‘I don’t know.’ A creeping fear made Forrest cold. ‘Didn’t she come back last night?’
‘Of course not, you stupid bastard. If she was here I’d hardly be ringing you, would I?’
‘Well she isn’t here either. The last I last saw of her...’ Forrest pictured her threading her way through the tables of diners ‘...was when she left me at the restaurant at about eleven.’ The alarm clock showed four a.m. ‘Is there anywhere else she might be?’
‘No.’
‘Nowhere?’
‘No. She doesn’t get on with her parents. There is no one else.’
‘Her car couldn’t have...?’
‘She’d have caught a taxi — or rung.’
Silence.
Then, Tonya said, ‘He has her.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you bloody well think?’
• • • •
She was in a neat, clean room. Walls, ceiling, painted dazzling white. Her head ached and she couldn’t move. Why couldn’t she move? Straps were binding her arms and ankles. She tried to wriggle, but they were strong straps, tied tightly.
A light shone in her face, blinding her. She stared up at a green-gowned figure.
‘Who are you?’
No answer.
‘Why have you brought me here?’
‘Don’t you know?’ A rough, coarse voice.
Karys looked around the room. Her nightmares realized.
The ‘surgeon’ turned his back on her, selected an instrument and held it up in front of her face. It was a scalpel.
• • • •
Tonya Farthing was waiting for him outside her block of flats, a muffled figure in jeans and a bomber jacket, standing beneath the porch light. Forrest recognized her at once, by the bright hair. The red-headed journalist. Immediately things began to fall into place. No wonder she had worn that knowing smile, sharing a flat with the pathologist in charge of the case, she had been so much better informed than the others. If he hadn’t been so taut with worry he would have made a note to chide Karys for her careless talk.
As it was he stopped beside Tonya and threw open the passenger door.
‘She hasn’t turned up?’
Tonya shook her head. ‘He’s got her. I know it. She did tell you about him, didn’t she? She was going to.’
‘Yes.’ Some of her panic was transmitting itself to him.
‘Then you should have realized she was in danger if you’d have had an ounce of sense. Ah, but,’ she added, ‘you’re a detective, aren’t you? What’s the point in expecting sense from them?’ She got into the car.
Forrest bit back a comment. He hadn’t liked her when she had sat in the front row during press conferences, now, sitting right beside him in his car he felt a strong urge to punch her. But that wouldn’t help Karys.
‘What’s his telephone number?’
‘You mean Lewisham?’
‘Who else?’
Forrest pulled it slowly from his pocket. ‘It’s only a mobile. I don’t know where he lives.’
‘Dial it!’
Forrest pressed the keypad.
He won’t answer it. No surgeon comes to the phone in the middle of...in the middle of what? He felt sick. ‘Hello.’
Sheer amazement kept him silent for a moment. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Detective Inspector David Forrest here.’
‘And what the hell do you want? It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Dr Harper’s missing.’
‘And you thought she might be having a quick...’ A prolonged silence. ‘A quick what?’
Tonya grabbed the phone. ‘Where do you live?’
Frustratingly, Forrest could only hear one side of the conversation, Tonya’s sharp, ‘Never mind who I am.’ But Lewisham must have told her something. She started scribbling. One hand fished out the A-Z of Birmingham. ‘That had better be the right answer because I’ve got enough on you, Barney Lewisham to put you behind bars for the rest of your natural...Don’t touch her. I know the bloody lot. And we’re on our way.’
Next she barked at Forrest. ‘Start the ruddy engine.’ Forrest did exactly as she asked.
• • • •
Karys felt sick. She wished her head would clear. So this was what concussion felt like, this dreamy, sleepy quality. Real and yet unreal. She tried to open her eyes again but the light was too strong.
‘Turn the light off.’
‘I need it. For my work.’
‘You can’t —’
The surgeon’s mask ruckled. He was smiling.
She struggled to move.
• • • •
Forrest was shocked when Lewisham opened the door, fully dressed, alert, smiling even.
‘Now what’s all this about?’
Tonya got her words out first. ‘Where’s Karys?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest idea.’
As though she didn’t exist he looked past her to Forrest. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’
‘I told you Dr Harper’s missing.’
Lewisham grinned. ‘And you think she might be bedding down with me?’ He stood back. ‘Feel free to search my premises. Don’t forget to look underneath the bed. I won’t even ask you for your warrant,’ he called after them.
• • • •
Karys was conscious of two overwhelming emotions: terror, a blinding, paralysing terror; and curiosity.
A childish instinct told her to shut her eyes tightly, squeeze out the horrors, as though not to see them could make them vanish.
And like a child she whimpered. ‘Please. Help me. Let me go.’
But the ‘surgeon’ was waiting. Karys opened her eyes to look at him. A tall man, dressed in green cotton. Masked, so his nose and mouth were invisible. But she could see his eyes. Brown, cold. She tried to move her arms. She must escape.
Then anger flooded through her. She was not a child anymore. She was a woman, a doctor. And this surgeon was an imposter. He had no right.
‘Who are you?’
Her voice sounded cracked and strange.
In answer the ‘surgeon’ lowered his mask.
Chapter Twenty-two
They had searched the house. Karys was not there.
Lewisham was sitting in the lounge, smoking a cigar. He treated them both to an amused smile as they came back in.
‘Well?’
‘Where is she, you bastard?’
Forrest knew Tonya’s fury was a waste of time. They had to enlist the psychiatrist’s help, not antagonize him. And there was only one way to do that: appeal to his vanity. There was no time to lose.
‘I need your assistance, Doctor.’
Already he could sense it was working. Lewisham’s face softened. He puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Then tell me exactly what’s going on.’
‘Doctor Harper and I had dinner last night. She never arrived home.’
‘And what on earth do you think this has to do with me?’
‘Where is she?’
Lewisham shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He hesitated. ‘Her car?’
Forrest cursed himself. How could he have forgotten the bloody car. He turned to Tonya.
‘What’s the number?’
‘CWA ninety-five.’
In as long as it had taken to say it Forrest had repeated it down the phone and the name of the previous night’s hotel, with a curt request to let him know immediately if they found it.
Lewisham was watching them, still with that same condescending smile on his face. Forrest knew that Tonya shared his feelings: they would both have liked to throttle the man. But they dared not. If anyone could help them he could.
Forrest struggled to keep his voice calm. ‘I know about the incident you were involved in in the operating theatre in July 1991. Karys told me. Everything. And there’s a connection between that incident and these murders.’
Lewisham’s eyebrows shot up. But he said nothing.
Forrest pressed f
urther. ‘I know you laced Pinky Sutcliffe’s morning coffee with haloperidol with fatal consequences for his patient.’
Something did change then, Lewisham frowned at him. He took another big puff from the cigar and let the ash fall unchecked.
‘These murders—’
Lewisham’s mouth curved upwards in a demonic smile. ‘You can’t have thought I was your “surgeon”?’ Forrest held back.
‘I would have had much more skill than that hacker. And as for Forning...’
Forrest realized with a shock, that he had discounted Forning. He had not assumed Karys safe even though Forning was in custody. Why not? Because he had never really believed Forning was the killer. He had wanted to believe it, had tried to convince himself he did believe it. But it had failed.
‘Please, Doctor Lewisham. Help us find Karys.’
• • • •
He had lowered his mask, still hooked round the ears, and tucked it under his chin. It could have looked comic.
Karys squinted up at him. The lights were blinding her. She could see nothing but a huge silhouette. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘But I don’t.’
‘Think, Doctor Harper. Think.’
Karys closed her eyes. Had she heard the voice before? She must get away. Her feet. She might be able to slip...
He turned towards her again. She knew instinctively that help would not come. She had to do this herself, or die.
• • • •
They were still in Lewisham’s sitting room when the call came through. ‘They’ve found the car.’ Forrest was swamped by a sense of hopelessness. ‘It never left the hotel.’
Tonya was deathly pale, her face against the garish red hair making her look like a gaudy rag doll. She took a couple of steps towards Lewisham. ‘Think, you bastard,’ she said. ‘What is the connection between the murders and what you did all those years ago?’
Lewisham puffed away at his cigar, mesmerized by the smoke. ‘Intriguing, isn’t it? I’ve recently spent quite a few happy hours pondering that very point. It came to me slowly — the connection. I’d forgotten the porter’s name — if I’d ever known it — and the nurse had a different name then. It wasn’t until he got to Brenda that I was sure.’
‘And what conclusion have you come to?’ Forrest knew he had to play this Lewisham’s way.
‘I decided,’ Lewisham said slowly, ‘to concentrate on the personae at the theatre that day.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps I should say the dramatis personae as it was a theatre.’ Another puff on the cigar. ‘Some, of course, we can discount.’ He peered at Forrest, ignoring Tonya. ‘They’re already dead.’ He gave a short, braying laugh.
Forrest hated him for the delay. It might be costing Karys her life. But a knife held to Lewisham’s throat wouldn’t force him to speak, because he knew the power he wielded and was enjoying the omniscience. He knew they could do nothing to him while there was a chance that Karys was still alive.
Lewisham smiled to himself. Not much of a chance if what he had learned about the ‘surgeon’ was correct. He liked his corpses fresh. He lit a second cigar from the butt of the first, fugging the air, adding to the theatrical atmosphere of the room. He cleared his throat and spoke.
‘Think of it this way.’ He settled back in his chair. ‘We were all in a costume drama that day. The surgeon, Pinky Sutcliffe, no longer a serious actor, more a ham actor. An object of fun. Tumbled from grace by my trick. And I was the director and Karys my puppet. The others mere bit actors. But there was to be a sacrificial lamb, if you’ll pardon my mixing the metaphors. You all forgot about the sacrifice. A necessary part. One can’t have a tragedy without death.’ He smiled at them both. Forrest knew they must hide their impatience.
‘But you see. When someone dies it sets off a chain reaction. This has been your error all the way through. You should have looked with much more intelligence at past events. Why should I want to kill? If it had any connection with the slaughter of innocents you should have looked elsewhere.’ He paused. ‘Who would want to kill? Revenge was the right answer. But whose revenge?’ He stubbed the cigar out on an ashtray and smiled. ‘You don’t know do you? When it’s so glaringly obvious. Are the police such dolts? And journalists too?’ He gave them both a withering stare.
• • • •
The ‘surgeon’ had not tied the straps tight enough. Karys had wriggled her feet almost free.
‘Who are you?’ she asked again.
‘You should remember, Doctor Harper. You met me. Once. Briefly.’
‘Did I?’
The ‘surgeon’ held up his scalpel. ‘Do you know there are more than twenty different types of scalpel blade?’
‘Yes.’ Only by remaining calm could she hope to survive. She desperately wanted to live. Start again. Work with the living. She had had enough of surrounding herself with the dead.
The ‘surgeon’ continued. ‘I identified my mother-in-law just a few days ago. Now do you remember?’
The image swam into her mind. A burly man, a fleshy face, thick dark curly hair. Very dark eyes. Almost black. She had met him. And forgotten him. ‘I don’t recall your name.’
‘No? It’s Terry. Terry Carling. Now do you remember me?’
• • • •
Forrest was trying to cut short the theatricals.
‘Look, Doctor Lewisham. Karys is in danger. Please. Help us. Quickly. If we waste time she might —’ He could not continue.
Lewisham was eyeing them narrowly. ‘You can’t have thought,’ he said. ‘You can’t really have thought I was him. The “surgeon” is a monster. A moron. Dysfunctional. Mad.’ He drew himself up to his full, inadequate height. ‘You can’t really have believed.’ He stopped speaking and closed his mouth, breathing fast through his nostrils.
Tonya spoke again, savagely. ‘Well, if what Karys told me about you is true you’re pretty weird yourself. Not exactly the average boyfriend.’
They glared at each other.
‘Please.’ Forrest spoke wearily. ‘None of this — sparring — is getting us any closer to Karys.’ He was remembering the earnest, pleading expression in her eyes as she had told her story. Begging him not to be too harsh a judge of her. He blinked fast to blot it out. Her vulnerability had touched him too closely. He was terrified she would be the next body to be discovered.
‘Please, Doctor Lewisham,’ he pleaded. ‘Carry on.’
Lewisham smiled. ‘As I said. You have to consider the point. Who would want revenge for the events of that day? Let’s first of all consider Sutcliffe. He might have wanted the silence of the staff who witnessed his fall from grace, but not eight years later. It would have to have been immediately. They had probably all forgotten it. Events do fade after a number of years. The victim’s family too should have wanted their revenge still warm. But here I have done some investigating of my own.’
• • • •
Her mouth was almost too dry to speak. But she managed the one word. ‘Why?’
The ‘surgeon’ hooked his mask back up over his nose.
‘Time to scrub up,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Why?’ she shouted.
Terry Carling was washing his hands.
Karys wriggled her feet free. He didn’t turn around. ‘Because you could have stopped it.’
‘Stopped what?’
‘You all had the power. None more than you, Lewisham, Sutcliffe, the nurses, the theatre porter.’ There was anger in his voice. ‘None less than my father’.
‘Who is your father?’
‘Was my father, Dr Harper, was. He’s dead. He was your victim. Yours — and the others.’ He had fitted elbow taps to the sink, and was making a thorough job of sluicing his hands and drying them on paper towels. Karys began to shiver uncontrollably.
‘Why don’t you tell me how he died?’ It was her only hope — bluff. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
But she did. She knew exactly what he was
talking about. The old sin had returned to haunt her. As she had always known it would.
Carling smiled. ‘It’s all fate, you know. I would never have known his death was anything out of the ordinary but for fate. He and my mother were divorced. His death meant nothing to her. And I hardly knew him. When my mother said he’d died in hospital I thought nothing of it. But for my dear mother-in-law and her habit of recounting tales from the theatre I would never have known. But how she loved to prattle! And so I heard of the drama that was really a murder. A nicely smoothed over murder. I heard about the surgeon who had acted strangely during a routine operation. I heard how he had sliced through a major artery. How the patient had bled. Everyone thought Sutcliffe must have been ill. But he wasn’t, was he? What did happen? It was Brenda who supplied the answer. She heard Lewisham say to you what a good idea it had been. But she didn’t know my connection. You see my mother had married again, we didn’t share the same name.’
Karys felt cold. Terribly cold. And tired too. She could hardly manage to open her eyes. The light was too bright.
‘So why did my father die, Karys? Answer, because Lewisham gave him something to affect the surgeon’s skill. It was your idea, wasn’t it? And like bad Samaritans not one of you challenged the surgeon’s authority and stopped him from killing my father. You all did nothing. And so my father died. And I was paid four hundred and fifty pounds for my loss. That was the final insult: that the hospital thought they could pay me off. So, I thought, I too shall play at this game, the game of surgery. I too can be a surgeon if the title awards its bearer the ability to murder — legally. All it took was a detailed study of a textbook on surgery and a few bits and pieces filched from the theatre when picking up my dear mother-in-law.’
‘Please,’ she begged, her arms straining feebly at the straps.
‘You didn’t care. Why should I? Afterwards not one of you told the truth. You let my father die without demanding justice. For that I hold you all responsible, to varying degrees, which in turn dictated my order of events. Colin Wilson, Rosemary Shearer, my mother-in-law. You, the innocent dupe, Lewisham, the diabolist and finally Sutcliffe too, the murdering surgeon. He deserves his final placing because it was his hand that killed my father. The Greek doctor admittedly has temporarily wriggled through the net by vanishing back to his own country but I’ll find him. That only leaves Amison, the anaesthetist, out of all of you he was the one who did most for my father. My mother-in-law told me how hard he tried to save him. Retribution is not for him. It wouldn’t be appropriate. Now then, Doctor. Breathe slowly. Through the mask.’
A Fatal Cut Page 24
