She swallowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Tisdell’s boat was on fire. Remember?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘Did you see who did it?’
Kathy put her cup down carefully and raised both hands to her face. ‘Not sure.’ She shook her head, breathing in short gasps. Suzanne returned with a thick jumper and wrapped it around her shoulders, giving Brock a warning look.
‘Was Tisdell on the boat? Did you try to help him?’
Kathy began rubbing her bound arm. ‘I can’t remember, Brock. I just can’t remember!’
‘It’s all right, Kathy,’ Suzanne said. ‘Just relax, eat your breakfast. It’ll all come back to you when you’re good and ready.’
But Brock wasn’t so sure about that.
They had agreed that Suzanne would stay with Kathy until she felt well enough to travel to Battle, where she could recuperate and hopefully recover her memory. Brock left them to go back to Queen Anne’s Gate, stopping on his way out to ask Jock if there were any cameras around the flats. Jock said he didn’t think so, but as Brock drove out of the front car park he came to a crossroads with traffic lights, where he spotted a camera mounted on one of the poles.
When he got to the office he found Zack and handed him a note of the location of the camera and the times and vehicles he was interested in. Zack nodded and handed Brock an unfamiliar form to fill in.
‘What’s this?’
‘New procedures, boss. DKP. He seems to be keeping a particularly close eye on me all of a sudden.’
Brock grunted and scribbled his signature across the form.
‘The case number, boss?’ Zack pointed to the box.
Brock hesitated, then put down the number for Operation Intruder.
‘Is Kathy okay?’ Zack asked.
‘Yes, she’s fine. Just needs to take it easy.’
Brock went up to his office, his heart sinking at the sight of an enormous stack of papers waiting in his in-tray. He hesitated at the coffee machine for a moment before switching it on, then took off his jacket and set to work. His secretary, Dot, came in soon after with more files for his attention.
‘What’s going on, Dot?’ he complained. ‘I turn my back for a few hours and I’m inundated with paper.’
‘It’s the new regime,’ she said, ‘to make us all more lean and efficient. How’s Kathy?’
‘She’s had a rough time. Suzanne’s taking her down to Battle to recuperate.’
‘She wasn’t . . . interfered with, was she?’
‘No, but she’s lost her memory of what happened to her.’
‘And I suppose you slept on her sofa last night, keeping an eye on her.’
Brock looked at her in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
She raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at his crumpled clothes. ‘You should keep a fresh shirt in the cupboard. Shall I pour your coffee?’
‘Thanks, I’d appreciate it.’
‘And Mr Payne has requested an urgent appointment. Wouldn’t say what for.’
Brock groaned, checked his watch. ‘In an hour?’
‘All right. I’ll bring in some flowers. Cheer the place up a bit.’ She returned ten minutes later with a large vase of oriental lilies, voluptuous blooms with pollen-laden stamens. Brock eyed them with surprise, then got back to his paperwork.
When the task auditor arrived, looking spruce in a sharp suit and high-collared gleaming white shirt, he looked around Brock’s office with an appraising eye and went over to the window. ‘Great view up here, David.’
David? Brock gritted his teeth. ‘Yes. I’d offer you coffee but our machine’s broken.’
A grin formed on Payne’s mouth, as if he expected things to be broken up there. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t take much of your time. See you’ve got a bit of paperwork to catch up on.’
He took a seat and opened the file case he was carrying. ‘I just wanted to ask you to persuade your team to follow due process, David. I’ve been trying to impress the point on them, without much success.’
‘Due process?’
‘Yes—specifically, charging resources to the correct cost centres. A number of your team seem to be using Intruder as a bottomless chest to pay for unrelated activities.’
He drew some papers out of the case and handed them across to Brock, who flicked through them. They were photocopies of request sheets from Bren to the UK Border Agency and Zack to the Air Support Unit, citing the Intruder case number.
‘So?’
‘As far as I’m aware, these were not activities sanctioned by the Intruder resource manager.’
‘I authorised them,’ Brock said.
Payne looked puzzled. ‘Does Commander Lynch know?’
‘Not yet.’
Payne took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell me what activities these relate to?’
‘I’ll discuss that with the commander.’
‘’You’ll find that difficult at the moment, David. Mr Lynch is very much tied up with new developments—you’ve probably heard whispers from the other team commanders.’
Brock hadn’t.
‘And he really doesn’t have time for trivia. So it would be much easier if you could clarify it for me.’
Brock considered him for a moment. Payne gazed back, then frowned suddenly, snatched a tissue from his pocket and sneezed explosively.
‘Sorry,’ he gasped.
Brock pushed a box of tissues across the desk at him and said, ‘DI Kolla was badly injured during the attempt to arrest Bragg at his home, as you well know.’
Payne sniffed. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Later, she was receiving treatment at the Pewsey Clinic on the night Bragg was arrested. That night she identified what she thought was an intruder in the clinic, although I and everyone else thought she must have been mistaken. When she returned home she made some further inquiries and succeeded in establishing the intruder’s identity. That’s what these requests relate to. It’s an ongoing matter.’
Payne gave another violent sneeze.
‘Are you all right?’ Brock asked.
‘Hay fever,’ he muttered, looking accusingly at the lilies. ‘But DI Kolla is on sick leave.’
‘Yes. She’s a very dedicated officer. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if we foresee any major resource implications.’
‘I shall have to check this with the Intruder budget.’
‘Of course.’ Brock got to his feet and showed Payne to the door. After he’d gone Brock said to Dot, ‘Nice flowers. Did you know he suffers from hay fever?’
She gave a little smile. ‘I think I heard something. Was there a problem?’
‘Not at all.’ Then he added under his breath, ‘Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.’
Later Brock got a call from Zack. ‘That CCTV check you asked me to make, boss?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Payne has put it to the end of the queue. They tell me it could take a week.’
Brock swore under his breath.
‘Oh, and you left some papers down here. I’ll send them up.’
Brock couldn’t remember any papers, but an envelope arrived soon after. He opened it and tipped out three photographs. The earliest, taken at eleven sixteen on Friday night, showed Kathy’s car being driven through the crossroads, though it wasn’t possible to make out the driver. The other two showed a black Mercedes saloon with dark tinted windows passing through the junction at one ten on Monday afternoon and again five minutes later on its return, its number plate clearly visible. There was also a handwritten note in Zack’s writing; the car was registered to the Pewsey Clinic in West London.
A motorcade of maroon Rolls-Royces was drawn up at the front doors when Brock arrived. He parked unobtrusively further down the drive and watched an elderly man wearing an Arab keffiyeh being helped slowly out of the clinic and into the lead car, while a large group of relatives looked on. When the cars moved off Brock went to the entrance and asked to speak to th
e director, showing his police identification. After a ten-minute wait he was shown into an office where a man seated behind a large antique desk was reading from a document in front of him, an expensive-looking gold fountain pen poised in his raised fist. The man set the pen down carefully and came around the desk to shake Brock’s hand. He looked magisterial, the sort of clinic director that international invalids would feel reassured by, but he also appeared puzzled.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock? Vernon Montague. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’
‘I work for Commander Lynch in Homicide and Serious Crime Command.’
Montague’s face didn’t betray whether the name meant anything to him.
‘I’d appreciate your help in clearing up a small matter.’
‘Oh?’
‘A colleague of mine, Detective Inspector Kathy Kolla, was a patient here last week, under the name of Bragg.’
‘Ah yes. During the drama.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Pewsey isn’t usually the setting for such events, but of course we’re happy to assist the police in any way we can.’
‘I believe she returned here a couple of days ago.’
Montague’s look of bemusement returned. ‘Really? She called in on us, did she?’
‘No, I mean she was admitted as an in-patient here for a second time.’
The director hesitated, considering Brock. ‘Is that what she told you? Is this some kind of personnel matter? A compensation claim?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. The fact is that DI Kolla has completely lost her memory of what happened to her between last Friday evening and yesterday afternoon. I’m trying to find out. She appears to have had some kind of medical attention during that time, and I think it’s possible that she came here.’
Montague shook his head doubtfully and returned to his desk, where he stabbed the keyboard of his computer. ‘No,’ he said decisively. ‘She hasn’t been back, either as an in- or out-patient, since she was discharged last Wednesday.’
‘I see.’ Brock rubbed his beard, frowning. ‘That is odd . . .’
‘Sorry we can’t help,’ Montague said, getting to his feet again.
‘. . . because she was dropped off at her flat in Finchley at one ten yesterday by a car registered to the clinic. This is its number.’ He placed a note on the desk. ‘Maybe you could find out how that came about.’
Montague’s eyes widened marginally. He picked up the note and read it. After a long pause he said, ‘Wait here,’ and marched out of the room.
Brock waited. After five minutes a secretary came in and asked if he would care for a coffee. He said yes. He drank it slowly, and waited some more. Finally the director swept back in, followed by a man in a white coat with a stethoscope tucked into its pocket. They drew up chairs in front of the desk and sat facing Brock.
Montague spoke. ‘It appears that Ms Kolla’s second visit, to which you referred, was unplanned and unexpected, and its details have not yet been entered into the computer. This is Dr Partridge, who treated her on both occasions. John?’
Dr Partridge cleared his throat, his posture stiff like a witness giving evidence in a courtroom. ‘Kathy arrived here unaccompanied at about eight o’clock last Friday night. I was at home at the time, but the duty nurse phoned me immediately and I came straight in, arriving perhaps fifteen minutes after she presented herself. She appeared to be in a state of shock, largely incoherent, her clothes soaked through. She couldn’t explain what had happened to her, and when I examined her I found that she had several fresh abrasions on her arms and legs, some bruising to her head and elsewhere, and, most disturbingly, that she was no longer wearing the support for her injured left arm and that her collarbone fracture appeared to have been aggravated, as a result of which she was in considerable pain. We cleaned her abrasions and arranged for her to have an X-ray, from which it was obvious that the fracture would have to be reset. We did that and kept her here until yesterday morning, when she insisted on discharging herself. I arranged a car to take her home.’
‘Were you happy with her condition when she left?’ Brock asked.
‘I was concerned about her mental confusion and the possibility of concussion, and I wanted her to stay longer, but I would say we’d done as much for her as we could in the time available. I advised her very strongly to give her left arm and shoulder complete rest for at least a month, and to follow the recovery program we set out for her previously.’
‘What drugs did you give her while she was here?’ Brock took out a small notebook and clicked a ballpoint.
‘Sedative, antibiotic, painkiller . . .’
‘What drugs specifically?’
Partridge glanced at Montague, and said cautiously, ‘I’d have to consult my notes.’
Montague was more forceful. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Dr Partridge has already told you as much as we can share with a third party—more than we should, in fact. Of course, if Ms Kolla wants to come in and speak to him herself, he’ll be happy to see her. Is there anything else?’
‘How did she get here on Friday evening?’
Dr Partridge said, ‘The nurse told me that a taxi dropped her off at the front door. That’s what the security officer who opened the door for her said.’
‘Is he here?’ Brock asked.
Partridge shrugged. ‘Night shift.’
‘You can phone and speak to him this evening when he’s on duty,’ Montague said magnanimously. ‘And now, if that’s everything . . .’
‘Inspector Kolla reported seeing a man by the name of Ned Tisdell here in the corridor of the clinic on the night we arrested Jack Bragg in the grounds.’
‘Yes, she mentioned it to one of our security guards,’ Partridge said, ‘who told me that Kathy had insisted he check our records, but they found no mention of that name.’
‘Would you mind checking again for me, Mr Montague?’ Brock said. ‘It could be important.’
Montague reluctantly went back to his computer and did a search. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No one of that name.’
Brock showed them a copy of Tisdell’s police photo, but they both shook their heads. ‘Well, thanks for your help,’ he said as they rose to their feet. ‘I’ve heard quite a bit about Pewsey over the past couple of weeks. I hadn’t realised before about your connection with the Met. I wonder if I could have a quick tour?’
Montague stopped short. ‘A tour?’
‘Yes. I’m interested in your facilities.’
Montague blinked at him, and Brock waited.
‘Very well,’ Montague said at last. ‘Dr Partridge had better get back to his work, but I’ll have my PA take you around.’
Brock was shown out to a seat in the entrance hall, where he waited until a smartly dressed young woman with an identity tag around her neck came to him and introduced herself as Emily, Mr Montague’s PA. She showed Brock around the facilities of the general clinic, many of which he had seen from his visits to Kathy, before they came to the doors to the secure wing. Brock pointed to the warning notice and said, ‘What’s in there?’
‘That section is off-limits to guests. It contains the laboratories, operating theatre and high-level care suites.’
‘Is that where they held Jack Bragg?’
‘Jack Bragg the gangster?’ Emily looked startled. ‘He certainly wasn’t held here, Chief Inspector.’
‘Ah, just an ugly rumour,’ he said. ‘Can we go in?’
‘We don’t normally allow visitors, but the director did tell me to give you every assistance, so . . .’ She smiled and swiped her card and they went inside.
Staff were changing the bed linen in one of the rooms, and Emily said, ‘We’ve just had a very distinguished client from one of the Gulf states stay with us.’
‘I think I saw him leave. Everything go well?’
‘Oh yes. It invariably does. The level of care here is extremely high.’
She took him to the laboratories and imaging rooms, all immaculately ordered, and on their r
eturn Brock pointed to a pair of doors with circular vision panels.
‘That’s our secondary operating theatre.’
Brock peered through the window and asked to be let in to the deserted room. For some reason it felt to him more like a morgue than an operating theatre. He noticed what looked like four chilled cadaver storage drawers at the far end of the room.
‘Do they ever experiment on animals at the clinic?’ he asked.
‘I believe they did once, but not any more.’
Brock went towards the stainless-steel drawers, stooping to look at their digital temperature readings.
‘Oh, you’d better not touch,’ Emily said, but he was already pulling open the first drawer, then each of the others in turn, all empty.
‘Looks like your success rate can’t be that invariable if you need four body cabinets,’ Brock murmured. He smiled at her look of consternation. ‘So, is there anything else I should see?’
‘No,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You’ve seen everything now.’
As they made their way back to the entrance hall, Brock caught a momentary glimpse through an open office door of the director, Montague, haranguing someone, gesturing with a pointed finger. For a second Dr Partridge was visible, his face as white as his coat, shaking his head.
That evening, Brock drove down to East Sussex, to Suzanne’s small house just off the high street of Battle. Kathy seemed more herself, Suzanne told him at the front door, although she was still agitated at not being able to remember what had happened to her in those blank days. ‘I told her to put it out of her mind,’ Suzanne said. ‘It’ll all come back when it’s good and ready, I said. Do you think that’s true, David?’
‘Sundeep has been pestering the experts, but nobody seems to know.’
‘Can’t they give her an antidote or something?’
‘Apparently not. As you say, we just have to let things take their course. Where is she?’
She was sitting with Suzanne’s two grandchildren in the room overlooking the back garden, playing gin rummy with one hand. They finished their game and the children went off to do their homework while Suzanne opened a bottle of wine and went to the kitchen, leaving Brock and Kathy to talk.
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