‘George? I took a call for you – I left a message on your desk.’
George took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair. ‘Oh, right. Thanks, Avani.’ He gave the recently seconded DC a wave of acknowledgment, picked up her scribbled note. He recognised the number instantly. High Nelmes. The note read: Call manager urgently.
‘Avani?’ he shouted across the office. ‘Did they say what it was about?’
‘No, not at all, actually. But she sounded a bit stressed, I think.’
‘Tell the guv I’ll be back later.’
George took the stairs two at a time. Damn the lift. He bleeped his car unlocked and gunned the engine. Traffic was bad, the IDR still jammed with commuters. ‘Come on.’ George nosed the car forward, blocked a patiently queuing Corsa, drew a silent, hostile stare from the driver. No matter, he’d made a space. Ten frustrating minutes later he was at last able to open the throttle and point the car towards Cold Ash, the well-worn route to Tess’ residential home.
As he drove, George’s imagination filled in the gaps. Tess was dead. Or perhaps worse, had suffered some catastrophic stroke. No, a heart attack. That was more likely. Her heart had been erratic since the poison had been administered. Or maybe an accident? An overdose?
George banged the steering wheel as a tractor emerged from a gateway a few hundred metres ahead.
He ground his teeth for the next half-mile, following the farmer along the narrow country lane, half-tempted to use the blue light. Eventually the tractor turned off, the farmer gave a laconic wave of thanks, and George steamed on past.
As he approached the familiar Nelmes entrance, with its security box, ivy-clad gateposts and well-tended frontage, he slowed to a sedate 10 miles per hour. His heart was thudding heavily under his ribs. He couldn’t go in, couldn’t face it, whatever it was. It was a mistake to have come. He should have just made a call, got it over with quickly. He parked the car and turned the engine off. There were the hedgerows, beyond which lay the lake, his thinking place. Everything looked the same. But something had changed. Well, there was nothing for it. He might as well go and find out the worst.
A receptionist he recognised looked up as he came in. ‘Hello, DC McConnell. Have you come to see our Tess?’
George wanted to reply but his throat felt constricted, his mouth dry. He nodded to the girl.
‘Go right on up,’ she said with a smile. ‘You might get a pleasant surprise.’
George climbed the staircase with winged feet, his mind in a whirl. What did she mean? She didn’t look upset, or worried, or–
He saw a wheelchair being wheeled along the corridor from the direction of Tess’ room. A carer was chatting away to the person in the wheelchair. The carer saw him first.
‘Ah,’ she called out. ‘There you are. We saw you parking from the window. Tess was wondering if you were ever going to come up, so we decided to come and meet you instead.’
George reached the top of the staircase and waited, scarcely daring to believe. As the wheelchair drew closer he saw Tess, smiling – no, grinning – the way she used to when she was winding him up, or telling a joke, or–
The wheelchair stopped, dead in front of him.
‘Hello, George.’ Tess’ voice was husky, as if speech was a newly-learned art form, but her eyes were sparkling and her smile was wide and focused. ‘You took your sodding time. I hope you haven’t brought more of those wretched satsumas. I hate satsumas.’
George hardly dared open his mouth. When he eventually managed to speak, he heard himself say, ‘I’ll bring grapes instead, then. Bloody ungrateful, I call it.’
Someone had left a copy of The Times in reception. Moran picked it up, scanned the front page.
‘All bad, as usual,’ Denis Robinson, the duty sergeant, said from behind his screen. ‘I don’t bother reading the papers any more. Life’s hard enough as it is.’
‘You’re a cheerful soul this morning, Denis.’ Moran looked up and smiled.
‘Nothing good in there, Brendan, like I said. They reckon this budget is going to wreck the economy for years to come.’
‘Do they indeed,’ Moran said, but now he was only half-listening, because his eyes had lit upon a column at the foot of the front page.
Irish Minister exposed as terrorist sympathiser
Joseph Gallagher, the current Irish Minister for Trade and Industry, is being questioned by senior Garda officers concerning his alleged involvement in historical and current terrorist activities…
Moran scanned the article to its conclusion.
…It is understood that a retired senior Garda officer is also helping investigating officers with their enquiries. His name cannot be divulged at present for legal and statutory reasons.
‘Public services were badly off before,’ Robinson was saying. ‘And what about the NHS? Been hanging on by a thread for who knows how long? No better for us lot, either. Same old story, every year.’ Robinson shook his head sadly.
Moran folded the paper and set it down on the table. ‘Well, thanks for the cheery welcome, Denis. Have a good morning, yourself.’
Moran took the lift. He’d promised himself he’d use the stairs in future, any exercise being worthwhile. But today, sod it.
‘Morning all,’ he greeted the room as he went in.
Bernice Swinhoe stage-whispered on his way past. ‘The boss is waiting for you, guv. In your office.’
‘Thanks, DC Swinhoe.’
That was all he needed. An ear-bending from Higginson. Moran braced himself before he opened his door.
‘Morning, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘Have a seat, Brendan. ‘Not good news, I’m afraid.’
‘No? Oh, well, I’d better hear it, anyway. Oh, before you tell me, have you heard about Tess Martin?’
Higginson’s face cracked a smile. ‘Yes, now that is excellent news, indeed. She looks to have turned a corner. DC McConnell tells me she’s talking, even walking a little. Marvellous to hear.’
‘It is, sir. Now then?’
Higginson sighed, tapped the brim of his cap, which he held on his lap as though cradling a baby. ‘Well, you’re not going to like it. I expect the news’ll be breaking very soon.’
Moran felt a cold hand race along his spine.
‘It’s Chan, I’m afraid. Zubaida. She escaped from Crawley Hospital. Sometime in the early hours.’
‘But they had a twenty-four hour guard–’
‘They did. But Chan apparently exchanged places with a nurse. The nurse is … currently being treated, but–’
‘She’s not going to make it.’
‘It doesn’t look good, no,’ Higginson admitted. ‘Strangled, I believe. A belt.’
Moran could find no words.
‘Sussex are on the case, of course, but by now…’
‘She could be anywhere.’
‘Exactly.’ Higginson stood up. ‘It may not fall to us, Brendan, but I thought it might help if you gave Sussex a buzz, as you’ve personally encountered the suspect.’
‘Of course. I’ll call them now. Does … does DI Pepper know about this?’
‘You’re my first port of call, Brendan. I’ll leave it to you to brief the others.’
Moran nodded. Charlie was going to love this. ‘I’ll make sure they’re informed directly, sir.’
‘Good man. Well, keep me posted. And, ah yes, Brendan, I wondered–?’
‘Sir?’
‘This… sabbatical? I don’t like to ask, but it might be prudent to–’
‘–Hold fire for the time being, sir? Of course. Probably a bad idea, in any case.’
The Chief Superintendent nodded briskly. ‘Good to know you’re still on board, Brendan. Hate to think we might lose you.’
Higginson sat his cap on his head, and with a curt nod he left Moran to his thoughts.
The noise of traffic filtered in through his half-open window. The hiss of air brakes, the hooting of impatient taxi drivers, the roar of motorcycle engines. The world was turning as usual, people going about their normal activities, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would follow the same pattern, and the day after that. But there were monsters out there, too. And it was Moran’s job to catch them, so that ordinary lives could continue in their usual, predictable patterns.
But where did they come from, these monsters? Who created them? Moran rose and went to the window, looked out on the scurrying pedestrians, the cyclists, trucks and cabs. Those same people, ordinary men and women, members of the public he was employed to protect; they all had the potential to create monsters, given the right circumstances.
Moran sighed. And so do we all, if we’re honest.
He returned to his desk. Better call Sussex, as Higginson had suggested.
Before he could pick up the phone, it rang.
Moran paused, sent up a silent prayer, reached for the handset.
Here we go again…