Jim’s phone rang. It was Garrett. ‘I’m at the main entrance. Where are you?’ asked the DCI. Jim told him, and Garrett said, ‘Wait there. I’ll come to you.’
Moments later Garrett and Scott Greenwood appeared at the door to the CCTV control room. Garrett’s eyebrows pinched together at the sight of Jim. ‘It’s Amy’s blood,’ said Jim, reading the question in his commanding officer’s eyes.
‘Have you heard how she’s doing?’ asked Scott.
‘No.’
‘So let’s go and find out,’ said Garrett.
Jim and the DCI went in search of someone who could tell them what they wanted to know, leaving Scott in control of the scene.
‘What have you got for me?’ asked Garrett.
Jim opened his mouth to reply, but his throat was suddenly too constricted to speak. Again the questions battered at him.
What if, what if…?
‘Detective?’
Focus, you son of a bitch!
Clearing his throat with a noise like a strangled groan, Jim relayed all he knew.
‘Good work,’ said Garrett.
Jim’s lips twisted into a grimace.
Good work.
The words stung worse than any insult. Praise was the last thing he’d expected or wanted to hear from Garrett.
‘Four bodies in three days. And now this,’ continued Garrett, shaking his head. ‘I’ve never known anything like it. This damned city’s turning into a warzone.’
The DCI accosted a nurse and asked where the injured police officer had been taken. After making a quick phone call, she informed them that Amy was undergoing surgery. She led them to the Surgical Unit, where they were met by a surgeon. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news,’ he said. ‘The bullet penetrated her trachea and oesophagus, and hit her spinal column.’
‘So she’s paralysed,’ said Jim.
‘It’s too early to say for sure. We’re still trying to establish whether the spinal cord has been damaged. What I can tell you is that we’ve managed to stop the bleeding and insert a breathing tube.’
‘What are her chances?’ asked Garrett.
The surgeon’s expression suggested they weren’t good. ‘About the best we can say right now is that the speed with which she received treatment has given her a fighting chance.’
The surgeon went on to say how the next few hours were going to be critical, but Jim wasn’t listening any more. There was a tingling pain in his chest; blood was pounding dizzily in his ears. He dropped onto a chair, head lowered, hands pressed to his face. He looked up at a touch on his shoulder. ‘Go and get yourself cleaned up, Detective,’ said Garrett. ‘Then we need to talk.’
His shoulders slumped under the weight of his thoughts, Jim headed into a nearby toilet. He looked in the mirror and barely recognised the broken-down face that stared back at him with eyes full of haunted questions. He washed the blood off his hands and from around his mouth. But he couldn’t wash the blood entirely from his sleeves. Or from his conscience.
Jim rolled up his sleeves and left the toilet. Garrett was talking to Detective Chief Superintendent Knight. The DCS was a tall, broad-shouldered man of about fifty-five, with hooded, serious eyes and a high forehead topped by short, iron-grey hair. He’d been with South Yorkshire Police for over thirty years, during which time he’d risen through the ranks from constable to heading up CID. Jim had got to know him well enough over the years on a professional, if not friendly, basis. He’d proved himself a competent DCI during his time with Major Incidents, gaining a reputation for being ruthless and relentless. But it had quickly become apparent that, like Garrett, he was more of a politician than a policeman. Rumour had it he was marked for one of the top jobs. Possibly even Chief Constable. Jim wouldn’t have been surprised if the rumour proved true. Unlike Garrett, the Chief Superintendent possessed a charisma that inspired the officers serving under him.
‘Jim, how are you holding up?’ asked DCS Knight.
Jim shrugged away the question, as if to say,
What does it matter how I’m doing?
‘I know, I know. When something like this happens it makes everything else seem unimportant.’ The DCS put a hand on Jim’s shoulder. ‘But you’ve still got to take care of yourself. If you’d like to talk to a welfare counsellor, I’ll—’
Jim cut DCS Knight off with a shake of his head.
‘There’s no shame in it.’
‘I know, but there’s no need. Really. I’m OK.’
‘Well how about taking some time off? You look as though you could do with a bloody good rest.’
‘I’d rather drop dead than rest while the bastard who did this is still out there.’
DCS Knight’s lips contracted into a grave but friendly smile. ‘I expected nothing less from you, Jim.’ He turned back to Garrett. ‘However many officers you need, I’ll see that you get them. We need to send out a clear message that this kind of thing won’t be allowed to stand.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Garrett. ‘And what about that other matter?’
‘I’ll leave that up to your judgement.’
Jim wondered what other matter they were referring to. The thought passed from his mind as Garrett gestured towards something behind him. ‘I’d better go speak to him,’ he said in a heavy voice.
Glancing round, Jim saw a man sitting bent almost double on a chair along the corridor. He recognised him from the photo on Amy’s iPhone, although instead of happiness the man’s face showed only pain and fear. Jim felt another sharp constriction in his chest. DCS Knight took a dutiful breath. ‘I’ll do it. What’s his name?’
‘Justin Sheridan.’
As the DCS headed over to Amy’s husband, Garrett fixed enquiring eyes on Jim. ‘What do you think Mark was so eager to talk to you about?’
‘My guess is he’d remembered more about what happened to him at the Winstanley house.’
‘And you think that’s why he was kidnapped?’
‘I’d say that’s a given. Which begs the question, who knows what we’ve been talking to Mark about?’
‘Only Doctor Goodwin and Doctor Reeve.’ Garrett pulled at his chin. ‘Something doesn’t add up here. If this is just about what Mark knows, why isn’t he already dead?’
The words struck Jim with the force of an accusation as he found himself wondering whether this was as much about what Grace knew as what Mark knew. Perhaps Mark’s kidnapper hoped to use him against her somehow. Jim struggled to keep from wincing away from his DCI’s gaze.
Scott Greenwood appeared through a nearby door. ‘The helicopter’s spotted a burning car in Little Roe Wood, a few hundred metres from the Norwood Road.’
‘The kidnapper must have switched cars,’ said Jim.
‘Get over there and check it out,’ Garrett said to Scott.
As Scott headed back out the door, Garrett motioned for Jim to follow him. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Jim.
‘To talk to Doctor Goodwin and anyone else on Critical Care who’s had contact with Mark.’
‘What about Doctor Reeve?’
‘I’ve already contacted him. He’s on his way here.’
When they entered the Critical Care Department, several pairs of worried-looking eyes turned towards them. They belonged to a cluster of nurses who were talking in hushed voices at their workstation. ‘I’m so sorry about what’s happened,’ said one. ‘I’m Head Nurse Jess Campbell. What can I do to help?’
‘We need to talk to all staff members who’ve had contact with Mark Baxley since his admission, as well as anyone who was working at the time he went missing,’ said Garrett.
‘Of course. I’ll gather together everyone on duty.’ Nurse Campbell turned to one of her colleagues. ‘Mary, you’d better start going through the rotas and putting together a list of names.’
‘Have you got a room we can use?’ asked Garrett.
‘You can use the staffroom.’
‘I’m also going to have to ask you to seal off Mark Baxley’s room until my detectives and a forensics team have looked it over.’
Nurse Campbell’s brow wrinkled. ‘I hope there’s not going to be a lot of people coming and going. The patients on this ward are all seriously ill. They need complete rest.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll keep a low profile. We won’t disturb any patients unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
Nurse Campbell led them to the staffroom. Garrett arranged three chairs in such a way that two were directly facing the third. ‘I’ll lead the questioning, OK?’ The DCI said
OK
as if asking for Jim’s approval. But he wasn’t asking, he was ordering.
There was a knock at the door. Garrett opened it and a shaken-looking Doctor Reeve stepped into the room. There was a paleness at the edges of the psychiatrist’s face and a faint sweaty sheen glistened on his forehead. ‘I got here as fast I could,’ he said, slightly breathless. ‘Nurse Campbell just told me about Detective Sheridan. It’s terrible. Terrible! What can I do to help?’
‘You can start by answering some questions,’ Jim put in before the DCI could reply, his voice hard, almost accusing.
Doctor Reeve’s eyebrows bunched at Jim. ‘I don’t care very much for your tone.’ His gaze moved to Garrett. ‘Am I under some kind of suspicion, John?’
‘Of course not, Henry,’ Garrett reassured him, shooting Jim a sharp glance.
John. Henry.
Jim could barely supress a snort of contempt. Not that it surprised him to learn that the two men were on first-name terms. They were both self-important somebodies. Naturally they would gravitate towards one another. He could just imagine them bonding over a round of golf.
Garrett motioned for Doctor Reeve to sit. Jim lowered himself onto a chair next to Garrett, statement pad in hand. He watched every movement of the psychiatrist’s face as the DCI asked, ‘Have you discussed the details of Mark’s case with anyone other than myself, my detectives and Doctor Goodwin?’
Doctor Reeve swelled with offended dignity. ‘Of course not. There’s a little thing called patient confidentiality that I take very seriously.’
‘I understand you’ve conducted a therapy session with Mark since we last spoke. How did it go?’
‘I taped it as requested. The tape’s in my car. I’ll fetch it if you like.’
‘I’ll send a constable along with you for it later. For now just tell us about the session.’
The psychiatrist described how he’d attempted to stimulate Mark’s subconscious through hypnosis.
‘Did it produce any results?’
‘It’s far too early to tell. Even if Mark does have repressed memories, it takes time for the subconscious to let go of such things.’
‘So Mark didn’t mention anything about more memories coming back?’
Doctor Reeve shook his head. ‘But if he had done, I would have treated what he told me with extreme caution. Mark’s mental state was extremely fragile. I shudder to think what that poor boy must be going through right now.’
Jim gave the psychiatrist a weighing-up look. His concern appeared to be genuine. But Jim had long ago learnt to trust his instincts over appearances. And his instincts told him there was something slightly off about this guy. It was more than simply being irritated by his condescending manner. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but it gave him an uneasy feeling.
‘Can you think of anyone Mark might have confided in?’ asked Garrett.
‘No. Mark has trust issues. It took me months to get him to open up about his feelings towards his fa… towards Stephen Baxley.’
‘He didn’t seem to have any problem trusting me,’ Jim pointed out.
Doctor Reeve sighed as if dealing with a difficult patient. ‘Mark was betrayed by the principal authority figure in his life. You’ve shown a willingness to go against authority. Hence Mark’s readiness to trust you.’
‘OK, Henry,’ said Garrett. ‘I think that’s all for now. If we need to find you for any reason—’
‘I’ll be at home,’ said Doctor Reeve, anticipating Garrett’s question. ‘I couldn’t possibly concentrate on work knowing Mark’s out there somewhere in mortal danger.’
‘Thanks for your cooperation.’
Doctor Reeve waved the thanks away. ‘I’m only sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’
As soon as the doctor was out of the room, Jim said, ‘Is that it? You’re just going to let him walk out of here?’
The corner of Garrett’s mouth twitched. ‘What else do you expect me to do?’
‘If it was up to me, I’d haul him down the station and give him a proper going over.’
‘But it’s not up to you, Detective Monahan. Doctor Reeve said nothing that in any way implicates him. What makes you think he’d do so if we took him in for further questioning?’
‘He fancies himself as smarter than us. That arrogance could be his downfall. I think if I pushed his buttons enough, he’d maybe say more than he meant to.’
‘And I get the feeling that your obvious personal dislike of Henry Reeve is muddying your thinking on this.’
Jim’s voice rose a notch in frustration. ‘Mark asks to speak to me urgently. The next thing, he’s kidnapped. That’s no coincidence.’
‘I agree, but what makes you think Henry Reeve had anything to do with it?’
‘Reeve is the only one at the hospital who’s got history with Mark. Who else could possibly have reason to want Mark kidnapped? And if the information about Mark didn’t come from him or someone else around here, where did it come from? One of our own?’
Garrett’s face drew into sharp lines at the suggestion. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! We don’t know that any information was deliberately leaked. Use your head, Detective. Mark called dispatch trying to contact you. Dispatch put the call out over the radio. Anyone listening on a scanner would have heard it and probably come to the same conclusion you did.’
Jim sat in frowning silence for a moment, then conceded begrudgingly, ‘Maybe, but—’
Garrett cut him off with an exasperated hiss. ‘We can go round in circles all day talking about maybes and perhaps. Let me tell you what I do know: Henry Reeve is one of the country’s most respected psychiatrists. The Chief Superintendent knows him personally and has vouched for his integrity. What’s more, Doctor Reeve has acted with nothing but the utmost professional propriety. Unlike you, Detective.’
Jim blinked away from Garrett’s gaze.
Unlike you, Detective.
There was no arguing with those words. He suddenly found himself doubting his ability to think clearly. Maybe he
was
letting personal feelings get in the way of his professional judgement. After all, wasn’t that what had happened with Grace Kirby?