Look Closer

by Rachel Amphlett

  Look Closer

  Rachel Amphlett

  © Copyright Rachel Amphlett 2015

  The copyright of this book belongs to Rachel Amphlett

  No reproduction without permission

  The names, characters and events in this book are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

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  1. 1

  2. 2

  3. 3

  4. 4

  5. 5

  6. 6

  7. 7

  8. 8

  9. 9

  10. 10

  11. 11

  12. 12

  13. 13

  14. 14

  15. 15

  16. 16

  17. 17

  18. 18

  19. 19

  20. 20

  21. 21

  22. 22

  23. 23

  24. 24

  25. 25

  26. 26

  27. 27

  28. 28

  29. 29

  30. 30

  31. 31

  32. 32

  33. 33

  34. 34

  35. 35

  36. 36

  37. 37

  38. 38

  39. 39

  40. 40

  41. 41

  42. 42

  43. 43

  44. 44

  45. 45

  From the Author

  White Gold

  Under Fire

  Three Lives Down

  Behind the Wire

  Before Nightfall

  Mistake Creek

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  1

  London , April

  Will Fletcher rested his head against the door pillar of the taxi and let the washed-out cityscape pass by the window as he wiped tears from his eyes, trying to calm his adrenalin-spiked heartbeat.

  The taxi driver was doing his best not to stare at him in the rear-view mirror but failing spectacularly. Instead, he steered the vehicle around back streets and one way systems in an attempt to get his passenger to the hospital as fast as possible.

  Will sniffled.

  After their argument last night, he and Amy hadn’t spoken this morning. Instead, she’d left before he’d had a chance to apologise, and now he wished he hadn’t been so stupid.

  He reached over and pulled his backpack across the seat towards him, patting the outer pocket to make sure he still had Amy’s mobile. She’d forgotten it in her haste to leave the apartment before he could speak to her, and in an attempt to make peace, he’d been planning to phone her and hand it over during their lunch breaks, maybe buy her dinner after work.

  He pushed the bag away, his hands shaking.

  He’d been out when he heard about the accident. He and Russell Harper had escaped the confines of their offices at the museum in search of a caffeine fix. He’d been running late as usual, his flight from his desk interrupted by his manager.

  Twisting his back to ease the cricks in his muscles, he’d turned to see Jack watching him from his office.

  The older man had raised an eyebrow. ‘If you’re getting coffee, you’d better buy me one,’ he growled.

  ‘White, no sugar – ’cause you’re sweet enough already, right?’

  Jack had held up his middle finger in Will’s direction and turned back to his room, closing the door.

  Will had laughed and made his way down to the lobby. As the elevator doors opened, the cacophony of hundreds of languages had assaulted his ears.

  Tourists swarmed around the entranceway into the museum, pointing out exhibits to each other, calling out to wayward children as harassed tour guides led their charges through the building, hand-held signs wavering above people’s heads.

  Will had nodded to a uniformed security guard as he passed through one of the exit turnstiles, and then hurried across to the front doors where Russell was waiting for him, tapping the face of his watch.

  ‘You’d be late for your own funeral,’ he’d grumbled, then grabbed Will’s arm and propelled him through the doors.

  ‘Remind me to get a coffee for Jack,’ said Will. ‘Otherwise you’ll be top of that invitation list.’

  ‘And how is the old bugger?’

  ‘About normal for a Monday.’

  ‘That good, eh?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  They had followed the wrought iron boundary fence that encircled the museum and then turned left, passing Georgian houses on a tree-lined avenue. Stationary cars parked into impossibly small spaces lined each side of the street, while the road itself flanked the side of the museum’s grounds before veering right.

  ‘What’s Amy working on these days?’

  Will shrugged. ‘This and that,’ he said. ‘It’s all very hush-hush – she wouldn’t even give me any details.’

  Russell had laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s okay – I won’t ask. Guess we’ll just have to both read about it on the front page, huh?’

  Will had checked over his shoulder for traffic before both men hurried through a small park, jogged across a zebra crossing and into an Italian restaurant. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans teased his senses as the door swung shut behind him.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ A beaming man, black hair speckled with grey and silver streaks, appeared at a doorway. He’d checked over his shoulder into a noisy kitchen before wiping his hands on a tea towel slung over his shoulder and moved towards the coffee machine. ‘Usual?’

  ‘Please, Luigi.’ Will had turned at a light punch on his arm. ‘Oh yeah, and one for Jack. Better make it a double shot – given the mood he’s in, I don’t think his funding came through.’

  Luigi made apologetic noises and busied himself with the coffee-making machine. ‘It’s not good, Will. I have seen all the hard work he puts into those exhibitions.’

  ‘Well, maybe we’ll hear something this week,’ Will said, then turned and joined Russell, who had pulled out two stools next to a counter set against the window overlooking the street. For a moment, he had sat and watched people as they dashed backwards and forwards in front of him, then looked down as Russell grunted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just reading this newspaper article. About that prick they reckon will be Prime Minister one day, heaven help us. Did you know he used to work in construction?’

  ‘No.’

  Russell had flicked the page, a snort of derision on his lips. ‘My old man reckons the guy’s a crook – lots of dirty deals, you know?’

  Will had grinned, not wishing to be drawn into a debate. He knew if Russell started, the man wouldn’t shut up until they’d returned to the museum. He sneaked a glance at the photograph which accompanied the newspaper story and realised it was the same man Amy was meeting with that morning. He checked his watch.

  ‘Here you go.’ Luigi had interrupted his thoughts and set three Styrofoam cups on the counter in front of them. He tapped the lid of the one nearest to Will. ‘That’s Jack’s,’ he instructed, then winked. ‘With double shot.’

  Will had slid off the stool, picked up his and Jack’s coffees and stepped towards the door. ‘Cheers, Luigi. See you tomorrow.’

  He had his elbow against the door handle before he realised Russell wasn’t behind him. ‘Russ?’

  His jaw slack, he had turned
to see Russell staring at the small television above the bar. Will followed his gaze to see a news bulletin splayed across the screen.

  A red Breaking News banner screamed a headline across the lower half of the display, its white, bold text jolting Will out of his good mood.

  Opposition leader ambushed by gunmen. Several casualties.

  ‘Luigi, turn the sound up!’

  Russell took the remote control from the restaurant owner and aimed it at the television, the newscaster’s voice bellowing from the speakers. They all jumped at the sudden blast of noise, before Russell adjusted the volume.

  The newscaster had his finger to his earpiece, reciting updates as the newsroom relayed them to him.

  ‘We’re told that emergency services are at the scene, and the road has been blocked to all traffic while police deal with this serious incident,’ he said excitedly, then dropped his hand and returned to the autocue in front of him. ‘For those who may be just tuning in, we’re receiving reports that Ian Rossiter, the current favourite to win next month’s election, has been involved in an incident in Marylebone. There are reports that he has been shot, alongside the people that were in his car with him.’

  Will had squashed the sides of the coffee cups in his hands, his knuckles white. His heartbeat had rushed through his ears, punching him between the ribs, the reporter’s urgent voice washing over him.

  ‘Will? Are you okay?’

  ‘I think Amy was with him.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  Will had pointed at the television with one of the cups. ‘Amy. She told me she was going to interview Ian Rossiter this morning. Some sort of exclusive.’ He blinked, fighting down the panic. ‘I – I just know something’s happened to her.’

  Russell had glanced at Luigi, then back at Will. He snatched the coffee cups away, thrust them at the bewildered restaurant owner, and then frog-marched Will through the front door.

  ‘I’ll call you later, Luigi,’ he’d yelled over his shoulder as the doors slammed shut.

  Will had allowed Russell to lead him back to the museum, the passing pedestrians and traffic a blur. Somewhere in his subconscious, he heard car horns, exclamations from people who didn’t get out of Russell’s way fast enough, a vehicle skidding to a stop to their right, and a man’s voice swearing from an open car window.

  Then they were at the security turnstiles. Will had felt like he was walking underwater. He could hear people, but he struggled to understand what they were saying. Russell leaned across in front of him, reached down, and tugged at the security pass clipped to his belt. Ignoring the curious glance from the guard, Will had pushed through the gate, and then Russell’s palm shoved him in the back, pushing him towards the elevators.

  Will’s hearing only returned to normal once the doors slid shut. ‘Sorry – pardon?’

  ‘Oh thank god, he’s back to earth,’ muttered Russell. ‘I said, we’ll make some calls. Her mobile phone might be out of range – or flat, right?’

  ‘No – she forgot her phone this morning. It’s in my backpack.’

  ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘On my desk.’

  ‘Well, phone her editor – find out if she’s back at the office.’ Russell slapped him on the arm as the elevator doors opened. ‘Come on buddy, hang in there.’

  Will’s composure had started to slip as Jack barrelled through the open-plan office towards them, heads turning to stare as he approached.

  ‘You need to get to Prince George Hospital as soon as possible,’ he blurted out. ‘We’ve been trying to call you for the past twenty minutes.’

  Will had frowned and noticed the man’s eyes were red-rimmed. ‘Prince George Hospital?’

  ‘It’s all over the news – someone’s attacked Ian Rossiter and everyone in his motorcade,’ said Jack and lowered his voice. ‘Amy’s been shot.’

  Will had felt his legs buckle, and Jack reached out to steady him. Sweat broke out on his forehead and blood rushed in his ears, blocking out the conversation.

  ‘Have you got enough money on you for a taxi?’ his boss asked. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Rosalind! Get a taxi ordered for Will. Have them pick him up outside the loading bay round the back, okay?’

  Will watched, helpless, as the young intern had launched herself at her phone, speed-dialling the local taxi number, her eyes wide, staring at him. Somehow in the last thirty seconds he’d become rooted to the spot.

  Then Russell was at his side, thrusting his backpack at him. ‘Go, Will. I’ve put your mobile in there. Get going. Phone us when you can, all right?’ He nodded at Jack, and then pushed Will towards the elevators. As they waited for the doors to open, he’d lowered his voice.

  ‘Jesus, Will, of all the people for this to happen to. I mean, god – I hope she’ll be okay. If there’s anything I can do, you’ll let me know, right?’

  Will had raised his head at the sound of a low ping as the doors opened. He stepped inside the elevator car, then turned to face his friend, tears at the corner of his eyes, and nodded.

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  Now, he was stuck in traffic and still two miles away from the hospital.

  When he’d wondered why Amy hadn’t been taken to one closer to the scene of the shooting, a remnant of information in his subconscious reminded him that the newly opened Prince George complex boasted one of the best neurosurgery teams in the country.

  He rubbed his hand over his face and tried to ignore the sickness in the pit of his stomach, and then the taxi lurched forwards once more, and they were moving.

  Please let her be okay.

  2

  Will rubbed his eyes and tried to ignore the pervading aromas of disinfectant, sweat, and fear that permeated the corridor. He shifted on the chair, its metal back support cool against his shirt.

  He felt a bead of sweat pool between his shoulder blades and pushed back into the chair to stop it from running down his spine, then leaned forward and put his head in his hands, his mind racing.

  What the hell happened?

  Last night, as they’d sat at the small dining table in the apartment, their plates pushed to one side, Amy had asked him to collect her laptop from their computer expert on his way home from work the next day.

  ‘Has he finished the upgrade?’

  ‘Yes, said it was good to go. Faster processor, the works. Shame I haven’t got it for the morning – I’ll have to hot-desk when I get into work to type up my interview.’

  ‘Did you pick up spare batteries for your voice recorder?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She’d collected the plates together and walked the few paces into the open plan kitchen. After shoving the dirty dishes in the sink of hot water, she’d returned to the dining table.

  ‘So, when are you going to tell me who you’re interviewing in the morning?’

  She’d sat down and pinched the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. ‘I wasn’t planning on telling you until afterwards.’ Her eyes met his. ‘I know what you can be like.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She’d exhaled and leaned back in her chair, before taking a sip of her wine.

  ‘Stop stalling, and tell me.’

  Amy had put the glass down, and then told him.

  ‘Ian Rossiter? Are you out of your mind?’ Will had pushed back his chair and paced the living area. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘It’s the story of my life, Will. This could be such a career boost for me.’

  He’d spun around, his hands on his hips. ‘And what has Kirby said about this?’

  ‘I guess he reckons it’s time I got a break,’ she’d said. ‘After all, I’ve been there two years. I’ve proved myself to him. And,’ she said, as Will had snatched his own wine glass from the table, ‘it was my idea.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘And you’re just pissed off I’m doing this my way, not yours.’

  He’d stormed off then, slammed the door to the bedroom to lie in t
he darkness, alone, fuming, eventually falling asleep.

  When he’d woken up, Amy had already left for work.

  Will raised his head at the sound of footsteps. A man in his late fifties with a shock of white hair hurried towards him.

  ‘Will Fletcher?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Mr Hathaway – the surgeon who will be operating on Amy.’ Hathaway shifted his grip on a clipboard and extended his hand. ‘Let’s talk in the privacy of my office.’

  ‘Isn’t she in surgery? Why aren’t you there?’

  ‘They’re prepping her now. As you can appreciate, it’s a very delicate balancing act, so we need to be careful.’

  Hathaway led Will down the corridor, then abruptly turned left, pushed open a door and ushered Will inside. He pulled out a chair for Will at a paper-littered desk, and then sat.

  ‘Are there any relatives nearby we can contact to be with you?’

  Will shook his head. ‘No.’

  The surgeon nodded. ‘All right.’ He flipped over the pages on the clipboard, and appeared to be lost in thought.

  Will’s foot tapped against the worn carpet, until he could bear the silence no more. He leaned forward.

  ‘How bad is she?’

  Hathaway sighed. ‘The bullet is lodged in the outer part of her skull. It’s going to be a long procedure – hours – with a very specialised team. After that, we’ll be keeping her in an induced coma to give her body time to heal.’

  ‘What happened to Rossiter?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Will. Patient confidentiality…’ The surgeon leaned forward. ‘I’ll need you to sign the paperwork,’ he said, pushing the clipboard towards Will and lifting the pages until a consent form became visible. He pulled out a black soft tip pen from his overcoat and passed it to Will.

  As he leaned over the desk, the pen slipped from Will’s grip and rolled across the desk.

  The surgeon stopped its movement with a slap of his hand, and then glanced up. ‘I promise I’ll do my best, Will, but I won’t know how bad it is until I start.’

  Will nodded, took the pen from Hathaway, forced his hand to stop shaking, and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the form.