‘Why?’
‘There are a dozen ways in and out. We can’t secure it, and if he tries anything there will be casualties.’
Lynch looked thoughtful. ‘Richmond.’
‘Sorry?’
Lynch waved his hand carelessly. ‘There’s a private clinic in Richmond we use sometimes. It’s a possibility. How far have you thought this through?’
‘Not far. But we also need to move DI Kolla out of that hospital. As long as she’s there both she and everyone else in the building are in danger.’
‘All right.’ Lynch looked at his watch. ‘Come back at noon and we’ll see what we can come up with.’
Brock walked the few blocks back to his office at Queen Anne’s Gate. He thought about trying to get an hour or two’s sleep, but he felt jittery and unsettled, and ended up making himself a cup of strong coffee from his new machine and sitting by the window thinking, watching improbably pink fluffy clouds float over St James’s Park. Lynch’s barbs about Cambridge had got under his skin, and the worst of it was the possibility—no, probability—that Lynch was right, that the Kite girls’ deaths were simply two sad accidents, and that the visit to Cambridge had been a quixotic diversion, a foolish attempt to salve his pride after his mauling at the tribunal.
He finished his coffee and decided to go back to the hospital, by way of the Regent’s Canal.
He parked his car against the railings overlooking the triangular basin of Little Venice, and walked over the bridge to the steps leading down to the towpath of the western branch of the canal. Smoke was drifting up from the flue of one of the boats at which a jogger was stretching with one foot on the gunwale. He looked up as Brock approached, and called out, ‘Hello. Can I help you?’
Brock introduced himself, showing his ID.
‘Oh, yes, we spoke to Inspector Kolla,’ the jogger said, offering his hand. ‘I’m Howard Stapleton, from Roaming Free, here. That’s Grace, where the accident happened.’
Brock nodded admiringly at Stapleton’s boat and they chatted for a few minutes about its performance, Stapleton coming alive when Brock asked about the engine.
‘Beta 43 horsepower diesel, with a six-horsepower hydraulic bow thruster.’
‘Really? How does that work?’
Stapleton enthusiastically explained, then answered Brock’s questions about the other boats.
‘What about Ned Tisdell’s boat—Venerable Bede, isn’t it? Which one is that?’
‘Oh, it’s gone, I’m afraid. He took off a couple of nights ago, without a word to anyone. Just like Ned, that was—unpredictable, impulsive.’
‘You’ve no idea where he went?’
‘Not a clue. Could be anywhere by now. He might have said something to Anne Downey.’ He pointed to her boat, and Brock saw a light glowing at a curtain in one of the windows.
‘Thanks, Mr Stapleton.’ Brock gave him a card. ‘Maybe you could let me know if Mr Tisdell comes back. There’s something we need to check with him.’
Dr Downey answered his knock, coming out onto the stern to speak to him. She was wearing an old green jacket, folding her arms against the chill, but didn’t invite him in. No, she said, she didn’t know where Tisdell had gone, and couldn’t remember exactly when he’d left—perhaps last Tuesday or Wednesday?
As he thanked her and walked away, Brock wondered why she had been so defensive.
Kathy was asleep when he got to the hospital. He spoke to the police officer on duty at her door, then went in and sat by her bedside for an hour, but when she still slept on he decided to return to his office, picking up a sandwich and cup of tea at the snack bar on the way out.
There were three of them sitting at the meeting room table: Lynch, D.K. Payne and a woman Brock remembered seeing at a conference some time before. She was dressed in black, had a sharply cut helmet of grey hair, and was staring at him through stylish scarlet-framed glasses.
‘You know Superintendent Russell, Brock?’ Lynch said. ‘Suzy, this is DCI Brock.’
They shook hands and Brock sat down, trying to work out which branch she was from. Payne had a laptop open in front of him, Russell an iPad and Lynch a clipboard, filled with notes.
‘I think we’re getting somewhere,’ Lynch said. ‘Following your suggestion, Brock, we’ve been sketching out a possible scenario. Suzy, will you?’
Special Branch, Brock remembered suddenly. She’d been with Special Branch.
She spoke in short, precise sentences, describing the leaks that might be made to the press, the information mislaid in the hospital, the hints given to Patsy’s relatives, all designed to lead Jack Bragg to the clinic in Richmond.
‘How will the clinic feel about that?’ Brock said at last.
‘They’ll be fine,’ Russell said confidently. ‘They’re old friends of ours. The place is very secure. Neither they nor DI Kolla will be in any danger.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Brock said, wondering if he’d misunderstood. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that DI Kolla be placed in this clinic?’
‘Of course.’ Superintendent Russell gave him a patient smile.
Lynch broke in. ‘Think about it, Brock. Kolla is at risk now, and also needs continuing medical attention. The safest place for her is the clinic.’
‘Playing the tethered goat again!’ Brock exploded, rising to his feet. ‘She’s been through this twice now with Bragg. That’s enough!’
‘Sit down, Brock. Just think it through. It makes no sense to send Kolla off somewhere else, risking confusion and greater danger to her. As far as the Butcher is concerned, she is Patsy Bragg. That’s the one strength we have. You pointed that out yourself.’
Brock listened as they spelled out the details, down to the bottle of Patsy’s expensive perfume that Kathy would give to the ward sister when they moved her out of the hospital.
When they’d finished he said, ‘I want to record my objections to this plan. DI Kolla has been through two traumatic experiences in the past week. She’s in no condition to participate in another operation, or even to be asked for her consent.’
‘Objection noted,’ Lynch said curtly. ‘Now let’s get on with it.’
‘It might reassure DCI Brock if he stayed close to DI Kolla, at least during her transfer to Richmond,’ Suzy Russell said, with a sympathetic smile to Brock.
Brock made his way back to the hospital where he found Kathy awake, eating a light lunch, a little colour in her cheeks.
‘You’re looking better,’ he said.
‘I’m okay, just tired. I can’t believe how tired I feel. But how am I going to give you a game of gin rummy with only one hand?’
Brock smiled, remembering when he’d been the one laid up in hospital and she’d come in to play cards and chess with him.
‘So, they’re moving me, are they?’ Kathy said.
‘How did you know?’
‘DCS Lynch came in to see me a couple of hours ago. He told me they were thinking I’d be safer at the clinic at Richmond where they took Ashur Najjar after the bombing.’
Brock frowned—Lynch had given no indication that he’d already spoken to Kathy. It was infuriatingly typical of the man, to needlessly keep information to himself. Brock had read somewhere that it was a symptom of borderline personality disorder.
Kathy said, ‘I think the Met must have some arrangement with them. Lynch said rich foreigners worried about their safety often go there for their treatments. The security is very tight, he said, the windows all bullet-proof glass etcetera. And the medical facilities are wonderful. Sounds okay.’
‘I’ve just come from a meeting with Lynch about this, but he didn’t mention he’d discussed it with you. I told him I opposed the idea.’
‘Did you? Why?’
‘They’re using you as bait again, hoping that Jack Bragg will follow you there.’
He watched Kathy blink, holding herself together as she took that in.
‘But all the same . . .’ she said slowly, ‘. . . if he really thinks I’m
Patsy, he’s going to do that anyway, wherever I am. Better that I’m somewhere safe, no?’
Brock nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, it does make sense I suppose. And I’m coming with you to make sure it is safe.’
‘And I really do want to nail that bastard,’ she added.
15
By the time they’d wrapped Kathy’s head in bandages and strapped an oxygen mask to her face, there was little chance that she could be identified. She seemed more groggy than before, Brock thought, having been given a sedative for the journey. He escorted the trolley along the corridor to the lift, then down to the ground floor to a rear entrance where an ambulance was waiting. They stepped out into the driveway and were caught in a dazzle of flash. A voice called out, ‘Chief Inspector Brock! You’re running the hunt for Jack Bragg, aren’t you?’
Brock waved them away, and another voice shouted, ‘Will you confirm that’s Mrs Bragg with you?’
‘No comment,’ he said, moving between them and the trolley.
‘How is she, Brock? How extensive are her injuries? Just give us a word.’
‘Did he use his cleaver?’
‘Is she disfigured?’
He’d been set up, he realised as he jumped into the ambulance. This was why Suzy Russell had suggested he escort Kathy, so that the press couldn’t avoid making the connection between the figure on the trolley and Patsy Bragg. He flicked out his phone and rang Lynch.
‘We’ve just left the hospital. The press were waiting for us at the back entrance. They’d been tipped off, hadn’t they? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘It was meant to be a surprise, Brock. All part of the plan. Don’t worry, you played your part perfectly.’
‘I’m not some actor in a second-rate cop show. I’m a police officer trying to protect a wounded colleague.’
‘I know what you are, and you’re being pompous. Don’t worry, everything’s under control. Did Kolla give the perfume to the nurse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now she can relax. There’s nothing more she needs to do except get better. The food is excellent at the clinic, I’m told.’
When he rang off Kathy raised a hand to remove her mask and said, ‘Is everything all right?’
Her voice was faint, barely audible above the noise of the engine, and she looked exhausted. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said brightly. ‘Everything’s under control.’
She nodded and closed her eyes. ‘How’s everything else going?’
He told her about visiting the canal basin and finding that Tisdell had gone, but he wasn’t sure that she heard.
According to the booklet on Kathy’s knee, the Pewsey Clinic occupied Pewsey Hall, a mansion built by Robert Pewsey on the banks of the Thames at Richmond in 1840. Pewsey had made a fortune trafficking opium from the East India Company’s poppy fields in Bengal to the British trading houses in China, and had built Pewsey Hall after being inspired by a visit to the Royal Pavilion in Brighton, putting a Mughal dome over the front door and miniature minarets at its four corners. It had subsequently been extended by the only one of his six sons to survive India, and then gone into a period of decline. In 1995 it had been purchased by a private consortium of medical specialists and converted into the Pewsey Clinic, one of whose specialities was the treatment of addiction to the products of the poppy which had paid for the building in the first place.
After the bandages had been removed from her head, Kathy had showered in her private ensuite, been given fresh pyjamas and slippers, had consultations with a doctor and a physiotherapist, and now sat in a luxurious bathrobe at the window of her room, sipping a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, looking out across a swath of perfect lawn towards the river. To the right, her view was framed by the high hedges of the maze designed by Robert Pewsey on his deathbed, and to the left a copse of trees beyond which the tip of Eel Pie Island was visible. The thick glass of the windows insulated her from any sound outside, and she felt suspended in time, waiting for something to shatter the bubble.
She had finally persuaded Brock to go back to his work. He had been anxious, suspicious of the security arrangements which had been explained to them by the head of security at the clinic. When the man had said that it was against the clinic’s policy for patients to be armed, and that it was in any case unnecessary, Kathy was afraid for a moment that Brock might lose his temper. Instead he had phoned Lynch again, who had ordered him to do what he was told. Kathy was relieved when he finally agreed to leave her to it.
The day faded and lights came on in the grounds outside. There was a knock at the door and she was offered a menu for her dinner. She gave her order and after a while an excellent meal arrived. As she ate she thought that this must be what it was like to travel first class, swaddled and protected. After her recent shocks it made her feel deeply relaxed, and she surrendered to an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. When they took away her tray she went to bed. A nurse came in to ask her if she needed something to help her sleep, but she was already slipping into unconsciousness.
She awoke to the sound of a deep throbbing, more a visceral vibration than a sound, that seemed to come from the building itself. She sat up in bed, feeling disoriented, trying to remember where she was. A hospital. She felt a momentary tremor of panic, then took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. Her broken shoulder ached and her throat was parched. She could still taste the foul dust from the Fantasyland bomb. She felt a sudden need for a drink, something fizzy and sweet, like Sprite, to take away the taste, and remembered a machine somewhere in the corridor. She got out of bed, slipped on the bathrobe and limped to the door.
The lights in the corridor were dimmed, and the place seemed strangely unfamiliar. She walked in the direction of the nurses’ station where she’d seen the drinks machine, but could find neither, and it occurred to her that she was mixing up the two hospitals. Surely in this place you would just ring for room service.
The throbbing sound was still there, but fainter now. She turned a corner and saw a male nurse coming towards her, an identity card clipped to his pocket. When they were close, Kathy looked at the man’s face just as he turned his eyes to her, and she froze in shock. The nurse had the face of Ned Tisdell. He too looked startled. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then broke into a run, disappearing around the corner while Kathy just stared after him.
She told herself that it was impossible; Ned Tisdell belonged in a different world entirely, the Gudrun Kite case, nothing to do with Jack Bragg. It was like watching Julius Caesar and having Hamlet stroll onto the stage. Besides, this man’s hair was different, neatly combed, and he was cleanly shaved. But she was sure that he had recognised her, and had panicked when he saw her.
The lights in the corridor suddenly came on full, and a small red bulb mounted on the wall began to flash. She turned back the way she had come and bumped into a nurse.
‘Mrs Bragg!’ the woman cried. ‘You should be in your room!’
She grabbed Kathy’s good arm and steered her quickly towards her door.
‘Please,’ Kathy said, ‘do you have a man working here called Tisdell, Ned Tisdell?’
The nurse shook her head. ‘Not to my knowledge. Now please, wait in your room.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, I’m sure. Just a security alert.’ She switched the light on in Kathy’s room and looked around, checking. ‘There we go. Someone will be here shortly.’
She’d hardly finished speaking when a security guard appeared and the nurse departed. Kathy asked him what was happening.
‘Suspected intruder in the grounds, ma’am. Not to worry.’ He fiddled with his earpiece.
‘Listen,’ Kathy said, ‘can you do a check for me? Find out if there’s someone who works here called Ned or Edward Tisdell?’
‘Yeah, I can do that, when this is over.’
‘You need to do it now.’ She saw the look on the man’s face. ‘I’m a police officer, right?’ The man looked uncertain.
‘I’m almost sure that I saw someone in the corridor just now who is known to us, and I’m sure he doesn’t belong here. Could you please check?’
He shrugged and reluctantly spoke into his radio. It was some time before he could persuade the person at the other end and came back with an answer. No, there was no one of that name on the clinic’s staff.
Kathy was aware of the throbbing vibrations returning, and realised that it was the sound of a helicopter. The guard moved over to the window, cautiously pulling back the blind, and they saw a dazzling light beaming down from the sky, illuminating the lawn. He listened for a moment to his earpiece and said, ‘They reckon he’s hiding in the maze.’ As he spoke, Kathy watched the searchlight move over the hedges, the throbbing of the helicopter’s rotors very loud now. Dark figures scurried across the lawn. To Kathy it all seemed remote and unreal, so that when the guard turned to her with a grin and said, ‘They’ve got ’im,’ she felt nothing but a vague sense of anticlimax.
‘Are they sure it’s Jack Bragg?’ she asked, but the guard hadn’t been briefed on the identity of the intruder.
‘Whoever it is, everyone sounds bloody happy.’
‘Yes, it’s Jack Bragg all right,’ Brock said when he arrived soon afterwards. He had booked himself a room in a nearby hotel, he explained, and had dashed over as soon as he heard the helicopter. ‘No doubt about that. We can all relax.’
But Kathy didn’t feel relaxed. She just sat there on the edge of her bed, staring down at her one good hand gripping her bathrobe, as if trying to hang on to reality.
‘How are you feeling, Kathy?’ Brock was looking at her with concern. ‘How’s the shoulder?’
She said, ‘Something’s not right, Brock.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Just before the alarm sounded I went out into the corridor to get a drink, and I met a man in a nurse’s uniform. It was Ned Tisdell.’
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