He and Saslow were immediately asked to leave. Within seconds, it seemed, a Resus unit had arrived. For a moment or two Saslow and Vogel watched from the doorway as the team sprang into operation, each individual clearly knowing exactly what he or she had to do and yet all working smoothly together. Then a nurse, hurrying past, told them in no uncertain terms to get out of the way.
The two officers retreated to the row of orange chairs positioned just outside ICU where they had encountered Patel’s ex-wife the previous day. Perhaps mercifully under the circumstances, thought Vogel, she was not there today.
The sounds of emergency resuscitation continued to resonate from inside the ward. Then suddenly, there was silence.
Vogel looked at Saslow. Saslow looked at Vogel. They sat quietly for another minute or two. Then they approached the entrance to the unit. The same nurse who had earlier moved them on was just inside the double doors.
She approached them at once.
‘I’m afraid we’ve lost him,’ she said, without prevarication.
The strain showed in her face. Vogel felt for her. In all his many years in the force, and his many confrontations with death in all manner of situations, Vogel had never known a health professional, any first responder or emergency worker, or indeed a police officer, who did not suffer enormous shock and distress when losing a soul they had fought to save.
More often than not, certainly now as a senior officer, Vogel found himself standing by, watching others on the front line. He too never failed to be deeply moved. It was the human condition, he considered. And the passing of Jason Patel was no exception.
‘What happened, nurse?’ he asked. ‘I thought Mr Patel was recovering.’
The nurse shrugged almost imperceptibly.
As she began to speak again she brushed away a strand of hair which had fallen across her face. Vogel noticed that her fingers were trembling.
‘A heart attack of some sort,’ she said. ‘His heart just stopped. It’s not unusual in cases of extreme trauma like this. A patient seems to be recovering but their body cannot ultimately cope with the shock it’s received. That’s why we keep trauma patients in ICU. Resus did their best. But in the case of Mr Patel, we just couldn’t save him.’
It was pretty much as Vogel had suspected. He hoped he and Saslow had played no part in the instigation of the attack.
‘I’m sorry, nurse,’ said Vogel.
The nurse stared at him levelly for a few seconds. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘I believe you are. Even though I probably wouldn’t have let you in if I’d seen you arrive. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to contact Mr Patel’s next of kin.’
Vogel watched her walking away, glad that was one death call he wasn’t going to have to make.
His first thoughts had been simply sadness at the man’s quite unnecessary passing. Then he experienced just a fleeting concern that he may have inadvertently played a part in it. But Jason Patel had been shot. Twice. That’s why he died. And no doubt that heart attack could have happened at any time.
It was only as he and Saslow were leaving the hospital that he allowed himself to consider the full significance of Patel’s death. He and the team would now be investigating two murders. And Jason Patel would never finish telling his story, a story which, Vogel felt, could eventually have gone a long way towards solving the mystery of the two attacks, one leading to Patel’s own death and one to the death of his business partner. Now any information that he might have imparted might never be fully learned.
Saslow, who Vogel invariably considered to be far tougher than him, had already got there.
‘Christ, where does this leave us now, boss,’ she asked, her facial expression showing very little other than professional irritation. ‘When Patel started blabbing I reckoned we were really going to get somewhere. Now we’re left with two murders and bugger all else.’
‘That’s a very accurate assessment of exactly what Mr Patel’s death means to us,’ remarked Vogel mildly.
‘Sorry, boss,’ muttered Saslow.
‘Don’t be,’ said Vogel. ‘It’s a good job one of us is focusing on nothing but the job in hand. And you’re so right about us having bugger all else. Every time we get a new lead it seems to be ripped away from us.’
He called Detective Superintendent Clarke to tell her about Patel’s death. She said she would send additional back-up from Exeter.
‘Two murders in Bideford and Northam, within twenty-four hours,’ she muttered. ‘For God’s sake, Vogel, what’s going on?’
The truth was that Vogel didn’t know. But he was determined to find out. And fast.
‘Right, Saslow,’ he said. ‘Let’s head back to Bideford nick and call a team meeting. We need to put together a broader picture of these murders and find out how they fit together. If indeed they do at all.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Saslow.
Thirty-Two
Lilian was taken to Eastwood Park prison in Gloucestershire, the nearest women’s prison to Bristol.
Charlie suggested at once that they should appeal against the severity of her sentence. But Lilian could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
She couldn’t even offer to pay him generously in order to keep him on her side. Up against Kurt’s legal team, Charlie’s attempts, through the civil courts, to achieve any kind of financial settlement from Kurt had been blocked at every stage. The legal aid package she was ultimately granted — not without considerable difficulty as on paper she remained a rich woman — had already failed to come close to rewarding him for the many hours he had devoted to her case.
In addition to that, there was the little matter of Charlie not being the brightest kooky in the court. It had become tragically clear that his skills did not match his levels of confidence. She hadn’t realized that until too late, and in case had had neither the funds nor the energy to do anything about it. But she was no longer optimistic about Charlie succeeding in any of his expressed aims.
Meanwhile, Lilian had to deal with the grim day-to-day realities of prison life. Inmates in all prisons invariably need to establish their place in the pecking order. It became instantly and abundantly clear that Lilian’s place was right at the very bottom. She knew she needed to stand up to the bullies in order to survive, but she had neither the strength nor the know-how to do that.
She quickly descended into a state of total misery.
There was, however, one bright side to it all. She heard no word from Kurt for several weeks, and had almost come to believe, or certainly to hope, that he may finally have tired of her. After all he had found himself on the run from the police, then ended up in hospital, because of her. She knew that was how he would see it, anyway. He would consider it to be all Lilian’s fault.
Then, on her birthday, a card from Kurt arrived through the prison postal system, expressing, as usual, undying love and devotion. Also on her birthday, rather less officially and far more disturbingly, another prisoner brought Lilian what she described as ‘a little gift from your old man’.
It was an envelope containing a sachet of cocaine. There was a brief note inside: ‘I’ll be waiting for you, darling, with as much of this as you will ever want.’
Lilian was devastated. Not only was she suffering the misery and humiliation of a substantial jail sentence, but she was not even free from Kurt’s attentions within the walls of her prison.
She immediately flushed the cocaine down the toilet. Afterwards she rather wished she hadn’t. Coke had in the past lessened the pain for her, which was, of course, why she’d allowed herself to be persuaded to take it. Particularly when faced with the prospect of violent sex with Kurt.