Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

  ‘Right now he’s on life support and receiving constant blood transfusions. We’re going to wait for his wife to get here before we turn off the machines.’

  A rotund priest with a shining dome emerges from the ICU, searching for someone to comfort. He spies a T-shirted teenager in the corner who holds up a magazine as if he wishes it were a force field. Elsewhere, a waif-like couple huddle together as if conserving body heat. The boy has a ring through his eyebrow and the girl has a dozen studs in her ears.

  ‘I’d like to see him,’ I say.

  ‘Mr Ellis won’t be able to speak to you.’

  ‘I know.’

  After scrubbing my hands, I follow Dr Chou through a heavy noiseless door. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the semi-darkness. Only the beds are brightly lit, as though under interrogation by the machines. Gordon Ellis lies on a trolley bed with metal sides. His eyes are bandaged over and his mouth and nose are hidden beneath a mask. Blood is leaking through the bandages on his chest and arms.

  For a moment I think he might already be dead, but I see his chest move and the mask fog with condensation and then clear again.

  Dr Chou lays a cool finger on my wrist. She has to leave. I stand away from the bed, not wanting to move any closer. Machines hum. Blood circulates. Tubes, wires and probes snake across the sheets and twist above his body leading to plastic pouches or monitors.

  An intensive care nurse is perched on a padded stool amid the machines. She regards me with genial acquiescence, wondering why I’m standing in the half-darkness. She doesn’t understand what I’ve witnessed or comprehend the questions I still have.

  Novak Brennan must have known about Gordon’s fondness for underage girls and his ability to groom them. He also may have known about the caravan - Ellis’s perverted chamber of secrets.

  Blackmailing Ellis was the easy part. Corrupting a County Court judge was more challenging. Court appointments are published in advance of a trial, which gave Novak time to investigate Judge David Spencer and discover his penchant for prostitutes, particularly young, innocent-looking, fresh-faced girls. Sienna Hegarty fitted the bill - she was underage, a schoolgirl. Gordon could provide her.

  There were thousands of photographs amid the wreckage of the caravan, mostly of young girls, bound and gagged, suffering various indignities. How many other victims were there? Perhaps Natasha was one of them. And what of Caro Regan? Coop and Philippa may never learn the truth their daughter’s fate unless the wreckage of the caravan yields some clues.

  The ICU nurse speaks to me. ‘You can sit down if you’d like.’

  She has a northern accent and eyes that shine green, reflecting the neon display panels at her fingertips.

  ‘I didn’t really know him,’ I reply.

  I wished him dead. I almost killed him.

  ‘I don’t know any of them,’ she says, ‘but I keep talking. I tell them about the weather and what’s on TV. Sometimes I read to them.’ She holds up a tattered romance novel.

  ‘I’m sure you have a nice reading voice.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She moves around the bed and reattaches the piece of tape holding a tube against Gordon’s forearm. ‘Was he a good man?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I guess not.’ She blinks at him sadly. ‘Sometimes I wonder how much control we have over what happens to us, or if our lives are simply a chain reaction. One crash after another.’

  Walking along the corridor, I push through the doors into the A&E department. A handful of people are standing below a TV on a pillar. I catch a glimpse of the news banner rolling across the lower screen: RACE HATE TRIAL ABANDONED.

  A reporter is standing outside Bristol Crown Court.

  The trial of Novak Brennan, Gary Dobson and Tony Smith was abandoned in controversial circumstances today amid allegations of jury tampering and corruption.

  In a morning of high drama, Judge David Spencer told the court that a member of the jury had complained of being approached and threatened by a third party outside the court. Judge Spencer announced that the risk of intimidation was too great for him to ignore. He excused the five women and seven men of the jury, before ordering that the three defendants be retried at a later date.

  Lawyers for Novak Brennan and his fellow accused immediately applied for bail, arguing their clients had already spent eight months in custody . . .

  My mobile is vibrating.

  ‘Did you hear the news?’ asks Julianne. She’s speaking from somewhere outdoors.

  ‘I just heard.’

  ‘Poor Marco.’

  ‘Have you talked to him?’

  ‘I’m meeting him in a few minutes. I’m taking him shopping before he catches the train to London.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘I don’t think he really understands. I thought jury tampering only happened in the movies.’

  ‘You’ll have to explain it to him.’

  ‘Maybe you can help me.’

  I hesitate and she picks up something in my voice. ‘You knew! That’s why you asked me about the judge.’

  I don’t reply, which simply confirms her suspicions.

  ‘What happened, Joe?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Before she can ask me another question she interrupts herself: ‘There’s Marco. I’d better go.’

  I don’t get a chance to say goodbye. I want to ring straight back and hear her sweet voice.

  A cab has pulled up outside the main doors. Natasha Ellis emerges, clutching Billy’s hand. The young boy is wearing his school uniform and has Tigger tucked under his arm. Natasha doesn’t acknowledge the cab driver as she pays. Her eyes are bloodshot and she seems to be moving from memory, unable to process what’s happened.

  Dr Chou collects her while a nurse takes Billy to a play area with toys and colouring books. I stand for a long while watching him leaning over a drawing, furiously moving his pencil.

  Twenty minutes later Natasha reappears, wiping her eyes and struggling to focus. Billy begins telling her about the drawing. She nods and tries to listen but struggles to hold on to his words. She sees me and a new emotion ignites within her.

  Spinning to confront me, her left hand swings from the waist, striking me across the face, raking her nails across my cheek. The slap echoes through the waiting room and my eyes swim.

  Her face contorts in grief and rage. ‘You did this!’

  I touch my cheek where her nails have broken the skin. My thumb and forefinger slide together, lubricated by a droplet of blood.

  She tries to hit me again, but this time I catch her by the wrist and hold her until I feel her energy dissipate and her shoulders sag. Having surrendered, she lets me take her to a chair where she stares blankly at the far wall, taking short, sharp breaths.

  ‘Is there someone I can call?’ I ask. ‘What about your parents?’

  Natasha shakes her head.

  ‘I can get a victim support officer.’

  She doesn’t reply.

  ‘Or I could call a friend . . . You really shouldn’t be alone right now.’

  Taking a deep breath, she looks at me imploringly.

  ‘Why couldn’t you leave us alone? We were fine. Happy. Don’t you see it was her fault? She was to blame.’

  I don’t reply and hatred blooms in her chest again. ‘You’re no different from Gordon - he was besotted with that little slut. She fooled everybody, but not me. I found her earring in the bedroom. Gordon tried to lie about it, but I’m not stupid. I knew what he was doing with her.

  ‘I followed them one day. Gordon borrowed my car and picked her up after school. He took her to Bradford-on-Avon and bought her an ice cream. They were sitting by the river. I watched him feed it to her. She opened her mouth and he teased her, pulling the spoon away from her lips and offering it again.’

  Natasha wipes her eyes. ‘Gordon said I was being paranoid about Sienna. He said my jealousy made me ugly. He said he still loved me but I had to stop smotherin
g him . . . If that little tart hadn’t tried to steal him . . .’

  The moment passes and she shrinks away, diminished.

  ‘What happened to his first wife?’

  Natasha doesn’t look at me. ‘She ran away.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘Gordon said he wouldn’t lie to me.’

  ‘You’ve seen what he’s done.’

  Her eyes meet mine, clouding.

  ‘He’s not a monster. He loved me.’

  52

  Outside in the weak sunshine, looking across the hospital grounds, I watch a mower creating verdant strips of green on the turf, light green and dark green. A curtain of rain is hanging above the horizon as though unsure whether to spoil the day. It creates a strange light that might please a painter or a photographer, but there’s nothing I find comforting or appealing about the scene.

  I touch my cheek again. The scratches are weeping. Natasha Ellis struck me with her left hand, unleashing all her grief and fury. She has lost her husband. Lost the life she fought so hard to protect. This is the detail I failed to notice. I didn’t comprehend how far she’d go to save her marriage. The sins she’d overlook. The risks she’d take.

  I have a missed call on my mobile. Ruiz. I call him back.

  ‘Have you heard?’ he asks. ‘They abandoned the trial.’

  ‘I just saw the news on TV.’

  ‘Looks like Ronnie Cray pulled it off. Does she still have a job?’

  ‘Far as I know.’

  He asks about last night and why I didn’t come back to the terrace.

  ‘I stayed with Julianne.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nothing happened. I slept on the sofa.’

  ‘Maybe she wanted you to storm her bedroom and ravish her.’

  Do people ‘ravish’ each other any more?

  I tell him about the booby-trapped caravan and my helicopter flight to the hospital with Gordon Ellis.

  ‘So he’s dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about Caro Regan?’

  ‘Maybe the debris will yield some clues.’

  Ruiz is silent for a time, thinking about Coop and Philippa Regan and their mausoleum-like flat in Edinburgh and their funereal existence, wondering what happened to their daughter.

  ‘Where are you now?’ he asks.

  ‘Frenchay Hospital.’

  ‘You need a lift?’

  ‘If you’re offering.’

  ‘I should have been a minicab driver.’

  ‘More money.’

  ‘Better hours.’

  He hangs up and I walk across the road, feeling the turf beneath my shoes. I am closer to understanding things now. I know why Ray Hegarty was murdered, why Annie Robinson was poisoned and why Sienna was framed.

  Not everything makes sense. If there’s an exception to every rule, then that rule itself must have an exception. Novak Brennan tried to corrupt a judge. Sway a jury. Secure a verdict. Yet so much of it depended upon factors that he could never fully control. A majority verdict to acquit required ten jurors - a huge ask. By blackmailing a judge the only thing he could completely guarantee was the collapse of the hearing and a retrial with a new jury and a new judge. Novak must have known this.

  I glance towards the hospital and see my reflection cast back at me from the doors. I am a man standing alone in a field. Some things we have to do alone. Birth. Death. Sitting in a witness box . . .

  Uneasiness washes over me, inching upwards, lodging in my throat. Fumbling for my phone I call Julianne. Her number is engaged. I start over. This time she answers.

  ‘Where’s Marco?’ I ask.

  ‘He went to buy me a present.’

  ‘Does he have a number?’

  ‘He doesn’t have a phone.’

  She’s at Broadmead Shopping Centre, which is fifteen minutes away.

  Julianne senses my fear. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You have to find him. Get him out of there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s not safe. Find him and call me.’

  Ruiz has pulled up outside the hospital. I try to run but suddenly freeze and stare helplessly at my legs, telling them to move. I direct all of my concentration to just my left leg, telling it to step forward. It must be like watching a man step over an invisible obstacle. Once I get a degree of momentum, I’ll be fine. One leg will follow the other. Walk and then run.

  I pull open the passenger door and tumble inside, telling Ruiz to drive, telling him that Julianne’s in danger. Without hesitation, he accelerates, weaving between cars, demanding answers.

  We’re on the M32. Middle lane. Passing the concrete towers, shuttered shops, factories, pawnshops and ‘For Lease’ signs. There are hookers walking up and down Fishponds Road: women who are women and men who are women and crack-heads who will be anything you want.

  ‘When you were following Carl Guilfoyle - you said it was strange, you said he seemed to know he was being tailed. Maybe we were meant to find the photographs.’

  Ruiz looks at me askance and back to the road.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Novak couldn’t guarantee an acquittal, but he could guarantee what happened today.’

  ‘You’re saying he wanted the trial abandoned?’

  ‘He needed more time.’

  ‘More time for what?’

  ‘To silence Marco Kostin.’

  ‘I thought he was under police guard.’

  ‘He was until this morning.’

  Traffic lights. Amber then red. Ruiz brakes heavily.

  My mobile chirrups. Julianne.

  ‘I’ve seen him.’

  ‘Marco?’

  ‘No, the man with the black tears.’

  My heart lurches.

  ‘I saw him outside WHSmith.’

  ‘Was he following you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t find Marco.’

  I tell her to stay calm. ‘I’m going to hang up now and call the police.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Where were you going to meet Marco?’

  ‘At Brasserie Blanc.’

  ‘Go there. Sit outside. Somewhere public.’

  My heart is banging in my ribs. Cray’s number is engaged. I try again. Monk answers. I tell him to get the boss. It’s an emergency.

  The DCI replaces him.

  ‘Carl Guilfoyle is going after Marco Kostin. They’re both at Broadmead Shopping Centre.’

  ‘Is anyone with Marco?’

  ‘Julianne is looking for him. We’re almost there.’

  ‘Don’t approach Guilfoyle. Get them out of there.’

  The lights are green. Ruiz accelerates. Seventy miles an hour. Chasing tail lights and leaving them behind.

  My mind is zigzagging ahead, like a small furry creature darting through undergrowth, following a scent, switching direction, moving away from me. We’re going too slowly.

  Ruiz leans on the horn as we get caught in traffic on the Old Market Roundabout. He swings across two lanes, braking hard, the tyres screeching. We almost sideswipe a lorry and he wrenches the wheel, correcting twice. The pine-scented air-freshener swings violently from the mirror.

  We’re in Quakers Friars. Ruiz pulls over. Hazard lights flashing. I’m already out the door and running across the flagstones, dodging pedestrians, shoppers, office workers.

  Julianne is standing alone outside the restaurant in her buttoned-up trench coat and the boots she bought in Milan. Nearby there are children running in and out of water jets that spout like molten silver from the slick pavers.

  ‘We were supposed to meet here,’ she says, wide-eyed, anxious.

  ‘Where did you see him last?’

  ‘In Merchant Street.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘He should have been back by now.’

  Ruiz arrives. We’ll split up and search. Somebody should stay here in case Marco turns up: Julianne.

  ‘Call if you see him.’

  I start movi
ng, my scalp itchy and damp. There are hundreds of shops over almost six blocks and three levels - department stores, boutiques, speciality shops, restaurants and cafés - the biggest retail centre in Bristol. As long as Marco stays somewhere public. As long as he’s in the open . . .

  Weaving through the crowd, I keep looking at the faces, expecting to see Marco or Carl Guilfoyle. There are too many people. He could walk right past me and I might not see him.

  Pushing through the doors of BHS, I jog up the escalator and weave between racks of clothes. The window overlooks the intersection of Broadmead and Merchant Street.

  I scan the crowd. Young mums with prams, joggers in Lycra shorts, a hooded youth with a skateboard, an elderly couple, hunched arthritically, moving in slow motion. A juggler in a clown’s hat has drawn an audience by tossing coloured balls in the air and bouncing them off the pavement.

  There are so many people, a sea of moving heads. That’s when I see Marco on the edge of the crowd watching the juggler. He’s wearing a red baseball cap and carrying a glossy carrier bag.

  Retreating down the escalator, through the automatic doors, I emerge on street level. A toddler runs under my feet. Half catching him as I fall, I bounce up and spin around, planting the boy on his feet. His mother gives me a foul-mouthed tirade, but I’m looking past her for Marco.

  I can’t see him. He was on the far side of the square. Pushing through the crowd, I look for his red baseball cap. In the periphery of my vision I catch sight of Julianne. What’s she doing? She must have seen Marco too.

  Suddenly, someone collides with me from the front on my right-side and continues walking. I glimpse his features - the marks on his cheeks, more like scars than tattoos, as though his face has been sewn together from discarded pieces of skin.

  I can hear my breath escaping as I watch his right hand slip into his coat pocket. He moves away. I know I have to chase him. Stop him. Instead I feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue. One step. Two steps. Three steps. What’s happening?

  I glance down. A red plume spreads out from my ribs down to my trousers. The blade slipped in so easily that I didn’t feel it enter beneath my ribs, rising towards my heart and into my lungs.

  I’m staggering, falling to my knees, frantically trying to stay upright. My head keeps bobbing and weaving but it’s not one of Mr Parkinson’s cruel jokes. The pain has arrived, a dull throbbing, growing in intensity, screaming at me to stop. It’s as if someone has driven a heated metal rod into my chest and is jerking it from side to side.