My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (2 page)

You’re losing focus.

He banged a hand against the side of his head.

Suddenly, he saw the end of the alley. The patch of light grew as he ran, pushing the memories away. He reached the street and stopped, just inside the entrance to the pathway, trying to bring his heart rate down. Opposite him, the shop fronts flanking the bus stop.

The
empty
bus stop.

Bull stepped forward just enough to see the end of Sydney Road. No sign of her. Either the bus had already gone and she was now too far ahead, or –

He turned as the sound of the engine reached him. The bus was approaching, the number 121 clearly lit above the driver. Bull waited while it pulled in, watching Rosa step out on to the pavement on the far side. The bus pulled away, leaving her at the stop, fiddling with her music player. After a moment, she found a track and set off.

Bull gave her a small head start then followed, crossing the now quiet street to where he could trail her from straight behind. They turned left into Sydney Road, and Bull started closing the gap as they reached the unlit sector. The street was run-down, covered in graffiti and lined with busted cars, but he still had to make the most of the dark. A hundred yards in, brick walls and windowless buildings were replaced by a pay-and-display car park, where the light was much better. And just beyond that was the scruffy house his target shared with a few other girls.

It had to be now.

Bull closed in, glancing around for other people, reaching into his jacket for the weapon. He pulled out the hammer and raised it. Rosa didn’t look round, and he wondered what sort of music she’d chosen to listen to in her final moments.

He caught her up.

And the hammer swung.

Part One

1

Samantha Philips entered the room, ushered in by a stern-looking older woman who poked her head in to make sure her consignment wasn’t alone before retreating.

‘Hello, Samantha,’ he said as she stopped just inside. ‘My name is Pierce Reid. I’m a counsellor.’

Philips didn’t respond. Instead, she scanned the space around her, moving just her eyes, but not in the nervous manner often demonstrated by others. Her expression was more of cold assessment. Distant recall.

It wasn’t surprising; she probably hadn’t seen anything
approaching
luxury for the last six years, and this would certainly be the first time she’d visited the boardroom, with its scented dried flowers and carpet.

In truth, he’d expected a little more reverence. Visitors to parole prep sessions like this were never warned. An early alarm call preceded the ominous march to this comparatively opulent room, accompanied by an unfamiliar guard. Usually that combination helped to lower the subject’s defences, briefly at least. A seasoned inmate’s reaction to the room often revealed more about her desire to re-join society than anything she might say afterwards. The reason he used it.

He
motioned to one of the soft leather chairs. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

Philips looked at him for the first time, a fleeting, emotionless flick, then away. But still no reply. He could see the unnecessarily heavy-duty cuffs digging into her wrists, but she hadn’t attempted to adjust them. Instead she continued scrutinizing the room, obviously aware of the camera lens trained on her from above.

‘Stand if you prefer, but we may be here for a while if you’re going to insist on communicating telepathically.’

Another flick. No smile.

He waited, studying the slim woman in prison-issue overalls. Sam was twenty-four, and feisty – according to her record, both before and since she’d earned herself twelve years inside, six of which she’d served. Remnants of a pretty girl peeked out from behind the scragged-back hair and jail-hardened façade, but their traces were further subdued by an emptiness in the eyes that he’d seen too many times.

The void left by rape.

‘I heard about you.’

Reid only just caught her quiet, monotone words. He’d been expecting to play the one-way game for a while yet.

She was looking at him.

He cleared his throat, revising his position in the chair. ‘Go on.’

‘Few of the girls spoke to you before they left. Said you were all right.’

‘That’s
interesting. Do you believe them?’

‘Maybe.’ Still no emotion, but with that Philips stepped around one of the chairs and sat, apparently unimpressed by its comfort. Reid watched her settle, cuffed hands coming to rest on her knees. He picked up the notepad and pen from the low table between them and positioned the pad on his crossed leg, turned up so that only he could see the page. He wrote ‘Samantha Philips’ on the top line.

‘So, Samantha.’ He looked up at her. ‘The board has decided that, based on your behaviour and their psychological assessments, you pose no continuing danger to others. There will be conditions, of course, but having now served a reasonable term, you are eligible for immediate parole, which represents a substantial cut in your sentence. That is, of course, if I agree.’

It was barely perceptible, but he was experienced enough to see the question cross Philips’ mind as realization broke.

Are you my way out of here?

He nodded, answering her unspoken query. ‘My job is to make sure you want to return to normal life. That you’re ready for, and capable of, reintegration.’

She looked away, to where a window might have been if they weren’t in the bowels of Holloway Prison. Her first emotional response.

Then, softly:

‘What do you want to know?’

2

‘Please, Mrs Antonio,’ the Indian doctor flapped as DCI Hawkins tried for a second time to slide off the hospital bed, ‘it is
so
important that you take things just one step at a time.’

‘It’s Antoni
a
, and yes, you said. But I’m telling you; I can walk.’

‘Oh dear.’ Dr Badal backed away as Hawkins’ feet made contact with the freezing floor and she rocked into an upright position. Then he shot forwards again as she almost doubled over.

‘You see, Mrs Toni
a
, the upper abdominal muscles have not yet recuperated.’

She steadied herself on the mattress. ‘Then get me some crutches.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good –’

‘
Now, please.
’

‘Right.’ The doctor retreated, palpably brimming with fear of malpractice.

Hawkins waited for him to leave before she sagged against the bed. The intense burning sensation in her chest and stomach said he was probably right: she hadn’t recovered sufficiently from the near-fatal knife
attack just six weeks ago to be standing up, let alone walking. Apparently, the network of muscles in her torso had been torn to shreds by the eleven stab wounds. And her subsequent fall – leading to several mashed ribs – hadn’t helped.

But this place was driving her mad.

Projected recovery time from injuries like hers was more like a month. But, thanks to extra layers of complication provided by Sod’s Law – in her case an MRSA infection contracted ten days after her operation – Hawkins had spent an extra two weeks in a private room, returning only once purged to the general ward. She was improving steadily, but whereas bacteria had failed to finish her off, psychosis brought on by this riling confinement still might.

Dr Badal buzzed back into the room holding a set of crutches, followed by a young nurse pushing an empty wheelchair. He just about stopped himself placing a hand on Hawkins’ shoulder. ‘I … understand your will to leave, really I do, but I must stress that a wheelchair would be a much better –’

‘Thank you.’ Hawkins took the crutches and began wrestling their supports around her forearms.

‘Err …’ The doctor squirmed. ‘You have to appreciate your anatomy, Mrs … please. Your axilla will be extremely sensit–’. But his words were drowned out by Hawkins’ scream as she rested her weight on the crutches and pain erupted in her armpits.

The
nurse, obviously having been primed, appeared beside her as Hawkins dropped like an anvil into the wheelchair, crutches clattering to the floor.

‘I did tell you, Mrs Antonio.’ The doctor sounded genuinely sorry. ‘But you are strongly willed.’

Hawkins glared at him, breathing hard. ‘How long till I can leave?’

‘You must try to understand that your injuries are severe. You nearly died. You’re lucky.’

‘How long?’

‘You are making good progress. I think that, given –’

He stopped as the glare intensified, his shoulders sagging. ‘You can self-discharge at any time; I can’t prevent you. Sign a waiver and you can leave. But I highly recommend you remain here in hospital for at least one more week, giving your body time to recover.’

Dr Badal visibly shrank as Hawkins’ expression developed into the full Anne Robinson. Even the nurse leaned back.

‘Fine,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll stay.’

‘I think you are making the right choice, Mrs … really. I will come back later to check on you. Or … it may actually be my colleague.’

He withdrew, leaving the nurse to assist Hawkins out of the wheelchair and back into bed. She began untangling the catheter.

‘You’re not putting that godforsaken thing back in,’ Hawkins growled. ‘Leave the chair.’

3

Half an hour after Hawkins’ aborted attempt to use crutches, her armpits stopped ringing. She’d spent the intervening time watching the cup of tea provided by the nurse go cold, regretting her acquiescence. She pictured her office gathering dust. And her inbox, which would already be arranging emails into creaking monthly folders.

And what of the criminal backlog? Surely there were illegal acts going unpunished because she was in here. Or worse, if her team were able to maintain operations without her, there’d be no point in her going back at all. She groaned and looked out of the window.

The house would be spotless, of course. Her mum had always been a clean freak. MRSA hadn’t taken off until the nineties, probably not because of increasing resistance to antibiotics but because that was when Christine Hawkins retired from the NHS.

Hospital was a maddening experience, especially after two weeks of bedridden near-solitude. Her arse was permanently numb, and for someone who usually curtailed family contact after thirty minutes, visiting hour was purgatory. Her dad; fine. Mike or her friends;
great. But her mother and sister,
together
, for three thousand six hundred seconds? Never again.

She needed to speak to Maguire.

Hawkins leaned across, trying to block out shrieking abdominal muscles, and retrieved her mobile from the bedside drawer.

She selected his number, which rang. And rang.

She ended her call and checked the time: 9 a.m. Her detective inspector, and sporadic boyfriend, was probably still in the morning briefing. Their on–off relationship had started two years ago as an illicit affair behind the back of Hawkins’ then fiancé, bounced along between amorous and torrid extremes, and ended when Hawkins had confessed everything to the man who then quickly became her ex. Meanwhile, Maguire was redeployed to Manchester, leading to a six-month hiatus. His return, less than two months ago, had precipitated similarly intense events. Together they had tracked down a dangerous psychopath, fallen in, out, and back in love again, and almost simultaneously saved each other’s lives.

She imagined him in the briefing, a tall, black American smiling atop a sea of pasty-faced Brits never short of something to criticize. Mike said the session had overrun every week since the new chief super’s introduction of his One-force Ambition Talk, or the ‘One-stop Bitching Shop’, as it had immediately become known: a ‘clarification and efficiency chat’
nailed on to the end of the daily meeting. Maybe hospital wasn’t that bad after all.

Her phone rang.

She answered, happy to hear Mike’s US accent. ‘Toni. My cell was on mute. What’s up?’

‘I wanted to hear your voice,’ she lied. ‘How’s work?’

He snorted. ‘Just got out of
the shop
. Geez, you Brits complain. Look, sorry I didn’t drop by last night, but I got a great excuse. We were in Craven Park, looking for the gang members who killed that student last month, when who should turn up but your favourite paedophile?’

‘You got
Clarke
? What happened?’

‘Long story, tell you later. How’re you feeling?’

‘Shocking. Distract me. What else is going on?’

‘Err, not much. Ran into your mom today at the house. Have you guys still not found her sense of humour?’

Something was wrong; he knew to exhaust work news before family got a look in.

‘Don’t lie to me, Maguire. What’s up?’

‘It’s nothing, just a rumour. Not even worth –’

‘Tell me.’

‘Ah, hell Toni, it’s just talk.’ He sighed. ‘Whatever. I heard they’re bringing in some hot-shit graduate to cover your role …’

Hawkins didn’t speak.

‘Just till you’re back.’

‘Jesus.’
She eyed the crutches, taunting her from beside the door. ‘It won’t be just
till I’m back
, though, will it? You know how these things work. He’ll be the chief’s protégé; the guy Vaughn’s had his eye on for a top job; the one he’s been waiting to promote. And I just vacated the perfect rung, didn’t I? Once graduate boy’s feet are up on my desk, I’ll be moved out quicker than the last Mrs Cruise.’