She managed to get the car door open and was helped out by a man who was hurrying toward her. He used one hand to steady her, and in the other he held a cell phone. “. . crashed at the corner of Westbourne and Lancaster Gate. . single-car accident … ran into a pole. . a woman is uninjured but the men seem badly off. . ambulance is probably best. . ”
When the man turned around to find out what had caused the accident, the woman was no longer there.
Chapter 13
EVEN THOUGH IRENE HAD made up her mind not to awaken with a headache, that was exactly what happened anyway. It wasn’t the fault of the alcohol she’d drunk, but that of the large bump on her head, which pounded and ached and was starting to turn blue. It was proof that last night’s attack had really happened and wasn’t a horrible nightmare. The bump, with a little scrape, was located right at her hairline and wasn’t very visible when she brushed her bangs forward, although then the bangs stuck out oddly.
She had sneaked away from the scene of the accident. Feeling that she didn’t have the energy for a night-long police interrogation, she had managed to find her way to the hotel and climb up the stairs to her room. Despite being shaken by the happenings of the previous hour, she had managed to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep. Maybe she had passed out?
Irene tottered down to the dark breakfast room in the hotel’s cellar level and downed several cups of instant coffee. She was still full after Donna’s birthday dinner. Half a cheese sandwich was all she had room for. Her headache eased and she could start thinking.
She had to tell the police what had happened. The only sensible thing to do was to try to reach Glen Thompson. They had decided that he would pick her up outside the hotel at twenty minutes to eleven, but now it would be better if he arrived earlier.
In her room, Irene took out Glen’s card and dialed his work number. She was in luck; he answered right away. Irene tried to explain that something serious had happened the night before, but he interrupted her. “I’ll come as soon as possible.”
Irene went down to the lobby to wait. Estelle hurried past, chirped “Good morning,” and disappeared quickly into the hotel’s inner environs. She couldn’t have slept too many hours, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell by looking at her. Irene didn’t fool herself; her reflection in the mirror had shown that her night had been difficult, but Estelle probably assumed that it was because of too much wine.
A black Rover turned in at the hotel entrance. Glen’s sunny smile faded immediately when he saw Irene’s face.
“Let’s go up to your room,” he said.
IRENE EXPLAINED exactly what had happened. Glen didn’t interrupt her. When she was done, he shook his head.
“Unbelievable! The question is, who had the worse luck: you, who were attacked your first night in London, or the attackers, who went up against an ex-master of jujitsu!”
He smiled but immediately became serious again. “I’m going to notify the police in this district.”
Glen called from the telephone in Irene’s room. He spoke a long time with different people. He was quiet for long periods, nodding and listening. Sometimes he glanced in Irene’s direction and she thought that something flickered in his eyes; he almost looked frightened.
“Come on. It’s time to go. I’ll tell you all I learned in the car,” Glen said, finally.
HE DIDN’T start the car directly when they had gotten in, but looked at Irene gravely.
“You had incredible luck. Thanks to your knowledge of jujitsu, you avoided a terrible fate.”
He turned on the ignition. The car started with a soft rumble, and he pulled away from the curb. “The taxi was stolen. The driver was found, with critical stab wounds having been robbed, on a small back street where they are in the process of tearing down some houses, just a few blocks from Vitória. He was gagged and his hands were bound with tape. He’s in pretty bad shape and is in the hospital. The only consolation is that now both culprits are, as well.”
Glen stopped to let an older woman with a walker cross the street at a crosswalk. When she had managed to make her way to the other side, he gunned the accelerator and continued. “The man in the back seat who attacked you is Ned Atkinson, known as Gravedigger.”
He fell silent again. Irene’s headache was pressing against the inside of her forehead. So she had fought with a man named Gravedigger. She tried to speak, but her tongue felt stiff and strange.
“Ned is an old lag and a drug addict. He was released a few months ago after completing a twelve-year sentence as an accessory to murder. His specialty is to assist in contract killings in the underworld and to get rid of the bodies. Hence the name Gravedigger.”
Irene managed to coax her tongue to move and tried to reassure herself with a feeble smile. “Dare one ask what the other man is called?”
Glen gave her a long look before he answered. “The Butcher.”
The Butcher. Irene decided not to ask anything else.
“You were lucky that he wasn’t the one who pulled you into the car. The Butcher weighs about a hundred and thirty kilos and is incredibly strong. But he injured himself when he escaped from prison last month. They discovered a large infected sore on his knee when he was admitted to the hospital last night for his head injury. The superintendent I spoke with said that a normal person would hardly have been able to walk around with such an injury. The Butcher was forced to. He couldn’t go to an emergency room: A nationwide bulletin had been issued for him.”
They had passed Marble Arch and continued onto Oxford Street. Traffic was heavy and the sidewalks were jammed with people running in and out of the shops. Glen slowed down, turned onto a cross street, and continued. “He’s being cared for in a special hospital for mentally ill criminals. He’d been in prison for a series of unusually vicious murders and rapes. Some were contract jobs, others he committed for pleasure.”
Glen parked parallel to the sidewalk. When he had turned off the engine, he said softly, “Ned was without oxygen a little too long during your struggle. He’s going to survive, but he’ll probably have permanent injuries, although his brain damage may also have been caused by an overdose. They found high levels of morphine in his blood and he’s a known heroin addict. His system is weakened by drugs and he’s in overall poor health. The Butcher struck his head on the windshield and has serious skull injuries. His condition is critical. And Irene. . ”
Glen paused and looked into Irene’s eyes. “They found a large knife next to the Butcher. The same one he had stabbed the taxi driver with. It was still bloody.”
Robbery. Rape. Stabbing, and maybe murder. That’s what would have awaited her if she hadn’t managed to get away. She couldn’t keep her knees from shaking when she stepped out of the car. Despite the fact that it was thirteen degrees outside, sweat was running down her back.
DR. FISCHER had his practice in a beautiful stone house a little way from the bustle of Oxford Street. All of the houses along the cross street had been lavishly and reverently renovated.
After having spoken into the intercom to identify themselves, they were admitted. The vestibule was preserved in a Victorian style with a lot of marble and carved dark mahogany. To Irene’s relief, the elevator was completely new and certainly large enough for two people.
A large man in his late fifties was standing at an open door waiting for them when they emerged from the elevator. He had thick steel-gray hair which was combed back over his high forehead, and a short gray beard. His light-gray suit was tight across the shoulders and back, but it looked expensive. His face was wide and powerful. His smile revealed large teeth, but couldn’t compete with his penetrating gray-blue eyes. Despite his elegant clothes, Irene thought that he looked more like a big-game hunter than a doctor. He scrutinized them over the edge of frameless glasses.