Seizure (14 page)

‘Unh,' Rik grunted, exhaustion creeping over him like a shroud. He drove Henry to the front of the hospital and Henry swung his legs out of the car. ‘It's a long walk home,' he said again.

‘I'll be OK. Sleep's for wusses.' He was about to push himself out when Rik said, ‘That's your kid sister, isn't it?'

Henry followed Rik's line of vision. Emerging through the revolving door was in fact his sister Lisa. She looked tired, but still breathtakingly gorgeous, even Henry had to admit. She turned towards the car park, not having spotted Henry.

For a brief moment, Henry considered letting her get on her way. The thought of an encounter with her at this time of day was almost too much to bear. Rik immediately pounced on his hesitation. ‘You gonna shout her?'

Henry grunted, then called her name. She spun around, surprised, but at least her face showed pleasure.

‘Henry!'

‘You been here all night?' he asked as she trotted across to meet him. They embraced stiffly.

‘Mostly.'

‘Not absolutely necessary.'

‘Just trying to do my bit. I know you're busy.' She bent a little and looked into the car, smiling at Rik. ‘Hey there, you,' she said like a teenager. Henry gave him a warning scowl that the DI, for some reason, didn't seem, or want, to notice.

‘Hi Lisa, you OK?'

‘Yeah – tired, but good.'

Henry edged a couple of inches sideways to put himself between them, not sure which one he was trying to protect, or if he was trying to protect himself. ‘How is Mum?'

‘Er, OK,' Lisa said, bringing her attention back to Henry. ‘Stable, but she had a bad night, which is why I stayed. She's sleeping now.' Her eyes constantly tried to find Rik.

Henry heard the driver's door open. Rik got out, stood up and leaned nonchalantly on the car roof. Henry felt a surge of anger, but could not understand why. Clearly these two were going to end up bonking each other's brains out and there would be nothing Henry could do about it.

‘Can I give you a lift back?' Rik asked.

‘No, it's OK – got my own car.'

‘Course you have, how foolish of me.'

Henry speared another look at Rik and saw the DI's expression had morphed to pick-up mode, with the lopsided grin – which Henry was certain he'd pinched from him – designed to melt any woman's heart. At that moment, Henry gave up the ghost. He could tell the deal had been done. It was one of those unwritten moments and Henry was now powerless.

‘I'm going to go and see Mum,' he said to Lisa. To Rik, he said, ‘See you later – take your own transport across and I'll meet you at Rawtenstall nick at midday.'

Rik flipped him a cheeky-chappy salute and Henry started to walk across to the hospital, head shaking angrily, kicking at imaginary stones.

Then he heard Rik shout, ‘Jesus Christ, he's got a gun.'

Henry turned, and saw Rik pointing at the hospital. Henry spun back as a man slid out of the revolving door some twenty metres ahead of Henry, a pistol held down his flank, which he raised and steadied on his left hand and aimed in Henry's direction.

Things started to happen in a swirl of slow motion, as they often do in times of great stress and action. Henry shouted something that came out of his mouth in a primeval roar. His whole body twisted back around as his innate protective instincts kicked in. With huge force he pushed Lisa away. She screamed something unintelligible and staggered to one side. Henry went with her, covering her with the bulk of his body.

The gunman fired twice, a double tap.

As Henry drove himself into Lisa he was aware of the rear side window of Rik's car disintegrating, of Rik's hands flying up as though he was doing a backstroke and howling in agony. And then Henry was on top of Lisa, grabbing her and forcing both of them to roll down the grass banking which angled down to the main road in front of the hospital. They completed about four three-sixty-degree rolls before coming to a crunching stop on the footpath. Henry's elbows connected with the concrete with a bone-jarring smack.

He pushed himself up.

‘Stay here,' he ordered her.

He crouched for a moment, his eyes searching, and then uttered a curse when he saw the writhing figure of Rik Dean down by the driver's door. One – or both – of the bullets had struck him.

Henry scrambled back to him, his shoes slipping on the dewy grass, keeping his head low.

‘I've been hit, Henry.' Irk clutched the left side of his ribcage, just below his heart. Blood covered his fingers.

‘Hang in,' Henry gasped. He rose to his haunches and took a glance through the car windows, fully expecting the gunman to be there, coming in for the kill. He rose another few inches, holding on to the front wing of the car to steady him. The man had gone.

The travel iron had heated up nicely.

Steve Flynn, unable to move other than fractionally, clamped his teeth together and swallowed repeatedly as terror gripped him. He was unable to speak, as duct tape had now been wrapped over his mouth. He braced himself for the agony he knew was coming. He was now sitting on the dressing-table stool which the attackers had brought into the bathroom.

The guy with the iron tilted it slightly and spat on it. The saliva sizzled with bubbles and a hiss.

‘Oh, nice and hot.'

Flynn was no coward, but the thought of being touched by the iron made him groan, writhe and shake.

‘God, you're pitiful,' the other man said. He went to stand behind Flynn, then grabbed his head, circling it with his arms, and held Flynn steady. ‘There, there, mate, this won't be too bad. It's just a bit of a message to you about how bad things could get if you don't cooperate.'

The guy with the iron approached. He had a crooked smile on his face. His eyes burned with pleasurable anticipation. The iron and the saliva still sizzling on it transfixed Flynn.

He writhed powerfully, but to no avail. He was trapped and was about to be tortured.

‘How about a nipple?' the man with the iron asked his colleague.

‘Oh, God yes, a nipple would be great.'

‘I'm chock full of ideas.'

He stood in front of Flynn, then jammed the iron down on Flynn's right nipple.

There was a sizzle and the smell of burning flesh as the man pressed the iron hard into Flynn's skin, then tore it away with a flourish and a ripping of melting skin.

Agony coursed through Flynn's arched body and the man holding him from behind had difficulty keeping him down as he contorted and fought. The scream behind the tape was muted, but awful.

The last thing Flynn heard before passing out was another scream – was it his own? he wondered – and then a deafening ringing noise. He put it all down to his body's reaction to the hell it had just endured.

EIGHT

‘
T
his,' Henry Christie said irritably, ‘is a sideshow I can do without.' He pushed himself up from the table and paced the room. ‘I've got a double murder to run and on top of that, some bastard took a pot shot at me and my DI and wounded him, something which may or may not be connected to the murders. And here I am, waiting for the production of an untrustworthy criminal who is, I'm sure, scamming us.'

He returned to his seat and sat down heavily, looking around the high-windowed interview room at Lancashire Prison, simmering nicely.

Deakin was in conference with his solicitor, Barry Baron, a conflab that had been going on too long now.

Henry inspected his watch. He swore under his breath, then glanced sideways at Naomi who sat primly next to him. ‘Sorry – a lot on my plate all of a sudden.'

‘I understand . . . but you also understand why I need someone like you to take this on, don't you?'

‘Yeah.' Henry picked up on the phrase ‘someone like you' and wondered why he hadn't tried to get another superintendent to do this, or maybe delegated it to a chief inspector. But he knew that his colleagues' workload was just as horrendous as his own, and he also had an inability to delegate. Not necessarily a good managerial trait, but Henry often operated on the maxim that if you wanted a job doing, it was best to do it yourself . . . Plus the Deakin scenario intrigued him. Just what was the slimy bastard up to?

Henry shuffled out his mobile phone, ignoring the signs clearly stating that their use was prohibited. The signal came and went anyway, but he dialled.

‘Jerry? Henry Christie . . .' Henry heard the man at the other end of the line utter a muted groan. ‘How are you getting on with the job I gave you earlier?' Henry listened, uttered a few ‘Uh-huhs' then said, ‘Got something else for you too.' He outlined some further thoughts before the signal went. Although he stood up and moved around the room, holding his phone high and at different angles, it refused to be found again. ‘Shit.' He knew his language was crude and said ‘Sorry' to Naomi again before sitting next to her. ‘Where is he?' he demanded, annoyed. He realized that he was not in the best frame of mind to be doing this right now, but Johnny Cain's looming trial meant it was something that needed to be done PDQ.

He sat back, closed his eyes, breathed in, then exhaled a long breath to steady himself, get some equilibrium; then he sat forward and leaned on his elbows, his head in his hands, and his tired mind whirled back to the shooting outside the hospital . . .

He clearly saw the man with the gun emerging from the revolving door. He'd been wearing a balaclava over his face and a black zip-up top, jeans and trainers, and had fingerless gloves on. Only when Henry was sure he'd done a runner did he rise up from behind the car to his full height, his breath tight in his chest.

‘Oh God, oh God.' Behind him Lisa had scampered up the banking to Irk and was kneeling by his side, his head on her lap, a terrified expression on her face.

‘Henry, he's been shot.'

‘I know.'

‘Hell, Henry – every time I come on a job with you,' Irk moaned and winced.

‘At least you've still got your sense of humour.' Henry bent down next to him, his eyes still searching, not convinced the gunman had actually gone. ‘Where's a nurse when you need one?'

‘I'd prefer a doctor, please.'

People began to appear on the scene. At least Irk didn't have far to go to A&E . . .

Henry rubbed his eyes and reached for the insipid coffee in a plastic mug one of the prison guards had supplied him. It was awful stuff, the colour of grey slate with a taste of dust to it. ‘Times like this you realize the good side to cocaine,' he said and smiled at Naomi, who reached out and touched his shoulder.

‘You must be exhausted.'

‘Just this side of delirious. If I start making stupid errors, dig me in the ribs, will you?'

‘No problem.'

Henry sat back, tilted his head, exhaling through puffed-out cheeks . . .

A paramedic team that just happened to be pulling in for a break had taken Irk to casualty minutes later. Once Henry had ensured he was being treated, he returned to the scene, got on his mobile and started acting like a general, ordering in the troops. Within half an hour there was a Crime Scene Investigation team covering the scene, four firearms officers scouring the hospital and grounds for the offender, a detective reviewing CCTV footage and various uniformed officers of all ranks tasked with jobs. He was going through the motions, didn't truly expect to turn up anything, but it had to be done. When a local DI turned up, bedraggled after being rudely heaved from his pit, Henry handed him the whole shebang and went back to A&E.

‘They're pretty sure the bullet just skimmed my rib cage,' Irk told him dreamily, now stuffed with painkillers. ‘I was lucky . . . two inches east and I'd be dead, shot through the heart. You really are a bad guy to hang out with.' Twice before, Irk had come a cropper while out on jobs with Henry. Once a psycho had stabbed him, another time he'd been shot in the leg by a desperate drug dealer.

‘The run of bad luck stops now, OK?'

‘I think it has.' Irk smiled and raised his bleary eyes past Henry to Lisa, who was standing at the foot of the bed. ‘Lisa was brilliant,' he said. Henry couldn't avoid the sardonic twist of his lips, or the roll of his eyes. He looked at Lisa. ‘I'll go and see Mum.'

She was asleep and Henry sat down wearily next to her, watching her withered face and the pitifully small rise and fall of her chest. He thought about her. She was eighty-eight and, to coin a cliché, had had a good innings. He wondered how much longer she would be batting for. There had been other health scares recently, but none quite as grave as this one. He had a very bad feeling about it and guessed that the odds of her leaving hospital were slim. And even if she did leave, what were the implications? Where would she live, who would care for her?

He closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

‘Mr Christie – sorry to wake you.'

Henry stirred, sucked up his dribble, and looked at the middle-aged nurse gently shaking him awake. He shook his head like a cartoon character. ‘Sorry, must've dozed off.' He glanced at his mother, still asleep and far more exhausted than he was.

‘It's OK,' the nurse said.

‘How long . . .?' He checked his watch and answered his own proposed question. He'd been out for about twenty minutes and now felt dreadful. He needed his bed. He took a last look at the patient, blew her a mental kiss, then wandered back to A&E to find Irk and his sister.

She was at his bedside and they were in deep intimate conversation that stopped abruptly when Henry swished into the cubicle. Both had seriously guilty faces, but Henry decided to make nothing of it. What would be, would be.

‘How are you doing?'

‘Going to be discharged,' Irk said. He looked ill and in pain. ‘Confirmed the bullet just creased me. I've been injected, disinfected and a dressing's gone on. Just waiting for the doctor to say adios.'