He was in the hospital.
The car he’d been driving to the depot had been involved in an accident. A serious one. The other occupant had been killed. Paramedics had collected Fothergill and taken him to the emergency room at Northwestern. It was nearby, on Huron. There was no word yet on his condition.
The receptionist had no idea whether Fothergill had made any headway with the cell phone company before he’d left. There was no one else there who could find out. But by then, at least the first part of the answer was irrelevant. I knew for a fact that McIntyre had been nowhere near the pier that night. He’d obviously been too busy elsewhere.
I’ve always hated hospitals. They may look different in other countries, but the smell is always the same. And so is the atmosphere. The moment you set foot in one, the sense of sickness and decay floods over you, seeping into your pores and dragging you down into a pit of despair. At least that’s how it feels to me. And judging by Fothergill’s face when I finally found his room at Northwestern, he saw it pretty much the same. Which was a good thing. People who enjoy getting medical treatment worry me deeply.
A doctor and two nurses were gathered around Fothergill when I arrived, so I retreated to the corridor until they’d left. Then I went back in for a proper look at him. He was wearing pajamas—crumpled green ones—which was a little disconcerting after his usual beautiful suits. The fancy sling was gone, replaced by a standard white one, and his right hand and forearm were bandaged, too. But other than that, barring a few scratches on his face, he didn’t seem too badly banged up.
“Grapes?” I said.
“Whisky?” he said.
“Haven’t got either. Sorry. So. What happened to you?”
“Had a fight with an iron girder. Holding up the top deck of Lake Shore Drive, where it crosses the mouth of the river. A couple of hundred yards from where you were, ironically.”
“Good spot for it?”
“Perfect.”
“Hit and run?”
“Officially.”
“And do we know who did the hitting and running?”
“Take a guess.”
“McIntyre.”
“Right in one.”
“I’m not surprised. But are you sure? Did you actually see him? These things can be so sudden.”
“It wasn’t sudden at all. He actually stopped, after running us into the pillar. Came up to the car. Opened the door. Saw Milton was dead. Pointed his gun at me. I thought he was going to slot me there and then, David. I really did.”
“Milton was the techie they sent?”
“Yes. Seemed like a good guy, too.”
“And he bought it in the crash?”
“He did. Poor bastard. It was the air bag’s fault.”
“Your car has air bags?”
“He brought the car from the depot. That’s how they have them, apparently.”
“I got the impression you were driving.”
“I was. Milton asked me to. Said he hates doing it, especially in the city.”
“So what went wrong with the air bag? I guess you weren’t wearing seat belts?”
“No. The techies are properly trained. It’s just their cars that are weird. And nothing went wrong with it, exactly. It’s kind of hard to explain. Milton was holding this thing. On his lap. And I don’t really know what happened. I guess he went forward, with the momentum. The air bag burst out and hit him. And somehow, this object ended up getting driven straight into his chest. Like a knife, almost.”
“What was it made of? Metal?”
“Yes. It was some kind of tool. Long and thin. A bit like a wrench, with a special end. For fastening the lid onto the container.”
“What container?”
“For the gas. The safety thing.”
“What, like a key? You had to keep it separate?”
“No. Just a regular tool. They always go together, as far as I know.”
“So why did Milton still have it? Oh. Wait.”
Fothergill looked away.
“Tell me you weren’t on the way to the depot when this happened?” I said.
He fixed his stare on the wall, and didn’t speak.
“Tell me the gas wasn’t in the car?” I said.
“Well,” he said, after a moment. “Put it this way. It isn’t there now.”
Neither of us spoke for a good two minutes. Then Fothergill shook his head and finally broke the silence.
“So,” he said. “Here’s where we stand. Tony’s back on the loose. So is the gas. And it sounds like the buyers could still be on the scene, based on what Tony texted you.”
“Not just ‘the gas.’ Three times as much gas as there was when we started.”
“No. There’s the same amount. We just didn’t know about all of it. But either way, this is not good. There’s some serious broken glass for us to sweep up here, my friend.”
“There’s more than broken glass. Things are spiraling out of control, is what’s happening. This is about much more than a hard arrest, now. Or saving face with the Americans. It’s time for you to call London. Light a fire under them. We need more feet on the street if we’re going to contain this mess.”
Fothergill didn’t answer.
“What’s the matter?” I said. “Don’t you think they’ll listen?”
He glanced at me, then looked away again.
“Is this about covering your arse?” I said. “Are you trying to hide the fact that McIntyre put one over on you again? Because if you are, you can forget it. Trust me. The truth’s coming out, anyway. A man’s dead, remember.”
“It is my arse that’s on the line,” he said, slowly turning back to face me. “But that’s not the problem. I didn’t break any procedures. There’s nothing I can’t talk my way out of. I’ve been backed into worse corners, dozens of times.”
“So why the reluctance? We need to escalate this, and escalate it fast.”
“There’s something else,” he said, after a moment. “Something you need to know.”
“So go ahead,” I said. “What is it? Level with me.”
“I didn’t handle things too well, back there. When I saw Tony coming up to the car, I froze. He looked at both of us. Then he went to Milton’s side and opened his door. He had a gun, and he was setting up for a double tap when he realized Milton had already gone. So, he pointed the gun at me. Told me to pop the trunk. And, guess what? I did.”
“So?”
“I was sitting next to a guy who Tony had effectively just killed. I was armed. And did I get a shot off? Try to stop him? Do anything at all to even the score for Milton? No. No. And No.”
“Where was your weapon?”
“Holstered.”
“Where was McIntyre’s?”
“In his hand.”
“So if you’d tried to draw, you’d be dead now. How would that have helped?”
“I feel like I should have tried to do something, at least.”
“You’d just driven into a metal girder. That’s traumatic in itself. And you’re already injured. You already had a gunshot wound, in your arm.”
“To tell the truth, that was part of the problem. I saw him pointing a gun at me, and all I could think of was what happened last time. That was the first time I’d ever been shot, in all these years, and it really messed me up.”
“That’s understandable. It happens to a lot of people. And anyway, what about your other hand? That looks hurt, too.”
He lifted his right hand and looked at it, as if noticing the bandages for the first time.
“Yes. It got burned, somehow. The doc thinks it was from the air bag. I must have reached out, instinctively, when I saw Milton flying forward. He was a large lad. Guess I was trying to stop him. Pretty stupid, huh?”
“Not stupid at all. You did what you could. And you got hurt trying to save a guy you hardly know. That’s admirable, Richard. Now stop beating yourself up. It’s time to focus.”