by Chris Simms
‘It is.’
The guy didn’t sound like a gibbering loony. ‘My name is DI Spicer, from the Greater Manchester Police. You left a message for me.’
‘I did. It’s to do with the murders you’re investigating.’
Was, thought Jon. Not any longer. ‘You’re calling me from Devon, is that right?’
‘Correct.’
‘About murders in Manchester?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you get my name?’
‘From the internet. A report in the Evening Chronicle.’
‘Right. So, what can you tell me?’
‘Well, it’s going to sound rather odd.’
Here we go, Jon thought, closing his eyes. Did God speak to you by any chance? ‘What’s your address, sir?’
‘I don’t have one as such.’
Why me? Jon thought. Why do I always get them? ‘You’re of no fixed abode?’
‘No. I live in a small cottage. But it doesn’t have a postal address. It’s on the beach, you see. The post office in Combe Martin holds any letters for me.’
‘Right.’ Jon reached for the remote and started studying the schedule for some sport. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘A few days ago, several of those rubber ducks – the ones that have been in the news, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Jon sat back, eyes on the screen.
‘Several were washed up on my beach. Or the National Trust’s beach, more accurately. There was a letter in one.’
‘Really? A letter?’ A Super match was starting in ten minutes. Waikato Chiefs versus ACT Brumbies. Nice.
‘It was numbered one. I believe it’s the first in the series written by the Iraqi woman.’
‘That would be the letter the Express has been offering twenty thousand pounds for?’
‘I’m not concerned about money.’
‘Good for you.’ Jon began flicking through the channels. ‘What did it say?’
‘Not much. But it mentions her name and the ship that abandoned her.’
Gosh, thought Jon. This is when you tell me it was the Titanic.
‘And what was the ship called?’
‘The Lesya Ukrayinka.’
The remote almost fell from Jon’s fingers. He struggled upright, placing the bottle of tequila on the coffee table. ‘Have you still got this letter?’
‘Yes. I’m holding it in my hand.’
‘Please read it to me.’ A news report had come up on the television. Something about an explosion at Sale General Hospital. Bloody hell, Jon thought. That’s where Alice goes to help out.
‘OK. As I said, it’s marked with a one. Then it says, “My name is Amira Jasim, age 22, former resident of Baghdad, Iraq. I am writing this letter in English to declare to the world that, on the fourteenth of July, I paid $6,000 to board a ship in the Pakistani port of Karachi. This money was to buy me passage to Great Britain. Last night I, and many others like me, were abandoned. If we are to die here in the sea, the captain of the Lesya Ukrayinka is a murderer for he did not turn back for us.
‘“The other man who must face justice is my boss, Mr Scott King of the Coalition Provisional Authority in Baghdad. When I showed him evidence of how the money meant for rebuilding my nation is being stolen, he passed my identity to militia. They killed my husband, Younis, and I was forced to flee before they came for me.”’
Jon could hardly believe it: he had the name of her boss in the CPA! He stood, walked over to the desk with Rick’s computer on and picked up a pen and piece of paper. ‘Sir – I’d like to see this letter.’
‘I’ll gladly post it to you.’
‘No.’ The last thing I need, he thought, is it getting lost in the post. He looked at his watch. How many hours to Devon? Five? Six? ‘I’ll drive down.’
‘Well – if you’re sure.’
‘I am. How can I find you?’ He jotted down the other man’s instructions. ‘OK, Oliver, so if the library at Combe Martin is closed by the time I arrive, you’ll be in the Focsle Inn.’
‘Yes.’
Jon hung up then started looking round. Where the bloody hell did I put my car keys?
Alice peered through the windows of the doors leading out into the lobby area. No one was there. Glancing at the panel above the lifts, she saw a couple of dashes flashing on and off where a floor number was usually displayed. Oh, Jesus. She hammered on the doors. This was ridiculous, she told herself, trying not to acknowledge the feeling of panic gathering strength inside her.
‘Is anyone there!’ she yelled, painfully aware the alarm easily drowned out her cries. I need air. She turned round, ran back to the inner doors and wheeled Amira back out into the unit. The phone, of course. I can ring security. She stepped round the nurses’ desk and picked it up. Dead line. Twisting round, she reached for the door handle of the nurses’ room. Locked. No! This isn’t happening! In desperation, she hit the staff emergency button on the wall panel. The rapid beeping seemed trivial alongside the fire alarm’s incessant screech.
Fire escape. Where the bloody hell is the fire escape? Other end of the corridor, next to the isolation room. She jogged back along it, seeing only blackness through the wire-mesh window. This door was alarmed, angry red letters announced. She realised the blackness was smoke, thick against the glass. Grasping the bar with both hands, she shoved it open. Smoke engulfed her and she immediately started to choke, just able to make out the enclosed metal stairwell before she had to swing the door shut once more. I couldn’t climb down there myself, let alone with Amira. Sweeping her soaked hair back, she turned round and returned to the main exit.
‘OK, Amira,’ she announced. The muscles of her throat felt constricted and she tried to swallow. ‘Let’s find somewhere clear of these stupid sprinklers.’ She wheeled the bed towards the telly room, trying each door on her right. Meds room locked. Staff room locked. Visitor room locked. She crossed the corridor and tried the games room. It opened. She looked in. Chairs and two small tables for playing cards were positioned before a table- tennis table that was missing its net. No sprinkler in the ceiling. Once the bed was inside, she closed the door and the alarm’s volume dropped. Immediately, she walked over to the window and looked out. Another wing of the hospital filled the view. She regarded the locks on the reinforced windows, realising the keys would be in the nurses’ room.
After trying to wipe her hands dry on Amira’s wet sheets, she pulled her mobile out. Who the hell do I call? The fire brigade must surely be here by now. Police? They’ll need instructions to locate us, she thought, picturing the hospital complex. Phillip. He’ll know what to do. The moment he answered, she started speaking. ‘Phillip! It’s me, Alice. We’re trapped in the MHU.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The fire alarms have gone off. An explosion. They evacuated the unit, but me and Amira were left behind. The bloody airlock doors are jammed and I don’t know how to open them. Can you get over here?’
‘Alice, just get out of there. Immediately.’
‘I can’t! Someone needs to release the outer doors.’
‘Use the fire escape.’
‘The smoke is too bad – it’s right above the fire.’
‘There’s a code for the airlock. A panel to the side of the doors which let you out into the main part of the hospital.’
‘You mean the panel is inside the airlock?’
‘Yes – for exactly the situation you’re in now.’
‘What’s the code?’
‘Hang on, it’s in my notebook. Wait a second, it’s here somewhere.’
Come on, come on, Alice thought, eyes on Amira’s immobile form.
‘Got it. One nine seven zero. Think of it as the year – nineteen seventy.’
‘Thanks.’
She pulled Amira’s bed back to the door, bracing herself for the din as she opened it. The sprinklers were still going and the floor was now awash with water. Alice swung the bed out, repositioned it halfway through the airlock’s first set of doors again
and walked quickly to the other end. There it was, a small panel. She flipped the cover open. Please, please work. One by one, she keyed in the numbers. As the doors leading into the lobby slid open, the inner ones closed, clamping on each side of Amira’s bed. Alice looked with horror as the mechanism started to judder. Suddenly, they reopened and the outer ones slid shut. She looked from one set of doors to the other and groaned with exasperation.
Finger trembling, she keyed in the numbers again. This time, the inner doors didn’t close as the outer ones opened. Alice bounded to the other end of the airlock. As she gripped the railing at the other end of Amira’s bed, the inner doors slid across, trapping it once again. Alice started yanking with all her might and the bed began inching forward when her feet slipped out from under her, shins crashing against the bed’s base. The outer doors closed once more. Christ! She scrabbled to her feet and, with the doors continuing to judder against the frame of Amira’s bed, hobbled back to the panel. She keyed in the code but the outer doors stayed shut. She tried again. Nothing happened.
‘Phillip, can you hear me?’
‘Just. Where are you?’
‘In the airlock. The door mechanisms are linked. As the outer ones open, the inner ones close!’
‘Yes,’ he replied impatiently. ‘But it gives you several seconds to get out.’
‘I can’t. Amira’s bed is wedging open the inner doors. I think it’s messed the mechanism up. I’ve tried the code again – it’s not working.’
‘Pull the bed into the airlock with you and try it.’
Alice pictured the inner doors closing on them and felt nauseous at the prospect. ‘What if the code still doesn’t work? We won’t be able to get out.’
‘OK, try it again and if the outer doors open, get yourself out.’
‘And leave Amira?’
‘Yes – so you can summon help.’
‘I’m not leaving her.’
‘It’s the only way.’
‘I’m not leaving her.’
‘For Christ’s sake, woman, do it!’
‘I’m not leaving her! You’ve got to help me.’
‘I’m at my clinic in Hale. It’s over a half-hour drive.’
Alice pressed a palm against the window that looked into the lobby.
‘OK,’ Phillip said. ‘I’ll call the hospital, OK? God knows how busy the switchboards will be, but I’ll try and get word to security.’
The judder of the doors against Amira’s bed wouldn’t stop and Alice felt light-headed, as if the oxygen in the airlock was growing thin. ‘Just come, Phillip, please!’
‘Alice.’ His voice was stern. ‘You’re being irrational.’
‘Will you come?’
‘Me rushing over there will serve no purpose.’
She could see him, leaning back in his leather chair, surveying the rows of certificates on his wall. ‘Well, Phillip, fuck you – fuck you and your superior fucking attitude, you colossal fucking prick!’
She pressed red, ran back to the bed, clambered across it and, bit by bit, pulled it clear of the whining doors. They immediately reopened as if daring her to step back through. Yeah? Alice glared at them. Fuck you, too.
By the time she’d wheeled Amira back into the games room, she was gasping for breath. Sinking down onto her haunches, she stared at her phone’s tiny screen. There was only one other person she could think of to call. She scrolled down, selected the number and hit the call button. ‘Jon?’
‘Alice – I’m in a massive rush. Can I—’
‘Help me, Jon.’
‘Alice? Are you OK? Is that a fire alarm? What’s wrong?’ Suddenly she began to cry, tears coursing down her face.
‘Alice! Where are you? Alice!’
She pressed the back of her head against the wall and the words tumbled from her mouth. ‘I can’t get out, Jon. We’re trapped in here.’
‘Who? You and Holly? Are you at home?’
She dragged in air through her nostrils. ‘The MHU at Sale General.’
‘Who’s with you?’
‘An Iraqi woman called Amira. There’s been an explosion. We can’t get out.’
‘Amira? You’re with a woman called Amira?’
‘We’re trapped. The place is on fire and she said the man with throat scars is coming for her and everything’s starting to get to me—’
‘Slow down! She said the man with throat scars is coming?’
‘I told a lady over in Liverpool about Amira. She then rang a Russian man to tell him where Amira is. This is all starting to really scare me, Jon. Please, hurry.’
Jon cut the call and Alice’s mobile number faded from his screen. Jacket! Where is my jacket! I left it by the sofa. Finally, he spotted it hanging on the back of Rick’s front door. Frantically, he started patting the pockets, eyes going back to the television in the corner. Suspicions were on an electrical fire in the room used to store the hospital’s oxygen tanks. That’s no fire, he thought. That’s Salnikov.
His fingers closed on the CIA officer’s card. Thank Christ for that. He slammed the door shut behind him, keyed in the number then started racing down the stairs. God, he thought. I’m half pissed. ‘Greg? It’s DI Spicer. You’re at the wrong hospital!’
‘Jon, what was that?’
‘Wrong hospital. The woman who wrote those letters is called Amira Jasim. She’s in Sale General.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘No time.’ Unable to check his momentum, he careered into the wall of the first landing, bounced back and carried on down the next flight of stairs. ‘You and D’Souza, get there with all the back-up you have.’
‘Where is this place?’
‘Five minutes, with your sirens on. Greg, you’ve got guns, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please, get there.’ Another landing. He kept hold of the banister, almost wrenching his shoulder out as he swung himself round. ‘My wife just rang. She’s with her, Greg. There’s been an explosion, the hospital has been evacuated, but she’s trapped on the Mental Health Unit with the Iraqi woman.’
‘An explosion?’
‘It’s Salnikov. He’s there. Word’s got to him of the Iraqi woman’s exact location.’
He heard a sharp whistle, then Mueller shouting off to the side. ‘Carl! Get us a car, now! Jon? We’re on our way. But you’re sure it’s her?’
‘Positive.’ The lobby came into view and he jumped the last six steps, legs almost buckling beneath him as he landed. Someone was coming through the doors. ‘Move!’ Jon shouldered the man aside. Whitworth Street, the normality of it surreal.
‘Jon, leave it with me. Do not go there. I repeat, keep away.’
‘Sure,’ Jon replied, snapping his phone shut as he sprinted towards his car.
He first glimpsed the column of smoke while still five minutes away from the hospital. ‘Oh Christ,’ he murmured, accelerating along the Chester Road, gritting his teeth and praying no vehicle would emerge from a side road as he hurtled across junction after junction. Three ambulances with their lights flashing passed him going the other way, and with each one his sense of dread mounted.
Finally, the flyover for the M60 came into view, and seconds later he was slowing down just enough to veer on to Dane Road.
A mass of fire engines were gathered at the main entrance to the hospital, the ground floor corner of which was belching smoke. Dozens of patients, mostly in their night clothes, were gathered at the far end of the car park. Dumping his vehicle on the pavement, he hurdled a low fence and ran towards a police car in the midst of the other emergency vehicles.
‘DI Spicer, Major Incident Team.’
The uniformed officer glanced at his badge and nodded.
Jon looked back at the main building. Smoke was like a veil across the front of it. He tried to scan the upper windows. She’s in there somewhere, he thought. And so is Salnikov. ‘Has a group of men just gone in? Plain clothes, like me?’
The officer shook his head. ‘
My boss said no one’s to go in. Not until the senior fire officer says it’s safe to do so. There could be further explosions.’
Jon looked wildly off to both sides. ‘What about the Armed Response Unit? Is it here?’
‘Armed Response? It’s just the officers on the road, me and the two Community Support Officers over there. We haven’t called for Armed Response.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Sir, have you been drinking? I can smell alcohol.’
Jon frowned. Where the hell were the bastards? They should have got here by now. He looked at the building once again. Fuck this, he thought, breaking clear from the cordon of vehicles to sprint across the expanse of yellow hatching covering the tarmac in front of the main entrance. Once through the doors, he slowed down, scanning the departments listed on the wall behind the deserted front desk. MHU. Sixth floor.
Alice backed away from the window in the women’s bay which overlooked the car park. It was no good. The rising smoke flowing silently across the outside of the glass was too thick. Like being in a plane, she thought, as it plummets through cloud towards the earth. Ears now numb from the siren’s continual wail, she splashed her way back to the corridor. Please, Jon. Hurry. The airlock was directly in front of her as she made her way towards the games room. She paused in mid-step. Was that someone in the lobby? It was! She raised a hand, tentatively beginning to wave as a man started forcing the outer doors apart.
Water was cascading down the steps, streams of it falling into the stairwell as Jon sprinted up the last flight, lungs now heaving with the effort. He reached the door for the sixth floor and spotted a wet handprint on its surface. Pushing it open, he peered into the lobby area. Fine droplets rained down from the sprinklers set into the ceiling. He saw a security desk, wrinkled sheets of paper clinging to the counter. A sodden copy of the Manchester Evening Chronicle on the floor. He saw the entrance to the unit itself and felt a jolt pass down his spine. The outer doors were wide open. Perhaps someone’s already let her out, he thought, walking over to it on tiptoes in an attempt to reduce the splash each step made. As he entered the airlock itself, he tried to focus on hearing anything during the minuscule amount of time between the alarm’s two screeching notes. Impossible, the hiss of the sprinklers was too loud.
