by Peter James
As he stepped out into the porch, Simon Roebuck felt a prick in his backside, as if he had been stung by a wasp. But, unlike a sting, within seconds the pain had faded. He slapped his hand against his bum and turned round, but the front door was already closing on him.
He wondered if the dry cleaners had left in a safety pin, but he couldn’t feel anything. And the pain was almost gone now.
A delivery van rumbled down the street, followed by a Range Rover loaded with small children. Roebuck had come straight from home in his own small Vauxhall, which he had parked on a meter around the corner. As he walked the short distance down the street, he began to feel a little giddy.
Tiredness, he thought. He’d lain awake much of the night, unable to drift off in the muggy heat. He turned right, and saw his battered bright red car a hundred yards ahead. Suddenly, it felt like a hundred miles.
His legs were moving in slow motion. Then they started to fold up under him and he had to grip the front garden wall of a house to stay upright. He remained where he was for some moments, aware that he was sweating profusely, breathing in deep laboured gulps. He glanced up and down the street, but no one was around and he was glad – this was embarrassing.
More breaths and he began to feel better. Was he suffering anaphylactic shock from that sting on his bum? He remembered the symptoms from his first-aid courses: rapid pulse, sweating, collapse.
But he wasn’t allergic to stings. Shit, he’d disturbed an entire wasps’ nest in his loft last summer and been stung a dozen times with no big problem. Anyhow it was passing now, he was feeling a little better. It was just tiredness, the heat, no breakfast.
He found the strength to let go of the wall, and walked on up to his car. Unlocking it, he climbed in and sank with relief into the seat. He reached up, pulled down the belt, clicked it home, then started the car. Have to follow Thomas Lamark. Drive round to his street, stay well back. He pulled out and, feeling very disoriented now, drove to the end of the street. Floating, almost disembodied. Made a left turn. He was having to breathe harder, as if his lungs were shrinking. Must radio in, ask for a second car.
Coming down to a busy junction. Fighting for breath. Wheezing. High Street Kensington. The lights were red. He braked. But he wasn’t stopping – his right foot wasn’t obeying him. He reached for the handbrake, but he only reached it in his mind. His arm did not move.
There was a black cab dead ahead, waiting at the lights. The gap was closing. Closing too fast to stop.
He saw the jerk but felt nothing. Saw the front of his car bounce back, the taxi catapult forwards and slew outwards into the road, and come to a halt, the back stoved in. He saw a man in an open short-sleeved shirt with a check pattern, and cream trousers, come running angrily up towards him. The man was shouting.
Simon Roebuck tried to reply, but his voice did not work now. A faint wheeze that dried up after a few seconds. His lungs had locked. No air went in or out of them. He stared at the angry man who was shouting at him, helplessly. ‘Arsehole. You blind arsehole!’ the man shouted.
Now the light was fading. The man was fading. Roebuck needed air in his lungs. He tried to suck it in, through his mouth, his nose. He was shaking with panic now. His whole body had shut down on him.
He screamed with his eyes for the man to help him.
Shaking now. Terrible pains racking his insides. The light was coming and going. Burst of brilliance, then darkness. An explosion like a firework inside his skull. The man in the check shirt mouthing at him, he had the door open, he wasn’t angry any more.
Roebuck could see only a shadowy blur now.
The cab driver pulled open the Vauxhall’s door. A woman in her late twenties, in jeans and a tank-top, came running up. ‘I’m a nurse,’ she said.
‘He’s having a heart attack or an epileptic fit,’ the cabbie shouted.
‘Get him out of the car,’ the nurse said, fumbling for Roebuck’s seat-belt buckle.
Together they levered him out and laid him on the pavement. The nurse crooked one of his arms under him and put him into the recovery position. She checked his airways, then pulse, then heart.
Nothing.
She pressed her mouth to his and blew hard and steadily. But the air would not go in. Desperately, she tilted back his head and tried again. Still the air would not go in.
‘His airway,’ she said. ‘I think it’s obstructed. He’s choked on something.’
They sat him upright, oblivious to the crowd that was gathering, and thumped his back. Still nothing. They hauled him to his feet and tried the Heimlich manoeuvre. Still no result.
Finally, in panic, using the cab driver’s penknife and a hollow pen tube, the nurse performed an emergency tracheotomy.
Chapter Ninety-three
Urgent faces. Voices raised with advice. His mother. Father. Brother. Lulu. DC Roebuck. They were all in a room together, shouting at him, clamouring for his attention.
Then Amanda appeared. She was standing in the doorway with a bemused expression. ‘I was waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t anyone come?’
‘Amanda!’ Michael yelled, and tried to wade through the crowd, but he couldn’t move, they were all jam-packed together, no one could move. He pushed harder, tried to run, but it was like trying to run through water. Then, after an age – an eternity – he reached the doorway, but she was gone.
He stared down the empty hallway. Someone was patting him on the back. His father. ‘You did what you could, old boy.’
Lulu said, ‘I don’t think that was really her, Michael.’
Footsteps. Running. The light was changing. Grey light. The dream dissolved into daylight that was flat and dull, like under-exposed film.
She was gone.
Early morning.
A jogger pounded by. Receding. Quiet again. The whir of a milk float somewhere close. Bottles clinking. Ratchet of a handbrake. From here, lying on the flattened-out seat-back, Michael could read the car clock. Six fifteen.
Drenched in sweat, he sat up, feeling a little chilly. He switched on the ignition and closed his window, checked that his phone was on, then pulled his jacket over his chest, like a blanket, and lay down again.
Sleep sucked him back under its surface.
When he next opened his eyes the daylight was much more vivid; there was a steady background roar of traffic; the town had come to life. The click of heels on the pavement, approaching, then stopping.
He jerked the seat-back upright. A young woman was entering the next-door building. Five past eight. He needed to piss. There was birdshit on his windscreen and on the bonnet. His back ached and his right thigh had gone numb. He massaged life back into it, then opened his door. The cool air beneath the cloudless dark blue sky held the promise of a warm day to come. Still stiff, he crossed over the road onto the pavement on the other side of the crescent, where there were wrought-iron railings in front of a small private garden. Here, in the bright sunlight, it already felt hot.
He stared up at the building, looking for signs of life in any of the windows. All were shut. The crescent was in decay; genteel shabbiness. Birdshit spattered steps up to the porch of number 20. Chunks missing from the columns. The green front door needed repainting. Sash windows in poor repair. There was a vile taste in his mouth, and he felt badly in need of a wash. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and felt a layer of grease. He raised an elbow and surreptitiously sniffed his armpit. Not great.
Badly needing to urinate now, he crossed his legs. It had been stupid to sleep in the car. What had he gained? He should have checked into a hotel, had a decent night’s sleep and got up early. Now, tired, unshaven and grimy, he felt like a hobo.
He got back in the car, rummaged in the glove locker and found some Tic-Tac mints. He shook one into the palm of his hand and put it in his mouth. Someone was walking up the porch steps.
A woman, early fifties, matronly figure. She looked like a book-keeper. She let herself in with a key and the door closed
behind her. Michael watched the windows carefully. After a couple of minutes his patience was rewarded when a sash opened a good eighteen inches on the first floor. He could just make her out before she retreated back into the gloom of the interior.
He dialled Dr Sundaralingham’s number once more. Four rings, then the voice-mail kicked in. This woman didn’t work for him.
Where do you take a piss in Cheltenham at ten past eight on a Friday morning?
His bladder was hurting so much it was hard to think straight. Public toilets; hotels; restaurants; offices. He started the car, drove out of the crescent and a short distance along the road, then saw a café in a parade of shops. It didn’t look much of a place but it was open, that was all that mattered.
He went inside, ordered coffee, eggs and beans on toast, orange juice, then found the tiny washroom at the back. He urinated, then tugged off his shirt, washed his face, chest and arms, brushed his teeth with a soapy finger, and dried himself with paper towels.
Twenty minutes later he was back outside number 20 West Park Crescent, feeling a lot better. He dialled the number again. Once more, four rings then the machine. He ended the call and dialled Thelma’s direct line at the Sheen Park Hospital. He told her to apologise to all his patients, and to arrange cover for his in-patients, but he wouldn’t be in until late morning at the very earliest. She took it calmly and told him not to worry, she would do her best to explain the situation to them. And she would postpone a staff meeting he was chairing, set for eleven.
A small BMW pulled up and parked directly in front of him. Two men in their thirties climbed out, talking animatedly, and entered the building. He watched them while he was still talking to Thelma, and gave them five minutes to settle into their office, but could see no sign of any window opening. Maybe they had air-conditioning, or maybe their offices were at the rear. He dialled the number. Again four rings then the voice-mail. Neither of them was Dr Sundaralingham or any colleague of his.
Six more people arrived at the building during the next twenty minutes. Each time he gave them five minutes then dialled. But still no luck.
He watched the postman arrive, ring a bell and enter. Then a couple of minutes later he saw a buffoonish-looking man in his late forties, ambling along the pavement. Heavily overweight, wearing a yachting blazer and grey slacks, clutching an ancient attaché case, he appeared to be conducting an invisible orchestra with his free hand, nodding in time to the music. He walked up the steps, glancing up at the building with a proprietorial air as if he owned the place, unlocked the door and went in.
Michael gave him his five minutes, then dialled. On the second ring, the phone was answered by the same clipped, military voice he remembered from yesterday. ‘Dr Sundaralingham’s surgery, can I help you?’
With a beat of excitement, Michael pressed END. He slipped the phone in his pocket, climbed out of the car and locked it. Then he walked up the porch steps and stared at the choice of bells. He pressed one at random. A woman answered. ‘Hallo?’
‘Special delivery!’ Michael said. ‘Two packages.’
‘Two packages?’ Surprise in her voice. Then the rasp of the door lock.
Michael pushed it open and went into a hallway that was as tired as the exterior. A staircase faced him and there was a lift to his right. On the opposite wall was a panel listing the occupants of the building. Chapel Music Ltd. Cross-gates Financial Services. Nimbus Translation Ltd. Chiltern Associates. The Cheltenham Business Communications Centre.
No Dr Sundaralingham.
There was an assortment of post on a shelf below the panel and he sifted through it. Nothing addressed to any doctor. The place smelt musty.
The front door lock rasped again. He turned his head but no one was there. He dialled his mobile phone, then pressed it against his jacket to silence any sounds from it, and listened out for ringing in the building. He couldn’t hear anything. Then he brought the phone to his ear and again heard the same voice answering as a few minutes ago.
‘Hallo?’ the voice said. ‘Hallo? Dr Sundaralingham’s surgery. Hallo?’
He pressed END, walked up to the first floor and rang the number again. This time he heard a phone ring above him, faintly. He hung up, ran the next flight, then stood in the corridor and dialled once more.
Two rings and then he ended the call before it was answered. He had heard those clearly, coming from along the corridor, on the right. He walked down and stopped outside the door bearing a smart brass panel marked, CHELTENHAM BUSINESS COMMUNICATIONS CENTRE.
He dialled the number again. Two rings and then the clipped, military voice once again, its patience a little strained this time. ‘Dr Sundaralingham’s surgery, can I help you?’
Michael could hear the voice coming from the other side of the wall.
Holding his phone firmly in his hand, he opened the door and walked in. The overweight buffoon in the navy blazer, whom he had seen entering the building a short while ago, was seated right in front of him at a bank of telephones, holding a receiver to his ear and staring at a computer screen. Close up he smelt of brandy and hair-cream, and looked unkempt. There was a button missing on his jacket cuff, scurf on his shoulders, and his shirt collar was scrunched up by his food-stained regimental tie.
Looking harassed, the man shot an unwelcoming glance at him.
‘Yes,’ Michael said. ‘You can help me.’
The man covered the receiver. ‘I’m on the phone, just a tick.’
Michael pointed at his mobile. ‘I’m on the phone too.’ He pushed the door shut behind him. ‘I’m on the phone talking to you.’ He swept the place with his eyes. A cheesy little office. An accommodation address, that’s all this place was. He stuck the phone right under the man’s face and pressed END. ‘You can hang up, too. We’re going to have a chat face to face.’
The man listened to the dead receiver briefly, then set it down, looking at Michael with a mixture of anger and concern. ‘Who are you, please?’ he barked, in that clipped, military voice that sounded too grand for his slovenly appearance.
Michael saw the sign on his desk, which said, Nicholas R. Lubbings, BA Com. MBA. There was a stack of business cards next to the sign: he picked one up and read it aloud. ‘Nicholas R. Lubbings, BA Com. MBA. Director. The Cheltenham Business Communications Centre.’ I thought you were a doctor’s surgery, Mr Lubbings. Am I mistaken?’ Michael was seething with anger.
‘We’re a business centre and answering-service,’ he said defensively. ‘Would you kindly tell me who you are and what you want?’
‘I want to see Dr Sundaralingham, right now.’
‘I can leave a message for him.’
‘He’s not very good at returning his calls, Mr Lubbings. I’m glad I’m not one of his patients.’
‘I’ll do my best to get him to respond to you quickly.’
The phone rang. ‘Excuse me.’ Lubbings signalled with his finger, tapped his keyboard, checked the monitor then lifted the receiver. ‘Cheltenham Sporting Saloons, good morning . . . No, I’m afraid none of our sales staff is available just at this moment. If you’ll –’
Michael snatched the phone from his hand and hung it up. Then he grabbed Lubbings by the knot of his tie and hauled him half out of his chair, scattering a box of pens, a pile of correspondence and other oddments across his desk. ‘I’m not pissing around with you, Lubbings. I want Sundaralingham on the phone or in this office in the next thirty seconds, and I’m deadly fucking serious.’ Michael shook him violently, then released his grip.
Lubbings sagged back into his chair, his eyes bulging. His face had gone puce and he was coughing. He looked terrified. ‘I – I’m calling the police.’
‘Go ahead, make my day,’ Michael said, standing right over him, his face right inside Lubbings’ face. ‘But you’d better read something first.’
The phone started ringing again. Wisely Lubbings ignored it. From his inside pocket, Michael produced Dr Sundaralingham’s letter of referral for Dr Terence Goel, and sl
ammed it down in front of him. ‘Something look familiar about this letter to you, Mr Lubbings? Would the Cheltenham Chamber of Commerce be interested to see this letter?’
He watched the man’s lips moving as he read the letter and saw his eyes dart nervously up to the address at the top. Then Lubbings looked back at him.
‘I’m Dr Tennent, OK? This is a fake letter of referral. It’s a criminal offence to impersonate a doctor, Mr Lubbings. You’re allowing these premises to be used for criminal purposes. Go ahead, call the police.’
Lubbings’ face was draining back to its pasty colour. ‘I – I didn’t – realise – that he – that –’
‘Mr Lubbings, I’m interested in one thing right now, and one thing only. I don’t give a shit who Dr Sundaralingham is. I need to know who his patient, Dr Terence Goel, is. Now either you are going to get Dr Sundaralingham on the phone, or take me to his house or his office, or I’m going to have the police come here right now and take this place apart. The woman I love has been kidnapped. There’s a nationwide manhunt going on for her right now. She might even be dead, but there’s a chance of saving her life. Your Dr Goel knows who’s taken her. Understand how serious this is, Mr Lubbings?’ Michael leaned across the desk, so that his face was inches from the other man’s. ‘Do you fucking understand?’ he said, then he stood back.
Lubbings nodded like a trapped rat. ‘They’re the same person,’ he said lamely. ‘Dr Sundaralingham is Dr Goel.’
Michael absorbed this. ‘The same person?’
‘Yes.’
‘What address do you have for Goel?’
Lubbings raised his arms. ‘Here. This office. This is the only address.’
‘What do you mean? You must have some other address?’
Lubbings’ demeanour became increasingly helpful, as if by ingratiating himself with Michael he might be able to avoid trouble. ‘I’ve only met him twice, once when he came and paid six months’ fee in cash in advance for the address and services, and once when he came to collect a package. I – I have a phone number.’
