Once inside the private room, it didn’t take Connor long to lose his temper. He’d been on a short fuse since missing Ransom at the hotel two nights before, and the sight of his injured, feckless employee set him immediately on edge.
“Where is she?” he asked, tossing the flowers onto a side table and dumping the book on her patient’s tray.
“He doesn’t know,” Prudence Meadows said, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Bullshit,” said Connor, who by now had categorically abandoned his resolution against profanity and even forgotten that he’d ever had one. “He was with her for two hours the night before and they shacked up in his hotel room yesterday morning. What do you think they talked about-the weather?”
“All I know is that he wants to get to her before the police do.”
“So he’s going to track her down? How?” Prudence didn’t answer, and Connor slammed his hand down on her meal tray. “How?”
Prudence looked at Connor, but only for a moment. “Ask him. He did it before.”
“Where was he headed? He must have given you some clue.”
“I have no idea.”
“You sure? You haven’t gone soft on me because of your husband, have you? You still know where your allegiance lies, right?”
Prudence turned her face toward Connor, her cheeks flushed. “My allegiance ended three months ago, when you fired me!”
“You’re wrong there, sweetie,” Connor fired back. “We’re just like those assholes in Belfast. Once in, never out. I’d suggest you bear that in mind.”
Prudence turned away and stared out the grimy window.
Connor circled the bed and blocked her view. “How did the surgery go?”
“Successful, as far as I know.”
“Yeah, what’d they do?”
“Realigned some bones, repaired some nerves. I was too drugged up to get most of it.”
Connor reached over and grabbed her hand, lifting it up and examining it.
“Don’t!” said Prudence.
“Hurt much?”
“Stop! You’ll tear the stitches.”
Connor dropped the hand onto the bed. “I’ll do worse than that if you don’t tell me everything that happened last night. And I mean the real version.”
Prudence clutched her hand to her chest, whimpering.
“Anytime you’re ready,” said Connor.
With a fearful glance, she took a drink of water, then related the events of the past evening as accurately as she could remember. She was an intelligent woman, and her account was close to verbatim.
“You’re forgetting one thing,” said Connor, when she’d finished. “If you shot your husband, why didn’t you shoot Ransom, too?”
“You told me that he had to be taken alive. I was following your instructions.”
“You qualified with that pistol. You could have shot him in the leg or taken off his big toe. Hell, I don’t know. Either way, we’d have Ransom. Instead you broke down and called an ambulance.”
“I was in shock,” she retorted.
“You failed your training,” said Connor, examining the IV and the machinery monitoring her respiration and blood pressure.
“My husband was dead. What did you want me to do?”
“I wanted you to follow orders. If you’d waited five more minutes, we could have cleaned everything up ourselves. I hope you have your story straight for the police.”
“I do.”
“You better.”
Connor moved closer to the bed, bending at the waist and bringing his face close to hers. “One slip-up-one mention of who you work for- and I’ll know. I’ll see to it that your British passport doesn’t hold up under too much scrutiny. I’ll make sure the authorities get a look at your past. You’ll be deported inside of ninety days, and I don’t think that your husband’s family will stand for your girls going with you. It’s not so nice in that shitty little republic you come from. There’s always one war or another going on there.”
“Get out,” said Prudence Meadows.
But Connor didn’t budge. “I wonder what your girls will do when they find out that it was you who killed him.”
“Get out!” she screamed.
A nurse entered the room. Seeing the patient’s agitated state, she ordered Connor from the room. He made a show of resisting, yanking his arm clear and calling the nurse a few choice names before allowing himself to be escorted to the elevator. The policemen were on their feet at once, asking if they could be of assistance. But by then Connor had quieted down. Still, they’d noticed and made a point of referring the incident to their superiors, a report of which landed on Charles Graves’s desk the next morning.
The nurse, too, filed a detailed report in the hospital log.
On the street, Connor’s belligerence vanished. He had done what was needed. No more, no less.
34
Before earning her promotion to detective chief inspector, Kate Ford spent three years with the Flying Squad, the elite undercover unit of the Metropolitan Police charged with preventing armed robberies. The Flying Squad took its name from the cars originally assigned to the unit in 1918, two Crossley Tenders that had belonged to the Royal Flying Corps. Cockney rhyming slang transformed “Flying Squad” to “Sweeney Todd,” and today everyone on the force simply called it the Sweeney.
It was an exciting time. Nights spent lying in wait for armed criminals, days staking out banks and jewelry shops. High-speed chases. Lots of banging heads and plenty of arrests. There was even the occasional gunplay though Kate had never actually shot anyone herself. But one thing she’d witnessed time and time again was the criminal’s habit when cornered of climbing to the top of whatever house or building he was hiding out in, in the hope of escaping. Some hid in the attic. Others made it all the way to the roof. It didn’t really matter where they went, just that they kept moving up. Motion lent them the momentary and illusory notion that they still had a chance of getting away. Hope died hard.
“That Skye?” said Graves, seated next to her in the twin-engine Hawker business jet. “Never been here. Now I know why.”
“Me neither,” said Kate. “Bit bleak. Don’t you think?”
Graves didn’t respond. He was too busy playing with his cell phone. All during the flight he’d been waiting for an update on Ransom’s whereabouts, striding to the cockpit every ten minutes to inquire if Thames House had radioed in. Now, with the landing strip in sight, he could find out for himself.