Читать книгу DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw - Luke Delaney - Страница 30

I sit on a bench in a pretty little garden in the hospital grounds. It’s where people recovering from amputations caused by cancer come to smoke. No one pays me much attention, dressed as I am in a dark blue male nurse’s uniform. A wig, moustache and spectacles conceal my true features, and the coiled cheese-wire handles dig uncomfortably into my hip as it hides in my pocket. A crude weapon, but quiet and effective in the right hands.

I begin to walk to Charing Cross Hospital’s main entrance, feeling the syringe taped to my chest pulling my shaved skin as I stride forward. The sheathed knife tucked into the small of my back feels uncomfortable, but reassuringly so.

I like to plan meticulously, but there’s been no time for that. I must be pragmatic, play things by ear. It will be dangerous for me, and even more so for anyone who gets in my way, but there is no choice, not now. If the pig bitch survives she will tell the world I was the one who visited her last night. My beautiful charade would be over. I would have to run … But if I am able to correct my mistake, I will remain anonymous.

It was easy enough to find out where she had been taken. Everybody in this area either gets taken to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, or as she had, to Charing Cross. A few phone calls were all it took to find out which, and that she was in the ICU unit. They were also kind enough to tell me it was expected that she would recover from her injuries. People really ought to be more careful with information they give out. You never know who you’re talking to.

I make my way confidently through the never-ending, winding corridors to the laundry room. Medical staff and porters wander in and out of here endlessly, nobody paying anybody else much attention. These giant hospitals are about as personal as a rush-hour train station. Their security is a joke.

I help myself to several clean and neatly folded sheets, all wrapped in transparent polythene, and make my way to the lift that will carry me straight to the Intensive Care Unit and her. As the lift rises my heart begins to race. The power surges through my veins. I feel giddy with excitement. It makes me want to lash out at the other people in the lift, pull the knife from the small of my back and cut them all to pieces, but I won’t. I keep control. I have other business to take care of today.

As the lift doors slide open I see the Intensive Care Unit stretch out before me. It’s different from the rest of the hospital: darker, warmer, and quieter. It feels safe. I step into its peace and allow the lift to fall away to rejoin the chaos. Immediately, I know which room she must be in, dutifully advertised by the armed police officer standing outside. I have anticipated it. Good. I’ll make good use of his uniform. Once I have that, I’ll be spending a few farewell moments with the little bitch. Then I’ll use the syringe I’ve brought to inject a bubble of air into her already fragile body and send her quietly to meet her maker. After all, who’s going to question a cop with a gun?

A nurse steps from a room into the corridor and looks me up and down dismissively, my uniform marking its wearer as a lower creature in the hospital hierarchy. I look down at the sheets I carry.

‘Laundry said you were running low,’ I say in the most effeminate voice I can muster.

‘News to me,’ is all the self-important slut can say for herself. ‘Laundry cupboard’s around the corner, outside the toilet.’

No please, no thank you. How I would like to teach her some manners. Another time maybe.

I follow her directions, acknowledging the armed pig with a nod of the head as I pass. I place the laundry in the cupboard then walk to the communal toilet and open the door. But I do not enter. Instead I contort my face to falsify an expression of concern and walk quickly and quietly towards the pig. I speak with the voice of a homosexual, keeping it low so the nurses can’t hear.

‘Excuse me. I think there’s something in the toilet you should see.’

He casts an eye over me, barely able to disguise the disgust on his face, as if he wants to swat me away like an annoying fly. Eventually he walks towards the toilet fearlessly, as all pigs with guns are, safe in the false knowledge they are untouchable. I hold the door open for him as he enters.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asks. It’s the last thing he’ll ever say. I pop the cheese wire around his throat and pull it nice and tight. He manages to get several fingers under the wire, a futile attempt to save himself. If need be I’ll cut through his fingers. I drag him silently into the middle of the toilet where he tries to reach for anything that will make a noise, anything that will raise the alarm. He realizes he can’t. He gasps for air, his rubber-soled shoes kicking quietly on the hard floor tiles. Eventually he falls still. There’s blood on his shirt and body armour, but nothing I can’t conceal. Should I kill the nurses? No. It would take too long. If they notice the pig’s change in appearance, they’ll just assume a change of guard.

Now, it’s time to right a wrong.