Читать книгу Best of British Crime 3 E-Book Bundle - Mark Sennen, Paul Finch, Mark Sennen - Страница 34

When the two Greater Manchester Police detectives emerged from the private room attached to the recovery ward, they had a young doctor with them, though it was only the white coat and stethoscope that revealed the doctor’s profession. Aside from that, he wore jeans and an open collar shirt, and thanks to the long hours he’d worked, his jaw was covered in stubble. By contrast, the two detectives were fastidiously neat. The detective superintendent, whose name was Smethurst, was a stone-faced, early middle-aged man with cropped, iron-grey hair and a clipped grey moustache. He wore a shirt and tie under his jacket, none of which were even creased despite the lateness of the hour. His compatriot, Detective Inspector Jarvis, was a woman about ten years his junior. She wore flat shoes, a trouser suit, and carried a shoulder-bag. Her hair, which was mouse-brown, was cut almost as severely as that of her boss.

She beckoned to the two uniformed constables – PCs Hallam and Belshaw – who were waiting on the other side of the passage. They were both young men, not long in the job, still probationers in fact, and they came over smartly; after weeks of checking town centre properties and handing out parking tickets, they were eager to get involved with some ‘real’ policework.

‘So what are the chances of us interviewing him tomorrow?’ Detective Superintendent Smethurst asked, glancing back into the room, where a blanketed shape lay flat on an orthopaedic bed. One of the patient’s arms was attached to a drip, the other to a bank of bleeping monitors.

The doctor shrugged. ‘Give it a try … why not?’

‘So he’ll be fit?’

‘Possibly, but he suffered quite a beating. Apparently he said something to a nurse about one of your lot being responsible …?’

‘That’s one of the things we want to speak to him about. We didn’t manage to get much out of him earlier on. Nothing that made sense, anyway.’

The doctor half-smiled. ‘I’m not sure what you expected, given the state he was in.’

Smethurst remained po-faced. ‘This is a murder enquiry, Doctor. So all I need from you is a straight answer. Will he be fit to be interviewed tomorrow – yes or no?’

The doctor shrugged again. ‘It’s hard to say, but I think it’s worth your while calling around at some point. The sedatives will have worn off by then.’

Apparently pleased to have been as ambiguous as he possibly could without actually obstructing them, the young doctor sauntered away. Smethurst gazed sourly after him, before moving back into the room to look long and hard at the unconscious patient.

DI Jarvis turned to the waiting PCs. ‘What time you two on ’til?’ she asked.

‘Ten officially, boss,’ Belshaw said. ‘But we’ve got overtime ’til three. Nights are taking over then.’

‘No nodding off, eh?’

‘No problem, boss.’

‘I mean it, lads. This bloke may just have come out of surgery, but he played his part in a vicious bar-fight yesterday which was the prelude to one of the nastiest murders I’ve ever seen. So we’re watching him around the clock until he’s fit to be interviewed. We don’t want anyone coming in to have a word with him, and we certainly don’t want him leaving here. You nod off and something happens, you’ll be on the dole this time next week … clear?’

They nodded, still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

‘There’s a coffee machine down there.’ She pointed along the otherwise deserted passage. ‘Sup plenty. I don’t care if you’re pissing for England by morning.’

Again, they nodded.

‘I’ll say it one more time, lads, this bloke could end up being a crucial witness. So no one gets in to see him unless it’s one of the nurses or doctors. That’s no visitors, no cleaners … not even any bobbies unless you know for sure who they are. In fact, even if you are sure, you get on the blower and speak to us first. Whatever time it is.’

Detective Superintendent Smethurst reappeared, car keys in hand. He was clearly uncomfortable about leaving the hospital – even more so when he eyed the pair of youngsters who’d be standing on guard in his absence – but he was nearly fifty, and the extra-long shift he’d put in was finally getting the better of him.

‘Sorted?’ he asked Jarvis.

‘Reckon so, Sir.’

He glanced again at the uniforms. ‘If there’s anything suspicious at all …’

‘We’ll call it in, Sir,’ Belshaw said. ‘Guaranteed.’

But once the detectives had left, and despite their genuine enthusiasm, it wasn’t long before the two uniforms were starting to wilt through inactivity. It was now close on twelve, and both constables were surprised at how quickly and effectively the hospital – such a hive of frenetic activity during the day – had closed down on itself. A deep quiet seemed to fill the entire extensive building. Most unnecessary lights had been switched off, and there were minimal signs of life down at the recovery ward admissions desk. Occasionally a member of staff would move back and forth down there, but that was all.

PC Belshaw was the first to start feeling the weight of this tedium. He was seated outside the door to the private room, but was already regretting the measures he’d taken to make himself more comfortable. He’d removed his helmet, and then his anorak, draping the waterproof garment over the back of his chair and slumping against it. As a result, sleep was creeping up on him and he constantly had to shake himself and sit upright again. Hallam was posted inside the room, so there was no possibility of lively conversation – not that there ever was with Hallam anyway.

Eventually, Belshaw got up and tried to walk around. He avoided strolling down to the ward-proper. The night staff would be chatty enough – of the two he’d met, one, a young trainee, Nurse Goldenway, was particularly attractive – but he didn’t want to get too distracted from what he was supposed to be doing here, so he headed in the other direction.

He passed the vending machine, which stood alone with a single light shining down on it, and reached a T-junction. On the right, the passage ran fifty yards to an exit door, which appeared to be firmly closed. On the left, it receded into dimness, and, aside from a single red emergency light, its farthest end lay almost completely invisible. Several darkened doorways opened off this, but there was no sign of movement. Belshaw was about to head back to his post, when he heard a sound – only brief, like a click or snap. He held his position, listening. He hadn’t been here long enough to apprise himself of the hospital’s layout; he didn’t know whether anyone was supposed to be down that left-hand passage or not, but the absence of working lights suggested that nothing official was going on.

He advanced slowly, still listening, passing a door on his left, which stood open but revealed nothing except a small bathroom with a toilet and washbasin. Then he heard the sound again, another distinct click, followed by a further two in rapid succession. After that there was more silence.

The sounds had appeared to emit from the open door now approaching on Belshaw’s right. He moved towards it and glanced through. The room beyond, which was about thirty yards by twenty, stood in deep gloom; most of its corners were hidden in shadow, but its central area was tiger-striped by frosty moonlight filtering through the partly open Venetian blind on a central window. It looked like a treatment area, but was not currently being used: two rows of three empty beds, distinguishable only in vague outline, faced each other from opposing walls.

Belshaw was about to turn and leave, when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He spun around: at the farthest end of the room, another door stood open. This appeared to connect with a small annexe bedroom – his eyes were now attuning to the dimness, and he could just make out the foot of another empty bed in there. As he peered at it, there was more movement: a shadow flickered on the annexe bedroom’s wall.

‘Hello?’ he said, unsure why he was speaking quietly – he was so new to his status as police officer that he hadn’t fully acclimatised to it yet; it still didn’t come naturally to him to emanate authority. Cursing himself as a rookie, he spoke more loudly. ‘Is somebody in there? Because I don’t think you’re supposed to be.’

There was no response, except for more shadowy movement on the annexe wall. Unconsciously fingering the baton at his belt, Belshaw walked forward. The shadow moved again – a sharp, flirting motion from one side of the room to the other. There were more sounds: more clicks and now creaks, as if weight was being furtively adjusted.

The bristles on Belshaw’s neck stiffened. They knew he was here. Which meant there was only one course of action.

He approached the door swiftly, drawing the baton from his belt. As he rounded into the room, his other hand clamped on his radio – only for him to find the room empty. He halted, confused. There was nothing in here at all. Not even any side furniture. The bed was just a bare frame, a skeleton. He glanced at the window, the top panel of which was open. Another slight breeze intruded, and the Venetian blind hanging there clicked and creaked as it swung; more of its shadows flickered across the walls.

Feeling a prize fool, Belshaw backed into the dimly lit treatment area and turned.

Someone was standing directly behind him.

He half-shouted.

In return, the slim, blonde figure in the blue hospital scrubs yelped.

Then she laughed; a delightful cheeky titter. Belshaw also laughed, though in his case more from embarrassment.

‘My God, constable,’ Nurse Goldenway said. She’d evidently just collected two clean urine bottles from a side cupboard, and hadn’t noticed that somebody was nearby. ‘My God … you gave me a turn.’

‘Yeah … sorry …’

‘Like graveyards at night, these places, aren’t they?’

‘Erm … yeah.’

She nodded at his drawn baton. ‘And what were you planning to do with that?’

‘Oh, nothing …’

‘You know what I’d be wondering if it was mine?’

‘Sorry, what …?’

‘Where do the batteries go?’ She winked, then turned and bustled prettily out, leaving Belshaw feeling strangely abashed.

‘Yeah, right,’ he said, sliding the baton back into his belt. ‘Course.’

If nothing else at least he was wide awake, he thought, as he wandered back to his post. And now he’d ensure that he stayed that way. He stuck his head into the private room, where Hallam was half-dozing in the armchair just inside the door.

‘Brew?’ Belshaw asked.

Hallam jerked upright, but on seeing it was only his partner, nodded and rubbed at his sallow face. ‘Yeah, yeah … that’d be good. Ta.’

Belshaw walked back along the passage. Thanks to the light over the top of the vending machine, he was able to find the right change, insert it and then wait patiently while milk and boiling water gurgled into the two paper cups. He took them from the machine – and then noticed that the curtains drawn on an alcove opposite were fluttering.

This time he hesitated before responding, but finally, with a sigh, he approached. He was here to do a job, after all. With two coffee cups in his hands, he had to use his elbows to draw the curtains back. Beyond, he saw the open entrance to what looked like a storage facility. It was a closet-sized room with steel cabinets down one side and a rack of surgical gowns down the other. There was a window in its facing wall, wide open.

Belshaw moved wearily towards it, bending down to peek through. On the other side, he saw a small garden, a little bedraggled – as if it didn’t get much attention. On the far side of that, dim lights were visible in other sections of the hospital. Yet again, all was still and extremely quiet. Deciding that now he was taking things a little too far, he rose up again and turned – and was hit in the face by a gloved fist that was more like a mallet of flesh and bone.

With one punch, it crushed his nose to pulp and shattered both his cheekbones.

Five minutes later, Hallam was still struggling to stay awake. He continually readjusted his position but it was having progressively less effect. When he finally heard the heavy feet tramping back down the corridor and into the room, he thanked his lucky stars. Hot coffee – that would do the trick. He looked up, smiling, and just had time to glimpse two figures in green surgical gowns, glaring maniacally down at him over masks stretched taut across noses and mouths, before receiving that scalding hot coffee right in his eyes.

Hallam didn’t get a chance to scream before PC Belshaw’s baton smashed down on his cranium. Not once, but two, three, four times; on each occasion with greater savagery, so that when he finally dropped from the chair his blood crossed the entire room in a thick, flowing stream.