(1995) By Any Name (10 page)

Unwinding the strips of linen from Elizabeth’s eyes, he watched them grow large as she focused on the paramedic slumped beside her.

‘He’ll be fine when he wakes.’ West finished removing the linen strips from the rest of Elizabeth’s head but left the plaster covering her mouth. Taking the paramedic’s jacket he draped it over her shoulders, but left her hands tied beneath it. As an afterthought he removed the man’s trousers. Cutting the bonds on Elizabeth’s ankles he bundled the trousers over her bare legs, tucking her skirt into the waistband. They were too wide, but better that than freezing. The air temperature was low and he had seen hoarfrost icing the grass verges at the side of the road on the journey down.

He went through the equipment boxes, found a hypothermia blanket and wrapped it around the paramedic before going to the rear window and studying the security cameras panning the car park.

Most of them faced the main area. Only one covered the side section where they were parked, and that moved on its stand, scanning three areas in turn. He watched it for ten minutes, assimilating its rhythm.

When he had timed its movements, he looked around for a car. He settled on a modest saloon with an inbuilt security system that could be disabled within minutes by anyone who knew the location of the wires.

Pocketing his gun, he opened the back door of the ambulance. Keeping an eye on the arc of the security camera, he dived beneath the car he’d targeted the moment the lens turned. He had the alarm disabled in seconds, the lock open within minutes.

Still watching the camera, he returned to the ambulance. In his next journey he transferred three blankets and a pillow. Arranging the pillow and one blanket over the back seat, he went back for Elizabeth.

Pulling the coat high enough to conceal the plaster covering her mouth, he helped her to the door. She glanced back at the paramedic.

‘You see his chest moving? He’ll come around in an hour or two,’ he reassured. Gripping her upper arms he lowered her on to the road. Releasing her, he pushed her ahead of him. She would have fallen if he hadn’t kept a tight grip on her shoulder. Closing the doors on the ambulance, he guided her over to the car.

Bundling her into the back, he propped her head on the pillow and covered her to the chin with the other two blankets.

‘Comfortable?’

It was an odd question for a kidnapper to ask a hostage. If Elizabeth’s mouth hadn’t been taped she might have laughed, but as it was, she nodded resignedly, curled her legs and lay back on the seat.

Slamming the rear door shut, West climbed into the driver’s seat, hit the central locking device and sped off, back towards the motorway and London. If the police spent a day or two searching the south coast for him, it might give him the time he needed to reach Wales.

Chaloner’s face was bland, expressionless when he faced the lieutenant-colonel. ‘He must have slipped through the cordon, sir.’

‘How could he have?’ Heddingham raged. ‘We had every inch of this place covered.’

‘He thinks like us, he operates like us, and so far he’s been one step ahead of us all the way, sir,’ the captain replied. It had been a long night, and he’d spent the last hour checking the images recorded by the hospital’s CCTV cameras, most of which were indecipherable due to the smoke from the fire that had been set in the basement outside the hospital mortuary. He’d talked to firemen, checked reports from the gates, checked and double checked with the men covering the grounds and the wards, and drawn an absolute blank. Like Heddingham, he didn’t know how John West could have left the hospital, but he sensed that he had somehow done so.

‘Sir.’ Sergeant Price snapped to attention in the doorway of the improvised Command Cell.

‘Sergeant?’ Chaloner inquired.

‘Privates Evans and Jenkins’s bullet wounds are not serious, sir. Doctor says they’ll both be fit for duty within six weeks.’

‘Luck? Or our man’s talent as a marksman?’

‘Private Evans reported West took careful aim, sir.’

‘Pity Evans didn’t think to shoot back instead of standing idly by and watching our man escape.’

‘And the psychiatric consultant, Mr David Watson, has been found in the basement, sir’

Chaloner had been concerned about Watson ever since he’d disappeared around the time of Elizabeth Santer’s kidnapping.

‘He’s dead, sir,’ the sergeant said flatly. ‘A single bullet in the head. Just like the two soldiers in the ward.’

It began to rain when they left the outskirts of Brighton. A heavy, sleet-filled downpour that blurred the windscreen and chilled the car. West turned up the heating and wondered how much longer he could go on without food, drink or rest. Remembering the two cans in his pocket, he opened one and sipped a sickly sweet liquid that reminded him of rotting fruit.

Looking in the rear-view mirror, he saw Elizabeth watching him.

‘I have another can. I’ll try to stop soon and give it to you.’

Traffic flowed around them, heavier than it had been on the journey down. He tried to think of somewhere that would be safe to stop. A place where he could acquire food, clothes and money. He turned on to the motorway and headed for central London.

Londoners tended to keep themselves to themselves, so maybe he could turn off the ring road and find a day school. One with a canteen and a gym where they might find tracksuits. The problem would be hiding the car. Even if it hadn’t already been reported stolen, a car seen outside an empty school on a weekend was going to attract attention.

He kept to the slow lane, only occasionally overtaking. He’d discarded the surgical cap and the mask as soon as he’d left Brighton in an attempt to look as unobtrusive as the car he was driving.

Midday brought dismal winter twilight. He hit a ring road and turned off it at random, driving along street after street lined with anonymous houses. Rain continued to teem down heavy and blinding. Then he glimpsed railings and the concrete of a playground.

He checked in his mirror, the street was deserted. No sane person would venture out in this downpour unnecessarily.

Pinned to the twelve-foot high wire mesh that fenced in the school-yard was a notice.

THESE PREMISES ARE PATROLLED BY

SECURITY FORCES WITH GUARD DOGS.

He pressed the accelerator and drove on, but every public building carried a similar warning notice. He had no idea crime in the suburbs had escalated to such proportions. It was like America. Had he lived in the States? Was that why no one had answered the appeal for information about him?

He continued to drive aimlessly, by mid-afternoon he hit the main artery that led west out of London. He recalled that he’d been picked up somewhere on this motorway. Would he recognize the spot?

Rubbing his eyes in exhaustion, he stared at the petrol tank. It was low. He had no choice but to turn off at the next service station. It had a sign offering petrol, WC, food and telephones.

He parked on the fringe of the car park, some distance from the fast-food restaurant. He couldn’t risk staying long. The car might have been reported stolen by now but he had to close his eyes… just for just ten minutes.

He glanced into the back before winding his seat into the reclining position. Elizabeth’s eyes were closed. He assumed she was asleep. Stretching out his legs, he hid the gun in the folds of his suit and followed her example, sliding effortlessly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He woke with a start, cold and shivering and looked at the clock on the dashboard. He couldn’t see the numbers. Dark, moonless night had fallen while he’d slept. When another car drove up, its headlights lightened the gloom and he read four-thirty on the digital clock. Four-thirty morning or afternoon? He had no idea how long he’d slept. Then he saw the illuminated sign over the snack-bar flashing OPEN.

Afternoon.

Car doors slammed. A young couple left the estate car that had just driven in. They wore snug quilted jackets, thick trousers and boots. He envied them. The temperature was below freezing.

He checked Elizabeth. She looked as though she was still asleep. When he laid his hand against her cheek it was ice cold. He had to get her somewhere warm as soon as possible.

He studied the estate car. A plastic case was strapped to the roof-rack, and he could see suitcases, rucksacks and sleeping bags piled high on the back seat. Either going, or returning from holiday. A couple with no children who would be annoyed but not life-threateningly inconvenienced. He looked down at his surgical suit. Hardly an inconspicuous outfit to walk across the car park in, and risk being seen from the burger bar.

He gunned the engine and edged forward, pulling up within inches of the driver’s door on the estate car.

Winding down his window he was able to pick the lock under cover of the pounding rain. Climbing in, he slid across the seats and opened the passenger door.

Dropping out on to the ground he slipped beneath the car. A few minutes later he had unscrewed both number plates. There was no alarm. He exchanged the plates with those on the saloon he had stolen in Brighton. It aged the estate car by three years, but it was the model not the year that the police would be looking for.

He transferred Elizabeth from one car to the other, and turned the estate car’s ignition with the scalpel.

The needle on the petrol gauge hovered at maximum.

They must have filled up before turning into the service station. The case on the roof-rack was a giveaway, but he could take the next turning off the motorway and jettison it. A few more miles further on he’d find a secluded parking place where he could search the luggage for food and warm clothing.

The engine was still warm. He turned the heater full on so the fan belched hot air into the interior.

When he saw a brown lettered signpost, he turned off into a wooded country park. Given the dark and the downpour he wasn’t surprised to find it deserted.

Slowing his speed he bumped out of the car park and on to a rough track bordering a river. Under the inadequate shelter of skeletal trees he left the car and opened the box on the roof-rack. It was packed with bottles of French wine. Closing the box he heaved it down and slid it into the undergrowth. Then he unscrewed the roof-rack and threw it into the river.

He carried one of the suitcases from the back round to the front seat. It was filled with clean clothes; jeans, boxer shorts, socks, and a black turtle neck sweater. There was even a pair of trainers, shabby and worn, but comfortable. Stripping to the skin, he threw everything he had been wearing into the river before hurriedly dressing. He found a jacket, not as thick or as warm as the one the man had been wearing, but waterproof and serviceable.

Elizabeth was still asleep, her face flushed in the pale glow of the interior lamp. She felt warmer. He hoped it wasn’t the result of fever.

He discovered more wine in the boot; boxes of the stuff. The couple had obviously been on a shopping trip to France to stock up on Christmas drink – and food. French cheeses, tins of escargots, whole pates, lengths of garlic sausage and cervelat, smoked turkey and duck breast, French bread and pumpernickel, as well as brandy and beer. His mouth watered at the prospect. He’d been hoping to strike lucky, but he’d struck gold.

One small suitcase was full of women’s clothes.

After checking there weren’t any lights, or other signs of human habitation, he shook Elizabeth awake and cut through the bonds on her wrists. The first thing she did was pull the plaster from her mouth.

‘There’s a case of women’s clothes here. You can change in the back of the car, afterwards we’ll eat.’

He turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain and opened the estate’s rear door. The vehicle was packed full enough to attract the attention of a passing police car. He lifted out half the cases of wine and dumped them alongside the plastic case in the bushes.

‘Can I get out and stretch my legs?’

‘It’s wet and windy.’

‘I need to breathe real air.’ She clambered out and stood out in the rain, her head lifted towards the downpour. Even in the inadequate light he noticed the skin around her mouth was red from the plaster. The jeans, trainers and sweatshirt she was wearing looked too big for her but they were thicker than her skirt and thin sweater.

‘Where did you get the clothes?’

‘They came with the car. If you get back inside, I’ll organise some food.’

She picked up a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘I have to go behind the bushes.’

As she walked away, he called out, ‘That’s far enough.’

When she returned she climbed into the back and pulled the second blanket over her lap. He lifted a box of food into the front passenger seat and pressed down the central locking device before switching on the ignition to keep the heater running.

‘What do you want to eat?’

‘I’m too thirsty to think of food,’ she replied.

‘There’s wine if you don’t mind smashing the top off the bottle, beer, brandy, and this.’ He offered her the remaining can of soft drink he’d purloined from the hospital locker-room. She made a face.

‘Try a beer.’ He opened a can and handed it to her.

She drank half of it in one thirsty swallow, only to regret her greed when the alcohol hit her empty stomach and her head began to swim.

‘Do you have bread?’

‘Pumpernickel or French baguette?’

‘Baguette,’ she saw the cheese and added, ‘Brie.’

Forgetting the gun, she reached over his shoulder into the box and lifted out a full silver moon of her favourite cheese. ‘Have you a knife?’

‘To cut the cheese or stab me?’ he enquired dryly.

‘Sorry, stupid question.’ She unwrapped the Brie and broke off a segment.

Mouth full of garlic sausage and pumpernickel he leaned against the dashboard and watched her.

She finished a second lump of cheese, and snapped off a piece of sausage. ‘Can I have another beer?’ she asked after emptying her first can. He handed her one.

‘We’re going to Brecon.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘It’s the logical place to start.’

‘And if you don’t like what you find there?’