Authors: Cassandra Chan
Trick of the Mind (2 page)
Hollings sighed. “No, sir.”
“Oh, never mind.”
Carmichael turned away and tried to pull his thoughts together. Before this current rotation, Detective Sergeant Gibbons had been his blue-eyed boy, promoted to Sergeant unusually early, and Carmichael thought a lot of him. More than that, he liked the young man, and had come to admire the combination of intellect and hard work that had gained him his early promotion. Having him seriously
wounded whilst under another officer’s supervision was difficult for Carmichael to accept. He took a deep breath.
wounded whilst under another officer’s supervision was difficult for Carmichael to accept. He took a deep breath.
“Right then,” he said. “We’ll have to hope that when Gibbons comes to, he’ll be able to identify his assailant. He was shot from the front, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hollings. “At least, so the paramedics said. O’Leary here spoke to them when he arrived at the scene. They didn’t beat him there by much.”
“They were just examining him when I got there, sir,” volunteered O’Leary. “I told you—he was shot in the stomach, they thought twice though they didn’t rule out a third shot. The rain had washed a lot of the blood away, but from where we found his mobile phone, he had crawled a few yards before he passed out.”
They were all silent, the searing picture of a bloody Sergeant Gibbons crawling on the pavement in the rain flashing into all their minds.
“I was wondering, sir,” said Davies into the silence, his tone hesitant. “I was wondering about notifying Gibbons’s people.”
Carmichael was startled that he hadn’t thought of this himself. He considered briefly, and then shook his head.
“There’s nothing they can do,” he said. “Aside, that is, from worrying themselves sick while they try to drive down here from Bedfordshire in the middle of the night. You’re quite right to think of it, Davies, but I believe it would be kinder to send a car for them. With luck, we’ll have better news to relay to them by the time it gets there …”
His voice trailed off, and they all avoided each other’s eyes. Then Carmichael’s mobile began to ring, relieving the tension, and the others stepped back to give him privacy to answer it, though they all watched him with eagle eyes, trying to discern every scrap of information they could from his words and expressions.
Only O’Leary, however, knew the name that Carmichael repeated in surprise.
“Bethancourt?” he said.
The rented Volvo sped along the A1, past Saint-Denis, heading out into the night along the rain-slick pavement of the motorway.
Bethancourt was normally an erratic driver, one more interested in what could be seen out of the car windows than in the road before him, but on this occasion he was fully concentrated on the highway and on putting as many miles behind him as quickly as possible. The traffic at this hour was not particularly heavy, even so close to Paris, and he was making excellent time, driving well past the limit allowed on the French motorways.
Bethancourt was normally an erratic driver, one more interested in what could be seen out of the car windows than in the road before him, but on this occasion he was fully concentrated on the highway and on putting as many miles behind him as quickly as possible. The traffic at this hour was not particularly heavy, even so close to Paris, and he was making excellent time, driving well past the limit allowed on the French motorways.
He checked his watch for the fifth time since he had set out, not wanting to ring Carmichael back before the chief inspector could reach the hospital and get some news of Gibbons’s condition. Bethancourt had already allowed more than enough time for this, although he was not conscious of it. Deep down, he was dreading to hear his worst fears confirmed: that Gibbons had died.
“He must be there by now,” he muttered to himself, and blindly reached for his mobile phone, lying on the passenger seat.
“Carmichael.” The chief inspector answered at once, sounding distracted.
“It’s Phillip Bethancourt, sir,” said Bethancourt. “Is there any news about Jack?”
“Bethancourt?” Carmichael sounded surprised, as though he were trying to place the name. But in the next moment, a kinder tone came into his voice as he said, “He’s still alive, lad. There’s no real news yet—apparently they’re trying to stabilize him before they take him in for surgery.”
Bethancourt let out a long sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir,” he said fervently. “I was rather afraid—well, never mind.”
“We’ve all been worried,” said Carmichael sympathetically. “We’re just trying to sort out what happened here. You ring me a bit later and I may have more news.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Bethancourt. “Thank you very much. I’ll do that.”
Carmichael rang off and Bethancourt tossed the phone back into the passenger seat, very glad of this respite from his worst fears, even if it was only temporary.
He felt, he realized, guilty, as if he had let his friend down by being out of the country just when he was wanted. It was a wholly
unreasonable feeling, but knowing that did not seem to improve his outlook.
unreasonable feeling, but knowing that did not seem to improve his outlook.
“Idiot,” he muttered to himself, and lit a cigarette, his fourth in the last hour. He had let his speed slacken a bit whilst he was speaking to Carmichael, but now he put his foot down again, cracking the window open to let out the smoke. The chill, damp air rushed in as the car sped up and the cigarette’s ember glowed red.
Detective Sergeant O’Leary had retreated from the discussion of his superiors to resume his guard over the evidence bags. His position at the end of the row of chairs put him next to the double doors that separated the waiting room from the examination area, and so he was the first to see the two men in surgical scrubs emerge.
“Ah, there you are, Sergeant,” said one, whom O’Leary recognized as the admitting doctor he had dealt with when he first arrived. “I’ve brought our surgeon, Mr. Wyber, out to explain the operation to you.”
Wyber was a large man in his late forties with an abundance of dark gold hair, springing up from a hairline that was just beginning to recede. He smiled briefly, but O’Leary thought his eyes were cold.
“That your guv?” he asked, nodding toward Carmichael.
“Yes, sir,” answered O’Leary, beckoning as Carmichael turned at the sound of the surgeon’s voice. “How is Jack?”
“Still critical,” replied the doctor. “But his blood pressure’s coming up a bit.”
Led by Carmichael, the other detectives came up, and O’Leary performed the introductions cursorily.
“The X rays are back,” announced Wyber. “They confirm your man was shot twice, both bullets still lodged in the intestines. The first one went in at an angle and didn’t do so very much damage all things considered, but the second penetrated deeply and the bowel will need to be resected in several places.”
“But you think you can save him?” asked Carmichael.
“He has a good chance,” replied Wyber. “If we can get him stabilized before surgery, he’ll have a very good chance. But he’s been
badly wounded, Chief Inspector, there’s no getting round that, and I won’t know what kind of complications there may be until I open him up.”
badly wounded, Chief Inspector, there’s no getting round that, and I won’t know what kind of complications there may be until I open him up.”
Carmichael nodded his understanding, but he was almost desperate for some kind of reassurance.
“Tell me this,” he asked, “if everything goes as well as it possibly can, would he make a full recovery?”
“Oh, yes,” said Wyber confidently. “In that case, a few months should see him put right. But we’re not there yet.”
“No, of course not,” muttered Carmichael. “Is there any chance of speaking with him before the operation?”
Both doctors looked bemused at this idea.
“He’s unconscious,” said the doctor gently. “It would be unlikely that he should regain consciousness before his surgery.”
“So he hasn’t said anything?” put in Hollings. “Nothing about what happened?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“He may not remember in any case,” said Wyber, and all the detectives turned to stare at him. “Trauma victims often don’t,” he explained. “But,” he added, forestalling their questions, “there’s no telling for sure. Individual cases vary greatly. I’ve known some people to forget whole days, while others remember the most horrific things in every detail.”
“We’ll let you know when he’s taken into the operating theatre,” said the doctor, turning away. “I assure you, we’ll do the very best we can for him.”
“Yes, yes,” said Carmichael automatically. “Thank you both.”
They all looked at each other as the doctors left them.
“Well, that changes things,” said Hollings, rubbing his chin. “If Gibbons can’t remember who shot him …”
Carmichael was frowning. “There was always the possibility he hadn’t seen his attacker clearly. But there’s no denying I was hoping he would tell us who and why.”
“If he’s one of those who forget whole days, he may not have any idea why he was shot,” put in Davies. “He may have forgotten the very thing he was shot for knowing.”
Carmichael glared at him, and the inspector added hastily, “Not that he’ll be one of those. I only meant …”
“We know what you meant, Grant,” said Hollings wearily. “It’s all right. And in any case, it was never sure Gibbons was shot for anything he’s presently involved in. It might have been a revenge attack by some recently released criminal he helped put in jail.”
“That is the first thing that came to my mind,” admitted Davies. “I mean, considering what he’d been working on—there’s just no violence connected with the case.”
“Until now,” muttered Carmichael under his breath, but in such a low voice no one but O’Leary, who was standing close beside him, heard.
“Chief Inspector?” asked Hollings.
“Never mind.” Carmichael waved his own comment away. “Whether he remembers or not, we’ll be able to track his movements better once forensics is done with his notebook. Meanwhile—”
He broke off, swinging round as another young man came into the waiting room. He was slight of build and fresh-faced, which combined to give an impression of a boy of about sixteen, although in fact he had reached his early twenties, and he was remarkably self-possessed for either age.
His eyes lit briefly on the policemen before traveling on to the bags containing Gibbons’s clothes, which O’Leary still stood protectively over.
“Is that it then?” he asked, indicating the bags with his chin. “Mr. Hodges sent me,” he added, although all of the policemen had recognized him at once as Guy Delford, their forensics department’s latest genius and the apple of Ian Hodges’s eye.
“That’s it,” affirmed Carmichael. “Where is Hodges?”
“Meeting me at the lab,” answered Delford, moving to collect the bags. “He wanted to be there when the evidence from the scene arrived. We’ll start work on it right away.”
“Don’t you want to know how our man is?” asked O’Leary, a little exasperated by this apparent detachment in the face of crisis.
“No!” For just a moment, Delford’s brown eyes blazed. “No,” he
repeated more calmly. “I shouldn’t be able to work properly if I heard he was dead. I like Sergeant Gibbons, you see.”
repeated more calmly. “I shouldn’t be able to work properly if I heard he was dead. I like Sergeant Gibbons, you see.”
This left them all speechless as Delford was already renowned amongst Scotland Yard detectives as not merely forgetful of names, but of actually being unable to tell one detective from another. In the ensuing silence, Delford lifted the plastic bags and carried them out into the hall, dodging around Constable Lemmy, who was still hovering in the doorway.
“The notebook,” muttered Carmichael. “O’Leary, just run after him and say I want Gibbons’s notebook back as soon as possible, will you?”
O’Leary left with alacrity, and in a moment they heard his voice echoing back from the hall.
Carmichael drew a deep sigh and turned to sit down at last, trying to think his way through this most difficult of investigations.
The rain had picked up again, drumming on the roof of the car and splattering against the windscreen. Bethancourt peered past the wipers in search of the junction with the A26. He had been on the road now for close to two hours and figured he was almost halfway to Calais. He was still hoping to make the three o’clock ferry, though he had had to slacken his speed somewhat in deference to the rain.
Apart from the steady sound of the downpour, it was quiet in the car, Bethancourt having long since lost patience with the vagaries of French radio and switched it off. In the silence, with the road ahead glittering wetly in the headlamps, he felt very much alone. He did not repent refusing Marla’s company for the trip, but found he did miss the company of his dog, Cerberus, who normally accompanied him on a drive of any length. Cerberus, currently residing in kennels just outside of London, was a very well-behaved borzoi who would in all likelihood have curled up and fallen asleep in the backseat by now. But somehow Bethancourt was acutely aware of the dog’s absence there. More than once, as his thoughts strayed, he found himself glancing into the back, only to find it empty.
Ahead a sign loomed up, glimpsed between the regular beat of the wipers: Béthune, Boulogne, Calais, Dunkerque it proclaimed.
“That’s it then,” murmured Bethancourt, shifting down to make the turn.
The evidence bags having safely arrived at the lab, Carmichael had sent O’Leary off to liaise with DC Cummings, who was conducting the house-to-house in Walworth. Hollings had volunteered to go look up the local bobby on duty in the neighborhood at the time of the shooting, and was currently at the Lambeth police station. And Davies had left to knock up the insurance investigator who had been working the Haverford robbery, though Davies clearly thought this a waste of time.
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