Ward Zero: The dead ward

by Linda Huber

  Rest, her head insisted as the pain swirled round in nauseous waves. Sit down, lie down.

  Sarah slid to the floor, her back to the wall and head rolling sideways, tasting salt as tears trickled down her cheeks and into her mouth, held half-open by the gag. Was she going to die here today?

  Jack stood motionless, his phone still in his hand. He was in the porters’ office, the cubbyhole where they hung up their jackets and had their coffee, and where the all-important duty plan was pinned on the institutional green wall. Okay – he had received the horrendous news that his – his girlfriend? – his new girlfriend – was missing. He had to react immediately, and it had to be absolutely right. What would a normal reaction be in those circumstances? Ideas tumbled into his brain, replacing the exhaustion after a sleepless night. He could do this.

  He needed to be upset. Frantic. Phone the boss and demand time off. Go home? Go to Mim Dunbar’s? Phone the boss first, anyway.

  ‘Darren? It’s Jack Morrison. I’ve had bad news. My girlfriend’s gone missing, she disappeared from the High Street late last night. Nobody knows where she is. I was on the phone to her mum two minutes ago and she’s in a terrible state. I’m sorry, I have to go.’

  ‘Jesus, man, yes, of course. What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. The police are on their way. Thanks, Darren.’ He allowed his voice to break, and sobbed down the phone before replacing the receiver and grabbing his jacket.

  Right. Home first, then he’d phone Mim Dunbar and see what was happening there. When would Sarah die? Possibly not until next week… Oh Sarah.

  He jogged from the building, exhaustion washing back over him and turning his legs to lead. What an awful, awful thing this was. How he wished he’d never targeted old Wilma. All he’d wanted was some cash to do up his house, and look where it had landed him. No, no, don’t look, Jack, don’t think about it. React. Your girlfriend is missing. Now go.

  He flung himself into the driving seat and reversed out of the parking space. It was heart-breaking – he’d been dreaming of Sarah being Mrs Jack Morrison one day. That wasn’t going to happen now, so he could be genuinely grief-stricken. He was grief-stricken. Or he would be if he wasn’t so bloody tired, and so angry that his glorious plan had all gone wrong. For once in his life you’d think he could get a bloody break, but no. Home, Jack. Just go home.

  The lights at the top of the High Street were red, and Jack tapped the steering wheel with impatient fingers. Across the road was the place he’d chucked Sarah’s bag out. Had anyone found it? And if they had, what had they done with it? He glanced down on the floor where the bag had been and saw something black and shiny sticking out from under the seat. No no no – it was Sarah’s sandal. Stomach churning, he leaned over and picked it up. Why the fuck hadn’t he noticed she’d lost it? It had been dark, and she was wearing a long dress… He would have to get rid of this right now. The police would be contacting him very soon; he’d been the last person to see Sarah before she disappeared so he’d be right at the top of their list of people to interview.

  The driver behind him gave a strident blast on his horn, and Jack jumped in fright. Hell, the lights had changed. He pulled away from the intersection, turned left into the first little side street he came to, then took first right. It was a dingy little alley, parallel to the High Street but drab and uninteresting, showing the backs of the High Street shops. Only delivery lorries would come down here, and this morning it was almost deserted. Not stopping, Jack pressed the window control, dropped the sandal into the gutter, and drove away as fast as he dared.

  Home again, he allowed himself a brandy. His girl had disappeared; he was supposed to be upset. And shit, he was exhausted. Should he phone Mim before he had a lie down? It might look suspicious not to.

  She answered on the first ring. She’d be sitting on the phone, of course, waiting for news of Sarah. He put the fear back into his voice.

  ‘Mim? It’s Jack. I’m at home, they sent me off work. Is there any news?’

  ‘No. The police are putting out appeals on the TV and radio. We’re waiting to hear something. It’s all we can do.’ Her voice was dreary; he could hear no warmth towards him. He’d need to change that.

  His voice was trembling very convincingly, and it wasn’t an act. ‘Will you let me know when there’s any news? I’ll stay at home too and wait and – and pray.’

  That was rather good. Mim must have thought so too, because she definitely sounded kinder when she said goodbye. Jack poured another brandy and settled down in front of the TV. He wanted to see the police appeal. There would be time for sleep later. He lifted the remote and leaned back, swinging his feet up on the coffee table. His shoes were still dusty from that cellar; he should clean them.

  Clean his shoes… Jack’s head swam and he groaned aloud – he had made a terrible mistake.

  Sarah’s sandal was shiny black leather. And he had touched it – his fingerprints would be all over it. Why, why, why hadn’t he thought to wipe it before he chucked it out for God knows who to find? What a stupid, elementary mistake. The police were putting out appeals, a lot of people would know a woman was missing, and a single, almost-new sandal might arouse suspicion, if it was found. He had to find a reason why he had touched Sarah’s sandal… Maybe the strap broke? It did have a strap, didn’t it? Fresh sweat ran down the side of his face when he realised he couldn’t remember; it was just a woman’s sandal. And even if it had a strap, the cops would take one look and see it hadn’t broken. Hell, no. He had dug his own grave now – should he go back for it? But if anyone saw him… Jack buried his face in a cushion and sobbed.

  Caitlyn charged into the dining room and grabbed her printout of Glynis Brady’s list from the table. It was a mess; she’d spilled coffee on it last night and the ink had run. They wouldn’t be able to read half of it. Better run off a new one. She switched on the laptop, seething with impatience. It was such a pity she and Sarah hadn’t had time to go through the list together. She had no idea if any of these names meant anything to Sarah.

  The printer was whirring when Caitlyn’s phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a number she didn’t recognise, and for a moment she thought about leaving it. But then it might be important. The kids… She connected, walking down her hallway with the new list and holding the phone to her ear.

  ‘Miss – Caitlyn, isn’t it? It’s Glynis Brady. I wanted to ask if you’ve had any thoughts about my list, and I remembered too I’d forgotten the hospital chaplain.’

  Caitlyn almost burst into tears. She sank down on the bottom stair, clutching the phone to her ear. Mrs Brady might help them find Sarah, but how awful – the only person to turn to was an old, old lady… The moment she opened her mouth to speak, her throat closed and her voice disappeared almost completely. ‘Oh, Mrs Brady –’

  She stopped, fighting for control.

  ‘Is anything wrong? What is it?’ Mrs Brady’s voice was inquiring but not upset, and her calmness helped Caitlyn find her own.

  ‘Very wrong. Sarah’s missing. She disappeared in the High Street late last night and oh, we didn’t tell you but…’

  Glynis Brady was completely silent during Caitlyn’s explanation.

  ‘… so it’s likely the same person who killed Petra Walker has taken Sarah too, so please keep thinking very hard. There might not be much time left to save Sarah.’

  ‘Oh my Lord. I’m so sorry. I wish I could help you but… I’ll make a new list…’ Her voice tailed away.

  Caitlyn nodded, brushing tears from her cheeks, then realised she had to speak. ‘Thank you. Maybe – maybe if you make a diagram this time – you know, with different times of day for each day you were in hospital, and write down who you spoke to at all the separate times. If you make your list in a different way, different names might crop up.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but... that poor girl.’

  ‘I’ll call you in an hour or so,’ said Caitlyn dully, and rang off.

  Still shaking, she went
to the bathroom to rinse her face before running back next door.

  Mim and Frankie were at the kitchen table, a large piece of paper in front of them. Frankie’s face was tear-stained but she was calm. Caitlyn sat down opposite, reading upside down. About ten names were printed there in Frankie’s round handwriting.

  ‘We’re thinking of all the people from the hospital Petra would have accepted a lift from,’ said Mim.

  Caitlyn leaned her head in both hands. This was so hard, thinking about Petra when all the time Sarah was missing.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be anyone she liked particularly, or even knew well,’ she said to Frankie. ‘Just someone she’d have got into a car with on a filthy wet afternoon. If Sarah knows any of these people too it might help find her.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Frankie sat chewing her pen.

  Caitlyn pushed Glynis Brady’s list over to Mim. ‘The odds are nothing’s going to jump out at you, but have a look anyway. I think I’ll go over to the hospital – I might get an idea if I walk over the same ground that Petra did.’

  Mim caught her hand. ‘Come back here when you’ve finished, Caitlyn,’ she said. ‘It’s not a time to be alone.’

  Caitlyn drove to the hospital on automatic pilot. The more time that passed, the less likely it was that Sarah was alive. According to the police, Petra’d been killed the day after she disappeared. It was ten o’clock, so Sarah had been missing for nearly twelve hours. And to all those people out there on the street, this was a normal Friday morning. Friday, the day of pleasurable anticipation, of making plans for the weekend.

  And Jack. What had he been thinking, leaving Sarah in the middle of town at that time of night? He’d been the last person to see Sarah; the police would ask him all sorts of questions about what Sarah intended doing, what she’d said, which direction she’d walked off in. And most importantly, if Jack had noticed anyone watching them. But of course he couldn’t have, or he wouldn’t have left her.

  Caitlyn drove to the far end of the hospital, parked in front of the rehab building and went inside. There was nothing here today that didn’t look perfectly normal. She saw the sign for the physiotherapy department and wondered if Mim had cancelled her appointment for that day. Briefly, Caitlyn considered going along to do it for her, but – what would she say? That Mim’s daughter had disappeared? That she was ill? But that would involve speaking calmly, no, no. Explanations could come later.

  Caitlyn wandered round the ground floor, forcing her journalist’s mind to take over. Petra had left Frankie in the TV room, and gone to do her hair. That was the last place she’d been seen. Then she’d gone back through these doors out to the car park, turned left and walked towards the admin block, which was right at the front of the hospital complex. Caitlyn zipped up her jacket and walked in Petra’s footsteps. It was one of those dull but dry days, very different to the day Petra had disappeared. She came to the edge of the rehab car park and stared down the main hospital avenue, as straight and wide as the High Street. The buildings were set back from the road, and there weren’t many people walking around outside. The hospital was too large and spread out for that – it was the kind of place you drove or biked if you were going from top to bottom.

  She arrived at the admin block eight minutes later, having met only two people on the way – a nurse wrapped up in an old fashioned cloak, and a woman pushing a buggy. The woman asked if Caitlyn knew where dermatology was. She didn’t, but was able to point out the information board by the outpatient building.

  So what had all this told her? That even on a dry day, people didn’t walk about in the hospital grounds. Which brought her no nearer to finding out who had killed Petra and abducted Sarah. It was yet another dead end, and Sarah might be dead too.

  Caitlyn sank down on a chilly bench in front of the admin building and closed her eyes. It wasn’t very long since Mim had lost her husband. Would she cope with losing Sarah too – especially under such God-awful circumstances? Hardly, but what mother would?

  Pushing cold dread to the back of her mind, Caitlyn jogged back the way she had come.

  Sarah jerked awake, the scream in her throat ending almost silently in her gagged mouth. Heart pounding, she stared into the darkness of the room. She had fallen asleep under the window – or had she been unconscious? What time was it? She peered at her watch, but here on the floor it was too dim to see the hands. Her legs were shaking and her right foot had gone numb, but she’d have to stand up or she’d never get out of here.

  A couple of deep breaths helped. The headache was bearable now, but the cords round her ankles were biting into her flesh. She touched them with her fingers. It was impossible – the knot was viciously tight and round the back, and with tied hands there was nothing she could do to slacken it. Determination flooded through her. She was going to get up and help herself, because nobody else could. She had to get out of here, back to Mim and Frankie. And Jack.

  So the first thing was to stand up and have another look at the window. She was lucky there was a window. Perhaps her captor hadn’t noticed it, hidden behind the cardboard box.

  Every muscle in her body screamed as she forced her legs to straighten and bear her weight. A sob welled up deep in her chest, but Sarah choked it back. The gag was preventing her from swallowing properly; her throat painful enough without the addition of tear-lumps. Upright at last, she leaned against the wall. Okay. It was after ten already. She reached up to give the glass another rub to let more light in, and winced as her fingers touched something sharp on the narrow window ledge.

  A sliver of glass. The window must have been broken and replaced at some point. She lifted the sliver carefully and examined it. It was only about three centimetres long, but maybe, oh please, maybe she could use it to free her hands and feet.

  She slid to the floor again and started to work on the cords round her ankles. It was slow, painful work, but she gritted her teeth and kept going, making little saw-like movements, over and over again, trying to cut through the cord.

  What was happening at home? They’d be looking for her by this time. Mim would have phoned the police. Tears burned in Sarah’s eyes. Would she ever see Mim again? The killer must be planning to come back and batter her head in like he’d done with Petra. And what had happened to Jack? He was most likely tied up somewhere too, but it wasn’t here, or she’d hear him breathing. She was alone in this awful place. The tears overflowed as she moaned into the gag, still sawing at the cords. When was the last time she’d told Mim she loved her?

  The cord around her ankles snapped with a jerk and the tension lessened. She had done it. Sarah put the glass shard on the floor where she would find it again in the dark and started to unwind the cord from her feet. It was excruciating, the nylon had cut deep into her skin in several places, but she set her teeth and carried on. At last her feet were free, though she was bleeding again.

  She made a brief attempt to saw through the cord round her wrists, but gave up almost immediately. There was no way she could hold the piece of glass in a position where she could saw at the cord. She didn’t even try to get the gag off; she didn’t want a cut face or neck.

  Stepping cautiously on bare feet, she started to explore the cellar. The light didn’t work, and the door was locked. No easy escape, then. The things she’d crawled round on the floor were machines of some kind, and there were parts of what seemed to be bed frames too. So although she was in the hospital, it was horrifyingly obvious that no-one ever came here. A metal pole on one of the beds fell to the ground with a clatter when she squeezed past. Sarah picked it up, an idea forming in her mind. Still clutching the pole, she looked round for the sack she’d pulled off her head. There it was on the floor beside the mattresses she’d been lying on. She swept it up it and hurried back to the window. The pole had a kind of prong where one of those handles people could grab hold of and hoist themselves up the bed could be attached. Using this, she speared the sack on the pole, and there it was – a makeshift flag. Now to bre
ak the window.

  The other end of the pole made short work of the dirty glass, and Sarah whacked the last few shards out, glad when most of them fell on the outside. She hoisted her makeshift flag out the window and waved it frantically. Would anyone see it? Christ, they must.

  Waving the flag was hard work with tied hands. Sarah’s arms were trembling within minutes, and when she began to feel sick she left the flag hanging out the window and stood back. It was bad luck the bush was there; the flag was stuck half behind it. But she would have a rest, and wave some more later. If only she could shout, too.

  She sat for a moment by the window, then went back to her exploration of the room, finding another door on the far wall leading into a toilet. No water, though, and no window either. Eventually she went back to her pile of mattresses and sat down, leaning her head on her bound hands. There was one way out of this room – through the locked door.

  Tears hot in her eyes, Sarah sat wishing with all her heart that Jack was imprisoned here too. Together, they might have a chance of escaping. A sudden thought made her gasp – the killer might have murdered Jack. But no – she was the one who’d done all the investigating Petra’s death, so she was the one the killer would find threatening. But if Jack had tried to protect her… Of course maybe he’d run away to fetch help and returned to find her gone. And if Jack hadn’t been taken prisoner along with her, he’d be helping the police look for her. Hope flared again. Had he recognised the person who’d attacked them? The attacker could have been wearing a mask, though, waiting there by the garages as they pulled up…

  Or… No. Oh no.

  The scene burst into her head, and she tried to push it away but it insisted on coming back. They were outside the lock-up, and Jack reached past her for the key, but the object he produced hadn’t been a key. The mental picture was clear. His hand holding the object had come towards her… oh no. No… Was it Jack who had taken her prisoner? But that couldn’t be. That would mean Jack had killed Petra and that – couldn’t – be.