Angel of Death (26 page)

‘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.

Once more, helplessness threatened to throw Mark into a catatonic stupor. He fought off the feeling. If he was going to survive this, he had to act now while his hands and feet were free. He felt around the boot. It was bare, except for the jerrycan. He turned his attention to the lock. There was a little rim around it. An idea occurred to him. The boot of his car had a false bottom that concealed a spare tyre and all the tools necessary to fit it. If this boot contained a tyre-jack, maybe he could use it to prise the lock apart. And even if that wasn’t possible, at the very least he’d have a weapon to defend himself with other than the broken spoon.

Mark ran his fingers around the edge of the boot’s base until he found a gap he could push them into. They curled around the underside of what felt like a sheet of wood topped with a rough material. Wrenching at it, he managed to bend it upwards a few centimetres. A groan whistled through his teeth as he removed his arm from the sling and felt underneath the false bottom. There was a spare tyre but no tools – at least, not within easy reach. He stretched out his arm until it felt as if his wound was about to tear open. His fingers brushed against a metallic handle. With an effort that made sweat pop out all over his body, he wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it free. It was a bolt wrench. He lay still for a few seconds, letting the pain subside. Before he could make another attempt to find a tyre-jack, the car screeched to a halt.

Mark’s stomach knotted with indecision. Should he fight? Or should he wait for a better chance to escape? Part of him cried out that it would be crazy to fight a gun with a wrench. But another, louder, part of his brain shouted,
There won’t be a better chance. You either fight now or die later!
He rolled onto his front, concealing the wrench under himself. The engine died. There was the sound of a door closing, then the boot popped open. Sunlight flooded in, dazzling him. Through blinking eyes, he saw that PC Stone was no longer holding the gun. As gloved hands hauled him upright, Mark whipped the wrench round. It connected flush with the side of PC Stone’s head, sending him staggering. Mark clambered out of the boot, aiming another blow at his captor. This time the wrench was deflected by a forearm. There was a dull crunch of metal against bone, but PC Stone didn’t give the slightest indication that he was feeling any pain. He caught hold of the wrench and yanked it from Mark’s grasp. He thrust his other hand into his jacket.

Mark turned and ran as fast as his injured leg would allow. He knew it was hopeless. After all, he couldn’t outrun a bullet. But he also knew that he would rather die trying to escape than let PC Stone choose the time and method of his death. He was on a narrow road, flanked by trees. He passed a small red car, parked and empty. Maybe two hundred metres up ahead, he could see a broader road with a row of semi-detached houses on its far side. He swerved towards the trees, thinking it would be harder for PC Stone to get a clear shot at him in amongst them. Something hit him hard in the back, knocking him off his feet. Bolts of pain raced through his limbs, stealing their strength.
Have I been shot?
he wondered. His question was answered a second later when PC Stone arrived at his side and stooped to retrieve the wrench.

‘Nice try,’ growled PC Stone, kneeling on Mark’s back. A howl tore from Mark’s throat as his wrists were twisted together and bound with plastic cuffs. ‘Quiet, or I’ll have to kill you.’ It wasn’t a threat, it was a simple statement of fact.

Mark bit down on his scream. Silent tears streamed from his eyes as he was hauled to his feet and shoved towards the red car. PC Stone opened the boot and took out a scrap of material, which he stuffed into Mark’s mouth and secured with duct tape. Then Mark’s world went black again as a cloth bag was put over his head. PC Stone pushed him into the boot and flipped his legs in after him. Pain came at him from so many different directions that he couldn’t identify them all. His straining ears caught the sound of footsteps moving away from the car. Then another sound like water being sloshed around. There was a faint whoosh. An acrid smoky smell seeped through the cloth bag. For a sickening second, Mark thought the red car had been set alight. Then one of its doors slammed shut and the engine came alive.

At first the car moved fast enough to bounce Mark around. But it soon slowed to a steady pace. Drifting in pain-addled darkness, he struggled to hold on to a sense of time. Unconsciousness pulled at his mind. He refused to give in to it, focusing on slowing his breathing.
Be calm
, he kept telling himself. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his body from trembling. He tried to wriggle free of the cuffs, but they were on so tight his hands tingled with numbness. He rolled around, feeling for any sharp edges he might use to saw through the plastic. There were none. More out of desperation than hope, he drove his knees again and again against the underside of the boot. He kept at it until, after what seemed like hours but might have been minutes, the car pulled to a stop.

There was a muffled metallic scraping. The car pulled forwards a few metres. Then the sound came again, suggesting to Mark that a garage door had been opened and closed. The boot clicked open. Hands grabbed him and hauled him out of it. He was manoeuvred forwards until his face came into contact with a wall. A hand pushed him down to a cold concrete floor.

There was a moment of silence that pressed against Mark like a dead weight. Then came the trill of a mobile ringtone. ‘I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency,’ said PC Stone. After a brief pause, he continued, ‘No, sir, I don’t call this an emergency. Everything’s under control… She gave me no choice… I don’t want to say any more about that right now, sir. I’ll give you a full report when I collect payment.’

Sir… full report.
The words made the hairs on Mark’s neck bristle. They sounded like the sort of thing a policeman would say. Was it possible PC Stone really was who he said he was?
How else could he have known I wanted to speak to Detective Monahan?
Mark asked himself. The question prompted another one: was Detective Monahan involved in the kidnapping? Mark gave a sharp shake of his head. Detective Monahan had gone against Doctor Reeve. Surely that proved he wasn’t involved. Unless it had all been an act, a ploy to lure him out of the hospital. No, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that. Jim Monahan was the only one who’d been straight with him. Hadn’t he? Doubts crowded in on him like an angry mob. For an instant, he burnt with a raw hatred that overrode his fear. Not only had Stephen Baxley crippled his arm, he’d also crippled his capacity to trust.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ PC Stone told whoever was on the other end of the line. As if he’d been reprimanded, he added quickly, in a lower tone, ‘I realise that, sir, but you should still be extremely careful what you say to him. I’m putting you on to him now.’

Mark felt the phone being pressed to his ear.

‘Hello, Mark.’ The voice was as accentless as a BBC newsreader.

Are you certain he won’t remember anything?
The words from Mark’s dream echoed back into his mind. A familiar surge of nausea told him that the person who’d spoken those words and the man on the phone were one and the same.

‘You don’t remember me, but I remember you.’ The man’s voice took on a sickeningly sensual thickness. ‘How could I ever forget the pleasure you gave me?’

I didn’t fucking give you anything
, thought Mark.
You took it.

‘That film I had your father – or, more accurately, should I say, your step-father – make is still one of my most treasured possessions.’ A sigh filled the line. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any consolation, but I want you to know that I regret it’s come to this. Sadly, Stephen’s stupidity has forced me into this course of action. I don’t blame him so much as I blame myself. I should have known: once a pleb, always a pleb. But there you are, you live and learn. Goodbye, my sweet little boy. We won’t speak again.’

The phone was removed from Mark’s ear. PC Stone spoke into it again. ‘Yes, sir… We sit tight and wait for the whore to come to us… I don’t think it’ll be long. She’ll have to make her next move quickly, if she’s going to make it at all… Then we kill all the birds with one stone.’

Mark wondered who
the whore
was. Was it Grace Kirby? Who else could it be? So she was still alive! Although, from the sounds of it, probably not for much longer. It seemed that all the loose ends were being tied up. But what had been meant by
make her next move
? Was Grace out for some kind of revenge? Blackmail maybe? Or maybe something more straightforward and bloody.

‘No, don’t go home,’ continued PC Stone. ‘The doctor’s the one who’s convinced this will work, so let him take the risk… If he’s wrong, he’ll be dead. Either way, I’ll call you when it’s over… I’ll use the same code as before: three rings, hang up, wait ten seconds, then another three rings.’

Suffocating silence settled over Mark again. He cringed against the wall, wondering how long he had left to live. An hour? Two hours? Since his so-called father’s murderous rampage, he’d asked himself more times than he could count whether he’d want to live if Charlotte died. Now the answer stood out in his mind like letters of fire. Yes! He wanted to live, however desolate his life might be.

18

What if this is my fault? What if Amy and Mark die because of me?
The questions crashed into Jim’s brain like stones hurled through glass. He shook his head in an effort to thrust them away. He needed to focus on the job. With every passing second the odds of Mark being rescued alive decreased. There would be plenty of time later to agonise about the possible repercussions of having given Grace the heads-up.