Authors: Maynard Sims
Martin opened a large notepad and started scribbling down notes. At last he was making some connections. He checked the notes he’d written down during Robert Carter’s call the previous evening. Elinor Yardley. That was the name Carter had asked him to look into. He reached for the book but it was no longer on the desk in front of him.
The girl with the shaved head was sitting back in her seat, leafing through the pages, a frown on her face.
“Excuse me,” Martin said, reaching for the book. “Do you mind?”
The girl pulled back from him, the frown deepening. “Yes,” she said. “I do mind. In fact I mind very much. I never asked for this book to be written. Just who the hell does this McCutcheon person think he is? To have the audacity to think he could ever understand my family.”
Martin tried a smile. “I think you’ll find he’s dead,” he said lightly, trying to humor her.
“Good.”
“Can I have the book back, please? I’m a bit pushed for time.”
The girl closed the book and laid it down on the desk in front of her, placing her hands on top of it. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “I did warn you.” She closed her laptop and unplugged the cable.
“Look,” he said. “I can be as patient as the next man, but I really must insist…”
Without any kind of warning the girl grabbed the edges of the laptop and swung it in an arc, catching Martin full in the face.
With a cry he fell backwards, his hands reaching up to cup his nose that was spurting blood. “What the hell…?” He was stunned, not only by the blow, but by the suddenness and surprise of the attack. The second blow from the laptop cracked against the back of his head. He rocked forwards and struggled to his feet.
The girl was already standing, holding her computer like a weapon. “I warned you,” she said. “I sent you a text.”
Martin stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Who are you?” he said, but the words sounded wrong. He touched his fingers to his mouth. The lips were split and already swollen to nearly twice their normal size. He looked frantically about him but the reading room was deserted. He couldn’t remember anyone leaving the room but all the desks were empty. There was just him and the girl, and the girl was advancing on him.
There was something in his mouth. Something small and hard. He ran his tongue over his teeth and found the gap. “You knocked my tooth out,” he said and spat the tooth out into the palm of his hand. He closed his fingers around it, forming a first. He had never hit a woman in his life, but he thought he might just make an exception this time.
The girl said nothing but took another step towards him.
“Don’t come any closer,” he said through the blood.
A smile flickered on the girl’s lips. She raised her hand and splayed her fingers and then closed them rapidly.
It was as if the hand had reached into his chest and grabbed his heart. He gasped at the pain. And then he was being hurled backwards through the air. He crashed into a row of cabinets and slid down to the floor, winded, the pain in his chest making him feel nauseous. She was going to kill him, he was convinced of that, and there was nothing he could do about it. She was too strong, had too much power. This was the kind of adversary the teams of Department 18 faced on a regular basis. He was protected from this kind of conflict, sitting in his office, in front of his computer, sifting facts, providing back-up to the teams. That was his role. Safe, secure, out of harm’s way.
Not today though. Today he was in danger of losing his life. He wondered what Robert Carter would do in this situation. He tried a conciliatory smile but his mouth hurt too much. “Please,” he said. “No more.” Pathetic!
The girl had the book in her hands and was leafing through the pages. As Martin spoke she looked up from her reading. “You people,” she said. “You think you’re so bloody clever.” She snapped the book shut and took a few steps towards him. “Do you honestly think you can stop me from bringing my family back together?”
Martin looked at her blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
She made a swift movement of her hand and Martin’s head was knocked backwards, jarring against the wood of a cabinet, the brass handle opening a gash in his scalp. He felt the blood trickle down the back of his neck. He looked up at her blearily. She was still two yards away from him. How did she do that?
He struggled up until he was propped on his elbows.
She looked at him pityingly. “I’ll be kind,” she said. “I’ll finish you quickly. You’re of no use to me.” She tossed the book at his feet. “That’s what you came here for. Take it.”
Martin hesitated, wondering briefly if he could make a break for the doors, but he knew he’d never make it.
“I said, take it!” she said, her voice rising.
He scrambled forwards and grabbed the book.
As his fingers closed around the cover she raised her hand swiftly and Martin was hauled to his feet. For a moment he stood there, swaying slightly like a stringless puppet, and then she made a swirling motion with her hand and he was engulfed in a vortex of freezing air. It spun around him, scouring his skin, plucking and ripping at his clothes. He was lifted bodily into the air and started to spin in the vortex. The air was sucked from his lungs and he felt his heart pounding against his ribcage.
Gradually the light around him began to dim and he felt consciousness slipping away. His last thought before the blackness claimed him was,
And in the British bloody Library of all places!
Crozier entered the hospital room and stopped dead. Martin Impey lay in the bed, wires and tubes trailing from his body. Cuts and contusions covered his semi-bandaged face. What unmarked skin was visible was a sickly gray-green color.
The doctor who accompanied him into the room was in her early thirties, dusky skin, hair pulled back from a fairly plain face and held in a tight ponytail. She went across to the bed, lifted Martin’s wrist and checked his pulse, checking it against her gold wristwatch. And then she leaned over him and lifted his eyelid. “No change, I’m afraid,” she said.
“Is he in a coma?” Crozier asked, dreading the answer. He’d telephoned Emilie on the way to the hospital and she’d been distraught. She was on her way here now and Crozier didn’t relish the prospect of giving her more bad news. A hysterical woman was a beast he had no idea how to handle.
“Not as such. Just in a very deep state of unconsciousness.”
“How bad are his injuries?”
“We’re running tests, but most of them seem fairly minor. We haven’t been able to locate the source of any trauma serious enough to bring about this lack of consciousness. Certainly no head trauma, apart from the nasty-looking gash on the back of his skull, but that in itself is quite superficial, certainly not serious enough to account for his current condition. It’s as if he’s shut himself down for his own protection.”
Crozier frowned at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“It happens sometimes. The mind simply switches off. I’ve had accident victims who’ve lain there for days, very little brain activity, but all the while their bodies are fighting, trying to repair themselves.”
“So it’s an encouraging sign?”
“Usually. Sometimes not. Sometimes they never regain consciousness. Their bodies give up the fight and they simply drift away.”
“So what about Impey? Which category does he fit into?”
She smiled sympathetically. “I’m afraid it’s too early to say.”
Crozier glared at her and stalked from the room, nearly colliding with a uniformed police constable who took a step back to let him pass.
“And what do the police say?” he said.
“Sorry, sir?” the constable said.
“About the attack?”
The constable was about Crozier’s age. Obviously a stalled career, or lack of ambition. Maybe both.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
Tiredly Crozier took his ID card from his pocket and shoved it under the constable’s nose. “Think again,” he said.
The constable took a step back. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t realize. We’re holding a suspect for questioning at Kings Cross police station. A young woman, about eighteen.”
Crozier looked at him incredulously. “Are you trying to tell me that the damage to my colleague was inflicted by a child?”
“It certainly looks that way, sir. She’s denying it, of course. Claims to know nothing about it, but she was the only person at the scene when we arrived, and she had Mr. Impey’s blood on her hands and clothes. Looks pretty clear cut.”
Crozier shook his head and took his phone from his pocket. A nurse who had been hovering nearby during Crozier’s conversation with the constable bustled forwards. “I’m sorry, sir. You can’t use that in here,” she said. “It’s a hospital,” she added unnecessarily.
Crozier waved his ID in her face and continued to punch in numbers.
“Put me through to Harry Bailey,” he said when the switchboard at Department 18’s Whitehall headquarters responded.
“I’ll check if he’s in the building, sir,” a female voice said.
“If he isn’t, find him and tell him to call me on this number.” He closed the phone and started to pace the corridor.
A few moments later his phone rang.
“Simon, I was just about to leave for the night. I’ve got a leg of lamb in my slow cooker and I’m famished.”
“Never mind that. Meet me at Kings Cross police station in thirty minutes. Your expertise is needed.”
Crozier didn’t wait for a reply. He snapped the mobile shut and walked from the hospital.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Harry Bailey stuck his head around the door to Trudy’s office. “Any idea why Simon’s in such a flap?” he said. “He’s just told me to meet him at Kings Cross police station. No explanation, nothing.”
“It could have something to do with Martin Impey being attacked.”
“Martin? When?” Harry came across and perched on the edge of Trudy’s desk.
“It happened at the British Library a short time ago. He’d gone there to do some research. Someone attacked him.”
Bailey’s eyes narrowed. “Someone or something?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Harry.”
“How is he?”
Trudy shrugged. “They’ve taken him to the University College Hospital. That’s all I know.”
“Has Emilie been told? They’ve just had another little one, haven’t they?”
“A baby girl, Molly, yes. Simon said he was going to call Em with the news. Whether he has or not…” The disapproval rang loud and clear in her voice. Trudy Dawlish was in her early sixties and saw herself as very much the mother of the department. She cared about the people the department employed, perhaps a little more than she should, and she despaired at Simon Crozier’s lack of empathy with them.
“He’s an insensitive clod,” Harry said. “Always has been, always will be.”
Trudy sighed. “I know. I’ve tried to change him over the years, but nothing I do makes any difference.”
“I wouldn’t waste your time on him,” Bailey said. “He’s beyond help.” He hopped from the desk. “I’d better get myself over to Kings Cross.”
“Shall I order you a pool car?”
“No, I’ll take the bike. Traffic will be murder this time of the day. See you tomorrow.”
He’d reached the door when Trudy called him. “Harry.”
“Yes, my love?”
“It’s good to have you back.”
“It’s like a bloody drug, this place,” he said. “And I can’t get off it.”
Trudy smiled sympathetically and went back to her work.
In the basement car park Harry Bailey wheeled his bicycle out of the rack and swung his leg over the crossbar. At this time of the evening the bike was the quickest way to negotiate his way through the heaving city streets.
He had only recently been reinstated to the full Department 18 status after a premature retirement and relocation to southern Ireland. Now he was back, living in a flat in the Barbican complex and very much an integral member of Simon Crozier’s inner circle. Not that the knowledge sat easily with him.
He’d been friends with Crozier for many years but was very aware of how the man was regarded by the rest of the department. He was extremely good at his job, but would never win any popularity contests.
He pedaled up the concrete ramp of the car park and out into the busy London streets. He was puffing heavily after just a few hundred yards. Cycling was just a part of the new regime he’d adopted to try and turn his life around. A long-time affection for the bottle had brought him perilously close to full-blown alcoholism. In an attempt to escape the rigors of his Department 18 caseload, he retreated to Ireland, a country where Guinness and whiskey flowed like the waters of Dublin’s Liffey River. The retreat did nothing to help his situation.
It was only when Simon Crozier sought him out and persuaded him to help out on an extremely difficult and perilous case that Harry Bailey discovered a renewed zest for the work, and for life itself. He owed Crozier for that. Owed him big time.