by Limey Lady
Geoff’s first full day in hospital passed in a blur. He must have seen six different doctors, each putting him through the same old set of checks as Dr Brown’s. Interspersed with that, countless blood samples were taken and he was repeatedly assured he'd be having CAT and MRI scans on Monday . . . and that all this concentrated attention would quickly highlight his problem.
The last doctor turned out to be Dr Brown's preferred neurologist, Dr Strohl, who’d come in especially on Saturday afternoon. Dr Strohl performed an abbreviated version of the standard checks then smiled at Geoff, exuding self-assurance.
‘You are going to go through a number of formal tests,’ he’d said. ‘These will show nothing, but they are necessary to eliminate all possibilities. I would like you to take my test today. We can then gather the results together at the same time and start your treatment first thing on Tuesday. My test will confirm my diagnosis, you see.’
‘Which is?’ Geoff asked.
‘You have a rare but very treatable condition. If you are happy to let us take a spinal tap now, I will tell you in more detail when those results are to hand.’
By Visiting Time on Monday afternoon Geoff had endured his tap, his scans and several more blood tests and examinations. He'd also been moved to Ward 5 and given a bed with an overhead hoist, seeing as it was no longer deemed safe for him to even try standing. Not without a nurse supervising the use of the Zimmer frame he’d been given . . . and instinctively hated.
He was talking to Penny and disinterestedly picking at a bunch of grapes when Dr Strohl dropped in again.
‘You have Guillain-Barré Syndrome,’ he told Geoff. ‘Commonly known as GBS, it is an autoimmune condition. Your immune system is mistakenly attacking your peripheral nervous system. We will stop this with infusions of immunoglobulin each day for the next five days. Once the treatment is complete I’ll pass you over to the physiotherapy team, who will get you back to normal.’
‘I've never heard of it,’ Penny said.
‘Me neither,’ Geoff added, trying to conceal his relief. Whatever else this GBS was, it couldn’t possibly be as infectious as the doctor’s confidence.
‘It is not common. There are only about a thousand cases a year.’ Dr Strohl chuckled. ‘Your husband is in good company, though. Franklyn D Roosevelt and Tony Benn both had it.’
‘That makes me feel much better.’ Geoff laughed shortly. ‘I still can’t understand how it’s brought me down so quickly, though.’
‘Your case is not untypical,’ the neurologist said. ‘If anything, it has moved rather slowly. It usually begins in the feet and steadily ascends towards the trunk. Weakness in the legs is noticed first, for quite obvious reasons. This usually causes problems within days or at most a week. It can however progress much faster. I know of an instance when a young lady set off shopping, feeling fit and well, but could not make it back home.’
‘That sounds very much like one of Penny’s shopping trips. She can’t usually move for the weight of flashy carrier bags.’
‘Thank you Geoffrey.’ Penny eyed him with a mix of affection and concern. ‘I’m glad to see your sense of humour isn’t under the weather.’
‘I can’t believe I’m under the weather,’ he replied truthfully. ‘I feel absolutely normal, apart from my hands tingling. Is that where the weakness is going to strike next?’
‘No,’ said Dr Strohl, ‘because my IVIG infusions are going to stop it in its tracks.’
‘This attack,’ Penny began tentatively. ‘Will it have caused any damage to Geoff’s nervous system?’
‘Yes. That is why the infusions must begin tomorrow. We must stop the attack as soon as possible, to prevent the damage becoming severe.’
‘So the damage isn’t severe yet?’
‘I have no reason to suppose it is.’
‘Will he recover?’
‘The politicians both did, to an acceptable degree. So have many others, so there is no reason why Mr Rodgers should not. Your GP recognized the symptoms immediately and, while a delay would not have been a total disaster, it is best to act swiftly. I think he should fully recover in three or four months.’
‘Three or four months,’ Geoff exploded. ‘I can't be laid up that long!’
‘Please have patience.’ The neurologist patted Geoff's hand before leaving.
‘Patience,’ Penny said after he'd gone. She was grinning, as if Geoff had ignored her advice and duly come a cropper. ‘I've been telling you to slow down for years. Now maybe you'll have to.’
*****
The triple murder in Shipley hit headlines nationwide. Two tabloids filled their front pages with it and all the other nationals devoted lots of column inches. In the absence of grisly details from the boys in blue, the newspapermen almost unanimously went for the obvious along with the sensational.
JACK’S BACK: from the Sun.
NEW RIPPER HAUNTS OLD GROUND: in the Mirror.
RIPPER COPYCAT TARGETS TRAMPS: in the Star.
IS NEW RIPPER GAY: in the Sunday Sport.
ANOTHER SERIAL KILLER IN YORKSHIRE: in the Express.
POLICE PROBE MURDERS: from the Telegraph.
All articles drew on the connection with the murder of Michael Johnson (better known as “Micky”) some thirteen years earlier. Micky had been an alcoholic down-and-out who had been killed within a mile of the latest atrocity. Although particulars had originally been withheld, by now it was common knowledge that he had been shot, mutilated and finally dispatched with a metal stake. Indications were that the three new victims had gone the same way and were, to boot, all alcoholic down-and-outs.
As well as debating if the killer was “serial” or “spree”, there was much speculation as to whether the gun used on Micky had been used again . . . and on the nature of the mutilations and the precise use of the stake. Without completely spilling the beans, a source had confirmed that the latest evidence tied the four murders together, so most newspaper reports went for “serial” and concentrated on two questions: Why? And: What next?
Theories abounded about: Why?
The killer had suffered at the hands of a tramp, possibly being attacked as a child, maybe much more recently by an aggressive beggar.
The killer was a tramp and was clearing rivals from his manor.
The killer just didn't like tramps, full stop.
The killer was picking on tramps because, like prostitutes, they were easy targets.
The killer was mad and would slaughter anyone; the first victims just by coincidence all happened to be tramps . . .
As for: What next? It was generally agreed that, like most serial killers, this one would follow an ever-accelerating cycle. The police would be scouring the records for similar unsolved murders since (and, of course, before) Micky Johnson that could or should be added into the equation. Assuming that there were none, they then had to deduce what came next in the sequence:
One killing
Wait thirteen years
Three killings . . .
None of the newspapers were prepared to set anything in stone but all concluded the next wait was going to be shorter and the number of victims could be astronomic. SKY, BBC and ITN rehashed all the newspaper theories, flavoured with footage of the screened-off crime scene and interviews with selected bystanders, all prepared to sound thick for their fifteen minutes of fame. On Look North the senior (usually cheerful) anchor-man closed the programme with a sombre reminder of the lead story, asking everybody to “Remember the late Seventies and be careful out there.”
In neighbouring Bingley there was a swell of Ripper Fever around the town. All the old jokes came out again. People with Wearside accents were held to ridicule, along with the police force. A few wise parents advised their kids to watch what they said in the bars, knowing it would be easy to offend supporters of the old serial killer (meaning supporters of his relations) as well as detractors. A scattering of fist-fights proved they were right.
Time passed and, as nothing else happ
ened, interest waned. The reporters started to drift away one by one.
Then a twelve year-old boy was knifed to death by a teenage gang in London and the few stragglers packed up and went.
*****
Trips to the Shama had become a regular thing. Dee had only been back since Thursday and this was their fourth time already. Not that Pat was likely to complain about that or anything else. He was enjoying everything about being with her. House clearing aside, he’d had the best weekend ever and he had even caught the big match. And they’d won.
He was still put out by the way the waiters were all over DeeDee, though. Okay, she was a lot prettier than him, but he spent thousands here every year.
Looks like tens of thousands from now on, he thought mock-grumpily, watching his dining companion laugh and joke with the manager.
Pat had finished his starter. Leaving Dee to flirt he set off for the gents’, only then noticing the girl with jet-black hair occupying a table for four on her own. A blend of irrational feelings struck him. Confused by them, his immediate impulse was to sneak past, pretending he hadn't seen her, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough. While he was still wondering exactly why he wanted to avoid her, she glanced up, fixing him with startling green eyes, making his heart lurch alarmingly.
‘My, my,’ she said, ‘look what the cat's brought in.’
‘Little me,’ he replied, desperately trying to remember to call her "Heather".
I can't really call her Miss Incredible . . . even if she is.
‘You seem nervous. Shouldn't you be here?’
‘Of course I should.’ To Pat's horror he was blushing for the first time in many a year. ‘Excuse me. I have to pay a call.’
‘Guilty conscience,’ she said, breaking off a piece of poppadum from a big stack before her.
Pat paused a moment to take in the disaster site that was her table. For someone who was always immaculately presented she couldn't half make a mess. Most of the available space was taken up by a big pink newspaper and her laptop. Vying for position with the poppadums were her mobile and three pint glasses: one empty, one three-quarters full and another as yet untouched.
‘Swotting for something?’ he wondered.
‘This is my alternative workstation,’ she said, smiling sweetly.
Safely closeted away, Pat tried to decide what it was about Heather that affected him so strongly. Apart from the obvious, that was. He’d met her at the rugby three or four seasons ago, not long before he retired. She'd been with her older colleague, both of them quite fresh. And he'd gone and bolloxed up the chance of a night out with her . . .
Well, he'd thought he had the chance; whenever he'd seen her since she made it seem otherwise. In fact she always maintained he'd spurned her friend.
Bloody woman . . . she fancies me, I know she does.
She was brilliant at winding him up, though. Mocking him almost, pretending to hold him in contempt. Having sex with all his friends . . .
Two of them, anyway: Jonjo Blake that first time and Sean a couple of times later. He didn't know what Jonjo made of her (good old Jonjo had dropped out of circulation soon after that particular treat), but Sean reckoned she was dynamite, not to mention insatiable. Coming from Sean that was unbelievable; Sean always reckoned he was the insatiable one.
Pat washed his hands and resolved to forget her. Life was too short to waste on ifs and might-have-beens; even when the best bit of fanny he was ever likely to see was concerned.
His resolution lasted all the way out of the gents’. By the time he went back into the restaurant Heather’s starters had arrived; two plates of mixed tikka. She was spearing chunks of meat with one hand, tapping into her laptop with the other, and reading her paper all the while.
Pat did a double-take. He had got three A-levels but couldn’t type without looking at the keyboard or screen. And he certainly couldn’t eat without looking at his plate . . . never mind reading, typing and eating all at once.
Talk about multitasking!
‘Something bothering you?’ she said, regarding him again with those eyes.
‘Yes it is: your diet. Quadruple poppadums and double tikka. You'll be getting fat.’
‘Speak for yourself. I can see your waist spreading from here. Given up rugger, have you?’
‘I'm semi-retired. And my waist is not spreading. There again, I don't eat two meals at once.’
‘I've always been able to eat whatever I like. And don't be so touchy about your weight.’
‘I'm not touchy,’ said Pat, touchily.
‘Yes you are. But enough of that, who's Blondie?’
Pat had a quick glance at DeeDee, who was still laughing and joking with the manager. ‘She’s just a friend.’
‘I guessed that from the way you were hanging on her every word. Is she your latest commitment?’
‘Have you been spying on me?’
‘Don't hedge. Who is she?’
‘She's a commitment from way back. I suppose you could say we've recommitted.’
‘Poor Joanna; she'll be a hundred by the time you do the decent thing.’
‘That's my cue to be off.’
‘Hang on, not so fast, McGuire. Is Blondie this mysterious excuse you've been using for all these years?’
‘She's Sean's sister if you must know.’
‘Is she now?’ Heather smiled again. ‘So we’ve something in common. I might have to go introduce myself.’
‘She's not exactly Sean's greatest fan.’
‘Then all the more reason. She's much better looking than him, by the way; and far too foxy for you. Do you think she'd like some female company?’
‘She's here to bury her mum.’
‘What?’
‘She's lived down south for twenty years. She's only home to organize the funeral.’
‘Is that a ploy to stop me chatting her up? Or are you telling the truth for once?’
‘Didn't you hear about that crash in Morton last week? That was Sean's mum.’
‘You're not joking, are you?’ Heather abruptly dropped the confrontational front she tended to adopt. ‘Oh bother! Please tell Sean I'm really sorry.’
‘I will if he ever sobers up. He's not taking it as well as Dee is.’
‘That's probably because he hasn't got you cosseting him.’
‘You noticed then? I'm good at cosseting, me. Shame you haven't tried my cosseting skills.’
Heather just shook her head at that. Pat moved on quickly, pleased to have the last word for once.
Even though he did feel her gaze on him all the way back to his table.
‘Who was that?’ DeeDee said in greeting. ‘Or shouldn't I ask.’
‘Just someone I know.’
‘She's stunning. Is she a girlfriend?’
‘No, she’s nothing like that.’
‘Pat, she just violated you with her eyes. Who is she?’
‘She's . . . sort of a bank manager.’
‘You’re saying that because she's reading the FT?’ Dee laughed. ‘Is that the best you can come up with?’
*****
‘Okay,’ said Carlisle after calling the day’s last brief to order. ‘Let’s run through again at a high level. Try to convince ourselves we’re actually going somewhere.’
‘The stakes match the one used on Micky Johnson,’ said Waterman. ‘Other than that, the analysis doesn’t particularly help. They’re made from the same stuff, but we don’t know who made them. Not yet.’
‘Probably imported from China,’ Ayling muttered.
‘At least we know for sure we’re looking for the same man,’ Marsh said, picking up from Waterman, ignoring Ayling. ‘Even though the guns he used were different. And, although the forensics hasn’t helped much, we know how he did it.’
He crossed the incident room and stood by an enormous overhead shot of the greater crime scene, pointing to the building in the bottom left corner.
‘The lighter strip at the side is a concrete path that doesn�
�t actually go anywhere. The guys working in the unit use it as their smoking area. Our friend, Mr Bastard, used it to spy out the land. You can get a good view of the camp site by going down to the end, here.’ He tapped the point where the strip dead-ended. ‘Then, by going back towards the main road, you can get onto a beaten-down track that crosses the waste land.’
‘This is of course theoretical,’ said Ayling. ‘At that time, late on a Saturday night, there weren’t any witnesses. And none of the CCTV cameras were interested in an overgrown plot.’
