The Murder Code (33 page)

It was cold, and that was probably just what I needed. My skin was shivery, but my insides were hot; it was like there was a furnace burning in my chest and head. There were benches dotted around the car park; even at this time, residents wrapped in dressing gowns smoking near the entrance. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’d been sitting all day, so I paced a little way out into the car park, then back again.

I’d lost them both.

I knew it.

After a while, I took my mobile out and turned it back on. Not that I was going to phone anyone, but it was something to do—check for messages, stop myself imagining what might be happening with Rachel back inside. Immediately, I got a text from Laura.

Hope all well? Assume you’ll call when news. Fingers crossed! Call me asap tho.

It was from an hour ago. I called her.

‘Hicks,’ she said. ‘What’s going on? How is she?’

I started to answer. Couldn’t.

‘Hicks?’

I’ve lost them both.

‘Hicks?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Rachel’s had to go into surgery. It doesn’t look good.’

She was silent for a moment.

‘It’ll be okay,’ she said.

I said nothing, because I knew it wouldn’t be.

‘It happens all the time.’

‘What’s happening there?’

‘Here? No news. Nothing that can’t wait, anyway. Miller’s still sticking to his story. Nothing useful from the CCTV at Trestle. Still no evidence that the General exists outside of Miller’s head.’

‘Laura, I—’

But just then, one of the nurses I recognised burst out of the entrance. She scanned the car park, saw me, then beckoned me across.

‘Andrew?’

I felt sick.

‘I’ve got to go.’

I hung up on Laura and ran back across the car park to meet her. I was dreading what she was going to tell me, but then I realised from the expression on her face that it couldn’t be bad news. It couldn’t be.

The baby’s heartbeat had stabilised, she said. That meant Rachel could have the emergency Caesarean under local anaesthetic rather than general.

Which meant—if I was quick—I could be with her.

Again, I don’t remember much.

I know I left my clothes in a locker room and changed into green scrubs and cheap slippers. They let me sit up on one side of Rachel, by her head, and talk to her. The doctors had erected a sheet from just under her breasts to keep the operation out of sight. I told Rachel I loved her, and that everything was going to be okay.

I remember this.

Sitting on the other side of the bed, the man in charge of the anaesthetic spoke to her reassuringly. Rachel was terrified, trying not to cry, and he kept talking to her very calmly, the way you imagined he would to a friend. There was no way, he said, that he would let anyone in the room hurt her. He wouldn’t allow it. As he altered dials on the machine by the side of him, he kept asking what she could feel. Was it pain or pressure? Not to worry, he said. Stay calm. Nobody will do anything until I say they can.

‘I’m so scared,’ she whispered.

‘It’s nearly over,’ I said. Then: ‘Look!’

From the far end of the bed, someone lifted a baby high enough over the screen for us both to see. It was a tiny, fragile thing, slathered in purple light, and only there for a few seconds before they lowered it again.

Our son.

I didn’t feel any huge burst of love; it was too stressful for the moment to feel profound. But I do remember the relief. That was the first moment when I thought it was going to be okay. That I hadn’t lost them both at all, although I might have come close. Closer than I ever had before.

Thank you,
I thought.

I remember that. I don’t know who I was directing it to, but I thought it anyway, over and over again.

The rest is a fracture. I remember them calling me over to cut the cord, and then being handed him wrapped in a dark towel—and panicking because I didn’t know how to hold him. But I managed. And I sat with him cradled against me, a knot that seemed to want to untie itself, by Rachel’s side. She was bleary with the drugs, but she turned her head and could see him, could smile at him.

‘Our son,’ I kept saying. ‘You did so well. So well.’

There was far more, but none of it really matters.

Thank you,
though.

I remember that.

T
HEY MOVED RACHEL AND
the baby to a bed in the maternity ward, and because it was night-time, I wasn’t allowed to stay. They told me to go home and get some sleep, come back in the morning. Visiting hours began at eight. Right then, sleep seemed impossible, but I went home anyway.

I texted Laura to let her know that everything was okay and immediately got a reply. It made me smile. Despite everything that had happened, and the late hour, she had been waiting to hear from me.

At home, I lay down on the bed, and without much hope of success I closed my eyes. It was pointless—but the next thing I knew there was sunlight streaming through the curtains, and it was coming up on nine o’clock in the morning.

As I parked up back at the hospital, my mobile rang. I was expecting it to be Laura, but it wasn’t—the number was unknown.

‘Yes?’

‘Detective Hicks?’

‘This is me.’ I recognised the voice. ‘Professor Joyce?’

‘It is indeed. I’ve had a chance to look over the documents and information you gave me. Assuming you’re still interested, of course?’

‘You’ve seen the news, obviously.’

‘Yes. But only what’s been reported. So I don’t know if my services are still required.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I got out of the car and locked it. I didn’t really want to talk to her right now; I just wanted to get in and see Rachel and our son. ‘We know more or less what happened. We don’t think there ever was an actual pattern or code. It was all just a piece of misdirection.’

‘I suppose that’s good, in a sense.’

‘Why good?’

‘Because it’s the conclusion my team and I reached after analysing the data. We couldn’t find any indication of a sequence.’

I nodded to myself.

Just misdirection.

Over the last few days, I’d had time to ponder the case. Each time, I’d come up empty-handed. If we believed Miller, he’d been paid to create and deliver snuff movies—as diverse a collection as possible—but the General had no other connection to him. He couldn’t have influenced the victims Miller targeted, or where or when those murders took place. So if the General existed, there couldn’t be a pattern. If he didn’t, Miller was still denying sending the letters or any knowledge of a code, which didn’t make sense.

And yet my mind still kept turning it all over.

I said, ‘You found nothing at all?’

‘Nothing useful. Given any large enough pool of data and variables, it’s possible to find patterns, but we didn’t come up with anything conclusive. For what it’s worth, we’ve made a note of what we did find, along with the clusters and anomalies.’

‘Thanks.’ I paused a second. ‘Anomalies?’

‘Oh, nothing to get excited about. Just instances where the data points were unique. For example, the third item, “SP”, had a unique variable for ethnicity. The eighth, “MW”, was the only interior location. And so on. I’m looking through the documents now … well, there are a handful of others, but not many.’

I nodded to myself, understanding what she was getting at. Sandra Peacock, the only black woman murdered; Marie Wilkinson, the only person killed inside a building. And so on. The kind of apparent anomalies any random data set invariably throws up, just as it does coincidences.

She said, ‘The clusters were much as we discussed. They’re obvious—you’ll have already seen them. To be on the safe side, we removed different combinations in case there was a pattern hidden in between them.’

I remembered the term she’d used. ‘Static.’

‘That’s right. And there was nothing.’

‘No.’

And of course—once again—there couldn’t be. So why was something
still
nagging at me? Someone had sent the letters. To that someone, it had been clear that the code was important. Beating us with it had mattered to him. My gut was telling me there
was
something there, something that—

‘Shall I send my report by email or …?’

‘Email is fine,’ I said. ‘Along with your expenses, of course.’

‘There won’t be any expenses.’

I started to reply, but she didn’t let me.

‘Normally there would be. But given the circumstances—and the fact that I’ve been of so little help to you—I wouldn’t consider it ethical.’

‘You have been helpful, I promise.’

‘Well … still.’

‘Thank you, Professor Joyce.’

After she hung up, I phoned Laura back at the department and related what Joyce had told me.

‘Report should be on its way,’ I said.

‘Already here.’

‘She’s very efficient.’

‘Like me, then. Whereabouts are you?’

‘I’m only just arriving at the hospital now. Because I’m not very efficient.’

I started to walk across the car park towards the reception. Clusters of patients were standing smoking underneath the balcony by the entrance. One man was propped on a pair of crutches, a bandaged foot held off the ground, while a friend held the cigarette for him.

‘So no other news yet?’ Laura said.

‘No. But everything was okay when I left. And he’s beautiful, Laura. He really is.’

‘Takes after Rachel, then.’

‘Ah ha ha. Nobody’s ever used that joke before.’

Laura laughed softly in return, and I was about to say something else when, up ahead of me, the doors to the hospital reception slid silently open and a man stepped out from the bright light into the morning gloom, pack of cigarettes in hand.

And I stopped, halfway across the car park.

Laura said, ‘Give her my love, won’t you?’

But I didn’t reply. I stood still, watching the man tap a cigarette from the pack and raise it to his mouth. He cupped his hands round the lighter, and I heard the distant
click-click-click
as he tried to get a flame.

‘Hicks?’ Laura said.

The man lit the cigarette, and a plume of smoke appeared in front of his face. Then he looked up, slipping the lighter back into his pocket.

Tony Wilkinson.

Of course, it was no real surprise he was at the hospital. His own son remained critically ill in the special care baby unit, so of
course
he was here. The only reason I’d hesitated was the conversation I’d just had with Professor Joyce—because his wife had been mentioned a few moments ago, and then suddenly here he was, right in front of me. Just a coincidence. It was odd, but it meant nothing.

And yet the back of my neck was tingling.

An anomaly,
I thought.

The only victim murdered inside.

‘Hicks?’

‘Just a second, Laura.’

I started moving then, heading towards Tony Wilkinson, keeping my eyes on him. I had no idea what I was going to say. But a second later, he turned his head slightly and saw me walking purposefully towards him. Phone still held to my ear. With God only knew what expression on my face.

Our eyes met.

He had been in the process of raising the cigarette to his lips, but it faltered, and then he slowly lowered his arm again.

‘Mr Wilkinson?’ I called over. ‘Detective Hicks. You remember me?’

Wilkinson dropped the cigarette, turned around and walked quickly back into the reception.

I started running.

B
Y THE TIME I
got inside, into the sickly yellow light, Wilkinson had vanished from sight—he must have started running himself after he got through the doors. He’d been on the right-hand side of the area, though, so I banked on him taking the corridor that led off that way. I jogged quickly past the humming vending machines, glanced left to be sure—saw nothing—and took the right-hand corridor.

I knew this route well already. It was the quickest direction to take for the maternity ward on the fifth floor—which was close, I presumed, to the special care baby unit where Wilkinson’s son was being cared for.

The lifts …

I ran harder, but got there as the doors slid shut—just too late to jam my fingers between them. I punched the ‘call’ button over and over, but it was no use. The lift was starting on its way up. I hammered on the closed doors anyway, and shouted—

‘Tony!’

—then remembered the stairs, two doors further down the corridor, and set off again, reaching them a few seconds later. I slammed through into the echoing stairwell and headed up, skipping steps, using the banisters to swing myself round at each small landing. Counting off the floors, trying to imagine myself keeping pace with the lift, even though I couldn’t possibly be.

Still not sure what was happening here.

At the fourth floor, I half collided with an orderly trotting down, footfalls echoing.

‘Hey!’

I was already past him, plunging upwards.

‘Police.’

I hit the fifth floor and pulled open the door, realising as I did that I’d slipped my phone in my pocket without disconnecting the call. As I moved in the direction of the lift, I picked it out.

‘Laura, I’m still here. Are you—’

‘What the fuck’s going on?’

‘Don’t know yet. Get backup to the hospital. Wilkinson’s here, and something’s not right. He saw me and started running.’

I reached the lift: the doors were open. Empty. Wilkinson hadn’t passed me, so he’d probably gone further on. Down towards the maternity wards.

‘What? You mean
Tony
Wilkinson?’

‘Yes.’ I started off. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. But Professor Joyce said Marie Wilkinson was an anomaly. She was the only person killed inside. Not sure why Wilkinson’s run, but there’s something going on with him. And he’s in here somewhere.’

I didn’t wait for a reply—just pushed the phone back into my pocket and concentrated on where I was going. The maternity ward: that was where Rachel was. The door was magnetically sealed. You needed to push a button and give your details over the intercom to get in. Wilkinson had no business going in there. He wouldn’t even be allowed in.