‘So who carried out this investigation?’
Lynch took another long draw on his cigarette, the tip glowing red. ‘DiSTaF,’ he said at last. ‘Suzy Russell.’
30
Kathy was floating in a thick fog, through which she could just make out the sound of distant voices. She groaned, and suddenly one of the voices was close, speaking quite loudly in an incomprehensible jumble of vowels and consonants into her ear. Then the fog began to clear and she recognised the voice of Carl.
‘She’s coming round. As you see, she’s alive and perfectly well.’
Kathy opened one eye to see Jack Bragg’s ugly snarl inches from her face.
‘Looks pretty rough to me.’
‘That’s just the anaesthetic. All vital signs are normal. The operation was a complete success. It was much easier than we expected.’
‘Where’s the wound?’
‘Here, I’ll show you.’
Kathy realised that she was lying on her front, and felt someone unfastening the back of her gown.
‘Under that dressing.’
‘Take it off. I want to see what you did.’
‘Very well.’
She felt a tug on her skin and Carl went on, ‘You see? Just a small incision. Only a few stitches were necessary.’
‘Show me the implant.’
‘Here it is, in this dish. So, what do you say? Shall we go ahead now? The theatre is all set up.’
Bragg hesitated, then said, ‘Yeah, all right.’
The voices drifted away and Kathy closed her eye, thinking that this was probably just a nightmare, and fell asleep again.
She woke suddenly and came rapidly alert, taking a deep breath and turning stiffly onto her side to look around. She was in her old room in the Pewsey Clinic, or an identical one, and she was alone. A clock on the wall said six fourteen, and she tried to work out how long she’d been out of things. At least an hour, she guessed. Memories of the afternoon came rushing back to her—Bragg’s house, the invasion of the clinic and confrontation in the director’s office, and, more vaguely, hearing Carl and Bragg discussing her operation. A complete success, Carl had said. She sat up and stretched, feeling the tug of stitches in her back, but remarkably little pain, just a sort of numbness. So what was happening now? Had they operated on Bragg too? Was the clinic still under siege?
She stood up a little unsteadily and walked across to the wardrobe, where she found her clothes, including her wallet, apparently intact. No phone, of course. She began to get dressed, ears straining all the while for a sound from the corridor, but heard nothing. When she was finished she went to the door and turned the handle. It was locked. The same with the window. She wondered, without much hope, if she could try to spring the door lock with a credit card, and opened her wallet. Inside she saw the mysterious Visa card, which she still couldn’t place, and she slipped it out and made to stick it into the doorjamb—but to her surprise, before it even got that far, she heard the lock click open, like a magic trick. She stepped back, assuming that someone on the other side had opened the lock and expecting them to walk in, but no one did, and so she put out her hand and eased the door open. The corridor was deserted and she stepped out, the door closing behind her. Wondering, she passed the Visa card across the lock and heard it click shut. So that’s what it was for, she thought, and the memory came back of Anne Downey pressing it into her hand.
At the next bend in the corridor she heard voices from somewhere ahead, muffled as if coming from a side room. Someone said, ‘Careful! That hurts.’ It took her a moment to identify the voice of the director, Vernon Montague, sounding nasal, and she remembered Bragg’s casual blow to his face.
‘It’s broken, Vernon. You’ll look a mess for a while.’ That was the surgeon, Carl. ‘You’ll have a whole new look, more rugged.’
‘That bastard! And why didn’t those two do something to stop him?’
‘You know them, old fellow. They answer to a higher authority. There, that’s the best I can do.’
‘Thanks. So Bragg can go home now, can he?’
‘Yes. We’ll get him out of here.’
‘The sooner the better. And where’s that bloody file he walked off with?’
‘He insisted on taking it into the operating theatre with him. It’s still there, don’t worry. So where are our two friends now?’
‘I think Marele took them to the kitchen to give them something to eat.’
‘We’ll need them to get Bragg dressed. Come on, let’s go and get them out of Marele’s clutches.’
‘I’m not sure I can face her,’ Montague grumbled. ‘She thinks I was prepared to let Bragg kill her rather than give him the safe combination.’
‘Well, you were, weren’t you? I think we were all rather looking forward to seeing what he would do when he reached five.’
‘Don’t.’
‘No, it’s true. I’d bet that most of the people in that room were hoping he’d pull the trigger.’
‘You’re sick, Carl. Truly sick.’
Their voices faded into the distance, and Kathy hesitated, thinking. The file—that was the key to all of this. She drew a deep breath and continued quickly down the corridor until she came to the doors into the secure area. When she waved the Visa card they slid silently open, and she held her breath, listening, but there was no sound of anyone else inside. She stepped through and the doors closed behind her with a sigh. She looked through the windows of the four private rooms, all empty. The corridor widened at its far end into a small lobby before a pair of doors marked Operating Suite. Through a glass panel she could see that the lights were on, but no one was visible. She entered a spartan room of sterile surfaces, some stainless-steel equipment and a trolley covered in a sheet, and immediately saw the blue file lying on a bench to one side. She hurried over and opened the cover, quickly scanning through the contents—legal agreements, letters, performance specifications, diagrams of management structure, a fold-out critical path program, handwritten notes. She looked around to see if there was a photocopier in the room, and for the first time paid attention to the trolley, and realised that from this angle the profile of whatever was lying beneath the sheet looked distinctly human. She went over and lifted the corner of the sheet and saw Jack Bragg’s face, immobile, pale, eyes blankly open, and very dead.
‘His clothes are in room three.’
Kathy froze as she heard Carl’s voice in the corridor outside.
‘He’s down here,’ Carl said, closer now.
Kathy looked around, hesitated beside the blue folder, then opened it and tugged out a sheaf of documents from its middle and snapped it shut again. She ran through a connecting door and found herself in an operating theatre.
‘Right, you two get him dressed. There’s a wheelchair in the theatre—I’ll get it.’
From behind a rack of gas cylinders, Kathy watched Carl come in, look around and go to the wheelchair folded against the opposite wall. He stooped to open it, fiddling with the mechanism, then straightened and pushed it back out to the other room. Kathy waited, motionless, until she heard Carl say, ‘Right, that’ll do,’ and heard a door thump. After a while she looked through the vision panel to the other room and saw that it was deserted, the body on the trolley gone. When she pushed open the door she saw that the file, too, was gone. She checked the corridor and, seeing it empty, ran to the fire exit at the end, swiped her card and stepped out into the cold night.
Brock walked along the towpath towards the boat, seeing the curtain flick, knowing he was being watched. He hefted the bag he was carrying onto the stern then stepped up and knocked on the door, which immediately opened a crack.
‘What’s that?’ Kite demanded.
‘Something to keep you going—sandwiches, a flask of hot chocolate.’
‘They’re probably drugged.’
‘No, they’re not. We wouldn’t want you passing out with the switch in your hand, would we?’ Brock was worried by the sound of Kite’s voic
e—truculent and hoarse, as if he might be going down with something. ‘It must be cold in there. Do you need anything? Scarves, gloves, medicines?’
‘Don’t play with me, David. I’ve told you what I want, and I want it now. The longer you delay, the more dangerous things get.’
‘I understand, Desmond. But this will take time. I’ve been talking to senior officers, and trying to make exactly that point, but the commissioner and his deputies are all out of London at the moment, and it’s proving hard to get sense out of them.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘I’m doing my best, Desmond. Just hold on there. How’s your hostage?’
‘Complaining, whining. She’s getting on my nerves. I think I may just press this switch and have done with it.’
‘No, don’t do that. I know how stressful this is for you. Maybe you should lie down for a bit, have a rest.’
The door slammed shut with a bang.
When he got back up to the road, Lynch said, ‘Well?’
‘Not good. He’s getting rattled, sounding erratic.’
‘Jesus.’
‘The problem is, sir,’ Brock said heavily, ‘that you’ve told me nothing that I can use to make him doubt what he’s been told. In fact, everything you’ve said suggests that he may well be right.’
‘What the hell do you expect?’
‘Proof—proof that I can show him—that Superintendent Russell wasn’t involved in his daughters’ deaths. Maybe you should go and interrogate her team, find out what she’s been up to. The last I saw of them they were supping champagne in a wine bar. They should be nicely lubricated by now.’
He turned away in disgust and was met by the hostage negotiator who’d arrived at the scene. Brock was describing his conversation with Kite when his phone rang.
‘Kathy! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you all right?’
For a moment it seemed as if Kathy wasn’t sure how to answer, then she said, ‘Listen, Brock, we need to get people to the Pewsey Clinic quickly. They’ve just killed Jack Bragg and they’re taking his body back to his house.’
Brock listened in stunned silence as Kathy described what had happened. When she finished he took a note of the number she was calling from and rang off, called Bren over to organise two teams, then rang Kathy back. He got her to go through it again, with all the details, then told her about Kite.
When they’d finished he went to Lynch, who was standing at the railings, staring down at Grace, a fresh cigarette in his hand.
‘I’ve just had a call from DI Kolla,’ Brock said, watching Lynch’s face carefully. In the hazy light from the streetlamps it had an unhealthy pallor. ‘Earlier today she had a call from the secretary at the Pewsey Clinic asking her to go in for a check-up. She was met at the station, drugged, and taken instead to Bragg’s house in Sevenoaks.’
‘What?’ Lynch looked incredulous as, in a deadpan voice, Brock related what Kathy had told him. If the bizarre story shook him, the conclusion, that Bragg had been killed, seemed to hit Lynch like a Taser. He jerked upright and stared open-mouthed at Brock.
Brock had held back one thing that Kathy had mentioned—that Bragg had told her that Lynch was his brother. Now he said quietly, ‘I’ve sent DI Gurney with teams to both the clinic and to Sevenoaks. Maybe you should get over there.’
Lynch just stared at him for a minute, as if having difficulty absorbing all this, then he seemed to pull himself together. ‘No . . . no, I have to stay here.’
Brock nodded, deciding that Kathy’s revelation could keep for the time being. ‘There is someone who might be able to help us with Kite. Dr Anne Downey owns the next boat, and may well be involved with Kovacs. Superintendent Russell had her arrested this afternoon. I’d like to get her over here.’
‘All right. Where’s she being held?’
‘Stratford. DI Kolla is heading over there now to pick her up. She’ll need your authorisation to have Downey released into her custody.’
Lynch got on the phone. When he’d finished they watched a car draw up. Several officers, all in uniform, got out, the lead being taken by a woman wearing the badge of rank of assistant commissioner. Diana Fisher, Brock guessed. She came over, introduced herself and the others, and asked if there was any change.
‘Not here, ma’am,’ Lynch said. ‘But we’ve just been informed of another hostage situation, at the Pewsey Clinic, that may be related to this one.’
‘Pewsey?’ Fisher looked sharply at him.
‘Yes. As you know, security at Pewsey falls within Superintendent Russell’s remit. We’ve sent a couple of teams over there to sort it out.’
No mention of Bragg, Brock noticed. It sounded to him as if Lynch was trying to distance himself from Russell.
‘Hm.’ Fisher turned to Brock. ‘Would it help if I spoke to Professor Kite?’
‘It might.’ Brock doubted it, but was interested to hear what she had to say. He led her down to the towpath and told her where to stand so that she could be seen from the boat, then got up onto the stern and tapped on the door.
‘Yes, David? Who have you brought for me?’ The suspicious voice sounded slightly querulous now, and tired.
‘This is Assistant Commissioner Diane Fisher, Desmond, one of the most senior officers in the Met. She’d like to speak with you.’
‘Is she armed?’
‘No, no, nothing like that, I promise.’
‘Very well. She can come to the side of the boat, but not on board.’
Brock stepped back down onto the path and watched as Fisher approached the boat.
‘Good evening, Professor. We’re all very distressed by what has happened here. How can I help resolve the situation?’
‘I’ve told David Brock what I want.’
‘I can categorically assure you that we have no knowledge of Superintendent Russell or any other police officer being in any way responsible for your daughters’ deaths.’
Not that Russell was innocent, Brock noted, just that we didn’t know. More distancing, and Kite could see that too. He gave a loud snort of disgust and roared, ‘Not good enough, madam! If you don’t have the knowledge, then get someone who does!’
‘Please,’ Fisher said quickly, ‘how is Superintendent Russell?’
‘Extremely uncomfortable! Good night.’ The door slammed shut.
‘Mad,’ Fisher said as they climbed the stairs up to the road. ‘Quite mad. Do we have a psychiatrist here?’
‘The hostage negotiator is one. He seems to think Kite is rational.’
‘Nonsense!’
An hour later, when Kathy arrived in a patrol car, they were all still there, joined now by the leader of the assault team and marksmen deployed around the canal basin. Brock, seeing her white face through the windscreen, hurried over and pulled open her door.
‘Kathy, are you all right?’
‘Pretty good,’ she said, but, looking at her, he didn’t believe it. ‘Any change?’
‘The assistant commissioner over there tried to reason with him, without success.’ He glanced over her shoulder at the two passengers in the back seat. One was Anne Downey, the other, to his astonishment, was Ollie Kovacs. Brock looked at Kathy. ‘How did you find him?’
‘I had a good talk with Anne. She realised that this has gone far enough. She knew where Ollie was, and we went and got him and he agreed to come and help us sort it out.’
Brock stared at the hunched figure peering out of the window at the uniforms and flashing lights with a rather gratified look on his face. He wondered what on earth Kathy had said to him to make him give himself up. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
He said to Kovacs, ‘Hello, Ollie.’
The man turned his large head and beamed through his glasses at Brock. ‘Hello.’
‘Tell me, how did you two manage to overpower the superintendent?’
Kovacs shrugged. ‘She was talking to Desmond and I hit her on the head.’
‘And then sat her on
top of some sticks of dynamite. I thought you were into non-violent protest?’
‘Sometimes desperate times require desperate deeds.’
‘So what do you have in mind now?’
‘If you let me see Desmond, I think I can persuade him to release her, in exchange for a guarantee not to prosecute.’
‘Why would he agree to that?’
‘We’ve made our point.’
Kathy urged, ‘I think it’s worth a try, Brock.’
It didn’t make much sense to him, but he said, ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do.’
He rejoined the knot of senior officers and told them, provoking a storm of argument which Diane Fisher finally cut across.
‘We have no alternative,’ she said. ‘Suzy Russell’s safety comes first.’
She asked for a pad of paper and wrote out and signed a guarantee that there would be no charges raised against Kite and Kovacs relating to the abduction of Superintendent Russell, subject to her safe release, then gave it to Brock to sign as witness.
He returned to the car and handed the note to Kovacs. ‘All right, Ollie, it’s up to you now. Don’t make me sorry I’m doing this. I’ll take you down there.’
‘No, I’ll go with Kathy.’
Brock looked from one to the other, then raised his hands and stepped away, watching them get out of the car and head for the steps. He went back to Lynch, standing at the railing, and together they looked down at the two figures approaching the boat. The exchange of voices, Kite and Kovacs, rose up to them indistinctly, then the two figures on the towpath stepped up onto Grace and disappeared inside.
The wait seemed endless, ten minutes, twenty. Lynch smoked two more cigarettes and muttered savagely from time to time into his radio while Brock’s imagination conjured a scene of carnage inside the boat.
At last the stern doors opened and Kathy, illuminated by the lights inside, stepped out, followed by Superintendent Russell, unsteady, clutching Kathy’s coat around her shoulders. Kathy helped her get down onto the towpath, followed by Ollie Kovacs.
‘Thank God,’ Lynch muttered.
They hurried to the steps, the others crowding around as Russell emerged at the top, looking pale and shaken, protesting that she was all right as a couple of paramedics took her arms.
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