by Liz Lawler
‘Do I take it that Dr Taylor is still your girlfriend then, sir?’
Patrick Ford’s eyes shot open and his head jerked back as if punched, and Greg almost crowed. That made you think, didn’t it? he wanted to say.
‘Why would you think differently?’ he asked in a tight voice.
Greg shrugged. ‘No reason. Just checking. We’ll need your DNA for testing against bed linen and such things.’
The man’s face had turned red, and not from the heat of the water he’d just showered in.
‘Are you suggesting someone other than Dr Taylor has slept in her bed?’
Greg shrugged again, his manner feigning apology, as if trying to retract what he’d just let out. He turned to leave. ‘I’m sure it will be your DNA, sir. I shouldn’t worry about it.’
With a satisfied smile of his own, he left Patrick Ford less cocksure and arrogant than when he arrived.
*
‘You look beautiful,’ Maggie said as Alex came into the sitting room. ‘It’s a shame we’re not going to a Christmas party.’
Alex had lost weight since Pamela’s wedding and the bridesmaid’s dress was loose, but the colour suited her tawny hair and her still lightly tanned skin.
Maggie was dressed in a black tracksuit and black trainers so that she wouldn’t be seen in the dark.
‘You’d have to wear something a bit dressier if we were,’ Alex replied with a smile on her face. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow; maybe they could dress up and go somewhere special, and spend the evening forgetting about tonight and just enjoying themselves.
Maggie handed her some champagne; she had given her a smaller measure earlier to calm her nerves. They moved to the centre of the room and clinked glasses. ‘Together,’ Maggie firmly said.
Alex drained her glass and then gazed around the room. Maggie had decorated the mantelpiece with greenery and a magnificent red and gold flower display. A Christmas tree twice as tall as her was decorated with white fairy lights, large muted gold balls and ruby-red teardrops. It was a fine tree, tall and strong and now elegantly dressed, and it reminded her of Maggie Fielding.
‘Together,’ Alex said, borrowing some of her friend’s confidence.
Chapter forty-two
The shoes Maggie had lent her were slightly too big and were pushing her off balance. She’d been standing for five or ten minutes alone in the dark and her body was rigid with tension. If she didn’t move soon she would fall over. The reassurance of Maggie being parked close by was less comforting than she had imagined. It would be impossible for Maggie to rescue her if he decided to knock her down with his car.
She could feel a throbbing in her temple and the slight headache that started earlier was now worse, making her feel nauseous. Too much champagne and not enough food, she realised.
She heard the drone of an engine in the distance and looked over the hospital car park searching for oncoming headlights. A car was turning past a row of parked cars and she was paralysed with fear as she waited for it to get closer.
The sting in her left buttock barely registered, until the same sensation nipped her thigh. The heaviness in her limbs was almost immediate, and a feeling of being punch-drunk whooshed through her. She was seriously lightheaded and felt disconnected from her body.
‘Maggie,’ she cried feebly, desperately feeling for whatever had stung her skin. She had to let her friend know what was happening. Then her understanding of her other night here in this car park became painfully clear. All the sensations that she remembered happening to her: the wave of dizziness buckling her legs and her knees slamming to the ground, a pain to the crook of her neck, a pressure on her mouth, no air, gagging and then . . . nothing, were all that she had previously remembered until now. Until this small sting in her leg. She had felt the same sensation on that night as she was trying to exit the department. A scratch against her thigh and the fleeting thought that something had snagged her dress, which she hoped hadn’t pulled a thread in the delicate material. She finally knew how he had abducted her. ‘You were right, Maggie,’ she drunkenly mumbled. Her arm dropped to her side, and then she crumpled to the ground.
Her eyes were still open and her mind still working, but she was unable to call out. She could feel the gravelly ground against her cheek and hear it lightly crunching as footsteps approached. The toe of a dark shoe stopped an inch from her eyes, making it impossible for her to focus on it clearly. She wondered if he would draw back the foot and kick her in the face.
You only pretended to gag me, to confuse my senses, she said bitterly in her mind to the man beside her.
You knew I wouldn’t be believed.
The sting she’d felt in her buttock and thigh told her she was right. He injected me instead, Maggie. He injected me. Oh fuck, please help me.
Chapter forty-three
The incident room was milling with people, still busily making calls and still on a motivated high. On the first day of a murder investigation every effort was made to get a result. Greg glanced at the evidence boards and thought they showed very little results for the work that had been put in that day. But then there wasn’t a lot of information to gather. Merely a suspect to catch.
Alex’s photograph was on the board; a head and shoulders snap that the hospital had given them. She looked incredibly young, and he felt deeply saddened every time he looked over at it.
Officers were still out searching for her; airports, railways and coach stations were alerted. Her car’s description and registration plate were being watched for on the motorways, and of course her photograph had been emailed to every police station in the country.
Laura Best had officers hunting for her throughout the hospital, in case she was hiding there, and any reputation the doctor had left was being eroded fast.
Greg half hoped she was across the Atlantic by now, escaping all these people wanting to catch her. He would like to see Laura bested by her. He would like to see her fly a helicopter again one day. He sighed deeply and wished he were any other place but here.
Moving over to one of the computers to do the job he’d meant to do when he first came into the room, he logged onto the Internet and googled the name Oliver Ryan. There were several hits. He saw the words ‘Black Waters’ and ‘actor’ in one of them and clicked it open.
His mobile rang, and, pulling it out of his jacket pocket, he saw Joe’s name on the screen. He inwardly groaned, realising it had gone ten and he hadn’t rung him as promised. He moved away from the computer, out of earshot of the others, and said hello to his son.
‘You not in bed yet?’ he asked in a surprised voice.
‘I wanted to say goodnight and make sure you’re coming tomorrow.’
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ Greg asked, deliberately pretending he’d forgotten what day it was.
‘It’s Christmas Eve, Dad!’
Dad? This was new. Joe was losing his babyish language. ‘Is it? Are you sure it’s not the day after? I reckon you’re a day ahead, Joe.’
‘Stop messing, Dad – you know it’s Christmas Eve.’
Greg smiled. He had bought Joe a present that he knew he would love. A remote control helicopter that could hover at twenty feet. He couldn’t wait to see his face when he opened it, and hoped to get over to Oxford the next day to give it to him.
‘Joe,’ he said, turning more serious. ‘I’m not going to promise you, because I can’t, but if it is possible, I will be there.’
There was silence on the end of the line.
‘Do you believe me, Joe?’
‘Yes, Dad.’ His voice had gone quiet and Greg felt riddled with guilt.
‘Good. Now get some sleep, buddy, you’ve got a big day tomorrow. I want you up bright and early to give your mum a hand so that she can put her feet up tomorrow evening.’
‘She’s going out.’
‘Is she?’ Greg asked, very surprised. Sue never went out on Christmas Eve; she stayed at home getting ready for the big day.
He couldn’t help asking where she was going.
‘Out with Tony.’
A knot in his throat stopped him from swallowing. It had to happen sometime. She was a lovely woman and there would be plenty of men out there wanting to date her. He felt an ache somewhere in the region of his chest. His first real love, his wife of ten years, was moving on.
‘You could go out with Alex now,’ his son said, as if somehow this was the right thing to do. His mum was OK, so now his dad could be too.
But only fairytales had happy endings. They weren’t for murderers or the policemen who chased them.
He realised he’d just thought of her as a murderer for the first time and felt a coldness go right through him. Was it possible she had killed Fiona Woods? He closed his eyes tightly as he saw the dead nurse in his mind and hoped she was unconscious when she was squashed and stuffed into that steel box. She had been left to die in the darkness in a space not big enough to even raise her head, and she may have felt or even heard the hiss of her own blood spurting on the walls enclosing her. It was a cold and heartless death, and only a ruthless killer could end someone’s life that way.
Was it possible Alex Taylor was such a person?
*
Alex opened her eyes and had to quickly shut them again because the overhead lights were blindingly bright. Her head was pounding and the slight movement she made was making her feel sick. A strap across her forehead prevented her from turning her head sideways and she was afraid to vomit in case she choked.
Where are you, Maggie? Please be here to save me.
Risking the glare again, she squinted up at the light, made out the circular outline and knew she was back in the same theatre as before. She took no comfort in having it confirmed that it never was just in her mind. She had been to this place before, where she thought she was going to die, only to awaken later as if nothing had happened. But now she knew who it was that had abducted her. Oliver Ryan.
Steeling herself, she focused down on her chest and saw the green theatre drapes covering her. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the shape of her raised bent legs. She was in the lithotomy position again – her calves supported on knee troughs and her ankles held in stirrups – and from the cool air touching her skin beneath the drapes she knew she was naked.
In the background she could hear the sounds of instruments – steel being placed against steel – and the urge to vomit was imminent as she shook with fear. He was close by, getting ready to deal with her.
Holding her breath and grinding her teeth until her jaw went rigid, she tried to quell the rising terror. She had to be strong and think of a way out of this situation. She had to believe she could be saved.
Trying to keep as still as possible and not alert him to her being awake, she tried to work out how tightly tied down she was. If he had secured her with only Velcro straps there was a chance that she could work them loose and get free.
Her arms were resting on supports, but she couldn’t see what banded them because the drapes covered them as well. She moved both arms at the same time and felt no give whatsoever.
A monitor close to her ear suddenly started beeping and her terror escalated as she heard the sound of her own panicked heartbeat. It was thumping loud and fast, which panicked her even more because this would tell him she was awake. He had obviously switched it on for this reason and was now toying with her.
Please, God, make it go slower. Make him not realise I’m awake.
It was a pathetic prayer, but ironically her heart did slow; her teeth bit right through her lower lip as he suddenly leaned over her. His head and shoulders were out of view, but the blue surgical gown and the purple gloved hands were right in front of her face. He reached across her and hung a bag of fluid on a drip stand.
‘Please don’t hurt me, Oliver,’ she pleaded through chattering teeth. ‘I beg you.’
He didn’t answer. Instead he moved away from the operating table and a second later she heard him at a metal cupboard. Drugs. He was getting out drugs.
Her bladder emptied and hot wetness gushed between her buttocks.
Her enraged screams filled the room, and for a few precious seconds she felt in control. Someone would hear her. Someone would come running. They would hear her screams out in the corridors. A doctor or a nurse, a porter or even a visitor passing by would hear her. She wouldn’t, wouldn’t give in to him this time. Tasting the blood in her mouth she spat in the direction of where she thought he was standing. ‘You fuckhead. You coward. You piece of shit. I’ll kill you, you fuckhead.’
An uncontrollable rage consumed her, sweat bathed her face and chest and the desperate need to fight back gave her strength. She heaved her body up as high as she could go; her chest and abdomen lifting several inches off the table. Her head strained against the unyielding strap. Pain shot up her thighs and into her groin as the stirrup straps tightened and metal dug into her ankle bones. Her wrists and forearms were burning as she wrenched and rubbed against the restraints, trying to break free. She was using every muscle in her body, every ounce of energy, twisting and turning in the hope of something loosening or breaking and setting her free, but it wasn’t happening.
Finally, exhausted and panting, she had to admit defeat. The band across her forehead was as secure as ever, her arms and legs still trapped in the supports and stirrups.
It was hopeless. She was as helpless as a baby and he could do to her what he liked. Nobody would come running.
Oh, Maggie, please don’t be dead, she pleaded in her mind. Please come quickly and don’t be dead.
Chapter forty-four
Greg sipped the strong black coffee, his mind trying to catalogue all the events over the last few weeks that Alex Taylor had been involved in: her allegation that someone had abducted her, her presence at the death of Amy Abbott, her presence at the death of Lillian Armstrong, her presence when a near-fatal drug error was made.
Alex Taylor was present for all it. Was Laura Best correct in her thinking that Alex Taylor was the only person responsible?
And now Fiona Woods lay brutally murdered and she too had been connected to Alex. She was Alex Taylor’s best friend and she had been present, according to Caroline Cowan, when Alex Taylor had made a serious drug error. Was she dead because of what she knew? Had she known incriminating things about her best friend? Had Greg badly judged the situation through wilful blindness and was he now partly to blame for Fiona Woods’s death? He sighed deeply. Where was Alex Taylor? Where or to whom would she run? Patrick Ford seemed to think it would be him. He was cocksure about his place in her life. He didn’t question or doubt her next move. In fact, Greg suddenly realised, he didn’t question anything. He didn’t even ask why the police were looking for her. That surely wasn’t normal? Maybe he had judged Patrick Ford wrong. He may have already given Alex Taylor a place to hide.
His thoughts were interrupted by the officers around him as chairs scraped on the floor and voices asked questions. Laura had stepped into the incident room and Greg observed how some of the officers were surrounding her as if greeting a hero back from a war. Their voices were rich with admiration and he could see she was basking in the glory. She was wearing a well-tailored navy suit and cerise blouse, and guessed the get-up was in preparation for meeting the top brass.
She was obviously hoping, or assuming, that they would come to the station if an arrest was made, and she was probably right. Announcements to the press would have to be made, and an officer interviewed by reporters for the local news. He wouldn’t be chosen for the job. He wasn’t wearing the right shirt or suit and he still hadn’t got around to getting a haircut, so the chance of her being in the limelight was high.
Why, he wondered, had she come back? Last he heard she was staking out the hospital. She looked incredibly excited about something. Her eyes were bright, her top teeth exposed as she bit her lower lip. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
‘I’ve secured the scene. You need to get up there
fast,’ she said, talking only to him, but making sure the others were listening.
Her tone was officious, as if she were the boss and not the other way round.
He took a slow sip of his coffee, his manner completely unrushed. ‘What scene and where?’ he calmly asked, not giving her the satisfaction of seeing him jump to attention.
‘She’s left her car abandoned at the north side of the hospital, unlocked and driver door open. It has to have been left in the last hour or so, because it wasn’t there earlier. She can’t be far away, and my bet is she’s in that hospital somewhere.’
‘Who,’ he asked, ‘can’t be far away?’
‘Alex Taylor, of course,’ she said back impatiently, as if it was obvious.
He walked slowly across the room towards her; he wanted to be standing very close to her when he told her to take the sarcasm out of her voice, when he told her if she disrespected him one more time she’d be up on report.
Two things got in the way of what he was about to say: the smug grin on Laura Best’s face and the Internet site he’d opened earlier. Joe’s phone call had interrupted him before he got a chance to view it, and since then he’d forgotten about it.
The small inset photograph showed a handsome fair-haired man who looked well groomed, and appeared to be someone used to the finer things. Greg vaguely recognised him. His name and a date were beside the photo: Oliver Ryan 1979–2016.
The man he needed to speak to was dead.
*
Her eyes were closed against the glare of the lights. They stung from the tears she had cried, and the only way to soothe them was by keeping them closed. Her heart was beating loudly, but not as fast as before. It had settled into a rhythm that was more bearable.
It was quite conceivable that she could have a heart attack, even as young and fit as she was, if she was terrorised sufficiently. She almost relished the thought. It would be a quick death and he would have no more control over her.
