The light had almost gone now and Kathy could hardly make out his expression. She looked around for a light switch when there was a sudden thump at the rear of the boat. Tisdell started and rose cautiously to his feet. He moved to the stern doors, pushed them open and looked out. He gave a shout, ‘Hey!’ and came flying backwards into the room to land in a heap at Kathy’s feet. She looked down and saw his face covered with dark blood, and as she took this in she heard the slam of the doors closing and the rapid clatter of metal against metal. She ran to the doors and found them locked, and as she stood there rattling the handle she gulped a sudden lungful of diesel fumes. She coughed and turned back to Tisdell’s prone body on the floor.
‘Ned!’ She tried to cradle his head, seeing the deep gash above his right eye, and felt inside his mouth for his tongue to stop him choking. He gave a splutter and a groan, and his face was suddenly lit up by a flash of light and a tremendous roar. Kathy turned to see flames running down over the portholes in a blazing cascade, and more rushing across the floor towards them. She leaped to her feet, grabbed Tisdell’s arm and tried to drag him away from the approaching fire, at the same time feeling her lungs burn with scorching smoke. Tisdell inhaled it too, and responded with some deep instinct that sent him scrambling to his feet. Together they ran down the tube of the boat away from the flames and smoke to the bedroom at the bow. Tisdell pushed ahead of her and tried to open the bow doors, but they too were jammed tight from the outside. He threw his shoulder against them hopelessly, then turned back and stared at Kathy. She closed the bedroom door, aware as she did so how light and flimsy it was. Even as she formed the thought she saw trails of smoke creeping under the bottom edge. She grabbed a blanket from the bed and packed it against the foot of the door.
‘Is this Bragg’s mob?’ she demanded.
Again that blank look on Tisdell’s face, turning to openmouthed panic as flames reflected in his wide eyeballs. Kathy turned to see dribbles of fire running down over the window. The tarred roof would be alight, she guessed. She could feel the heat growing around them. They would be roasted alive inside this metal pressure cooker.
‘Where’s that steel bar you had?’ she asked urgently, but he just shook his head, gazing at his empty hands. He’d dropped it somewhere, too late now. She looked around desperately and could see nothing of any substance that she might use to break the heavy window. Then she remembered the baton in her pocket. She tugged it out and pressed the release button for it to telescope out, and swung it hard against the glass. There was a loud crack and a jagged star appeared. She swung again and again, and the glass splintered and burst. She kept hacking at it until the frame was clear.
‘Now,’ she panted. ‘Get yourself through there.’
‘I can’t,’ he wailed. ‘It’s too small. I’ll get stuck.’
‘Only one way to find out. Hands above your head.’
She pulled a stool beneath the porthole. Tisdell mounted it and gingerly pushed his arms through the opening, then his head, his shoulders, and then he was stuck. She heard him scream and imagined burning tar showering down on his head as she pushed at his backside. And then suddenly he kicked her in the chest and burst through, plummeting out onto the flickering surface of the dark canal.
Kathy slipped off her coat, stepped up onto the stool and tried to work herself through the opening with her one good arm raised above her head, but even as she did it she realised it wouldn’t work—she would have to take the other arm out of its sling and lift it vertically alongside the other. She hesitated, biting her lip in anticipation of the pain, then raised her hand. An excruciating jolt shot through her as she ducked her head and threw herself at the hole, squirming through and out into space. A shock of freezing water smacked her and she surfaced spluttering, good arm flailing, and went down again. Then she felt someone grab her by the collar and pull her up. It was Tisdell, swimming strongly now, pulling her through the water away from the burning boat. She did what she could to help, kicking and beating at the water with her good arm while the other dragged helplessly at her side.
Then they were at the bank, a dark spot beneath a clump of trees, and Tisdell was trying to haul her up over a stone kerb and onto the grass.
‘Quick, quick,’ he was gasping. ‘Gotta move, gotta hide.’
He was right, of course, but all she could think about was the terrible pain in her shoulder that flared with every movement.
‘Whasamatter?’ he gasped as he half dragged, half carried her towards a clump of bushes.
‘Collarbone . . . broken.’
‘Fuck.’
They collapsed together into a dense rhododendron bush and crawled into the darkness. Gasping they turned and saw, through a screen of dripping leaves, the boat burning like a giant Roman candle in a tower of flame.
After a few minutes they heard the howl of fire engines, and Tisdell said, ‘We’ve got to get away from here. Can you walk?’
‘Of course I can bloody walk,’ she snapped, teeth chattering now with cold. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my bloody legs.’ Then she added, ‘Thanks, Ned. I don’t think I could have made it to the bank without you.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ he mumbled. ‘You got me through that window.’
They clambered out onto the grass and began to move away across the park, Tisdell running, Kathy trying to keep up, gasping as every step sent an intense stab of pain through her shoulder. Finally she was reduced to a walk towards the figure of Tisdell waiting impatiently in the far shadows. When she reached him she saw that he was whispering hoarsely into a phone, in an argument by the sound of it.
When he rang off she said, ‘How much further?’
‘To the end of the park. Just a little way.’
It seemed much further than that. They came to an embankment and had to go right down to the canal towpath to cross beneath the railway, then on across another long stretch of parkland to go under a road bridge and into yet another park.
‘Nearly there,’ Tisdell panted. He pointed to some industrial buildings ahead and they emerged out onto a bridge over the neck of a branch waterway coming off the Regent’s Canal. ‘The Hertford Union,’ he said. ‘Connects to the Lee Navigation at Hackney Wick.’
He was peering out into the foggy darkness, and Kathy, following his eyes, thought she could make out the dim shape of another boat moored a little way off.
They went down to the towpath and approached the vessel cautiously, Tisdell looking over his shoulder and all around before he stepped up onto the stern and tapped at the door. As he held out his hand to help her, she made out the name painted on the side of the boat: Aquarius. The door opened and Anne Downey stuck her head out. She nodded at Tisdell and turned to look at Kathy, her expression full of doubt and misgiving.
Downey stepped back to let them in, then went back out to look around before shutting the door firmly and turning to stare at them. ‘Tell me what happened, Ned,’ she demanded.
He told her as best he could, stumbling from one incident to another, and several times she impatiently stopped him and made him explain more clearly. Finally she said, ‘So how did they find you?’
‘I don’t know.’
Downey looked from one to the other, the two of them standing there shivering in their wet clothes. ‘You must have led them there,’ she said to Kathy.
‘No.’
‘She’s hurt, Anne,’ Tisdell said.
She held up a hand. ‘How did you find Ned?’
Kathy took a deep breath and spoke in a rush, feeling as if she might pass out before she was finished. ‘I broke my collarbone in a police operation last Saturday night, and was taken to the Pewsey Clinic for treatment. While I was there I bumped into Ned in the corridor. I couldn’t work out what he’d be doing there, and when I told the others they insisted I must have imagined it, but I knew I hadn’t. So when I left the clinic I went down to the river and discovered that his boat had been moored at Eel Pie Island. It was gone by then, but I spent a
couple of days searching through camera footage until I spotted the boat at Limehouse Basin. So this afternoon I drove down there and then followed the Regent’s Canal until I caught up with him. I wanted to find out what he’d been doing at Pewsey, and what he had to do with Gudrun Kite’s disappearance.’
She came to a stop, then mumbled, ‘Can I sit down?’ She half fell onto Downey’s sofa, wincing as the pain bit again.
Downey, implacable, said, ‘You must have told somebody where you were.’
‘No.’ Kathy shook her head. ‘I didn’t call anyone.’
‘Then they were tracking you.’
‘Who?’ Kathy burst out angrily. ‘Who is this they?’
‘Where did you leave your car?’
‘Near the Mile End Road bridge over the canal.’
‘What about your phone?’
‘I lost it in the boat.’
There was silence for a moment, the two women staring at each other, then it was broken by Tisdell.
‘Anne, she saved my life. I wouldn’t have got out of that boat without her. You have to help her. Can’t you give her some painkillers or something?’
The anger and mistrust in the doctor’s eyes faded a little and she sat down beside Kathy and said, ‘Show me.’
They eased Kathy’s top off and Downey carefully removed the dressing on her left shoulder. She sucked in her breath, frowning. Kathy looked down and saw that the stitches had burst open, and pieces of white bone were visible in the gaping wound.
‘Who did this?’ the doctor asked.
‘A killer called Jack Bragg.’ She looked carefully at the doctor’s face, which showed no reaction. ‘You know of him?’
Downey shook her head, then got up to fetch her medical bag. ‘Should I?’
‘Well it’s a hell of a coincidence that Ned turned up just as we were capturing Bragg in the grounds of the clinic.’
Downey pulled on surgical gloves. ‘But that was Sunday night. You said you got this on Saturday night.’
Kathy explained how they’d laid a trail for Bragg to follow to the clinic, after he had attacked her.
‘Sounds as if it’s the clinic that’s brought you all together, not Bragg,’ Downey said, and Kathy thought that made sense. Downey told Tisdell to fetch a cup of water then peeled some pills from a foil and handed them to Kathy. ‘Take these and I’ll do what I can to clean you up. But you’re going to need some serious work done on this shoulder.’
Kathy clenched her teeth as Downey dabbed at the wound, then, as she applied a fresh dressing, Kathy said, ‘Ned told me he went to the clinic because they do the devil’s work there. What did he mean by that?’
Anne Downey met her eyes for a moment, then looked away.
‘Is this to do with Gudrun Kite’s death?’ Kathy asked. ‘I want to find out what really happened to her. I’ve met her father, who’s devastated by her disappearance, especially since he lost his other daughter, Freyja, in a hit-and-run accident earlier this year. But . . .’ she paused, reading the expression on Anne Downey’s face, ‘. . . you knew that, didn’t you?’
Downey said nothing.
‘Listen, you just said I need my shoulder patched up again, so I’d have every reason to go back to the Pewsey Clinic. Perhaps I could help find what you’re looking for there. But I’d need you to tell me what that is. Why are you being so bloody cagey?’
The doctor hesitated, then said, ‘I just don’t know what to say to you, Inspector Kolla. I think I’ll have to get advice from someone more experienced in the ways that you people work.’ She frowned, taking out her phone, then said, ‘Strictly speaking you shouldn’t drink with those pills, but after what you’ve been through we might make an exception. Ned, give Inspector Kolla some whisky while I make a call.’ She got up and went through the galley to the other end of the boat, closing the door behind her.
She was away a long time, during which Kathy gratefully gulped down a large Scotch. Tisdell had pulled off his sweater and arranged it and Kathy’s top in front of the wood-fired heater around which they sat, soaking up the warmth. Finally the door opened and the doctor returned. She sat down facing Kathy, looking grave.
‘I’m going to trust you with something precious, something you must agree to tell no one about. Will you promise?’
‘Anne, how can I—?’
‘Promise!’ the other woman insisted, and Kathy, seeing that she had no alternative if she wanted to pursue this, nodded. ‘Yes, all right, I promise.’
Downey opened her right hand, and Kathy saw that she was holding a credit card. She handed it to Kathy, who turned it over and shrugged. ‘A Visa card? So?’
‘It’s not a Visa card, although it looks exactly like one. It’s what Ned used to enter the clinic. It’s programmed to clear you through their security systems without leaving any record of your entry. With this, you can get into any part of the building.’
‘How did you get hold of this?’ She looked at Downey. ‘Was it Freyja? No? Gudrun then, the computer whiz, she made it for you, did she?’
The doctor didn’t reply, but Kathy was sure she’d hit the mark. ‘All right, so what would I be looking for?’
‘There’s a secure area there. The card will get you inside. We believe that they carry out certain procedures there.’
‘Operations? Like what?’
Downey hesitated, then shook her head. ‘You may find evidence there of unusual medical procedures performed on animals, and humans—documentation, films.’
‘And?’
Another hesitation. ‘One of the doctors there, a surgeon, came from South Africa, where he was working in the prison service. There was a scandal—he’d been carrying out experimental procedures on the convicts. It was covered up and he left the country and came to work at Pewsey.’
Kathy stared at her, a queasy feeling in her stomach. ‘Not Dr Partridge?’
‘No. His name is Viljoen, Carl Viljoen.’
‘And how do you know this?’
‘My friends are good at uncovering secrets on computers.’
‘I see. You’d better tell me how I can contact you.’ But again the doctor shook her head.
‘Someone will get in touch with you when you leave the clinic. It’s best you forget that you’ve seen me, or Ned. You can’t drive. I’ll call you a cab to take you there. But we’d better move your car—they’ll be checking all the vehicles in the area. Do you still have the keys?’
Kathy felt in her pocket. They were still there. She unfastened the car key and said, ‘Where will you take it?’
Downey thought. ‘Your place would be best. Where do you live?’
Kathy told her. ‘Just leave it in the forecourt and put the key into my letterbox.’ She also still had her wallet in the pocket of her jeans, and she tucked the Visa card inside it and Ned helped her to pull on her top, then an old green Barbour jacket that Anne Downey gave her. They stepped out of the boat onto the towpath and Downey pointed to a gap in the buildings lining the canal.
‘Go up to the street. The cab will pick you up there. Do you have money?’
Kathy nodded and they shook hands.
‘Good luck,’ Downey said. ‘Whatever happens, don’t let them get that card.’
‘How shall I return it to you?’
‘Just destroy it when you’re finished.’
‘There’s someone I need to call,’ Kathy said. ‘Can I borrow your phone?’
Downey shook her head one last time. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, you’re on your own.’ She turned on her heel and Ned Tisdell followed her back to her boat.
The taxi arrived after ten minutes and drove Kathy across the city to Richmond. She stepped out at the front entrance to the Pewsey Clinic with a deep sense of foreboding. The onion dome loomed above her in the darkness, mocking her with its absurd self-confidence. The bizarre architecture now seemed like camouflage, a mask for a secretive institution where the wealthy—and the police—brought their secrets.
As the crunch of t
he taxi’s wheels on the gravel drive faded into the fog, the door opened and a man in the uniform of the clinic’s security staff said, ‘Why, Mrs Bragg, what a surprise.’
Kathy began to correct him, then stopped and said, ‘I’ve had an accident with my shoulder. I’m afraid I’m going to need some help.’
The man peered beyond her into the darkness, then said, ‘Dear me. You’d better come in.’
A nurse was called and took her into a consulting room, where she looked in consternation at the state of Kathy’s clothes as she helped her peel them off.
‘What on earth happened to you?’
‘A stupid accident,’ Kathy said. ‘I slipped and fell in the park, into a pond.’ It sounded ludicrous.
‘There’s a smell on your clothes, of burning . . .’ The nurse removed the dressing and stared in horror at the state of Kathy’s shoulder. ‘Heavens! I’ll call Dr Partridge. Don’t move.’ She rushed out of the room. Kathy sat motionless beneath the bright fluorescent light, feeling overwhelmed by a reaction of weariness.
Partridge must have lived nearby, for he arrived in less than fifteen minutes. By then Kathy was more presentable, wiped down and dressed in a hospital gown. He examined her shoulder, then checked the rest of her. There was an extensive graze on one arm, and an angry sore on the other. He peered closely at it.
‘Is that a burn?’
Kathy shrugged and the doctor gave her a look of concern. He checked her eyes, then probed her scalp.
‘I don’t think I hit my head,’ she objected. ‘I’m fine, really.’
He took no notice, scrutinising. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I really don’t know what you’ve been up to, Mrs Bragg.’
‘I’m not . . .’ she began, then swallowed. Her throat felt scorched from the fire. She started again. ‘Is Mr Bragg still here?’
‘Mr Bragg?’
‘Yes, I heard that he was here too, in the secure wing.’
Partridge looked at her. ‘We need to give that shoulder another X-ray. Come along.’
‘Couldn’t you check the computer?’ Kathy said over her shoulder as the nurse led her away. ‘See if he’s still here?’
The Raven's Eye Page 14
