by Chris Simms
Brookes brought up the website for Greater Manchester Police, noted down the number and walked back to the pay-phone. ‘Hello, could I be put through to the Major Incident Team, please? Yes, there is a particular detective I’d like to speak with. He’s called DI Spicer.’
The phone on Jon’s desk began to ring. A civilian indexer, filling her cup at the water cooler, glanced over. That must be the eighth call in the last half-hour. Her eyes settled on Jon’s empty chair. Where was he? His computer was on, he must be around somewhere. She stepped over and picked the receiver up. ‘DI Spicer’s phone.’
‘Could I speak to him, please?’
‘He’s not at his desk. Can I take a message?’
‘Yes. It’s in regard to the murder of three Russians.’
‘OK.’ She grabbed a pen and Post-it note from Jon’s desk-tidy. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Well, I have a letter. Er . . . when will he be in?’
‘He’s around somewhere. Possibly in a meeting?’
‘OK. I’d prefer to just leave my name and number, if that’s OK.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s Mr Brookes and he can reach me on . . .’ He squinted at the phone then read out the numbers in the panel above the buttons. ‘It’s a public payphone, but I can wait an hour or two for his call.’
‘Lovely. I’ll leave the message out for him.’ She stuck the Post-it note to the base of Jon’s keyboard then returned to her desk.
Alice sat on the bed, one hand resting on the young woman’s beneath the bedclothes, the other turning her mobile phone over and over. She sneaked another glance at her. You poor thing. The things that those final letters described . . . Alice tried to close down the images before they became too vivid. What horrors. Looking back at her phone, she took a breath in. ‘Amira, I’m just stepping outside, OK? I only need to make a phone call. I’m not leaving you.’
The young woman’s gaze alighted on Alice’s face and she gave a small nod. Alice closed the door with a gentle click then went into her phone’s address book.
‘Hello?’
‘Officer Seakins? It’s Alice Spicer, here. We talked—’
‘Yes, Alice. Is it her?’
‘Yes. I’m holding the bottle of perfume from her wash bag in my hand. Have you read the letters in this morning’s paper? She actually mentions the bottle.’
‘I knew it was her.’
‘I’m not sure what to do. I haven’t told anyone, yet. I’ve just been sitting with her, stroking her face. She understands everything I’m saying.’
‘You must tell whoever’s in charge.’
‘I know. But I don’t want her to go through the stress of her identity becoming known.’ She felt the question welling up and was powerless to stop it. ‘Did you say you’d read the final letters?’
His voice sounded guarded once more. ‘I have.’
Bowing her head, Alice closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask. When you found her, what had happened to the man’s body? Was it still . . . were there signs of, you know . . .’
She heard him breathing for several seconds before he spoke.
‘You need to plan very carefully how to handle this. You’re right, when the press learn where she really is, a huge amount of attention will be focused on her.’
Alice opened her eyes, realising he’d avoided the question. ‘I know one of the consultant psychiatrists here. I’ll let him know the situation.’
‘That sounds like a sensible move. Well, Alice – good luck. I’m sure we’ll speak again. One day, when it’s practical, I would like to see her again.’
‘Right, yes.’ She glanced about her, making sure the corridor was empty. ‘Officer – I mean Beach.’ She took a breath in, ‘Had one of the mirrors on the raft been broken?’
‘Alice, things happen at sea. Things that are best not spoken about on land. Take care of her, Alice. Goodbye.’
She stared at her feet for a few seconds. Did that mean Amira had survived by eating Ali’s flesh, or not? Unable to decide, she dialled Braithwaite’s number. ‘Phillip, it’s me, Alice. Can you talk?’
‘Yes. Have you given some thought to what I said?’
‘Phillip – I need to ask you something.’
‘If it’s about the complaint I made, I only did—’
‘You know the patient, J. Smith. The one in the MHU?’
Braithwaite paused. ‘What about her?’
‘You knew she was female?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I think I know who she is. I do know who she is.’
‘Alice, are you calling about the issues that we raised the other night?’
‘What? No, I’m not. Phillip, the young woman is her: the one who wrote the letters.’
‘Which letters?’
‘The ones in the ducks.’
‘Alice.’ Irritation washed through his words. ‘I had the radio on earlier. They already know her whereabouts. She’s a patient in the MRI.’
‘That’s a mistake. She’s here, on the mental health unit.’
He sighed. ‘Alice – I have a patient waiting outside. Why don’t you have a word with the sister or charge nurse? Let them know about your concerns.’
‘Phillip, I need your help. This needs to be managed properly, she’s so vulnerable.’
‘Alice, the person who wrote those letters is in the MRI. I don’t know who the woman on the unit is, that’s why she’s referred to as J. Smith.’
‘She’s called Amira. For God’s sake, Phillip. I spoke to the medical officer at the naval hospital in Plymouth she was sent from.’
‘You’re becoming aggressive again. I’ve really got to go.’
‘Please, Phill—’ The line was dead. She lowered her hand, digging the corner of the phone against her thigh. What a wanker, she cursed. What a total and utter wanker. She opened the door to Amira’s room.
Jon stood on the balcony of Rick’s flat, despondently staring across the city. The ornate towers of the Palace Hotel shimmered above the surrounding buildings. Off to the right, the harsh angles of the Beetham Tower stabbed up at the hazy sky. What an eyesore, he reflected sourly. Holly’s made better-looking towers with her bloody Lego.
His mind went to arriving back at the flat. Andy had already collected Zak from his two mums’ house and had got the car ready. Jon thought about his doubts when Rick had announced he was donating sperm to the lesbian couple. But hearing the little lad’s laughter as Rick and Andy had set off with him made it obvious the boy was happy. Far happier, he concluded sadly, than my own daughter. His eyes roved back to the south, settling on a spot he guessed was close to the house he once lived in.
How have I ended up here? Wanting to eradicate the thought, he stepped back inside and examined the tray of bottles to the side of the door. Tequila. That’ll burn. He unscrewed the lid and swigged direct from the bottle, relishing the fire that flooded his throat. With the bottle hanging from one hand, he paced round the empty living area, idly looking at photos of Rick, Andy and the little boy. The three peeping over the top of an upturned surfboard, posing next to a knee-high sandcastle, sitting on a sea wall eating ice cream. Jealousy, like a worm stirring inside his stomach. He turned the telly on. A stream of sound and images, he thought, something to deaden my mind.
The news came on and he lowered himself onto the sofa, taking another swig as he did so. Jesus – the throng of cameras on Oxford Road outside the MRI was ridiculous. Cordons had been erected and the reporter was pointing at the upper level of the main building, excitedly announcing that the intensive care unit was on the third floor. The mystery woman was believed to be in a private room somewhere on that ward. Jon scanned the background. Apart from a couple of uniforms at the main entrance, there was absolutely no police presence. He spotted Carmel chatting to some other hack and raised the bottle to the screen. Nice one, girl. You got the last laugh on me.
He sat bac
k, trying to imagine how they’d have staked out the ward. Would there be a real officer posing in the bed? MI5 officers posing as orderlies? Snipers on the surrounding rooftops? Keep guessing, he told himself, raising the bottle to his lips another time. You are well and truly out of this one.
His mobile went off. ‘Rick.’ He tried to inject some cheer into his voice, but his jaw felt slack and heavy. ‘You don’t sound like you’re in the car.’
‘I’m not. I forgot my bloody sunglasses – swung by the station to pick them up.’
‘Oh, right. What’s going on there?’
‘Buchanon’s in with Gower. He’s holding a press conference at noon, apparently. Get this, he’s trying to contact the two CIA agents.’
‘How come?’
‘That Manchester Evening Chronicle shot of you showing them out of the front doors? A witness from the first murder rang in to say it was D’Souza he saw in the vicinity of Marat Dubinski’s flat. I swear, Buchanon’s hair has scrunched up even tighter with the prospect of having to interview and eliminate the Yank from an investigation he’s in Britain to assist with.’ Rick chuckled for a moment. ‘Anyway – there’s a note on your desk. Message to call some guy.’
‘Who?’
‘An Oliver Brookes.’ He adopted the mechanical tone of someone reciting written words. ‘Information on the Russian murders, calling from a payphone. I recognise the area code: Devon.’
‘Payphone?’
‘Yup. Probably a head case, but one thing’s for certain: no fucker here is going to bother ringing him. You want the number?’
Jon sighed. ‘Go on, then. It’ll give me something to do.’
Thirty-One
The alarm obliterated the echo of Phillip’s final comments in Alice’s head. Startled, she looked to the bed, as if Amira could confirm whether it was a test. The young woman’s eyes turned to her questioningly. Alice raised a hand to indicate everything was OK, then waited. A minute passed and the two-tone wail showed no sign of stopping. When a staff member hit a panic button, the alarm was a rapid series of beeps. This was different. I hope that’s not for real, she thought. ‘I’ll go and check what’s going on. I won’t be a minute.’
She stepped out into the corridor and immediately heard a low moaning from round the corner. The woman with cigarette burns was hunched on the floor, hands clamped over her ears. A nursing assistant was trying to get her to stand. From the bay further along, patients were being led towards the exit.
‘Is this a test?’ Alice asked, raising her voice above the din.
‘No test!’ the assistant replied. ‘Some idiot probably burnt their toast on a floor below. Can you give me a hand?’
Alice glanced quickly over her shoulder. ‘Who’s doing the single-occupancy rooms?’
‘They’re next. Bays first in an emergency.’
She crouched down to hook an arm under the woman’s.
‘OK, on three,’ the nursing assistant instructed. ‘One, two, three.’
Together, they lifted her to a standing position. But as soon as their grip relaxed, the woman’s knees buckled.
‘I’ll get a wheelchair,’ he cursed. ‘Hang on.’
At the end of the corridor, a staff member was locking up the meds room. Male patients began to appear from the direction of the telly area. Tony Garrett caught sight of Alice and lifted both arms triumphantly.
She almost expected him to start bellowing ‘England!’, but he began to sing instead.
‘This is the end, my only friend, the end!’
‘Quieten down, Tony,’ a male nurse ordered, tugging at the man’s elbow.
He shook it free and pointed to the exit. ‘The Doors, isn’t it! Do you get it? The Doors!’
‘Yeah,’ the nurse replied. ‘And you’re walking through them.’
Garrett pulled his tracksuit bottoms higher and followed the other patients into the airlock. ‘Come on baby, light my fire. Hey, Danny, you got any ciggies on you?’
The nursing assistant reappeared with a wheelchair and they hauled the woman into it. ‘What about the private rooms?’ Alice repeated, wincing at the volume of the alarm directly above their head.
‘Get this lot out first!’
An old woman wearing a cream-coloured nightie wandered out from the bay next to them, silver hair like traces of a cobweb that had drifted down onto her head. ‘Can you hear the organ? It’s such a wonderful, wonderful sound!’
‘You get her,’ the assistant growled, pushing the wheelchair towards the doors.
Alice put an arm round the old lady and had got her to the nurses’ desk when a low boom sent a tremor through the building. The lights flickered momentarily and the sprinklers suddenly kicked in.
‘What the hell was that?’ Alice called to a nurse with a clipboard who was standing by the doors, trying to check patients’ wristbands before ticking their names off the list.
‘I don’t know!’
The old lady held her palms up to the fine droplets raining down. ‘Cascades of notes! Cascades of notes!’
The door to the nurses’ room was flung open and the charge nurse – a muscular man originally from Nigeria – stepped out. His face was grey with shock. ‘That was an explosion. I could see from the window – the side of the building’s been blown out.’
Alice swept dripping strands of hair from her eyes. ‘Go through there.’ She directed the woman to the doors then turned to the charge nurse. ‘The private rooms.’
‘Haven’t they been cleared?’
‘No! Jane Smith – she’s still back there.’
‘OK, you wheel her out. I’ll check the others.’
The nurse with the clipboard called over, hand moving down the list. ‘You’re getting Jane Smith?’
‘Yes!’ Alice hurried back up the corridor, feet sliding on the shiny floor as she tried to round the corner too fast. She stumbled forward, reached Amira’s room and opened the door. The bed was empty, fine spray drifting on to it from the sprinkler in the ceiling. She stepped back and looked along the corridor. Deserted. Back in the bedroom, she checked behind the door then inside the little wardrobe. Where was she? The bedside stand holding the drip caught her eye. The tube stretched down and then ran under the bed. Getting onto all fours, she saw her there, curled in a tight ball. ‘Amira, we need to get outside. There’s been some sort of explosion. Come on, I’ll help you.’
Amira wriggled desperately towards the wall. ‘It’s him. He’s come for me.’
Alice’s hand froze in mid-air. Christ, now she decides to speak.
‘Who?’
‘The man with throat scars. It is him.’
Alice felt a shiver of fear pass through her. Get a grip, Alice, she told herself. That’s absurd. ‘Amira, it’s a fire alarm. Come on.’
‘He’s coming!’
Alice lay down, reached under and was able to place a hand on the other woman’s upper arm. ‘Amira? We have to get out. I’m going to pull you towards me, OK?’
The door opened and the alarm grew louder. As Amira started shrinking away, Alice heard the charge nurse call that it was clear. The door clicked shut again.
‘No!’ she shouted. ‘I need help in here.’ Bloody hell. She grasped Amira’s arm more firmly and other woman suddenly stopped resisting. Alice pulled her across the smooth floor. She can’t weigh much more than Holly, Alice thought. ‘Can you stand?’
There was now a far-off look in Amira’s eyes and she failed to reply.
She’s gone, Alice thought. Back into her shell. Alice scooped her other arm under Amira’s legs and just managed to deposit her back on the bed. Quickly, she checked the drip was still intact, folded the damp blankets back over her and then lay the drip stand alongside the younger woman. ‘OK, we’re going outside.’
She grabbed the handrail at the end of the bed and pulled. The thing didn’t budge. Squatting down, she searched for the wheel locks, drips falling from her eyebrows. She flipped the levers up and was about to pull the bed once more whe
n the dull thud of another explosion caused the floor to vibrate. Jesus! She stepped over to the window, but it only overlooked the roof of a single-storey building. A traffic cone lay there, next to a dead pigeon. By craning her neck and looking to the side, she could make out a couple of nurses running across a small car park, the air above them dark with billowing smoke.
Alice dragged the bed to the door, opened it with one hand and wheeled Amira out into the corridor. She found herself squinting at the alarm’s intensity. No sign of the charge nurse. She swung the bed round and started pushing it forward. At the corner, her step faltered; the nurse checking names at the exit had also disappeared. They’ve bloody gone without us. At least the sliding doors were still open. Seconds later, she was at the nurses’ desk, reaching over it and pressing the exit button. The other set of doors at the far end of the airlock remained shut.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Alice cursed, looking fearfully into the twelve-foot-long tunnel. She pressed the button again. Nothing. OK, she told herself. Keep calm. ‘Amira, can you walk? If I help you, can you walk?’ No reply. ‘OK, that’s OK.’
Alice wheeled Amira’s bed so it was halfway through the first set of doors and glanced nervously at the mechanism set into the ceiling. Please, do not decide to shut yourself. Taking a deep breath, she strode rapidly to the other end of the airlock.
Payphone in Devon, Jon said to himself. I’ve got to be bloody desperate. He keyed in the number, half surprised when it actually started to ring.
‘Hello?’
A well-spoken voice. Posh. Jon frowned. ‘Is that Oliver Brookes speaking?’
