Tangled Web (26 page)

It didn’t take long for him to conclude that he was not going to be able to snap the surgical tape that held his hands and feet. It would have to be cut and the chances of him finding something sharp in his current predicament seemed remote, not that it stopped him from examining the edge of the trolley. As he feared, it was smooth and rounded but he still tried rubbing the tape against the lip, hoping to generate enough friction to cut it, but in his heart he suspected it was going to take much longer than he had left. How long that actually was, was anyone’s guess except the bastard who had set the timer. It was however, a reasonable assumption that his murderer wouldn’t want him lying around any longer than necessary.

There was one outside chance - or at least, Gordon convinced himself there was, Maybe it was entirely imaginary, but he saw it as a straw to cling to and at that particular moment, straws seemed pretty substantial elements. He seemed to recall that the fire door was quite wide but not actually very deep. If he had been unconscious, his body would simply slide through it without a problem but if he were to lie on his back and raise his knees, there was a chance that his body might jam in the open doorway. As to what he could do then … he couldn’t think that far ahead and he couldn’t remember if there was enough room for him to roll off to the side. In the meantime … and in the absence of any other idea … he would take the risk of moving on to his back and raising his knees in preparation.

He moved slowly, trying to keep his head facing the side so that the gag wouldn’t move backwards but he still felt the rough cloth in his mouth dangerously near the area that would induce a gag response. But at least he was doing something. It might all be to no avail and he still might sail through the entry hatch to the fire but at least he was not giving up without a fight and for some strange unfathomable reason this was important to him. His test had come and he had passed it, whatever were to happen now.

What happened now was that an electric motor whirred into life and Gordon felt a jolt as the transporter started to move. He felt the angle of the trolley base change and his head start to rise, forcing him to seek as much purchase as he could find on the tray to avoid sliding down. He spread his hands flat behind his back and stretched his fingers as far as they would go, pressing them hard against the metal. He did the same with his feet as the incline went on increasing. Outside, he heard a loud metal clang and felt a sudden increase in temperature; the fire door had opened.

The tray reached an angle of nearly sixty degrees and all at once the end cover flew open. Gordon lost all adhesion to the base. He slid down the metal chute, out into blinding brightness and almost unbearable heat in what he recognised might be the last few seconds of his life. His desire to seek forgiveness from some higher power was cut short when his raised kneecaps made contact with the top of the iron fire door and sent a new dimension in pain to his brain. But he had stopped moving; he was jammed in the open hatch and was currently being barbecued by the blast of heat emanating from the furnace. The heat was such that he could smell his clothes start to smoulder but he had become oblivious to pain in the realisation that there was still a chance he could come out of this nightmare alive. Sheer adrenaline was now running the show.

To his left he could see that the tilting mechanism blocked any chance of getting out that way but he could see a space to the right. He was only able to take a quick look before closing his eyes again against the fierce heat but he knew that this would be his only chance. The notion that the automatic mechanism might return the transporter to the horizontal was a non-starter. It obviously depended on the fire door closing and that wasn’t going to happen while his body was jammed in the entrance.

Gordon prepared himself for one huge effort. He was failing so fast in the heat that he doubted there would be time for a second attempt. He needed to push explosively hard with his legs so that his body would fall off the transporter to the right where he would drop down to the floor. The fact that the floor of the boiler house would probably be stone was not a consideration at present.

Gordon braced himself, wriggling down a little to get maximum spring potential into his legs. He pressed his feet hard against the side of the fire door and could feel the searing heat through the soles of his shoes as he pushed hard with all his might. There was a brief feeling of euphoria as he felt himself tumble off the transporter but this ended abruptly when he met the unforgiving floor in a three point landing on elbow, knee and ankle. Above him, the fire door slid shut and the transporter slowly returned to its level position.

With the heat shield in place, the temperature in the room dropped and Gordon watched the uncaring wheels and cogs come to a halt, unwilling to accept that this was an entirely inanimate object and not his deadly enemy. Gingerly, he tried moving the limbs that had come into hard contact with the floor in case there had been a breakage. He was in so much generalised pain that it was hard to tell but after a few moments, he thought not.

His priority now was to free himself of his gag and bindings to get rid of the constant threat of asphyxiation. The prospects looked good; there seemed to be plenty of rough metal edges around in the boiler house and his bindings were of tape, not rope. He moved across the floor like a sidewinder snake to where a number of boiler house tools were propped up in a corner and found a fire rake with a rough edge that was just what he was looking for. He got into a sitting position with his back to it and started to work the tape against the top edge of the rake, rejoicing in the feel of every rough serration on its edge.

It took less than a minute to work through the tape that held his hands and he was free to rip off his gag and pull the cloth out of his mouth with a gasp. He sat still for a few moments, running through every swear word he could think of, before untying his feet. He then sat, head bowed, taking deep breaths and generally calming himself. His limbs started to fill with lead as the effects of the adrenaline began to wear off.

As he started to undo the tape round his ankles he had difficulty with limb co-ordination. It was as if he were wearing thick, weighted gloves but he knew exactly what was wrong. There was a price to be paid for his body’s prolonged fight and flight response, all that adrenaline had to be accounted for and complete exhaustion for him was going to be the bottom line.

As he finally managed to free his feet, he wasn’t quite sure if he still had enough energy to stand up. He tried and staggered about for a few moments like a wild animal fighting the effects of a tranquilliser dart, his hands reaching out to seek support wherever they could find it. Finally, having managed to reach an upright position, he took a few more moments to compose himself before setting off on an expedition across the floor of the boiler house to where he could see a large porcelain sink. He managed it in the precarious gait of a toddler’s first unaided walk in the park and was glad to have the support of the heavy old sink as he turned on the water and sluiced it up into his face and over his head.

The cold water had a revitalising effect on him, cooling him, cleaning him and slaking his thirst. He let it drip from his face into the crazed bottom of the old sink when he finally turned off the tap and remained leaning on the edge, thinking about where he should go from here. Thoughts of Thomas now occupied his entire attention as an unrelenting anger was born in him. It was too strong to be subject to rational thought and decision. To hell with the police, this was personal. He wanted to see Thomas’s face when he realised that he wasn’t dead after all. More than that, he wanted to see Thomas’s face just after he’d hit it with every ounce of strength he could muster. Maybe when he’d done that he would think about calling the police.

Gordon had no idea what the time was as he opened the door of the boiler house and found himself in the cool of what he thought was the night but could conceivably have been early morning. His watch had not survived the rigours of the night and he had to consider that he might have been unconscious for some time before coming round in the transporter. Alternatively, he suspected that if that had been the case he would have been consigned to the flames without ever having come round. Thomas would not have introduced any unnecessary delay into the proceedings. There was a chance that Thomas might still be here in the hospital; he would check out the IVF unit before he did anything else.

He was about to set off along the corridor when he realised what he must look like. There were unlikely to be many people around but if anyone should see him in his current state, his presence would almost certainly be reported. His hair and face were soaking wet and his clothes were absolutely filthy. He looked like an escaped convict who’d been living rough for several days. Walking round the outside of the building would be a better option.

As he started out, it occurred to him that the really bright thing to do would be to check the car park to see if Thomas’s car was still there. Three minutes later, he could see that it was. He stood motionless for a few moments, staring at it, fists bunching at the prospect of confronting the man who’d given him the worst experience of his life then he looked across to his own car and knew that the right thing to do would be to get into it and drive away from here. He should let the police sort it all out but something inside him wouldn’t go along with that so he turned his back on the car park and started out towards the main building, courting as much in the way of shadow as he could find.

Light was spilling out from the main doors, creating a no-go area as far as he was concerned but he managed to get a view of the reception desk, using a small conifer for cover. There were two people there, a receptionist and maybe a porter, Gordon thought. They were chatting and looked as if they might be doing so for some time to come. Even if the porter were to move on, he reckoned, it would still be almost impossible to get through the swing doors without attracting the attention of the receptionist. He looked along the wall to the right of the front door and saw an open window.

It was a small, single, frosted-glass window that was almost certainly a toilet, he thought. If he could get himself in through it, he could by-pass the reception area entirely and get out into the corridor to head straight for the IVF unit. The trouble was that the window was not in shadow; it was clearly visible to anyone approaching the building from the front. He would have to choose his moment well. He looked about him nervously, seeing no one but still feeling anxious. A final glance over his shoulder and he scurried across to the window and pushed it up.

To his great relief it moved without difficulty. With another quick look back over his shoulder, he started to clamber in through the narrow opening head first, stifling a series of curses, as he seemed to hit every earlier bruise and knock on his body on the frame on the way in. He supported himself with his arms on the toilet cistern as he pulled his legs through and struggled in the narrow space to gain an upright position. When he’d finally achieved it, he turned and looked out to the right and left outside before re-closing the window and preparing himself for the next phase. He listened for a moment, although this was not too effective as the cistern in the lavatory was faulty and water was running noisily down the overflow. He decided that he’d have to take a chance and drew in a deep breath before opening the door and stepping out into the brightness of the corridor. It was deserted.

As he moved along it, the silence was suddenly fractured by the sound of male voices, so many that Gordon couldn’t quite make up his mind at first where they were coming from. He looked around him anxiously before deciding that returning to the toilet was the only option available. He turned on his heel and hurried back to the door as the voices got suddenly louder.

He stepped quickly inside the toilet and put his back against the door. Had they seen him? He wondered anxiously. There was a chance they had … he couldn’t risk waiting to find out; he’d better get out of here. He tugged at the window again and pushed it up as far as it would, managing to get both feet out before the toilet door burst open and the loud voices arrived. He wasn’t sure what to think when he saw that they belonged to policemen. He dropped back from the window only to fall into the arms of two more policemen who’d come round the outside.

‘Got you!’ snarled one, as he brought Gordon to the ground and held him there while his colleague handcuffed his writs together. Gordon felt his cheek scrape along the ground as one of the policeman put pressure on the side of his head to make sure he remained immobile. He lay completely still as the officer spoke into his radio. ‘Intruder apprehended; he was trying to escape through a ground floor toilet window.’

For Gordon, this was the final straw. A nightmare end to a nightmare day, he concluded, as events around him started to swirl into a nebulous mist of nothingness.

TWENTY ONE

‘I tell you; I was trying to get
in
to the bloody place, not running away!’ insisted Gordon for what seemed the fifth time at least. ‘What the hell am I supposed to have done anyway?’ He let his head slump back on the pillow in exasperation, as Chief Inspector Davies stood over him, red-faced and angry.

‘Christ, I’ve got to hand it to you Gordon, when it comes to insulting my intelligence you’re in a class of your own. First it was some fantasy killer planting Palmer’s kid in his own garden and now when you’re caught climbing out of a hospital window late at night in suspicious circumstances you insist you were climbing in!’

Gordon jerked his head round to stare at Davies. ‘What suspicious circumstances?’ he asked. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Author, author,’ murmured Davies. ‘There must be a BAFTA award in here somewhere.’

‘Cut the crap, Davies,’ said Gordon angrily. ‘What are you talking about? What’s happened?’

Davies looked down at Gordon for fully thirty seconds before sighing and saying, ‘All right, we’ll play it your way, sunshine, Professor Carwyn Thomas was found dead in his office this evening. He was discovered by one of the night porters who’d gone up to tell him he’d left his car lights on.