A fatal drug, p.33
A Fatal Drug, page 33
“Better get an ambulance, Sarge,” a young male voice said. “It’s a bit messy and bloody in here.”
“Help me. Get me out. I’ll pay you anything you want. You can have this car. Anything.” Washington’s pleading voice was quiet and high pitched. His Birmingham accent broader and pleading.
The policeman was unimpressed. He looked at the bloodied mess and was in no hurry to soil his uniform or get his hands dirty. “This car’s not worth much now, chum, and I don’t think I want anything you can give me. You’d best stay quiet and conserve your energy. It’s going to take more than a few of us bobbies to get you out. Oh yeah, and by the way, you’re both nicked,” he said.
CHAPTER 65
Thirty-six hours had passed since Simon had landed heavily on the roof of Tom’s pride and joy, his pristine 1600E Ford Cortina. He’d lost consciousness seconds later and was now lying in bed in the Derbyshire Royal Infirmary. That much he had been told. His memories of the terrifying events in Greg Simpson’s office and his leap through the window ranged from pin-sharp to distinctly blurred. He remembered the pain caused by the breaking glass and rotten wood. And he remembered falling; falling through space, like in one of those recurring dreams. That must be why he had just woken up in a sweat.
Lying there, he vividly recalled the seconds, or maybe they were split seconds, leading up to his dive through the window. He had seen the knife blade sticking up and juddering as two hands had grappled for the haft. He had been in mortal danger, and all his thoughts had concentrated on survival. He remembered scanning Simpson’s office from the chair he’d been sat in and thinking that the open window behind the desk was old and probably fragile. Had he been subconsciously planning his escape? He had learned that athletic jump on the school playing fields. It had been highly risky and not well calculated: a leap of faith that could have cost him his life. But that was all academic now. He’d escaped. Just.
If the truth was to be told, and he was happy to tell himself without vocalising it, he’d never been so bloody scared in his short life. He’d never been a hero and he never would be. He was lying in this bed purely because of self-preservation.
Other memories swam back into his new-found consciousness: the sudden rush of fresh air as he plunged through the window; his legs moving as if he was running; and falling forwards: lots of falling. It was all very hazy, though.
He lay back in bed, exhausted by his jumbled thoughts and recollections, closed his eyes and drifted back off to sleep. When he woke up he knew instinctively that he was not alone, and he tensed, but refused to open his eyes. Gradually he opened one very slightly and slowly. There were figures in the room and they weren’t nurses in their trim uniforms. He shook his head, opened his eyes wide, and saw Tom and Dave.
Dave had pulled up a chair next to the bed and had been looking at his sleeping colleague and friend as he came round. Simon’s head was swathed in a thick bandage, and a red plastic tube hung from the bed by his legs. Another tube ended in a plastic container half full of a light yellow liquid. Dave wasn’t going to ask what it was. “You must be important – there’s a uniformed copper guarding your door,” he said. “We had to ask DI Ludden’s permission to come in. He told us not to upset you as you’ve had a scary experience. Oh, and he’s on his way here. He says he’s got a few things to say to us.”
Simon stirred as he recognised his visitors. He blinked. “Well I’m not in heaven, then. Not unless you two are angels.”
He looked around the room, noticing, for the first time, the clean cream walls and the bright light streaming through the window. He hadn’t heard a word that Dave had said, but his rough common voice made a change from trying to understand what the succession of nurses and doctors had been saying. “It’s a bit too clean for hell, but you two are here, so it won’t be heaven” he added.
He tried to push himself further up the bed but found the effort too great and slumped back, his head resting on the thick pillows.
“What’s the damage then? How do you feel?” Dave asked solicitously.
“Is that a joke? I feel like I’ve been dragged by the Felix bus all the way to Ilkeston by my feet. How do you think I feel?”
Tom, who’d taken the other chair in the room, stood up and picked up the cardboard-clipped chart that was hanging at the end of the bed. “I don’t know why I’m doing this, I can’t understand it. Have they told you what happened?” He put the chart back on the metal bed frame.
Simon smiled. He felt safe in the hospital with Tom and Dave there. It was the nearest they would get to showing true emotion and love for a mate. “I’ve had a nasty bang on my head, as you can see, and my leg’s been opened up by a knife. The rest is, I’m told, cuts and bruises. I’ll be out and about soon.”
The effort of getting out those two short sentences tired him, and his head fell back gently on to the pillows. He’d managed to persuade a nurse to get him some hospital pyjamas. They were standard-issue: heavy, with washed-out blue and white stripes. As a fashion item they were appalling but a lot better than the flimsy, cover-nothing gown he was wearing when he had come round from the anaesthetic. He’d been slightly embarrassed when the female nurse, who was about his age, had carefully removed his gown and helped him into one leg of the pyjama trousers. His other leg looked like an Egyptian mummy. It was encased in bandages and had a plastic tube flowing out of it into a container hanging on the side of the bed.
Simon opened his eyes again. The few seconds of doing nothing, just looking at Dave and Tom, had allowed him to get his thoughts together. “My right thigh has been well wrapped up so I can’t show you, but I’m told it’s definitely a big wound and worth a lot of sympathy. The doctor, or whoever is in charge, seems to be quite pleased with me and says I’ll have no lasting damage, just a scar on my thigh, and I don’t think anybody will be looking there.”
“Typical,” said Dave. “You try and kill yourself by jumping out of a window and then claim bragging rights for nearly having your leg cut off.”
Tom interjected. “There’s a ruddy great dent in my car’s roof. It’s possible, just possible mind, that my car saved your life. At the very least it prevented you falling any further and causing any more damage to your body. If I ever allow you in the car again I’ll expect a big thank you – to the car, that is, not me. Enjoy the sympathy – it’s better than a bill.”
Simon flinched as he tried to stop laughing. The bruising on his chest and stomach sent paroxysms of pain through his ribcage if he coughed or laughed. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing and felt better. “What do you mean, a bill? I can’t afford a new car for you.”
“Don’t be daft,” Tom said with a smile. “All the damage is covered by insurance. Nobody is asking you for anything. Just get well and get back on your feet.”
Simon smiled, but it was a tight smile. The more time he spent awake, the more his injuries hurt. “I’ve lost track of what happened. I supposed I jumped through that window but my memory is shot to pieces. You were there outside. Why?” He looked questioningly at Tom.
“It’s a good job we were,” said Tom. “The hospital flying squad was called because you were losing a lot of blood from that leg wound. But instead of waiting for an ambulance or their car, a doctor and another medic ran from the hospital. They got there a minute or so before the ambulance arrived.
“They’ve told us that you were losing so much blood from that thigh wound, you only had a few minutes left. Sudden blood loss like that can easily lead to shock and even worse.
“I won’t be surprised if you have a sore bum as well. There’s a clear indentation of your bony arse in my car roof. Maybe if you had been a bit fatter and not so skinny it wouldn’t have been so deep.”
Tom was struggling with his emotions. He felt like bursting into tears and holding Simon like a brother, but mates didn’t do things like that. The solution was to make a joke of it, but he wasn’t sure if his light-hearted effort to take the sting out of his true feelings had really worked.
“Sorry about that, mate,” Simon said, and looked across at Dave. “How did you know I was there anyway? And Tom, you haven’t answered my question. Why were you there?”
“I was there because I was needed, OK?” said Tom, who sat back in the chair beside the bed. “It doesn’t matter how or why. You getting well is the only important thing.”
Simon closed his eyes again. “Yeah. You were needed, but that doesn’t answer the question, does it?”
Tom sighed. “OK, if you must know, I got a call from Paul Ruthin, who saw you being marched out of the Cat. I knew something was wrong so I asked one of the guys in the band who was still packing up after the gig at Tiffany’s to phone CID and speak to Ludden or whoever was there. I couldn’t get near a phone. I was finishing off the evening and couldn’t get away from my little bird’s nest.
“We knew that something serious was going on. There was just too much activity, and your departure from the Cat was quite sudden. Unfortunately no one knew where you’d gone in that Rolls, but it’s not the sort of car you can hide for long. I phoned Dave at home and he got a taxi to Tiffany’s.”
Dave took over the story and explained that Derby’s drug squad had had the Savoy under surveillance for a day or so after eventually making the link between the brothel, the drugs stash and the body on the roof. Two PCs in mufti in an unmarked car had not seen anybody go in. “Perhaps that says more about the squad than we should be thinking about right now.”
“I’m surprised the drugs squad was even there,” said Tom. “If what Ludden says about the corruption and bribery is right, they’d probably turn a blind eye.” Right on cue, the door swung back and DI Ludden bustled into the room.
The policeman had a look of thunder. His usual stern face was grim. His entry into the hospital room was met by absolute silence as the three looked at him.
CHAPTER 66
Tom Freeman jumped to his feet. DI Adam Ludden always had an authoritarian effect, and with Tom being an ex-officer, his presence commanded respect. Without acknowledging the movement, Ludden appropriated Tom’s chair and pulled it next to the bed. He was not at his ease in hospitals: illness could not be comfortably pigeon-holed and dealt with by any set procedure he was aware of. He was also afraid that one day he’d fall sick or have an accident and his self-sufficiency would be useless; he’d be at the mercy of doctors and nurses and that unsettled him.
“Comfortable, are you?” he said without waiting for Simon’s response. “It’s good to see you in a place where there’s less likelihood of you getting into trouble. I hope I’ve disturbed something. Seeing you three together always gives me a bit of a turn.”
His expression softened as he addressed Simon again. “Thanks for the full statement. It was a bit flowery and wordy, but then as a newspaper reporter I suppose the precise, simple, clear truth is not what you’re used to. Anyway, there are a few details missing, but that’s probably because we took the statement too soon after the anaesthetic had worn off. Still, you’ve given us enough facts to support the few arrests we have made.”
He looked around the room, bringing Tom and Dave fully into his gaze. His expression became serious. “Nothing I am about to say can ever appear in print or get passed on as gossip. Is that clear?”
Tom and Dave nodded. Simon tried to do the same but was clearly in pain as he moved his neck. He let his head fall back on the pillows again.
“George Washington, or should I say Jenson Tabor, which is his real name, has been arrested for attempted murder and drug dealing, and Rashid Jamal has been charged with drug dealing as well as a few driving offences. We’ve been busy all day closing down their operations and we’ve picked up the largest haul of hard drugs and cannabis ever found in Derby.
“Washington is a bit of a mess but he’ll survive. He’s lost an eye but the rest of his injuries are abrasions and bruises. That Rolls-Royce is a write-off but it was built like a tank and probably saved their lives. Washington’s hardly said a word. He’s appointed a solicitor from Birmingham with a track record of unearthing technicalities. We’ll keep him in a cell but I don’t expect we’ll be able to convict him of anything more than the serious crimes he’s directly linked to.
“His fingerprints are all over two of the knives we found in Simpson’s office, including one that has a match to your blood and traces of bits of your body on it.”
Simon grimaced as Ludden continued. “This Joseph guy is a conundrum. After you told us how he seemed to have saved your life and given you the chance to escape, he wasn’t charged. He has, however, given us a very full and long statement about his life as Washington’s minder and protector, and with his agreement we’re keeping him in custody for his own protection. That’s until we’ve turfed out and arrested all the rest of the gang who might pose a threat.”
Simon interrupted with a question. “What was Mary doing there? When she was in that office with Jamal she was acting as if it was all ordinary. She and Jamal looked a pair.”
A trace of annoyance crossed Ludden’s face. He was not used to being stopped in full flow. “Mary Gulliver is also under arrest for aiding and abetting your kidnap. A little dig into her history was enlightening. She’s a former prostitute who has worked for Simpson for over twenty years. About five years ago she met Jamal and they became lovers. She was spying on Simpson’s businesses for him.
“She organised the room where Philip Bateman was killed, and now we’re trying to link her and possibly Jamal to that killing, as well as the disappearance of Conlon.
“The problem we’ve got is that Mary doesn’t know enough. Tabor, or Washington, whatever you want to call him, is staying absolutely silent and denying any knowledge or involvement, but that’s OK, we’ve got him bang to rights.
“Jamal knows he’s in deep trouble. He’s being very cagey about Bateman’s murder and protesting his innocence. But he’s mentioned the names of some guys who seem to have skipped abroad. He’s denying any involvement, but said that he’d heard they were mixed up in it. We’ve got Interpol on the case but I don’t think we’ll get very far.
“Conlon’s disappearance remains a mystery. Unless there’s a full confession from someone, there seems to be no evidence that he’s dead or, if he’s still alive, where he might be. Unfortunately, given the facts that have already surfaced, I think we can be fairly certain that he’s been killed. How and by whom, we don’t know.”
Ludden stopped talking and there was silence for a few seconds.
Simon opened his eyes wide as if he’d just remembered something important. “Is Janie all right? That Washington man kept saying they were going to deal with her. He talked about some accident or something. Is she OK?”
Ludden’s expression lightened and he almost broke into a grin. “That feisty young lady is fine. When she called home and told her parents about visits by an unsavoury character, a bar manager or something, her father called us. We contacted the hotel and she phoned us next day. We’ve been working with the Spanish police in Fuengirola. Not only have they closed down a lucrative drug smuggling operation, but the main contact, having heard about Harry Ponds’s pouffe trick, decided to do the same thing himself. Spanish police found him with thirty kilograms of cannabis and a big pile of empty leather pouffes.”
Dave leaned forward. “Where does Greg Simpson fit in? What’s happening to him?”
“At the moment he’s in a psychiatric ward at Kingsway Hospital. It seems a visit to the Siddals Road brothel, which we knew about all along, as you probably imagined, was the final straw. He had a bit of a fit and went round breaking glasses and doors in his own premises. We arrested him but until he’s more lucid there’s not much point in charging him with anything.”
Ludden sat back and stared at Tom and Dave. “How come you two were at the scene? Did you have any idea about what was going on?”
Tom explained about the call from Paul Ruthin and the dilemma they had faced. “Dave and I were stuck. They could have taken Simon anywhere but we thought it would most likely be the Siddals Road brothel or, if there was no car there, the Savoy. We didn’t think the Roller would park at the front, which would be a bit obvious, so we drove round the back. It wasn’t there. We parked in an alleyway at the back of the hotel. We were thinking about getting in somehow when we heard the commotion and glass breaking. That’s when Simon appeared on my car roof.”
Ludden nodded. “I’ll be needing statements from you both just to tidy things up.”
He was interrupted by a smiling nurse who strode purposefully into the room. She was small and blonde – the sort of girl that Simon, if he had been feeling brighter, would have made a beeline for. “Right then, gentlemen. That’s enough. Sister has asked me to get Mr Jardine ready for his medications and make him comfortable. That means you have to leave. Now.”
She turned her back on the visitors, leaned over Simon and placed a thermometer in his mouth. He tried to say something but the nurse wagged her finger and smiled. “You’ve done enough talking. Now it’s time to get some rest.”
Ludden stood up. “Just do me a big favour, Mr Jardine. Stay out of my hair for a while. You and your friends seem to attract trouble like flies to a pile of dung.”
Dave, who had also stood up, gave a sheepish smile. “The news desk is grateful for the exclusive story I’ve written but not too happy with you, Simon. I’ve been told to tell you to take two or three weeks’ holiday and recuperation.”
CHAPTER 67
