Lavender stood up and looked around at the carnage below her. She had seen two men killed in front of her and another two lay dead on the concrete floor. The armed policemen were gathering around a colleague who was just getting to his feet looking disoriented. His black chest protection had two holes in it and white material showed through. She watched as his colleagues removed his jacket and chest pad to show a pristine white tee shirt beneath. There were grins all around. The relief was palpable and the policeman’s colleagues were slapping his back and saying, ‘You’ll have a lovely bruise there tomorrow.’
Suddenly there was a disturbance of some kind downstairs as policemen shouted, “You can’t come in here! It’s a crime scene.”
Chapter 77
Tottenham Press, Commercial Road, London. Sunday, 2pm.
When we heard the words “all clear, hostages have been secured,” Don and I forgot about the promise we’d made to Inspector Boniface and leapt out of the van. We ran towards the building, ignoring the howled protests behind us.
For a man of his age, Don Fisher could cover a hundred yards surprisingly quickly. He was close behind me all the way. We ran into the unit, and two armed policemen blocked the way. I wasn’t about to let them stop me, and I body swerved between a Lexus and a black 4x4 before coming to a halt at the bottom of a set of steel stairs.
Lavender Fisher, barefoot and wearing a stereotypical little black dress, came down the stairs. She looked drawn and dusty but she still looked beautiful to me, and probably more so to her father.
Don Fisher swept her up in his arms. “You, young lady, will not leave my sight until you are at least thirty.” He hugged her as tightly as a man could without physically damaging her.
I looked to the top of the stairs, searching anxiously for any sign of Dee. When I eventually caught sight of her I was shocked. Dee was still wearing the leather catsuit she’d been wearing the last time I’d seen her, but the left sleeve and right leg were missing. Around both limbs were copious amounts of bandages. A Paramedic was half carrying her down the stairs, whilst another walked carefully down backwards in front of her, in case she stumbled. They reached the bottom safely, and headed towards the door.
At that moment another two intruders broke through police lines. This time it was Geordie and Tom Vastrick. Geordie handed the paramedic a card and said, “Take her to the Highbury Clinic, please. They’re expecting her.”
Tom turned to Dee, and placed his palm on her cheek.
“I’m very pleased to see you, Dee. Don’t expect any time off, by the way. You got kidnapped in your free time, after all,” he said.
I took her in my arms, taking her weight and hugging her tightly.
“Will you marry me?” I asked.
“If I don’t die,” she quipped, managing a weak smile. There was a round of applause from the same policemen who had objected to my presence in their crime scene.
“I have been shot, you know. Twice!” she giggled.
The paramedic winked at me, and explained in a single word.
“Morphine”.
Chapter 7 8
Highbury Clinic, Blackstock Rd, North London. Sunday, 2:40pm.
The journey to the hospital had taken only a few minutes, and I sat with Dee in the ambulance, holding her hand whilst the paramedic attached her to a drip and a variety of machines.
The hospital was a modern brick building of two storeys, sporting a colourful blue sign depicting the name of a well-known provider of private medicine. The sign below read ‘No A&E facilities’. I wondered why we had come here, until Dee was wheeled in and was in the operating theatre within two minutes.
I waited in the lobby with Don Fisher and Lavender, who had followed the ambulance in the paramedics’ sitting ambulance, basically a Volvo Estate car. A Doctor approached us and explained that Dee would be treated and back in her room within the hour.
“Now, if you will come with me, young lady, I need to examine you,” the doctor said. Lavender stood up to accompany the doctor, as did Don Fisher. Lavender frowned and said “Dad!” and Don Fisher sat back down.
As they disappeared into a room, a police car drew up outside. A young policewoman came into the lobby and addressed us both.
“Mr Hammond, Mr Fisher, my name is Andrea Farrell and I am the police constable assigned to guard your two rooms for the night. The hospital has kindly assigned Ms Conrad and Ms Fisher companion rooms next to each other on the first floor. We can go on up and wait for them there, if you’d like.”
It didn’t sound like a question, and so we both followed her to the lift. Once we emerged from the lift we entered a corridor that was more like a hotel than a hospital. It didn’t have that hospital smell which is prevalent in all NHS premises, but smelled like a newly built hotel. WPC Farrell checked the piece of paper in her hand and led us to rooms 35 and 33. The doors were close together.
Andrea opened number 35 and said, “This room has been assigned to Miss Conrad.” We followed the WPC inside, and looked around. The room was spacious and beautifully decorated, and could easily have passed as an upmarket hotel. The cream painted walls were adorned with tasteful, bright watercolours. The bed looked as though it contained enough technology for space travel, and against the wall stood a sofa and a matching armchair with a high back. On the wall opposite the bed hung a flat screen TV which was operated from the bed via a remote control.
“The sofa folds out into a bed, should you wish to stay the night,” WPC Farrell informed us.
I saw the brightly lit en suite bathroom, with its sandy coloured marble effect tiles and full sized bath, and I suddenly felt grubby. I realised that we had all been wearing the same clothes since Friday.
“I’ll be next door, Josh,” Don Fisher said, his hand resting on my shoulder.
“OK,” I answered, noticing that his face was pale and drawn. All the worries of fatherhood seemed to be resting on his shoulders. Seeing him vulnerable and exposed as he was made me realise that, no matter how rich you may be, you can’t keep your kids entirely safe.
I decided I should have a bath, and rang downstairs for extra towels. A nurse arrived in the room a few minutes later. She laid the towels and some other linen on the bed.
“I thought you might need these,” she said, holding up a pair of plain white boxer shorts. “They look the right size.” She grinned at my obvious embarrassment as she held them in front of my groin.
“Also, if you’re staying overnight, you might need these.”
She laid out what looked like a lounge suit consisting of dark blue track suit trousers and a matching zip up top. The colourful hospital logo was embroidered on the left had side of the chest. To my dismay it looked a lot like the Arsenal football club badge.
“If you need anything else, just let me know. Oh, by the way, you can see the Emirates Stadium in the distance from this window.” She left, closing the door behind her. I went to the window and closed the curtains.
Chapter 7 9
Tottenham Press, Commercial Road, London. Sunday, 5pm.
Inspector Boniface and DCI Coombes left the Tottenham Operations Room as soon as the operation was over, arriving just after the paramedics had left. They had been here for almost three hours and the scene was still buzzing with people.
The last of the bodies had just been taken away in the coroner’s black van, and some of the crime scene investigators had also gone, but the doctor was still in the building.