Experiment With Destiny (10 page)

“Thanks Giles.” But Giles had gone, his parting words hanging poignantly in the air.

Steven shivered with the cold and cursed his out-of-sync heating system, making a mental note to contact the landlord again before the weekend was over. There was something vaguely ominous about Giles’ ‘take care’…something altogether serious and out of character. But a moment later it was forgotten. He had scrambled about the lounge until he found his keypad and, flicking the television to Internet, dialled up Yell.com. Another moment later he was on the vidi-phone to The Stirling Arms in Canton.

“Hi, is Heggie there?” The man who answered looked far too young and fresh-faced to have served with the Army, never mind an elite regiment of commandos. The bar area seemed surprisingly empty for a Saturday night.

“No.” Abrupt and to the point. The barman waited, tapping his fingers impatiently though there was no apparent queue of customers.

“Is that The Stirling Arms?”

“No.”

“Sorry, I must have misdialled…”

“It used to be The Stirling Arms. We’re part of the Cock ‘n’ Bull chain now.” The barman grinned, as if the joke hadn’t yet worn off. “Under new management. They bought us out after Heggie had a stroke.”

“He’s dead?” Steven felt his heart sinking once again.

“No, he’s in that big private hospital…that place off Newport Road.”

“I know.” Steven thought for a moment. The barman tapped again. “You say he’s had a stroke, but can he still…you know…communicate?” The barman laughed.

“Driving the nurses mad, last I heard.”

“Great…fantastic…bye!” Steven hung up. It was after nine and, from memory, most hospitals did not welcome visitors at that time of night. Heggie would keep until the morning, he told himself. After all it was the weekend and he deserved some R&R.

Minutes later he had changed, grabbed his coat and was heading out the door, feeling he had well and truly earned his Saturday night pint after enduring a trip to the mortuary and lunch with Giles. He was determined to make up for his lunchtime abstinence. Besides which, he concluded, the pub was a damn sight warmer than his flat. As he set off through the rain his only regret was not having Menna’s number.

He felt positive again, with another lead to chase in his deepening mystery. And whatever Giles claimed, there would be a front page scoop in it. Steven could feel it in his bones. “Storm in a teacup,” he chuckled.

It was as he began to pace the few dozen yards from his communal front door to his local, on the corner, that he first caught sight of the gleaming black motorbike and its leather-clad rider, glistening in the rain. It turned into his road, its engine barely a purr, and rode slowly past, tyres splashing in the rain. The rider turned its head, as though studying him, though it was impossible to be sure as no face was visible behind the shadowy visor. The bike, which had no noticeable markings, seemed to stop as it drew level with the entrance to his flat. Steven stopped walking.

              A second later he heard it’s engine rev. With a glance over the shoulder, the rider and the bike were gone, no more than a noise in the distance. It was probably just coincidence…perhaps a boyfriend of a fellow tenant, Steven assured himself.

             
“Oh…and take care.” He remembered Giles’ parting words and began to wonder what else his contact, Elton, may have said. That night, for the first time in two years, Steven bought and smoked a packet of cigarettes.

* * *

VI

CARDIFF Royal Infirmary had been many things in its lifetime. It was currently a private hospital, part of the Glebe Healthcare Group, but its most recent title – Ysbyty Glebe Caerdydd – had failed to make an impact beyond the noticeboard on the wall outside and its listing in Yell.com. Even the bus driver had said: “Oh, the Royal Infirmary!” after Steven had spent a minute or two trying to describe its location.

              Private investment clearly did not extend to the exterior, Steven noted as he approached the reception area. Sunday morning started brightly but the sky had darkened significantly with sullen rain clouds by the time he reached the hospital. Perhaps it was the ancient red brick, coated with centuries of city grime and scarred by decades of neglect, but he suddenly though of snow. Handfuls of cold white powder, a crisp whiteness and a strange stillness. How long had it been since he had seen snow? The weathermen said it was the chemical content of the atmosphere that prevented snow from forming. Whatever the reason, his memories of snow were part of a long departed innocence. These days it rained. It always rained.

             
Security at Ysbyty Glebe Caerdydd was as lacking as external maintenance. Steven walked past the reception desk without stirring the slightest interest. His first contact with a member of staff came after several minutes of aimlessly wandering the ground floor corridors. He finally plucked up the courage to stop the next nurse he bumped into.

             
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Heggie,” Steven ventured, hoping the former SAS man had made as much of an impact with the nursing staff as the Cock ‘n’ Bull barman implied.

             
“Who are you?” the nurse snapped as if, by breaking his silence, Steven had set the hospital’s security on full alert.

             
“Steve…Steve Elan, a friend.” He hoped he would not have to reveal his newspaper credentials at this stage to get any further. “I’m looking for Heggie, old soldier, you know him?” The nurse’s expression seemed to soften.

             
“Careful who you’re calling old,” she pointed back down the corridor, indicating the direction he had come from. “Find your way back to the reception desk and take a left. It’s Ward Eight you’re after. He’s about half way down on the left.”

“Thanks.” Steve turned and retreated before she had time to think twice. He had made a mental note of her name tag, in case he was stopped at any point en route to Ward Eight. It could prove useful, he thought. In fact it would serve no purpose at all.

“But Nurse Davies said…”

             
“I don’t care about what Nurse Davies said,” the ward supervisor asserted. “My patients are about to be served their lunch.” After his initial impressions of the hospital’s security Steven had not expected it to be this difficult. From one extreme to the other, he mused. “You can come back between 2pm and 4pm or between 6pm and 8pm. Those are our visiting times.” Ward Eight’s supervisor was probably the only one in the building who stuck rigidly to the rules, he thought.

             
“Look, I’m sorry. I really am. I should have checked first, I know.” The supervisor was glaring at him, clearly unimpressed with his apology. “But I do need to see Heggie now. It’s very important.” He heard the clink of plates behind him and glanced around to see the meal trolley arriving.

             
“It’s not so important it can’t wait until this afternoon!” she snapped.

             
“Please, just five minutes,” he begged.

             
“No!” she insisted. “After lunch! Now if you don’t leave I shall be forced to summon security.” Steven wondered if security might be anywhere near as effective as this woman.”

             
“That won’t be necessary.” The voice growled like cigarettes and whisky personified. “I’m not hungry today.” Steven detected a strong flavour of the Highlands about the accent. “I fancy a stroll instead.”

             
“But Heggie…” The supervisor was suddenly on the back foot for the first time since Steven encountered her. “…you must eat! And I know about your…strolls.”

             
“Ah, stop fretting about my health.” The owner of the gravely voice grinned up at the imposing woman. “Anyone’d think you was a nurse!” Heggie, who was neither as old nor as tall as Steven had imagined, clutched an arm in one hand and, leaning on a walking stick for support with the other, guided him back toward the reception. “I trust you do have some smokes on you,” he muttered beneath his breath as he limped away from the supervisor.

“Sure.” They said nothing further until they were approaching the reception desk. Steven had assumed they were heading outside when a sharp tug propelled him toward a side room. Once inside, Heggie closed the door firmly behind him.

              “They call this the day room,” he said in his low growl. “Only place we’re allowed to smoke.” He was a surprisingly slightly built man, almost frail in his pyjamas and towelling dressing gown, but there seemed little evidence of a serious stroke other than the limp.

The room was not an original part of the ageing Victorian hospital but a conservatory-style extension added at a much later stage. Several of the glass panels were open, providing a chilling draft but denying the rain access. There were several battered armchairs, bearing little in common with each other, and a bench. Two ashtrays, overflowing with ash and butts, nestled on a low mock wood coffee table. Steven noticed the once white uPVC frames had stained yellow with tar and he remembered why he had quit smoking.

“Crash your smokes then pal!” Heggie demanded. “Then you can start telling me who the hell you are and what you want with me.”

“Of course. Sorry.” He fumbled in his coat pocket for his packet. There were three cigarettes left. “Here.” He offered one, silently debating how to begin. “I’m Steve…Steve Elan. I’m a journalist with the Echo.” He extended his new cheap plastic lighter. “I need your help.”

Heggie, cigarette lit and clamped between his lips, said nothing but limped toward one of the armchairs and settled in it. As soon as he had relinquished his crutch it was apparent the stroke had taken a higher toll than it first seemed. The hand he had used to grip the walking stick dangled by his side. He made no effort to uncurl his seemingly frozen fingers. And, when he spoke again, Steven noticed that the right side of his mouth, the same side as the hand, did not open, as though that section of his jaw was permanently clenched shut. Steven had mistakenly assumed it was entirely Heggie’s Scottish accent that made him sound the way he did.

“You’re a journalist,” he said in a tone of contempt. “Why the fuck should I help you?”

“I think I might be in danger,” began Steven. It was a bold strategy but the only one he could think of that might work. “because of something I’ve seen.” Heggie drew heavily on his cigarette and stared through the windows at the rain.

“I’m a pub landlord, not a policeman,” he spoke quietly.

“I know you were once in the SAS…the Special Air Service. I think what I’ve seen might have something to do with that.” Heggie said nothing, did not even look around. He gave no clue that he knew the significance of what Steven was saying. “There was an accident on Friday, a car crash, on Western Avenue. I was there.” Steven lit his own cigarette and filled his lungs. “I saw three dead people who were pulled from a government car…a military car.” He exhaled. “But later the police said the three victims were waste-dwellers, and that the car was stolen. They even switched the bodies.” Heggie glanced around, looking incredulous. “I went to the mortuary yesterday to check. They were different bodies.”

             
“This sounds a wild and fanciful tale to me.” Steven produced the medal from his pocket and stepped up to the armchair. He held it out so it caught the light.

             
“Does this mean anything to you?” Heggie studied it for a moment as Steven turned it slowly between his fingers. He was certain the former soldier’s eyes flashed with curiosity but, an instant later, any sign of interest was gone. “I found it on the roadside, near the bodies.”

             
“I still don’t see what any of this has got to do with me. I’m a pub landlord, for fuck’s sake. I don’t know who told you I was in the…what’d ya call it?”

             
“SAS…look, Heggie, it’s pointless pretending. I know you were in the SAS. You’ve got a big collection of SAS stuff. I was even told you’re the regimental historian. I need your…”

             
“You’re wrong,” said Heggie firmly. “Whoever told you has given you duff information. I was in the Army…but never the SAS. Okay, so I have heard of them. But it’s not me, pal.” He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, pushed himself to his feet with his good hand and looped his numb fingers around the crook of his walking stick. “Sorry to disappoint you, sonny, but thanks for the smoke. Best be headin’ back.”

             
For a moment or two Steven believed him, believed it was all a mistake, that Giles had got it wrong and, once again, a lead was turning into a dead end. But he was not prepared to give this lead up so easily. It was worth one last try.

             
“What about these?” he demanded, holding out the three photographic printouts as Heggie brushed past him. “Do you recognise any of them? These were the people who died in that crash, the real victims.” Heggie glanced…but it was enough. This time his face betrayed him.

“Jesus Christ!” The former soldiers eyes were wide with shock. “Eleanor!”

              “Eleanor who?” Steve pressed, seizing the moment.

“What?” Heggie looked up at him, rapidly regaining his composure. “I can’t help you, really I can’t.” Steven thought he saw a tear in his eye. “I’ve got to go. You’ve seen the ward matron. She’s a monstrous woman!”

              “Eleanor who? And what happened at Abamae?” Heggie limped toward the door, deliberately ignoring him. “They know I know. I’m in danger. And they’ll know I’ve been here, too.” He hoped he sounded convincing and not merely paranoid. “I need your help. They’re trying to cover this up.”

             
“I’ve said, I can’t help you. I don’t know anything about Abamae.”

             
“But you know Eleanor!”

             
“Leave me alone!” Heggie’s hand was on the door handle.

             
“I’ll tell them you told me anyway…about Eleanor, the secret operation at Abamae.” Heggie span to face him, his face reddened with rage.

             
“You bastard! You devious bastard!” he spat. They heard the sharp clip of footsteps approaching. Steven knew he was running out of time. Heggie was trembling, the emotion in his voice stretching it to little more than a whisper. “Why’d you fuckin’ come here? Why couldn’t you just leave it all be?”

             
“Please,” he begged.

             
“I can’t tell you about Abamae. You’d know that if you knew about the SAS. I can’t tell you anything.” The footsteps were close now. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop stickin’ yer nose in. Let it rest.”

             
“Please, Heggie.” Steven held the printout up, the one of the dead woman. “The police say she’s Sally Redmountain, a car thief, a waste-dweller. They say this is Sally Red…”

             
“Eleanor!” The door opened. “Corporal Eleanor Gusso, 22nd Regiment Special Air Service! She was not a thief!” Heggie sobbed. “You bastard!”

             
“What the hell’s going on here?” It was Nurse Davies. “Heggie! Are you alright?” Steven did not like the look she shot him. “I think I better call security!”

             
“It’s alright nurse.” Heggie was calm, in control again. “Mr Elan’s on his way. It was a bit of bad news, about a friend of mine, but he’s on his way now.” Heggie fixed him with a stare. “Aren’t you!” It was not a question.

             
“Yes.” Steven knew it was pointless trying to talk Heggie, never mind Nurse Davies, into allowing him to stay and he had no desire to meet the hospital’s security team who would almost certainly summon the police. “I’m going now. Sorry to have bothered you.”

             
Steven stepped past them both, cigarette still in hand. They said nothing more as he strode quickly along the corridor, past the reception desk and through the exit. Relieved to be outside in the rain and glad to have, at last, a name, he sighed deeply. It was better than just a name. It was the name Gusso and it was highly unlikely there were many of them per square mile of Cardiff.

Flicking his cigarette butt toward the roadside, he decided to walk into town rather than linger at the bus stop – in case Nurse Davies decided to call the police. Only when he felt he had put sufficient distance between himself and Ysbyty Glebe Caerdydd did he slow his pace and glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see the police arriving. There was no sign of them. He did, however, catch a glimpse of a dark black motorcycle turning off Newport Road into the street running alongside the hospital. After an initial stab of stomach-twisting paranoia he calmed himself with the knowledge that black motorcycles, the favoured transport of despatch riders were common in the city.