Kate frowned. “So they didn’t find anything to support the accusations?”
Pierce lowered his voice, a husky note coming into it that made Kate’s stomach tighten involuntarily. “That’s the strangest part. The accuser… was Peter Hamilton.”
“Um, okay… Who the hell is Peter Hamilton?”
“The kid you discovered at the cemetery.”
“Covered in what I presume was the blood of the victim? Hmm… that’s interesting…” Kate trailed off, as her stomach growled again.
“What was that noise?”
Kate winced. How did Rick hear that through the phone? She cleared her throat. “Sorry. That was my stomach. I haven’t eaten yet.”
“It’s after seven o’clock, are you nearly done?”
Kate glanced at the timers. “Ten minutes left.” She stretched, lowering her legs to the floor and standing up. “It’s a good thing no one else had to use this room. I’ve been in here for, like, four hours.”
“Where are you?”
“Darkroom.” Kate glanced around the long room, taking in the tables and equipment, all cast in the warm glow of the red lights. “Truth? Sometimes I come here just for the privacy. If you flip the sign on the door, anyone who comes by thinks its in use, so they don’t bother you.”
“Clever.”
“Thank you. It wasn’t completely my idea, though. One of the technicians told me he used to bring girlfriends here at night. Unless there was a major incident or something, you could be… uninterrupted… for a pretty long stretch of time.” Kate didn’t think it was possible, but she thought she could actually hear Pierce smiling on the other end of the line. For a moment, she felt a bit embarrassed. Hope he didn’t take that as an invitation or something. Not that I’d say no… She quickly cleared her throat, her small laugh a bit more nervous-sounding than she would have liked. “Well… I’d better go and order food before I start chewing on one of these table legs.”
Pierce laughed again, that wonderful warm laugh. “How about instead of eating by yourself, you just come over to this side of the river and we’ll get something here?”
Kate grinned broadly. “Sounds good. Give me a half an hour.”
“All right. I’ll see ya then.”
Kate hung up the phone just as the timer began to chime. She glanced at the phone again. Half an hour? No sweat.
***
Pierce sat back at his desk, shifting slightly in his chair to make the shoulder a bit more supported, a bit more comfortable. The injury itself was nothing. It barely hurt, his sensitivity to pain being so well-conditioned that he hardly noticed it. There was some stiffness, due to the inflammation and swelling, but for the most part he’d had worse. The worst about this injury was the lack of mobility… You never realize how much you move certain joints and muscles in your body until some form of trauma has been inflicted on them. He shifted again, and sighed as a moment of almost total relief washed over him. As long as he stayed right there…
The landline phone on his desk began to ring. Pierce looked at it with trepidation… he could let it ring through, let whoever it was leave a message… But… Pierce groaned, wincing as he shifted his arm to lean forward and pick up the receiver.
“Murder Squad, Detective Sergeant Pierce speaking.”
“Good evening, Sergeant Pierce.” The voice on the other end of the line was male, and Pierce could hear the notes of an accent, possibly French, in his well-spoken English. “My name is Eric Danton, I am the appointed solicitor for Peter Hamilton. I have advised my client not to speak with the police at this time, but he has expressed a wish to speak with you.”
Pierce groaned internally. This was decidedly the last thing he wanted to be doing right now. He was exhausted, both from the pain he was suffering through and the fact that he had been on the job for over 24 hours. And Kate… She was probably already on her way over…
“Of course, Mister Danton. I could come by in the morning —”
“One moment, please.” Pierce could hear the low hum of an exchange going on at the other end of the line. He heard Danton sigh deeply. “Sergeant Pierce… I realize it is rather late, but my client is insistent that he must speak with you as soon as possible.”
FUCK!!! Pierce glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes until eight o’clock. He’d have to call Kate from the taxi…
“All right, Mister Danton. Tell Mister Hamilton I’m on my way. I’ll be there within the hour.” Pierce hung up the phone, wincing as his arm bumped against the edge of the desk. He sighed as he stood. Slipping his suit jacket back on would be a pointlessly painful endeavor, so Pierce opted to leave it, grabbing his leather coat from the back of the chair. His jaw tightened as he slipped his arm out of the sling and into the arm of his coat. Pulling it around and slipping the other arm in was easier, though not without discomfort. Pierce slipped his arm back into the sling, grabbed up his mobile from off the desk, and headed for the lift, hoping that he wouldn’t have to wait long for a taxi and that whatever Mister Hamilton had to say was worth changing his plans.
6
2 November 2011
Bethlem Royal Hospital, Monk’s Orchard, Bromley
Pierce showed his warrant card to the nurse at the desk, a dowdy young woman whose interestingly pretty face was all-but hidden behind a swath of heavy fringe. She gave him a blank look.
“Sergeant, visiting hours are only by arrangement with the head—”
“It’s all right.”
Pierce quickly turned toward the speaker. Eric Danton gave the nurse a tight smile before he continued.
“I already spoke to the sister before she left for the day. You will see a note in Mister Hamilton’s chart indicating that Detective Sergeant Pierce is permitted to visit him.”
The nurse looked at Danton, then at Pierce, then pulled a file from the stack on the desk. She opened it, leafing through several pages before stopping. She read for a moment, then her shoulders dropped a bit and she quickly closed it.
“Very well, Sergeant. Mister Danton will show you the way.” She turned her chair, effectively dismissing both men.
Danton nodded to Pierce and motioned toward the hallway behind him. “If you will follow me, Sergeant. Mister Hamilton’s room is this way.”
“Is Mister Hamilton planning to claim insanity?”
Danton arched an eyebrow at Pierce. “That will be determined at the committal, Sergeant. You know that.”
Pierce shrugged. “Locking him up in ‘Bedlam’ seems a bit extreme.”
“He attempted suicide, Sergeant,” Danton replied. He stopped in front of a closed door. “I assure you, a psychiatric evaluation was completely justified.” Danton reached for the doorknob, turning it and allowing the door to swing open.
Pierce’s eyes scanned the room as he followed Danton inside. He’d been in his share of hospital rooms, all cold and clinical, and this one was no exception. His eyes drifted to the bed and Pierce couldn’t help but smile at the colorful patchwork quilt covering it. Regardless of his so-called attempt at suicide, Mister Hamilton must not be seen as a threat to himself if he was allowed to have personal items in his room.
A football match was on the TV… Man City and Chelsea… but the room’s resident was paying no attention. Peter Hamilton was standing at the window, his head leaning against the sash as he looked out.
“Peter?” Danton’s voice had taken on a slightly maternal tone that grated on Pierce’s nerves. “Peter, Detective Sergeant Pierce is here to see you. I’ll be right outside if you need anything, Peter.” The young man continued to look out the window, never moving or acknowledging either man. Danton sighed, then turned and exited the room, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Pierce moved farther into the room, glancing at the football match on the TV as he walked by it. “You like football, Mister Hamilton?” He paused, but when no response came, Pierce continued. “I used to watch it more, but with work and friends, I just don’t have the time now.”
Pierce turned toward the young man at the window, trying not to show his surprise at getting him to speak. “What?”
Peter sighed, shifting his weight as his forehead continued to rest against the glass. “You can call me Peter.”
Pierce stepped over to join Peter at the window, but immediately regretted it. Even with the length of window ledge outside, Pierce could still see the ground below. He quickly closed his eyes as a wave of vertigo swept over him, and turned away, his back slapping against the wall. Pierce winced as the impact jostled his arm.
“Acrophobia.”
Pierce took several deep breaths, the wave of dizziness and nausea passing almost as quickly as it had arrived. “Excuse me?”
Peter turned his head to look up at the taller detective. “Acrophobia. You’re afraid of heights.”
Pierce opened his eyes and looked at Peter, although he realized too late that his look may be more like a glare than he intended.
Peter pursed his lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you.” Pierce took one more deep breath and stood up again, keeping his back to the window. “What did you want to talk to me about, Peter?” He winced again as the movement sent a wave of pain surging from his injured shoulder.
Peter looked intently at Pierce's arm. “How bad is your shoulder, Sergeant?”
“I’ve had worse, believe me.”
“I’m so sorry.” Peter turned back to the window, leaning his head on the glass again. “You were injured because of me. Everyone ends up hurting because of me.”
Pierce watched the younger man, noting how pale he looked, the tightly pressed line that should be his lips, the moisture that he tried to keep from running over and out of his eyes. Peter Hamilton was on the edge, to be sure, and extremely close to going over.
“I have a bad shoulder.” Pierce carefully patted said shoulder. “You know, the last time I dislocated it, I was pulling on a jumper.”
Peter looked askance, a smile threatening to cross lips. “A jumper?”
“Yeah.” Pierce chuckled. “And worse? It was one of those ugly Christmas jumpers. My mum had given it to me. Giant reindeer on the front, bells sewn on, spangles and gaudy beads. It was absolutely awful, even by ugly Christmas jumper standards. And… I had to wear it to A-and-E.”
“Really?” The smile was there now, and Peter wiped at his eyes, ridding them of the tears that had threatened to spill earlier.
“Really. Something good did come out of it all, though. My mum never gave me another ugly Christmas jumper. I suppose she felt guilty about it all.”
Peter laughed, a nervous sound that was tinged with some sadness and an edge of hysteria perhaps? It quickly faded away, leaving an emptiness in the room that had been filled with sound. The whistles and yells of the crowds at the football game on the TV were all that could be heard for several moments.
“Thank you…For saving me.”
Pierce shrugged. “I don’t know as I’d call it that.”
Peter shook his head. “No. I was trying to kill myself. But you saved me from that. Thank you.”
Pierce glanced at the slightly open door. He could hear Danton in the hallway speaking to someone. Pierce turned back to Peter, dropping his voice to a hush. “Peter, I know your solicitor has told you not to talk to me about Father Coyle’s death, but I’d like to ask you something, all right?” He glanced at the door again before continuing with more than a little urgency. “You can just answer yes or no. Do you know who killed Father Coyle?”
It seemed like ages before an answer finally came, and when it did it was barely a whisper. “Yes.”
“All right.” Pierce sighed, glancing at the door again. Voices were coming from the hallway just outside, presumably Danton and perhaps a nurse? No, the voice was decidedly male and getting louder, though he could not hear the words. Pierce looked back to Peter. “All right, Peter. I have one more question… Is the person who killed Father Coyle in this room right now?”
Peter started to breath heavily, clearly overwrought either by the question or by the answer that was known, at this point, only to him. His eyes were wide, and filled with what could only be defined as fear as he fixed them on Pierce.
Pierce glanced at the door again as the male voice in the hallway reached a crescendo and the door flew open.
“Don’t say a word, Peter!” The overweight man marching into the room had once been quite broad-shouldered and probably attractive, but years of abuse, likely drinking, had taken their toll on Colin Walker’s figure and looks. His ample stomach hung over his belt, nearly obscuring it from view, and the buttons down the front of his grey shirt were straining to remain fastened. His jowls were covered in a bristly salt-and-pepper stubble, and his thin hair was stretched across his scalp in a tenuous swath.
Danton quickly rushed in. “Sir, this is the hospital, there is no need to shout.” He then turned to Pierce and smiled in apology. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go, sergeant.”
Pierce looked at Danton intently, then turned back to Peter. “Peter? Do you have anything else you want to talk to me about? Would you like me to leave now?”
“Of course he does. Doncha, Pete?” Walker stepped closer to his nephew, his bulk looming over him and nearly hiding the young man from Pierce’s view.
Peter swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. “Thank you again, Sergeant Pierce, for saving me. I’m in your debt. I hope one day I can repay you.” His eyes met Pierce’s for a brief moment and, though he may have been fooling himself, Pierce was certain Peter had more to tell him. Much more.
7
2 November 2011
FSS Lambeth
Monaghan signed her name at the bottom of the autopsy report and slipped it into its file. Christ, what a day! She sighed deeply and looked up at the clock hanging beside the door. It was late. Monaghan was surprised Clive hadn’t called already, wondering when she would be home and whether or not to put the finishing touches on dinner. Thursdays were always his days to brave the kitchen and prepare one of the many Asian meals she enjoyed. It was a tradition that had started during the early days of their relationship and, five years later, it still remained as part of their weekly routine. Not that dinner was ever “routine” for them. Whether they dined out or ate in, meals together were a treasured time together, a time to taste and talk and relish each other’s company, knowing that crazy schedules filled with crime and punishment could quickly make even a quick food cart meal an impossibility.
A movement by the door caught her eye. Kate Gardener entered the room, “feet dragging”, as they say, and plopped down in the empty chair in front of Monaghan’s desk.
Monaghan smiled. “Long day?”
“Brutal.” Kate worked her neck back and forth, trying to ease the stiffness out. “My eyes are broken. And my mind. What time is it anyway?”
“Seven forty.”
“A.M., or P.M.?”
“Post meridiem.”
“Ugh!” Kate swung her legs up over the chair leg and slumped down farther into its stiffly upholstery form. “I am so tired. I’m either going to cry, or maybe just start laughing hysterically.”
Monaghan chuckled. She reached into the small footlocker near her desk and pulled out a backpack. “A warm bath, a good meal, some wine, and you’ll be right as rain.”
“Yeah, well…” Kate began, scooching up into a semi-sitting position. “I was supposed to be getting dinner with… a friend… But he had to work, so…”
“Would this friend happen to be a Yard detective?”
Kate smiled in response, then sighed. “It’s not Rick’s fault, actually. I guess that kid we found at the crime scene really, really needed to talk to him right now.” She slowly swung her legs off the chair arm and stood up. “So I guess now I decide… takeout or leftovers?”
“Kate, how do you feel about Thai food?”
“Strongly, if it’s made right. Why?”
Mon
aghan dug into the footlocker again, pulling out a white motorcycle helmet. “Here, see if it fits.” She handed the helmet to Kate and carried the backpack into the small WC adjacent to her office. “I’ll change, and then will go.”
Kate looked at the helmet, then at the nearly-closed door. “So where is this Thai food?”
“Home.” Monaghan stepped out of the WC, now clad in fitted jeans and a slim-fit tee-shirt with “Red Bull Racing” emblazoned across the front. She grabbed a folder full of notes from the “IN” pile on her desk and stuffed it into the backpack. “Let’s go, before Clive starts ringing me complaining about the late hour and the condition of the curry.”
***
Monaghan & Reynold’s flat
Mill Harbour, Canary Wharf
Kate played with the charm hanging from the stem of her wine glass while she observed the feverish cooking going on in the kitchen. Her perch at the kitchen island was the perfect spot to witness the preparations while remaining at a safe distance. Not that Clive Reynolds wasn’t a skilled cook. Watching as he sautéed, stir-fried, curried and noodled the various dishes for the Thai fusion meal in the works, Kate concluded that not only did Reynolds know his way around a kitchen, but he might actually prefer being there to standing at the Bar. Never one to mince words, Kate said as much, and Reynolds laughed, a muffled sound due to the disposable face mask covering his mouth and nose, a courteous and hygienic nod to the “plague”, as he had dubbed his lingering flu-like illness.
“Well, yes and no.” Reynolds stirred the curry smoothly, the wooden spoon making a swishing sound as it turned around the pain. “I do enjoy it, no question, but cooking is considerably more stressful than the law.”
“For real?”
“Well,” Reynolds began, setting the spoon down carefully as he cut the flame under the curry and covered the pan with a lid. “The law is the law. When it changes, you know well before hand. But cooking… can change at any moment. Ingredients a little off, flame under the pan too high, too low, not stirring enough, stirring too much…”
De Profundis (Kate Gardener Mysteries Book 2) Page 4
