Chosen (21 page)

The strange building had changed. The figures within it had also changed. Before, the building had been dark. That had puzzled him, for if it was dark how had he seen the figures inside when they'd all been clad in black?

Now, the room was white. A pure, arctic white. The figures inside were no longer dressed in black, hooded, sinister cloaks. They were all in white now. Were they angels? Was he dead? Was he in some other place, beyond life? He couldn't make out their faces.

Occasionally, one figure appeared whose face was visible. He should recognize her. He knew this, knew he ought to say her name, but by the time he remembered, she'd gone. She'd been troubled by something. What was it? Now, she was smiling. He liked that. He loved her smile, that same secret smile that had attracted him.

Was this a dream? Did she exist? He was sure she did. There was something he had to tell her, something important, something he couldn't quite recall. The effort was tiring. He always seemed tired. Why was that? He'd go back to sleep until he could remember.

 

Every visiting time, the staff nurse had looked with mild envy at their blonde, blue-eyed good looks. The girls looked alike enough to be sisters, close relatives surely. ‘Excuse me,' she said. ‘Is one of you called Stella?'

‘No,' the older one replied. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘The patient you're visiting, it's Mr Nash, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' it was the older one again. ‘But I'm called Monique and her name's Clara.'

‘Then who's Stella? Mr Nash keeps asking for someone called Stella.'

The younger woman spoke for the first time. ‘Stella was a girlfriend of Mr Nash.'

Monique glanced at Clara, a puzzled expression on her face.

The nurse continued, ‘I think you should ask her to visit Mr Nash, if it's possible. He seems to have something very important to say to her. I'm sure it will do him good.'

Clara's lip trembled; she was on the verge of tears. ‘That won't be possible,' she told the nurse quietly. ‘I'm afraid Stella's dead.'

‘Oh dear, I am sorry,' the nurse was flummoxed by her gaffe.

Monique put her arm around Clara. ‘Can you tell us how Mr Nash is, before we go in?' She asked, both of them dreading the answer. For over three weeks, Mike Nash's life had hung in the balance and it seemed the balance was tipping the wrong way. The shock of the bullet wound had almost killed him. The post-operative shock had almost succeeded where Charleston had failed.

The staff nurse was more forthcoming than usual. ‘He seems a little stronger today. The specialist saw him this morning. After the operation, he rated Mr Nash's chances as no better than 80/20 against. Now he puts them at 60/40 in favour.'

Nash's third visitor joined them. ‘What's the news today?'

‘We may have to cancel the wreath,' Clara remarked as her composure returned.

They moved into the ICU and ranged themselves alongside the bed, Monique taking the side nearest the bank of monitoring equipment. The other two stood on the opposite side. Monique and Clara gently took hold of Mike's hands.

Mike looked old, old and frail, Clara thought sadly. For the first time in all their visits, his eyes flickered, flickered then opened. He looked at Monique. He smiled, no more than a slight twist of the lips, ‘Hello,' he said in a pitifully weak whisper. ‘You okay?'

She nodded, close to tears. ‘Yes, Mike, thanks to you. How are you?'

‘Bloody awful,' he whispered. ‘What do you mean, “thanks to me”?'

‘You saved our lives, mine and Clara's. You were only just in time.'

‘Clara, she's okay?'

Monique laughed. ‘Who do you think's holding your other hand? See for yourself. She's at the other side of the bed.'

Nash's memory returned slowly. He didn't move his head but stared at Monique. His face contorted with grief, ‘Viv,' he said, in a whisper so quiet they nearly missed it.

Nash's third visitor laughed. ‘I'm here too. I'm just not holding your hand.'

Nash turned his head slightly. He smiled as he saw Pearce standing at the foot of the bed.

‘I've got a hard head. And Charleston's arm wasn't quite strong enough.'

Nash's smile became mischievous. ‘I remember; you wouldn't kiss me. Now you won't hold my hand. I don't think you care.'

‘Right, that'll have to do, I'm afraid.' They looked round. The staff nurse pointed firmly to the door. ‘Five minutes is all you're allowed.'

‘We'll be back tomorrow, Mike,' Monique promised.

Nash smiled his thanks then turned his head for the first time and looked at Clara. She squeezed his hand encouragingly. ‘Bye for now, Mike.'

 

For several days after their first visit Nash was lucid and seemed well on the road to recovery. On the Wednesday of the following week Monique went to visit Nash alone. It was the day the inquests into Charleston's victims opened and Mironova and Pearce were required in court. When the Coroner had adjourned, Clara switched her mobile on. She listened to the voice mail message. ‘Monique wants to speak to me,' she told Pearce. ‘She sounds upset.' She dialled Monique's number. Pearce couldn't make out what Monique was saying, but the agitated tone of her voice was enough to start alarm bells ringing. ‘Right, we'll be straight over,' Clara told her.

‘What is it? What's wrong?' Pearce demanded.

‘When Monique went to the hospital, they wouldn't let her see Mike. They told her there's infection in the wound and he's developed a high fever and pneumonia. Viv, she thinks he's dying. She said even the doctors don't hold out much hope.'

It was a long battle. Clara lost count of the nights she spent in the armchair alongside Nash's bed. For over two weeks she wasn't sure whether he was even aware of her presence. When Nash was well enough to sit up and talk, she sat on the edge of his bed and held his hand.

‘This is devotion above and beyond the call of duty,' he told her weakly. It was a poor attempt to tease her, but it was the first sign of Nash's sense of humour returning.

‘You saved my life,' she answered defiantly. ‘It's the least I can do to try and help you recover. But I want to ask you something.'

He looked at her questioningly. ‘When you found us in that quarry,' Clara paused. She was watching him carefully and saw his expression take on a guarded look. ‘I know you may not want to be reminded of it, but do you remember seeing me before Charleston shot you?'

Nash pictured Clara lying on the bed, her glorious blonde hair tumbling about her shoulders, the honeyed sheen of her skin, her rose-tipped nipples topping her proud breasts, her long straight legs. He looked her straight in the eyes. ‘I walked into the building. There was a kitchen. I walked across the room. I started to open the door. There was a sound behind me. I turned round and he shot me.'

Clara's worried frown disappeared. She smiled at him. ‘Little Jimmy, the burglar man, put a duvet over me before anyone else arrived. Peterson undressed me after he drugged me, you see. We think he was about to rape me when you arrived.' She squeezed his hand. ‘So you see, Mike, I owe you more than just my life. In the circumstances, it would have seemed extremely churlish to be upset if you'd seen me without any clothes on, but I'm glad it didn't happen.'

Nash smiled at her. ‘Spoilsport.' He was pleased she was so relieved. He wondered if she'd ever realize, he hadn't actually answered her question.

 

Shortly before he was released from hospital Nash received a visit from the head of the medical team. ‘I'm glad to see you appear to be mending well, but I have a few questions. It must seem strange
for you to be on the receiving end for once.' He tried a reassuring smile. ‘I need to ask about the medication you've been taking. I got the information from your GP. I rang him and he filled me in with the reason the tablets were prescribed for you. It so happens I've a bit of experience of this drug. I wondered if you'd help me with a study I've been doing.'

Nash nodded his agreement.

‘Do you ever have any side effects: suffer from hallucinations or hot sweats? Either when you're awake or asleep? You might regard them as nightmares or severe bad dreams. They'd leave you feeling drained the next day.'

‘I've had some vivid nightmares. I also visualize crimes being committed. But then I've always done that.'

‘I'm not talking about those incidents. I imagine most good detectives do it. The nightmares are a different matter. Tell me, do you ever take the tablets when you've had a drink?'

‘Occasionally I do,' Nash admitted.

‘And would you say your nightmares are worse on those occasions? '

Nash looked bewildered. ‘Are you saying that's what's caused my nightmares over the past couple of years? Those tablets?'

‘Not necessarily the tablets on their own, although in severe cases they might work alone. Obviously, you take more of them when your stress level is highest. But when they're combined with alcohol it drastically increases the chances of the side effects. I'm not saying do without them if you really need them. Any more than I'm suggesting you sign the pledge. Just don't take the two together.'

 

Tom Pratt came to see him several times. On his last visit Pratt talked about the case for the first time. Charleston, he told Mike, had been dead before the car caught fire. The impact had driven the steering column through his body, puncturing several organs. At Mexican Pete's insistence a urine sample had been taken from Clara. ‘Apparently the date rape drug he used was gamma hydroxy butyrate, do you know it?'

Nash nodded. ‘GBH,' he said softly.

‘Forensics found a stock of it in that bloody dolls house. The professor's report made very interesting reading. He reckons the
embalming work is the finest he's ever seen. Apparently, Charleston kept them sedated with a normal sedative until he was ready to rape them, then fed them with GBH repeatedly. But that had its inevitable result of convulsions, fits, coma, and ultimately death.

‘We put Charleston's details on to the computer and sent them worldwide. We got a report back from the FBI. His fingerprints match those of a mortician working in Forest Lawns Funeral Parlor in Seattle during the early eighties, a man they knew as Peter Charles. He was wanted in connection with the deaths of three girls who'd gone missing in the Seattle area. Those girls were also blue-eyed blondes. Their bodies were found after Charles vanished. They'd all been embalmed.'

 

When Nash was well enough to leave hospital Clara picked him up. She drove to his new Rutland Way flat. ‘Why are we here? I haven't moved in yet.'

‘Oh yes you have. We decided you'd be better here, without steps to climb while you're still fragile. David was home on leave and everyone pitched in. Your key, sir.' She passed him a set of door keys. ‘Do you need a hand?' Nash insisted he could cope on his own. Clara smiled secretively. ‘In that case I'll leave you to it.'

Nash was far from fully recovered, but he was glad to be out of hospital. He unlocked the door. The flat must have been closed up for some time. He expected that musty smell associated with a building starved of fresh air. Instead he was greeted with a wonderfully fresh mixture of aromas, a combination of fresh flowers and furniture polish. The flat was sparkling as if an army of charwomen had just marched through. All his furniture arranged more or less as he would have set it himself. There were flowers everywhere he looked. Almost every available surface had some adorning it. He was still peering around in surprise, when a voice behind him said, ‘If any more flowers arrive, I'll have to buy more vases.'

Monique stood in the hall entrance, a carrier bag in either hand. ‘What have you got there?' Nash asked.

‘Food,' she told him. ‘I've been appointed to ensure you get a good healthy diet.'

‘Who by and what's all—?'

‘By the people who sent these flowers. They're from parents, mainly. Parents who are at last able to mourn their daughters and to bury them with dignity. Also the parents of the girls who were on Charleston's shopping list. They know what a narrow escape they had. They know their daughters are alive, thanks to you.'

She made dinner for them, which they ate in companionable silence for the most part. Towards the end of the meal, he remembered Monique's fear of the dark. ‘How are you going to get home? I'd forgotten you don't go out at night.'

She smiled. ‘We'll sort something out.'

The ‘something', she explained, as she was doing the washing up, involved her staying at the flat. ‘I made up the bed in your spare room,' she told him. ‘I hope you don't mind. You need someone to look after you until you're strong enough to fend for yourself, and in any case I don't like that house any more.'