Angel of Death

by Ben Cheetham

  Mark limped after PC Stone, out of the Critical Care ward. As they passed a porter pushing a trolley-bed, the constable dropped his head so that the peak of his cap all but hid his face. They entered a stairwell. Mark leaned heavily on the bannister, wincing with each step he descended.

  ‘We need to hurry it up,’ said PC Stone.

  ‘I’m going as fast as I can.’

  ‘Well that’s not fast enough.’ PC Stone stooped, hooking one arm behind Mark’s legs and the other around his back. As Mark was lifted off his feet, he noticed that PC Stone was wearing black leather gloves. PC Stone jogged down the remaining stairs. He set Mark back on his feet and peeped through a door. Taking hold of Mark’s upper arm, he drew him into a deserted corridor. Half supporting, half pulling Mark along, the constable headed for a door at the corridor’s end.

  ‘Take it easy,’ said Mark, stumbling on his injured leg, losing one slipper. But instead of slowing, PC Stone quickened his pace. ‘Hey, what about my slipp—’

  ‘Cut the chatter,’ broke in PC Stone. ‘Someone might hear you.’

  ‘So what? We’re not doing anything wrong.’

  ‘You mean, you’re not doing anything wrong. I’ll lose my job if I’m seen here with you. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then save your voice for Detective Monahan.’

  PC Stone cracked open the door. It led onto a quiet road at the side of the hospital. A black car with tinted windows was parked near the door. The constable guided Mark towards it. Keeping hold of Mark’s arm, he opened the passenger door. When Mark saw the car’s empty interior, he sucked in a sharp breath and tried to shake himself free. But PC’s Stone’s grip was on him like a handcuff.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ Mark demanded.

  In reply, PC Stone – assuming that was really his name – tried to shove Mark into the car. Pain flared in Mark’s shoulder. The sensation awoke something inside him – the same something that had caused him to fight back against Stephen Baxley. He clenched his fist and swung wildly. But PC Stone wasn’t a businessman whose reactions had been dulled by years of sedentary living. He swayed away from the punch, and with a snake-fast movement, whipped his knuckles across Mark’s cheek. Mark rocked on his heels and would have fallen but for the hand on his arm. The bittersweet taste of blood filled his mouth. Tears blurred his vision. Through them he saw a figure emerge from the hospital.

  ****

  Amy took the lift up to the Critical Care ward. Her brow furrowed when she entered Mark’s room and saw the empty bed. She approached the nurses’ station and asked, ‘Where’s Mark Baxley?’

  ‘He should be in his room,’ replied the nurse on duty.

  ‘Well he’s not there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  The nurse moved from behind her desk and poked her head into Mark’s room. She turned, frowning, to Amy. Then, as if something had occurred to her, she hurried towards the far end of the corridor and looked into another room. ‘I thought maybe he’d snuck out to see his sister,’ she explained. ‘But he’s not here either.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a porter. ‘Are you looking for the boy from room five?’

  ‘Yes. Have you seen him?’ asked Amy.

  The porter nodded. ‘He was with a policeman.’

  The creases on Amy’s forehead sharpened. What the hell was going on? Was this Jim’s doing? If so, she was going to tear him a new one. ‘Where?’

  ‘They went into a stairwell. I thought it a bit odd they weren’t using the lifts, what with the boy’s leg being bad.’

  The porter’s words echoed Amy’s thoughts. Why would Mark and whoever he was with take the stairs unless they were trying to avoid her? The question reinforced her suspicion that Jim was pulling a fast one. ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Two, three minutes tops.’

  ‘Show me.’

  The porter led Amy to the stairwell. She thanked him and descended the steps, taking several at a time. Her gaze scoured the corridor, fixing on a slipper left in the middle of the floor. Did it belong to Mark? If so, why had he left it behind? Her irritation turned to unease. What if this had nothing to do with Jim? What if something sinister was at play? Her movements quicker now, but more cautious, she made for the door at the end of the corridor.

  As she stepped outside, she saw Mark struggling with a much larger man. The man was wearing a constable’s uniform, but she didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Move away from him!’ Amy yelled at Mark’s assailant, mentally filing away his particulars as she flicked open an extendable metal truncheon. He was well built, Caucasian, five foot eleven to six foot, with a squarish face, a flat, boxer’s nose, and dark brown eyes peering out from under a thick monobrow. He thrust his hand into his jacket and withdrew something that gave her a sick jolt in her stomach.

  ‘Stop where you are! Toss the truncheon and get on the ground!’ The man’s voice was hard and flat as a gravestone. It was a voice that meant business. As did the pistol in his hand.

  ‘OK, just don’t shoot.’ Amy lowered her head submissively, but kept her eyes fixed on the man. It flashed through her mind that whoever he was, he wasn’t simply intent on killing Mark, otherwise both Mark and herself would already be dead.

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth and do as I say!’

  White-faced with adrenaline, Amy threw aside the truncheon and dropped to her haunches. The man took aim at her head.

  ****

  ‘Don’t!’ cried Mark, grabbing for the gun. Again, PC Stone was too fast for him. He drew the gun upwards so that Mark’s hand closed on air. Then he slammed its butt down on Mark’s bandaged shoulder. Pain exploded through Mark, crumpling his legs. Eyes squeezed into agonised slits, he saw Amy flash past him. Her shoulder brushed his, then connected with PC Stone’s chest. Breath whistled through the PC’s teeth. He staggered, but didn’t go down. Amy seized the gun with both hands. For an instant it seemed she would succeed in wresting it from PC Stone’s grasp. But then he let go of Mark and brought his free hand down in a powerful chopping blow to the side of her neck. She sagged to her knees, still holding onto the gun. He twisted its barrel towards her, gradually angling it up beneath her chin.

  Mark’s eyes expanded into horrified saucers as the gun went off with an ear-shattering blast. The bullet passed through Amy’s throat and grazed Mark’s right forearm. She was flung backwards against his legs, her body spasming violently, foamy red bubbles oozing from the hole in her neck. Mark gaped down at her, his eardrums whining like a swarm of mosquitoes. Blood dripped from his arm, mingling with the rapidly widening pool of her blood.

  ‘Stupid dumb bitch!’ growled PC Stone, catching hold of Mark again, jerking him upright and stabbing the gun into his back.

  This time Mark didn’t resist as he was thrust towards the rear of the car. His face was devoid of all expression except the sudden blankness of shock. He had an odd, woozy, numb sensation between his ears. The world seemed to be receding and advancing in waves. PC Stone opened the boot, shoved him into it, then slammed it shut. Blackness enveloped him like a coffin.

  17

  Jim’s eyes blinked open. A sound had jerked him awake – a sound like an exhaust backfiring. He glanced around. There were no vehicles moving in the car park. A frown wrinkled his brow. The sound had seemed very close. As he turned to check the dashboard clock to see how long he’d been asleep, the roar of a rapidly accelerating engine flared from around the corner of the building. A squeal of tyres biting into the tarmac had him reaching for the door handle. He headed towards where the sound had come from, a sense of foreboding nibbling at his mind, telling him to walk faster. A sudden cry went up. It wasn’t a cry of anger, it was a cry of horror. It came again, forming itself into words. ‘Help! Somebody help!’

  As Jim broke into a run, his cop’s brain quickly put together a scenario of what might have gone down. The loud bang, engine and tyre noise could have been a vehicle crashi
ng into something – or someone – before speeding off. In other words, a hit-and-run. He rounded the corner fully expecting to be confronted by someone seriously, maybe even fatally, injured. Not for one second, though, did he expect that someone to be Amy.

  Jim came to a stop as though he’d been turned to stone. The instant he saw the coin-sized hole in Amy’s neck, he knew it was a bullet wound. The edges of the wound were ragged and blackened, and a fan-shaped area of seared skin radiated upwards from it, indicating that the muzzle of the gun had been pressed against the neck at an angle. Blood oozed rather than spurted from the hole, giving him hope that the bullet had missed the carotid artery. Amy’s eyes were closed and she didn’t appear to be breathing. But a few faint twitches in her limbs showed that she wasn’t yet a corpse.

  A woman was staring slack-jawed at Amy, seemingly too shocked to do anything but call out over and over for help. ‘Look at me!’ Jim shouted at her. She raised her teary gaze to his. ‘I need you to go tell the receptionist there’s a policewoman down with a gunshot wound to the throat. Understand?’

  The woman nodded, then ran towards the hospital’s main entrance. Jim dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse in Amy’s wrist. He found one, weak and thready as a parched stream. Parting her lips, he saw that her mouth was full of bloody chunks of vomit. He rolled her onto her side and pushed his fingers inside her mouth to clear it away and check she hadn’t swallowed her tongue. As he did so, he exposed the horrendous, flared exit-wound at the base of her head. This is hopeless. She’s as good as dead. The thought dropped on him like a hammer. He thrust it away, telling himself that Charlotte Baxley had survived worse. He returned Amy onto her back and tried to give mouth-to-mouth. Bloody bubbles inflated from the bullet hole. He pressed his palm over it and tried again. This time her chest inflated, but only a fraction. Her windpipe was too full of blood for much air to get through.

  Jim lifted his head at the sound of footsteps slapping the pavement. A medical crash team was rapidly approaching. He straightened and stepped away from Amy. One of the doctors quickly attempted to insert a breathing tube into her throat. Another asked Jim, ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Amy Sheridan.’

  ‘How long ago was she shot?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure, maybe three or four minutes.’

  ‘What about you?’ The doctor gestured at the blood coating Jim’s hands and shirt. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Jim shook his head. ‘It’s her blood.’

  ‘I can’t get the tube in,’ said the doctor who was stooping over Amy. ‘We have to get her to surgery right away.’

  Jim pressed a hand to his forehead as Amy was manoeuvred onto a stretcher and wheeled towards the main entrance. He followed her as far as the doorway. There was nothing more he could do to help her. All he could do now was his job. He sought out the woman who’d found Amy. ‘Did you see what happened?’

  Shoulders quaking, she mutely shook her head.

  Jim displayed his ID to the busy reception area. ‘My name’s Detective Inspector Jim Monahan. Did anyone see anything?’ He received no replies. ‘Make sure everyone remains where they are,’ he said to a security guard. Then he sprinted back to the car, his brain whirring like an overwound watch. He couldn’t believe the shooting had been random. It had to have something to do with the case. But what possible reason could anyone have for targeting Amy? And who was the shooter? Grace Kirby’s face rose into his mind. He thrust it away. What­ever else Grace was, she wasn’t a cop-killer.

  There was no need to call in the incident. The two-way radio was already abuzz with talk of it. Four words – words every copper dreads hearing – kept coming through the hum of voices. ‘Shots fired! Officer down!’

  The new mobile phone Jim had been issued buzzed in his pocket. He answered it without looking to see the caller’s number, knowing it had to be Garrett. The DCI’s voice came urgently down the line. ‘We’re getting reports that a police­woman has been shot at the Northern General. Where are you?’

  ‘The Northern General.’ Jim swallowed a tightness in his throat. ‘It’s Amy.’

  There was a second of stunned silence. Then Garrett said something Jim had never heard him say before. ‘Oh fuck. How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s bad. She’s in surgery. She was hit in the throat.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘Then find someone who did. I’m on my way. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

  Jim’s voice became even heavier as a thought came to him. ‘Someone needs to contact Amy’s husband.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jim tried not to sound as relieved as he felt. ‘Maybe it should come from me, seeing as I was with her.’

  ‘That’s exactly why you shouldn’t do it. Besides, I need you to focus on doing what you do best – your job.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jim returned to the spot where Amy had been shot. A man in a porter’s uniform was looking at the blood stain. ‘Get away from that!’ shouted Jim.

  The porter stepped back. ‘I just wondered if she’d found him.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘The policewoman. She was looking for that lad from Critical Care. The one who was shot.’

  Jim’s heart lurched. Mark! Amy had been out here looking for Mark! ‘Are you saying he’s gone missing?’

  The porter nodded and told Jim what he’d told Amy. Jim’s head throbbed with the realisation that the shooter had been after Mark not Amy. And it seemed they’d got him too. But who was behind his kidnapping? Obviously not Grace. Now another face came into Jim’s mind. Bryan Reynolds. Jim’s hands clenched. It had to be Reynolds. Who the hell else was there with the possible motive and the muscle to pull off some­thing like this?

  ‘What did the cop look like?’ asked Jim.

  ‘He was a big bloke. I didn’t get a good look at his face. But they’ll have him on camera. There’s CCTV all over the hospital.’

  ‘Stay here. Make sure no one comes anywhere near this area.’

  As Jim rushed back to the main entrance, he phoned Garrett and filled him in on what he’d found out, adding, ‘We should send a unit to pick up Bryan Reynolds.’

  ‘We’ve already been through this, Detective,’ said Garrett. ‘There’s absolutely no proof that Reynolds is in any way con­nected to this.’

  ‘What? Open your eyes! This has got that fucker’s name written all over it.’

  ‘Probable cause!’ The words echoed down the line like an insult. ‘We need probable cause before we haul someone in for questioning. Or have you forgotten that?’

  Jim took a steadying breath. As much as he hated to admit it, Garrett was right. There was no chance Reynolds would voluntarily come in for questioning. And arresting him based on a hunch would do more damage than good. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s find what we need to nail the bastard who’s behind this.’

  Jim approached the security guard and said, ‘Take me to the hospital’s CCTV control room.’

  He followed the guard along a series of corridors to a door. The guard tried the handle, but the door was locked. He knocked on it. There was no response. ‘That’s odd,’ he said. ‘The CCTV’s supposed to be manned at all times.’

  ‘Have you got a key?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Move away from the door.’

  Jim withdrew his truncheon and extended it to its full length. Once, twice, three times, he slammed the flat of his foot into the door. The lock gave way with a splintering crack and the door burst inwards. A security guard was lying face down on the floor of the control room, blindfolded and gagged with duct tape, his hands and feet bound with plastic cuffs. Jim peeled away the tape. ‘Who did this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the guard. ‘I think there was only one of them. They were wearing a balaclava.’

  Jim turned his attention to the bank of CCTV screens. All the displays were ominously blank. He took
a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and handed them to the other guard. ‘Put those on and check what the cameras have recorded.’

  The guard turned the CCTV system on. ‘It’s not showing anything. The hard drive seems to have been wiped.’

  Jim’s expression registered no surprise. It had already become apparent to him that whoever had pulled off this job was a stone-cold professional. He dug his fingers into his forehead. Questions were coming at him faster than he could think. Did Mark’s kidnapping have something to do with his recovered memories? And if it did, who could possibly have leaked the information? And why hadn’t Mark simply been shot dead? But one question above all others vibrated round and round his head until he felt as though his skull was about to explode: would this even be happening if Grace Kirby had been apprehended?

  ****

  As the car wove its way at breakneck speed through the city’s streets, Mark was thrown about inside the boot like a sack of potatoes. He made no attempt to brace himself. The image of the bullet ripping through Detective Sheridan’s throat was frozen in his mind’s eye, paralysing him with horror. He expected the vehicle to screech to a halt at any second, the boot to fly open and his life to be brought to an equally violent end. His head slammed into something metallic. Rather than dazing him further, the impact snapped him out of his stupor. He groped at the object. It was a jerrycan slosh-full of – from the smell of it – petrol. The car swerved sharply. A nearby vehicle’s horn blared.

  With his good arm and both feet, Mark hammered at the underside of the boot lid, shouting, ‘Help! Help!’ But after several minutes of frantic exertion, he gave up, realising he was achieving nothing beyond exhausting what little strength he had. A choking sob rose into his throat. He’s going to kill me, he’s going to fucking kill me! The thought beat against his brain in time to the rhythm of his panicked pulse. No, said another part of him. Whoever he is, he’s obviously not just out to kill me. So what’s his game? Maybe he wants to find out what I know and who I’ve spoken to. That had to be it! The thought held no consolation. If true, it meant he was still facing death, but possibly with torture beforehand.