Thicker Than Water Page 11

  I headed right on over to the door, trying to keep the air of brisk certainty up and running and facing down Mister Plod with a stare of cold superiority.

  ‘Evening,’ I said.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ he answered. His gravelly voice matched his shoe-leather skin and brick-shithouse build. He looked like someone who’d jumped a plane out of Zimbabwe just ahead of a bunch of pitchfork-wielding farm workers. He also looked as though he didn’t like me very much, based on first appearances, and was prepared to hate me on further acquaintance. If Basquiat had stationed him here, maybe he was one of her two ‘questionable use of force’ gents. I looked forward cordially to never finding out.

  I only locked stares with him for a moment: then I turned my attention to the lock. It was a Baring Streamline-D, which meant it had a four-digit key and three factory defaults. And I used to know what they were, right off the top of my head, but that was back in my student days when stage magic and escapology were the only things I could get serious about. These days I have to rely on the mnemonic, invented by my sensei Tom Wilke, the Banbury Bandit:Old fox speaks true.

  ‘Stuffed turkey never flew.’

  So fuck this zoo.

  Which if you take the initial letters of each word translates into 1563, 7294 and 6530 (the z standing for zero).

  Digital locks are called yes-or-nos because unless you’re big on logic gates and home electronics, whether or not you can pick them comes down to a single question: did whoever put the lock in bother to change the factory default setting?

  Trusting to the morally deficient saint or angel who watches over the affairs of exorcists and career criminals, I keyed in the first combination. I was already pulling on the door handle as I hit the fourth digit, and since it didn’t yield I belted into the second combination without a pause.

  7294 did the trick. The door came free with a metallic quack. Giving the constable an amiable nod, I walked on in. He shot me a look, as though he was only an inch or two away from asking me who the fuck I was, but common sense dictated that if I had the combo I was someone who had a right to be there. I pulled the door to behind me before he could pull on that skein of logic far enough for it to unravel.

  A quick glance around me showed an empty nurses’ station in a short well-lit hall with four doors leading off. The only room I could see into from where I was standing was definitely a ward, with at least one occupied bed. The incumbent was invisible except for a bony outcrop of shoulder sheathed in drab beige NHS pyjamas. The same kind, probably, that your grandad and mine wore in their dying hours.

  There was a sink just beside the door, underneath a poster exhorting anyone who came in to wash their hands thoroughly with the disinfectant soap provided. I took the opportunity to have a good scrub-up, partly because it would look right if the cop was watching me through the reinforced glass but mainly because - like a surgeon - what I was hoping to do here did involve some physical contact. Kenny might have been a legendary shit when we were kids, but I didn’t want to polish him off with staphylococcus aureus after he’d survived having his throat cut.

  Then I walked to the nearest door and peered inside. There were four beds, one of which had screens around it. From behind the screens a female voice, deep and vibrant, was conducting one half of a cheerful conversation: the other half consisted of silences of varying length.

  ‘That’s right, Malcolm. Hold your bum up off the covers, just for a second. Easy. Easy. Lovely, there you go. You can rest now. And we’re going to do the same on the other side, but I’ll let you get your breath back. Does it hurt? No? Good. If it hurts, you tell me . . .’

  The other three beds were all occupied by silent, sleeping men, one of whom had his face wrapped in bandages from hairline to chin, with only a breathing tube protruding from where his mouth ought to be. The chart beside the door told me that he wasn’t a Seddon, and neither was anyone else in the room.

  Or the next. Or the one after that.

  It was the last room where I found Kenny, or at least his name on the door. It was there alongside another name - H. Piper - but at first glance only one bed seemed occupied. It was the nearest one, and there was no way that the man in it was Kenny. He was at least thirty years too old, for one thing, and for another he was black - as far as I could tell from the small areas of skin that were visible in between the bandages and the drip-feeds and the strips of micropore tape that were keeping all the dermal sensors in place.

  I went back outside and read the list again in case either of the names had been crossed off. They hadn’t. Hurriedly, conscious that the nurse could appear at any moment, I scanned the room again. This time around I realised that the bed diagonally opposite me in the far corner of the room wasn’t empty at all: it was just that the guy lying in it was so skinny that he barely altered the line of the covers.

  With one instinctive, pointless look over my shoulder, I slipped back inside and crossed the room. Looking down at the figure in the bed, I almost winced.

  If this was Kenny Seddon, the years had kicked the living shit out of him. He’d been a big lad, and he’d grown into a big man - but right now the bigness was wrapped around nothing but skin and bone. The shape of his skull was unmistakably visible under the sallow skin of his face - one side of his face, anyway, because the other was mostly covered by a taped-on wound dressing - and where his badly fitting pyjamas lay indiscreetly open his ribs showed in a series of yellow-white knots like clenched knuckles. He looked like a tent that had collapsed in on itself when someone kicked the ridge pole away. And his laboured, irregular breathing suggested that someone was still working away from the inside to get the tent back up again, but making no headway.

  But I could see, more or less, how the man I was staring at now could have been the boy I’d grown up with half a lifetime ago. And that recognition had the eeriest feel to it of all: I mean, obviously I’ve never woken up to find a horse’s head in my bed - yet - but as a memento mori Kenny had most of the competition beat cold.

  I didn’t bother to look at his med chart because it wouldn’t have told me anything. I did look into the locker next to his bed, out of pure habit, and found nothing there except a plastic pitcher of water with a flip-close lid, a plastic tumbler still shrink-wrapped for your germ-free convenience and a Gideon Bible. If Kenny had had anything on him when they brought him in, someone had taken it away for safe keeping.

  Which meant that Kenny himself was going to be my only source of information here. Maybe he’d obligingly be dreaming about the guy who took a razor to his brachio-cephalic artery, and I could just take a psychic snapshot as I drove by. But most likely not. The little tasters and teasers I get from skin contact are seldom coherent enough for that: it’s a long way from a video download.

  I could have put my hand on Kenny’s forehead, but I didn’t want to: it had the wrong kind of overtones, somehow. Instead I pulled aside a corner of the blanket so I could touch his hand. Then I just stood there, stupidly, staring at his wrist with the blanket peeled back.

  Anomalies with the interior of the car, Basquiat had said. Well, there were anomalies with Kenny, too, and I was looking at one of them. His wrist had been bandaged where he’d taken the cuts in the course of the attack, and the bandage was fairly wide. But the livid-edged furrows of older cuts, inadequately healed, showed clearly both above and below it. These weren’t defence injuries - not unless he lived with a ninja and they fought for the last Jaffa cake every day of the bloody week. These were the marks of old suicide attempts, or of regular, unremitting self-harm.

  I reached out and touched the tips of my fingers to his open palm. Silence. Nobody home. I stood as still as I could, eyes tight shut, trying to find Kenny’s frequency through the emotional effluvia pooling all around me - the gone-but-not-erased emotions that had soaked into the hospital’s walls over the course of the last century and a half and now seemed to my strained perceptions to be sweating out of the brickwork.

  I was picking up somethi
ng, but it wasn’t much: a dimly flickering filament of consciousness like a 25-watt light bulb left burning somewhere in the basement rooms of Kenny’s mind - the psychic equivalent of a pulse. But I was getting nothing else: not memory, not emotion, not even the raw light-dark strobe of an untranslatable dream. Kenny wasn’t a good sender, and the conditions were almost as bad as they could be. It seemed I’d spent a lot of effort and ingenuity to no good end.

  But then, acting on an impulse I didn’t consciously examine, I slid my hand across Kenny’s palm until the tip of my index finger touched the line of one of his old, half-healed wounds. Instantly, that faint pulse opened up like a hot red flower and I flinched from the shock of the contact, almost pulling my hand away.

  What I was feeling was a mixture of contradictory emotions that turned around and through each other without merging, like oil in water. There was pain in there, sharp and real and narrowly focused: but the pain was shot through with a restless hunger that was almost erotic in its intensity, and riding on the hunger there was a sense of urgency, a formless conviction that translated as NOW, NOW, NOW, LET IT BE NOW.

  It took a real effort not to step back, not to break the contact, because the emotions were so alien and so powerful: someone else’s excitement, someone else’s suffering and need flooding my synapses. I felt as though I was collaborating in an assault in which I was simultaneously victim and accomplice.

  Images began to surface in the flow of emotion like corpuscles in plasma or felled trees on a rolling river. I saw a small, cramped room barely big enough for a bed and a chest of drawers, the top of the chest piled high with CDs and empty CD cases; the towers and walkways of the Salisbury, by day and then by night; and a hand, probably male, touching the surface of a broken mirror in which a face was reflected in jumbled jigsaw pieces. The face was eerily familiar, but I didn’t have time to reassemble that jigsaw before the ceaseless rush of thought carried it away from me again, brought me instead a razor, a bitter taste, a drumming, repetitive song.

  I got the sword

  I’m good because

  I got the sword

  I’m good because

  I tried to screen the music out but it had an insane, viral insistence: it overwhelmed and effaced the other sensations one piece at a time until there was nothing else left but the pounding drumbeat.

  I opened my eyes and pulled back my hand, stopping the drumbeat dead. My fingertip tingled and throbbed as though I’d touched a hot plate and a blister was starting to form.

  ‘He’s looking better than he was,’ said a voice from behind me. A woman’s voice: the nurse. A moment later I heard her footsteps coming towards me.

  I managed not to turn.

  ‘Yeah?’ I answered. ‘How do you mean?’

  She walked past me, brisk and businesslike, carrying a grey plastic bowl, half full of water, which she set down on the table next to Kenny’s bed. She had a towel and a flannel hung over one arm, and she laid them out too with practised, economical movements. From her pocket she took a bottle of liquid soap. She was a short brunette, broad at shoulder and hip and as formidable as her voice. She was probably about my age, but she wore it better. Most people do.

  ‘His blood pressure is up a bit,’ she said. ‘Sixty over forty. And his eyes are moving in his sleep - I saw that when I came in before. That’s a very good sign.’

  There had to be some reason why she was talking to me like an old friend instead of asking to see my credentials or screaming for the cop on the door, and I’d figure it out sooner or later. For now I was content to gather whatever rosebuds were on offer.

  ‘What do you make of the wounds?’ I asked.

  She straightened and looked round at me, looking a bit bemused. ‘What do I make of them?’

  I nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, you’re the expert.’

  Okay. The penny dropped at that point. She couldn’t think I was a consultant on his rounds, so she must be mistaking me for one of Coldwood’s boys, stopping by to scrape up a bit more forensic evidence. It says a lot for the public perception of the Met that a guy who rolls in out of the night in a long coat with two days’ worth of stubble on his chin is taken to be one of London’s finest rather than a wino looking for a berth.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed, straight-faced. ‘I am. But you know how it is with experts: multum in parvo.’

  The nurse blinked. ‘Multi what?’

  ‘Means “deep but narrow”, which defines me perfectly. ‘I’m -’ well I’d better not be Castor this time out, in case that name ended up on a charge sheet some time soon ‘- Basquiat. Rudy Basquiat. Detective Sergeant. Who are you?’

  She gave me an old-fashioned look and tapped the badge she wore on her ample chest. She was Petra Ryall, charge nurse. Right. I bet when she lowered her head and charged she’d be something to see.

  ‘Petra,’ I said. ‘What I mean is, I just look at things from one angle. And your angle is going to be different because . . .’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I’m a tough, hard-bitten, cynical London cop and you’re an angel of mercy.’

  Nurse Ryall grinned at me. ‘You think they’ll give us our own TV series?’ she asked.

  ‘Bound to.’

  ‘Well, I only know what I saw when I was putting the dressings on, but I was thinking the angles are all weird. Did you think that?’

  ‘You first,’ I said, ‘then me. What do you mean by weird?’

  She shrugged, looking away into the corner of the room as she consulted her memory. ‘I just mean . . . all over the place,’ she said. ‘Some of them low, some of them high. Left side, right side. Daft, really. They said he was in a car when he was attacked. You wouldn’t think there’d be room in a car for someone to, you know, come at him from all sides like that.’

  I nodded encouragement, as though she was echoing my very thoughts. ‘Say he was struggling to get away, though,’ I suggested. ‘Trying to get out of his seat belt, maybe. He’d be squirming around, presenting different parts of his body to the attacker. Maybe it happened like that.

  ‘Maybe,’ Petra allowed, but she sounded doubtful. ‘I don’t know. There was something else, you know? Well, of course you know. If I’m talking rubbish, just tell me.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Well, some of these cuts were really two cuts. The razor had hit the same place twice. You can tell because there’s different lines - different incisions - that overlap each other. So it’s more like he was being held still and the other bloke was going and going at him. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Perfect sense,’ I assured her. ‘Evidence, inference, conclusion. You’d make a good detective.’

  She seemed to appreciate the compliment. ‘So are they connected?’ she asked, waggling her finger to indicate Kenny and the room’s other occupant.

  I was momentarily thrown. ‘Why would you assume that?’ I asked, temporising.

  My surprise must have shown on my face. Petra hesitated for a moment, maybe wondering if she’d overstepped the bounds of forensic decorum. ‘Well, because of the address, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Same postcode. And two stabbings coming so close together. Not a razor, I know, but I thought it could still be . . .’

  ‘No, absolutely,’ I agreed as she faltered into silence. ‘We haven’t discounted that possibility at all. I’m just impressed that you made the connection. Were they really as close together as all that, though?’

  She rounded the other bed and consulted the chart.

  ‘Three days,’ she admitted. ‘I thought it was only two.’

  ‘And the MO,’ I mused, chancing my arm. ‘Sometimes the differences can tell you a lot.’

  Petra looked down at the frail old man lying in troubled slumber between us. ‘Lots of wounds again,’ she said. ‘But lots of little punctures, this time. And all more or less the same depth. Creepy. You’d think someone had tied him up with barbed wire or something. But he was just lying in his bed, wasn’t he? Until tha
t priest found him and brought him in.’

  Priest?

  ‘Father Gwillam,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, him.’ She glanced up at me, her face earnest and unhappy. ‘Who’d do a thing like that to a poor old man?’ she demanded. ‘It’s horrible. Sometimes I hate this world.’

  I nodded, but my mind was racing and it was all I could do to maintain a suitable poker face. Was it the differences or the similarities that were more important here? Was I looking at variations on a theme or two unconnected acts of random violence? One attack involved stab wounds, the other puncture wounds. And Kenny had been ambushed in his car while this other guy seemed to have been attacked by a burglar. But from what Petra had said, both victims were from the Salisbury estate. And the Salisbury estate was suffering from two parallel infestations: sinister graffiti and the Anathemata.

  It was worth taking the temperature one more time, particularly as I didn’t have anything to lose here. Without asking permission I leaned down to examine the sleeping man at closer range. The puncture marks that Petra had mentioned weren’t in evidence, but three small dressings on the man’s face - at forehead, cheek and chin - showed where some of them had been. I touched his cheek gently with the back of my hand, as close to the edge of the bandage as I could.

  Nothing. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting - or whether the same kind of searing, vivid newsflash I’d got from Kenny would have been welcome or not. But this man was soundly asleep and his mind and soul were folded in on themselves: there was nothing to be gleaned from them, or at least not by me.

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Nurse Ryall,’ I said, giving her a nod as I stepped back from the bed. She was watching me with a sort of puzzled patience. ‘You’ve helped me to clarify some thoughts.’