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
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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.
22
Sean’s siren screamed at the ever-present choking traffic in the streets of Hammersmith as he drew closer and closer to Charing Cross Hospital and Sally. The blue light magnetically attached to the roof of his unmarked car gave other drivers little and often too late a warning of his scarcely controlled approach. If he crashed now he had no back-up, no one to continue the race towards Sally. Even in his fear and panic he knew he should have contacted the local police and had them cover the hospital, but how long would it take to explain his fears? How long would it take to get authority to deploy further armed guards? And what if he was wrong? What if this was Hellier’s last hurrah, to make him look a fool? To discredit him as a detective? No, he had to do this himself. Donnelly would organize back-up, do the sensible thing, but Sean had to come alone. Right or wrong, he had to come alone. Somehow he knew everything would end soon. Everything.
As he swung into the hospital car park he killed the siren and lights, suddenly feeling the need for stealth. Ignoring the signs for the main entrance, he made straight for the Accident and Emergency Department. He parked the car in an ambulance bay and abandoned it, keys in ignition and door open.
Sean ran as quickly as he dared through the swing doors. He didn’t know the hospital as well as he did the hospitals of south-east London and the East End, but he remembered where he’d seen the lifts the night Sally was first brought here.
He jabbed the arrow button to summon the lift and waited, beyond impatient, for the metal boxed carriage to arrive, while studying the hospital floor guide for Intensive Care. He found it just as the lift arrived. Without waiting for the doors to open fully, he leapt in and punched the floor he needed with the side of his fist. Thank God there was no one else in the lift, no one to slow his ascent to Sally. Two floors short of his destination the lift suddenly stopped and doors slid open painfully slowly. A gaggle of chatting nurses stepped towards the entrance. Sean flashed the warrant card he already held in his hand.
‘Sorry,’ he almost shouted. ‘Police business. Use another lift.’ He jabbed the lift’s button and the doors closed on a mix of protests and disbelieving giggles.
Finally the lift drew to a smooth halt at the ICU floor. The doors silently opened, the warmth and silence of the unit wrapping around Sean; mechanical whirs and beeps that appeared so reassuring.
As Sean stepped from the lift he saw the armed uniform officer standing outside what he assumed would be Sally’s room. The officer had his back to the wall; Sean presumed this was so he could see in both directions along the corridor. His eyes were immediately drawn to the automatic pistol on the officer’s thigh, as any policeman’s eyes would have been. The officer’s flat hat was pulled low over his forehead, military style, almost totally hiding his upper facial features. Sean guessed he would have been an ex-soldier, a guess made all the more likely to be true by the macho moustache the officer proudly wore. Sean’s eyes darted around the unit, checking for other signs of life. Two ICU nurses busied themselves quietly with another ravaged soul in a room two doors away from Sally’s.
Sean held his warrant card aloft. ‘DI Corrigan. I need to see DS Jones.’ The uniform nodded his permission as Sean entered through the already open door. He walked slowly towards Sally, already fearing the worst, his heart pounding out of control, making it difficult to breathe; his stomach felt painful and knotted. But as he drew closer he became aware of the comforting, rhythmic sounds emanating from the machines that surrounded Sally. Heart-rate monitors, pulse monitors, blood-pressure monitors all reassuring him that she was alive. Even the ugly, impossibly big tube that snaked into Sally’s throat, feeding her oxygen, somehow made Sean feel at ease. He finally inhaled a long breath and blew it out through pursed lips.
He placed a hand on Sally’s forehead and gently stroked her hair back. He was struggling for something to say when he suddenly felt a presence behind him, some change in the atmosphere of the room. He spun on his heels, heart rate soaring, adrenalin already beginning to prepare his body for combat.
‘Bloody hell,’ Sean said as he saw Donnelly step into the room. ‘You got here fast.’
‘Aye. I hitched a ride with the uniform lads in a response car, blues-and-twos all the way. No expense spared.’ Donnelly’s tone changed. ‘Is she okay?’
‘I think so,’ Sean replied.
‘Care to tell me what’s going on? Why we are here? Why we let Hellier walk away a free man again?’
Sean opened his mouth to explain, but no explanation came forth, only a question. ‘Where’s the guard? The armed guard? Did you see him?’
‘I didn’t see a guard,’ Donnelly answered. ‘Just you.’
‘No. You got here right after I did.’ The fear was back again, the knot in his stomach worse than ever. ‘There was a guard outside this room.’
‘Okay,’ Donnelly said calmly. ‘I believe you, guv’nor. Christ, he’s probably gone for a piss.’
‘The toilet,’ said Sean. ‘I have to check the toilet.’
‘Why?’ Donnelly asked. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I know who the killer is,’ Sean answered, already racing along the corridor, searching for the toilet, shouting now. ‘He’s here. I know he’s here.’
‘Hellier’s the killer,’ Donnelly argued. ‘But you let him go.’
Donnelly’s words would have stung Sean, but he wasn’t listening, he was frantically searching for the toilet and the uniformed officer. At last he found the communal toilet and threw the door open. Three sinks lined one side and three toilet cubicles the other. Only one of the cubicle doors was shut. Sean walked slowly into the room.
‘Hello,’ he called to no one. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan. I need to know if anyone is in here … Is anyone in here?’ Silence. He moved to the closed cubicle and placed his palm on the door. The small square of green told Sean the door wasn’t locked. Gently he pushed and the door swung open.
Sean