by Mari Hannah
‘I’d rather not,’ he said. The pacing resumed. ‘And what’s this got to do with my old ID?’
Newman had already made the jump.
Ryan wasn’t far behind. The idea was as preposterous as it was ingenious, but he didn’t like the sound of it. The spook, on the other hand, seemed to be considering her ludicrous idea as a goer.
He was smiling at her. ‘You are an amazing woman, Grace Ellis.’
Ryan swung round to face them. ‘Have you completely lost your minds?’ He was almost yelling. ‘I’ve pulled some strokes in my time, but that has to be the craziest idea I ever heard. For Christ’s sake, I’m a serving police officer! Count me out. I can’t, I won’t be involved in whatever it is you have in mind.’
Newman was enjoying himself. ‘Call it recycling.’
Ryan reacted with an emphatic: ‘No.’
‘Got any better ideas?’ Grace didn’t wait for an answer. Her focus was on Newman. ‘You think it can be done, Frank?’
‘If we use a pro.’
‘Ah, now I understand,’ Ryan rounded on Newman. ‘I might have known it was your idea. You’re barking mad, the two of you.’
The quarrel lasted a while. Newman didn’t enter into it. He sat there watching the other two go into battle, knowing they would work it out eventually. Every argument Grace put forward, Ryan countered, re-emphasizing the point that he stood to lose the most if he involved himself in her bizarre plan – until the phone rang and they were blindsided by a call from Hilary.
29
Ryan slammed open the door to A & E and raced to the reception desk. A young blonde woman looked up, a question in the eyes beneath her gold-rimmed specs. She was attractive, not pretty, sensibly dressed, with skin the colour of porcelain. No make-up. She didn’t need it.
Misreading the visible stress on Ryan’s face, she asked if he needed to see a doctor.
‘No, I’m not ill,’ he said. ‘Where will I find Jack Fenwick? He’s a policeman, emergency admission, brought in by ambulance about an hour ago.’
‘Are you family?’
‘No, we work together.’
‘I’m going to need ID.’
Ryan flashed his old warrant card in front of her face. Accepting it without further examination, she consulted her admissions log and told him that Jack had been treated and transferred to the high-dependency unit, next floor up.
That didn’t sound good.
‘I’m not sure what room,’ she added. ‘You’ll have to ask when—’
But Ryan was already gone …
Racing down the corridor, he dodged patients, medical staff and visitors in a department stretched to the limit, following signs that would take him to the second floor. He arrived at the lifts. There was no queue for either one, but both were stuck several floors up.
He didn’t wait.
Bolting through a double door, he took the stairs two at a time, then through more double doors into an identical corridor to the one he’d just left. There was a sign for High Dependency on the wall facing the stairwell. He was out of breath and sweating like a pig when he finally reached the ward.
Pushing open the door, he entered a four-bedded room, three of which were occupied by elderly patients, one of whom was giving cause for concern, so much so that she’d drawn the attention of the full intensive care team, who were so busy they didn’t see him standing in the doorway.
Ryan didn’t bother them. Instead he slipped silently through gaudy curtains into Jack’s sickbay, surprised to find him alone. When Hilary called she was heading straight there. Maybe she’d taken the kids out to give him some rest. Then it occurred to him that she’d been asked to leave because of the emergency going on in the ward. Having seen the old lady a moment ago, he was firmly of the opinion that she wouldn’t need her bedpan later.
There were two chairs stacked beside Jack’s bed. Lifting one from the other, Ryan placed it down quietly, the wrong way round. Taking his leather jacket off, he straddled the chair, his forearms leaning on the backrest. The heat in the room was unbearable.
What were they trying to do, fry him better?
Jack’s lips were dry and split, his skin so pale it made his facial injuries stand out all the more. His arms were outside of the covers, chest and shoulder heavily bandaged, hands resting by his sides, knuckles bruised and bloodied, fingernails almost ripped off. There were no bones in plaster, drips or beeping heart monitor, unlike the other poor patients in the room. Then again, they were geriatrics and he was as strong as an ox, always had been. There was evidence that he’d been hooked up at some point, a pulse-monitor on the bedcover. The cheeky bastard probably pulled it off so he could get some kip. That was so like him. Pity the staff hadn’t got round to giving him a wash and manicure too.
Ryan smiled to himself.
‘You look like shit, boss.’ His relief at finally being reunited with his DI soon turned to anger. ‘You should have told me. I might’ve saved you some grief. Look at the state of you. You wanted to play the hero, is that it? Hilary’s not impressed, mate – and neither am I. You’re a selfish git sometimes.’
Jack didn’t stir.
Ryan could understand him not wanting to get into it. He was probably exhausted. Well, tough. He wasn’t going to be let off the hook that easily. Ryan had questions and wasn’t leaving until he got some answers. He was about to deliver that lecture when the curtains behind him whipped open. He turned, expecting to see Hilary and the kids. Instead, he came face to face with a male nurse ready to throw his weight around.
‘Sir, are you related to Mr Fenwick?’
‘No, but I explained downstairs—’
‘Then I must ask you to leave. Patients on this ward are allowed next of kin only. You can’t be in here—’
‘So, pretend I’m his brother,’ Ryan said.
The nurse wasn’t smiling. ‘If you don’t leave now, I’ll have to call security.’
‘Go ahead, I’m interviewing a witness.’ Ryan flashed ID again but the nurse stood his ground. He didn’t look like the type to make allowances. Put a uniform on some people and suddenly they’re a dictator. ‘I won’t be long,’ Ryan stressed forcefully. ‘He’s more than a colleague, understand?’
‘I’m sorry, we have rules.’
‘And I’m asking you to break them.’
‘Sorry.’ The nurse swept his hand to one side, inviting him to leave the bay. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind. You listen to me,’ Ryan whispered. ‘I’ve spent three days looking for him. I’m entitled to ask him a few questions, so piss off and leave us be. You want to make a complaint, ring the Chief Constable. You want the number? While you’re at it you can tell him DS Matthew Ryan sent you.’
The nurse stood his ground. ‘DI Fenwick can’t tell you anything, sir.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that!’ But even as he said it, Ryan realized what he meant. He looked at Jack, taking in his insipid complexion, the pulse monitor lying idle on the bedcover, no chest movement. No Hilary …
He hadn’t seen the obvious because he couldn’t bear to. He dropped his head as the nurse covered his best friend with a sheet.
30
Officer down. Officer down! Ryan didn’t make it far from the ward before breaking down completely. He found himself in the corridor, fighting for breath, the stuffing knocked out of him. Jack couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. Ryan stood outside the door, his forehead leaning against the wall, his broad back turned on hospital staff as they went about their business, every part of his being screaming in agony. He’d been angry with his DI before, but never like this. If only the stupid bastard had said something.
Anything.
Ryan sobbed openly, tried to push the hurt away. He didn’t want to deal with the possibility of a new boss – not now, not ever – or consider who’d take care of Hilary and the children, who’d discuss tactics at the match or listen to him talk about his dad. He wanted Jack.
The man was irreplaceable.
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No one else would do.
This cannot be happening.
A hand on his shoulder made him spin around. The intensive care nurse who’d asked him to leave was standing there, less strait-laced than before. For a moment, Ryan thought that he had somehow managed to resuscitate Jack and had come to tell him that there had been a terrible mistake and that he was breathing again. Instead he gave his condolences, offering to buy him a cup of coffee, or call someone on his behalf. Ryan declined. Thanked him, or tried to. His mouth was moving but his expression of gratitude was drowned out by the ear-splitting din inside his head.
The nurse pointed at a seat in the corridor.
On autopilot, Ryan made his way towards it and sat down. Shivering as a ghost walked over his skin, not for the first time in his life he heard his father’s voice telling him to be a brave boy and do the right thing, be sure to look after your sister. Thoughts of Caroline made him wail all over again. He couldn’t face telling her that the one person she cared about, after him, was dead. Jack had become her confidante, her go-to person for everything, even more so than Ryan himself since their mother passed away. The two men had laughed about it. The sad fact was, she knew Ryan was dealing with his own grief, had sought and found solace elsewhere – with Roz.
And what a dog’s bollocks that turned out to be.
Jack was more than happy to help Caroline through the bereavement. He loved her, almost as much as he loved his own family. Ryan had let them both down – and not only them – he’d failed Hilary too, her kids and his former colleagues in Special Branch. The red mist descended and his blood began to boil. As things stood, there would be no police hero’s funeral for his DI. No Union Jack draped over his coffin. No guard of honour. No heartfelt speech from the Chief Constable.
As things stood …
Ryan swallowed hard.
He’d see about that.
Finding the truth and clearing Jack’s name was even more important now than it was before. Top priority. However long it took – in or out of the Job – he made a promise to hunt the killers down and put them before a court of law. If it was the final thing he’d do, he’d make it count – for Hilary and the children’s sake and, to a lesser extent, his own. Anything else would be unjust. By the time he’d finished, there would be some kind of memorial to show what a fine officer Jack Fenwick really was.
A noise made Ryan lift his head.
A porter was pushing a trolley along the corridor, his smile unreturned by Ryan. The guy was scruffy, acceptable for transporting bags of clinical waste to the incinerator perhaps, not so for accompanying Jack to the hospital mortuary. He didn’t look like he gave a shit either. He could almost have been whistling. Ryan wanted to grab him by his crumpled bottle-green scrub-suit and knock some respect into him. As he got to his feet, a phone rang, startling him.
It took a second to realize it was his.
Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he saw that it was Grace. He ignored the call but the audible alert had jolted him into the present. He had to find and comfort Hilary. That was the only thing on his mind. Nothing else mattered. Not Grace or Newman, not even Caroline. Hauling himself to a standing position, he grabbed an elderly nurse, asking for the relatives’ room. She gave him directions, offered to accompany him, but he was already on his way, a sense of dread eating away at his insides.
Hilary was sitting alone when he arrived. She’d had the foresight to leave Robbie with the young ones when she left for the hospital. She’d called her dad from her car, asking him to go round and look after them. Relieved that he didn’t have to face all four at once, Ryan brushed away a tear and pushed open the door, trying to stem his emotions as he held her close. The rest of the night was a blur.
31
It was light when Ryan eventually got home. As drained and exhausted as he was, he hit the beach running, north towards Low Newton. He didn’t stop until his legs would carry him no further, until he was gasping for breath. Then he slumped down on the sand close to the water’s edge. Looking towards the horizon, he wept. Not quietly, but in huge, irrepressible sobs like the night his father died – the worst day of his life – something he knew he’d never get over.
The wind blew, icy and hard, throwing sand in his face; miniature spikes that stung his eyes and turned his skin red raw. The North Sea was grey and wild. Unremitting. It pounded the shore in great bursts of foaming energy, adding to the fury Ryan was feeling as he scrolled through distressing images of the past few gut-wrenching hours.
Leaving his own vehicle at the hospital, he’d driven Hilary home in hers. She hadn’t said a word on the way there, her mind on the grim task facing her. He’d held her hand while she told the children that their father was never coming home, hung around after to offer support. But as close as he was to the family, he felt like in incomer, a stranger who didn’t belong.
Ryan wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands, unable to shake one image in particular: the accusatory expression on Robbie Fenwick’s young face as he heard the news he suspected might come but didn’t want to believe.
You promised us, it said.
The atmosphere between man and boy wasn’t lost on Hilary’s dad. He took over then, calling for a taxi to take Ryan away so that the family could grieve alone. It was for the best, he said. Ryan understood. He wasn’t welcome. That painful truth made the journey back to the hospital even harder to bear. Having collected his car, he’d sat in it for a while, trying to get his head around what had happened. Unable to take it in, he’d driven to Fenham to break the news to Grace and Newman, then on to Alnwick to repeat the story one final time to his twin.
Caroline said nothing.
Like a shell-shocked soldier, she didn’t cry. She seemed incapable. She listened in silence and then asked him to leave, saying she was going to bed. She wanted to deal with this one alone. She didn’t need or want his help this time. He pleaded with her to let him stay. But she was having none of it.
Hours afterwards, it still worried him.
It wasn’t like her to push him away.
Totally spent, he walked back along the beach, the remains of Dunstanburgh Castle in the distance. Crossing the golf course, he trundled up the road to his cottage, drank half a bottle of Scotch, then lay down on top of his bed fully clothed and fell into a deep and disturbed sleep.
Sad faces invaded his dreams: Hilary, Robbie, Jess and Lucy holding hands beside an open casket, tears rolling down their cheeks and his. Jack looked so peaceful lying there. No bruises or bandages visible. Just the fit bloke he was, toned and strong, proud of the physique he worked so hard to maintain. Family onlookers faded from view as Ryan approached the coffin.
Jack opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, extending his hand. No hard feelings. As Ryan reached for it, the skin fell away like molten candle wax, exposing raw flesh. Jack’s lips were moving. Ryan strained to hear what he was saying. Unable to make it out, he leaned forward, poised to receive a secret, so close their cheeks almost touched, but still he didn’t understand.
Something touched his face, causing him to look up.
Pages and pages of handwritten text floated down from above. He grabbed a few but on contact with his hands the sheets melted away like snowflakes, rendering the words useless, the secrets unattainable.
The notebooks were gone …
‘Ryan … can you hear me?’
The voice sounded odd and far away. Ryan fought for control, an overwhelming sense of panic rising in his chest, cutting off his air supply. The neckline of his jumper felt like a ligature. He tried pulling it away, blood vessels popping beneath his skin as he strained to take in vital oxygen. He was choking, the rattle in his throat growing louder and more desperate with every passing second.
Breathe …
Breathe.
Try as he might to force his eyelids open, they were stuck fast. Jack’s bloody hand touched his shoulder. He pushed it away, his body jerking and thrashing, as if he was fighting several
people at once: Grace, Newman, Caroline and a long line of others, shadowy figures he failed to recognize.
The hand was back, shaking him.
The voice too …
‘Ryan, wake up. It’s OK. It’s me, O’Neil.’
The name alone was enough to jolt him awake. Groggy with sleep, Ryan sat up. Swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he stood up, drenched in sweat, hair wringing wet and stuck to his forehead. His mouth was dry. He reeked of booze. When he spoke, he was almost hoarse.
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘The door was wide open,’ she said, stepping back on to the threshold of the tiny room. ‘I was worried about you.’
‘It’s a bit late for that, wouldn’t you say?’ He pointed at her, something he’d never have done in his right mind. It was offensive and confrontational, but he was hurting … and way beyond caring. ‘This is your fault. Jack’s dead because you wouldn’t listen, because you came to the enquiry from the wrong standpoint. You screwed up and never gave him a chance.’
She looked wounded. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘Isn’t it? Maguire isn’t exactly into finding the truth, is he? He’s too busy scoring points against me. Well, I’ll tell you something, shall I? My DI was a top bloke. His wife and kids deserve much more than his pension. You were wrong, guv. And I’m on a mission to ensure you pay for it.’
O’Neil just stood there looking at him, a pained expression on her face, visibly shaken by an accusation she didn’t think she deserved. ‘I do understand—’
‘No, you fucking don’t!’
She flinched when he yelled at her. Ryan raised an index finger, then withdrew it, clenching his fist so hard his nails dug into his palms. He stuck both hands in his pockets to stop himself from scaring her. He apologized. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. Just don’t tell me you understand!’
‘I don’t scare easily. I follow the evidence. What more can I say?’
‘You can tell me how you’re treating his death. You know now that he wasn’t a fugitive. Did you see the state of him, what they did to him? He took quite a beating—’
