Someone To Save you (11 page)

Louisa looked back at the letter, then up at Sam. ‘He wants to see you.’

Sam shook his head. ‘I can’t Louisa. I can’t meet with him.’

‘It might help,’ Louisa offered.

Three years ago Sam had come to that conclusion, if only briefly. He’d even gone as far as contacting the prison and arranging a time to visit. He hadn’t told anyone. His parents would have been devastated. And he just didn’t know what Louisa would think. But on route to the prison he changed his mind. What did he expect to gain from sitting face to face with Marcus? He’d thought maybe it might help him move on, or at least understand what had happened, but how could it? What could such a meeting ever really achieve? So he had turned around. And that was the last he had heard of Marcus. Sam had never revealed to anyone just how close he had come that morning.

‘It won’t help,’ Sam said. ‘I just want to forget about him, Lou.’

‘You’ve got to do what feels right for you,’ she acknowledged, handing Sam back the letter. Sam glanced down at the address at the top of the page. Marcus was living in a flat in Rotherhithe, a rundown area of London, just south of the river. Why had he moved down here? He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.

‘Were things okay last night?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘No more calls, no visits from Richard Friedman?’

‘Everything was fine,’ Louisa replied. ‘I had a good night, actually – it was nice to go out with the girls and just try and forget about everything. It really helped me to relax, for the first time in ages really.’

‘Good, that’s good.’ He paused, feeling bad for the bubble-bursting news he was about to give. ‘I got another call last night, when I was out running, just before I found Marcus’s letter.’

Louisa’s mood immediately darkened. ‘From the same person?’

‘I assume so. It was a silent call.’

‘From my phone?’

‘No, not this time. It was from an unknown number.’

She looked troubled. ‘You don’t really think it could be Marcus, do you?’

‘Why not?’ Sam replied. ‘You asked me to think of someone who might hold a grudge against me. The caller mentioned Cathy’s murder, there was the newspaper article in your locker. And when you add in the fact that all of this has only started happening since he’s been released from jail. Then that note from him, hand-delivered. How does he know where I live?’

Louisa shrugged.

‘You don’t think it could be him?’

‘I can’t see it Sam,’ Louisa admitted. ‘It just doesn’t make sense to me. Why would he write to you, saying he’s innocent and wanting to meet you, but at the same time doing all this?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s playing some kind of twisted game, wanting to stick the knife in some more.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘I don’t know what to believe,’ he said. ‘But it’s a possibility, isn’t it?’

‘I guess so. But you said it wasn’t his voice.’

‘Maybe he disguised it.’

‘Are you going to tell the police?’

‘Not yet,’ Sam said. ‘What would I tell them? I’ve got no evidence that Marcus is involved.’

‘That’s right,’ Louisa agreed.

‘And then there’s still Richard Friedman.’

‘I still feel bad, you know, about dropping him as a client.’

‘It’s for the best.’

‘I know it is, but still...’

‘Even if he didn’t steal your phone, and he isn’t the one calling me, he still crossed the line in a big way.’

‘You’re right,’ Louisa admitted.

‘Maybe this will put an end to it.’

‘I hope so. You were right, Sam, it was getting out of hand. Something had to be done. Sometimes I just don’t know when to let go of something, admit defeat. I really appreciate your support.’

‘No problem.’

‘So what are you up to today?’

‘Not much,’ Sam said. ‘I’m off to see Prof Khan in a minute, and then I’ll check up on how Sophie’s doing. Not sure what I’ll do for the rest of the day.’

‘So you’re still off your list?’

‘Sure am.’

‘It will be good to have a break,’ Louisa said. ‘Professor Khan knows what he’s doing.’

‘Maybe. You know me though; I like being busy, especially with Anna being away.’

‘I know. But it’s only for a day or so.’

‘I know. And at least the press interest has died out. Carla left a message for me. There’ve been a few articles in this morning’s papers based on the press release, but no-one has contacted the hospital today.’

‘That’s great, Sam. You’re yesterday’s news.’

She smiled and Sam smiled back.

‘Sam, my boy, do come in.’

Sam entered Professor Adil Khan’s office. The room was an oasis of calm in the hectic world of the hospital. It reminded Sam of the rooms of the Colonial Empire that he’d seen in films – deep brown, ornate mahogany furniture, carved wooden lamps, and decorative rugs. Professor Khan had brought all the furniture himself, flown over from Pakistan on his appointment eighteen years ago. It wasn’t hospital policy to allow such a thing, but for one of the world’s leading surgeons, the request met no resistance. The room was also a temple to arguably Adil Khan’s greatest love – cricket. He’d combined his medical training with a passion for the sport. A gifted batsman, he had represented the national side at under twenty-one level, before suffering a serious leg injury following a car accident. Damage to the tendons in his left leg put paid to his cricket career, but left him free to focus his energy and passion into medicine.

‘Do sit down,’ he said, gesturing to the impressive carved wooden chair. As ever, his jet black hair and beard was neatly trimmed, his styling immaculate around his broad physique. His suits were made to measure by his good friend and personal tailor in Islamabad. Why pay for Savile Row when you could have the best, he would say. ‘You like it?’ he said, noticing that Sam had spotted a new addition to the wall behind his desk – a signed photograph of Imran Khan, the legendary Pakistani cricketer, no relation. Their conversations often turned to cricket, with Professor Khan knowing that Sam too had played the sport, for Lancashire schools.

‘Impressive. You got that last week?’

Professor Khan nodded, looking back at the photo. ‘I was speaking at a charity dinner he arranged in Karachi. The photo was a thank you present.’

He turned back to face Sam, examining him with those intense deep brown eyes, his hands steepled on the desk. It was down to business. ‘And how are you, Sam.’

‘Good, good,’ Sam replied. Professor Khan stared back. ‘Well, as good as can be expected.’

‘Are you enjoying your time off?’

‘Not really.’

Adil Khan smiled. ‘I imagine you’re not.’

‘I understand though,’ Sam added. ‘I did need the break.’

He nodded slowly, bringing his hands up so that the tips of his fingers touched his bottom lip. ‘I’ve been working in medicine for longer than I can remember. I love my profession, Sam. Maybe I love it too much. There are times when I’ve worked on when I should have rested. I realise that now.’

Sam stayed quiet. The Professor was teeing him up for unwelcome news.

‘You’re a very talented surgeon Sam. Very talented – one of the best young surgeons that I have worked with. And I don’t say that lightly. You’re also very dedicated. You really care for your patients – don’t underestimate the importance of that. One can be technically brilliant with a scalpel, but if he doesn’t care for his patients, be cognisant of their human needs, he can never be a truly great surgeon.’

Sam was pleasantly surprised about such open praise. Professor Khan was notoriously coy when it came to his opinion about those working under him. ‘Thanks. That means a lot.’

‘I’m not looking for thanks,’ he replied. ‘I’m seeking your co-operation.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

Adil Khan sat back, his hands still joined. ‘I would like you to refrain from operating for the next seven days.’

Sam had been right to suspect imminent bad news. He couldn’t hide his disappointment.

‘I know you wish to work,’ he said. ‘I understand totally. But this is for the best.’

‘But the interview, it’s less than two weeks away. If I’m…’

Professor Khan held up a hand. ‘Trust in me, Sam. And more importantly, trust in yourself, in your own ability and what you have already demonstrated in the years that I have worked with you. You are young, but I believe more than ready to step up to consultant level, of that I am sure. One week without surgery will make no difference, believe me, but one week with surgery might.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Adil Khan leaned in. ‘You have been through a great trauma, Sam. You are strong, but still, everyone needs time to recover mentally. Do you feel at one hundred per cent?’

Sam fought the urge to lie. ‘No.’

Professor Khan opened his palms. ‘Then there you are, Sam. You make a mistake in the operating theatre this coming week, because you are not one hundred per cent, and your career is jeopardised. You rest for a week, after a major trauma where you are a hero, and you ensure you are ready for the interview. Do you agree?’

Sam nodded. There was nothing else he could do.

‘A very wise decision, Mr Becker. Enjoy your recuperation.’

Sam emerged from the office, still smarting from the decision. Professor Khan was right of course, but it didn’t make the thought of seven days without surgery any more bearable. It would be hell. And Miles would be sure to gloat, seeing Sam’s absence as a sign of weakness that might sway the interview panel. It might not affect Professor Khan’s judgment of who was the best person for the job, but he was only one assessor out of seven.

He made his way across the hospital to ICU. Sophie was still stable, and had improved slightly, but the situation remained grim. Sam was glad to see both Tom and Sarah at her bedside. He stopped off to tell Louisa about the meeting with Professor Khan, before heading off down to the Thames, with no particular destination in mind. He found himself drawn back to the Tate Modern, and that drawing. It was as he was standing there, captivated by the image, looking for some hidden meaning that might unlock Richard Friedman’s personality that his phone rang.

It was Inspector Paul Cullen of the British Transport Police.

‘Sam, I’d like to talk to you about the incident at the weekend. There’s been a development. Are you free to meet me now, somewhere in central London?’

13

‘Sam, glad you could make it at such short notice.’

Paul Cullen rose from his seat to greet him, his hand outstretched. Sam met his firm but unthreatening grip and nodded a hello. Cullen was wearing a casual open neck shirt and blue chinos, evidently dressing for off duty, or at least to make it appear that way.

‘Thought I’d take the liberty and get one in for you,’ he said, gesturing at the pint of lager on the table.

‘Thanks.’ They both sat down but Sam left the lager alone. He would hear what Cullen had to say first. ‘Your colleague isn’t with you?’

‘DS Beswick?’ Cullen said. ‘He’s ill. Flu, his wife said. So I’m working on my own for the moment. I think I prefer it, really.’ Cullen glanced around. The Islington pub was busy with mostly old white Irish men, drinking dark ale. ‘Hope you don’t mind the surroundings. I used to come here a long time ago, back in my training days. It hasn’t changed a bit.’

Sam could believe it. It was a genuine London local. There was none of the refurbishment that had occurred in many other of the capital’s establishments, which had over the past few years transformed themselves from old men’s drinking dens into family eating places. In here, the fittings remained as old and frayed as the clientele.

‘Fine by me,’ Sam replied, thinking that Cullen’s choice of a pub, just like his purchase of the pint, was meant to set a relaxed tone for the discussion. And yet his call, both in the fact that he wanted to meet so quickly, and the way he had said there’s been a development jarred with this supposed relaxed situation.

Cullen smiled. ‘It might sound strange, but I find pubs are often the best places to get some privacy.’ He looked around. ‘No-one’s bothered about our conversation in here. They’re too busy picking this afternoon’s winners at Haydock.’

Sam nodded, noting that most of the men were scrutinizing the back pages of the newspapers or staring up at the TV over in the far corner near to the ceiling which was showing a horse race. A few wandered in and out clutching cigarette packets. Maybe the location had really been just a pragmatic decision.

Sam watched impatiently as Cullen took a drink. ‘So,’ he said, whilst the beer was still draining down the officer’s throat. ‘You said there’s been a development?’

Cullen smiled as he placed the glass back on the table. ‘All in good time, Sam. First things first - how are you?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘I see the bruise is fading a little.’