from her lungs and forcing a passing car to swerve to avoid her. Becoming dimly aware that Jemma lay a couple of feet from her, and that wood splinters, shards of glass, and chunks of masonry were raining down, Ash crawled over and flopped on top of her. Then something thumped her in the back, and a feeling of déjà vu stole over her. For a moment she was back on the Cumbre Vieja.

  “You’re suffocating me,” came Jemma’s muffled voice.