He put his head in his hands. Oh, Caroline! What have I done, he thought? I have put your life in danger, too. All because I love her; because I still love Evelyn Carter. I would sacrifice you too to bring her safely to me so that I can look upon her eternal beauty once more. I should not have involved you, told you about Tremain killing your mother. But I knew that would draw you in, didn’t I? Forgive me, because I used you. I used your grief to further my own ends.
He looked up towards the curtained window. It glowed orange from the fire outside. He knew the time left to him was very short. Doradus would soon be here and though he might have destroyed all physical evidence of his lifelong work he still held secrets in his head. She had been wrong. She wasn’t the last. There were more and he couldn’t allow their identity to be discovered by Doradus.
He went over to a rank of CDs and took one off the shelf. He placed it in his CD player, turning up the volume. Handel’s Sarabande floated around the room like dense smoke.
He took out his cell phone and sent one final text to Caroline:
Doradus onto me. Time short. Destroyed everything. It’s up to you. Carry on without me. Don’t come back here. I will always love you. Goodbye. P.
Charles Rayne opened a box of painkillers, his lifelong companions, and emptied the tablets out on the coffee table before him. He filled a glass with water and sat down to stare at the mound of white pills.
45
Superintendent Maloney stood rigid by the bed, his cap trapped under his arm. He could hear a bird chirruping outside the window, welcoming the first moments of dawn, its song at odds with the heavy atmosphere in the room. There were two other officers present, standing on the opposite side of the hospital bed. One of them looked pale, as if he were about to throw up; the other could barely contain his anger at seeing a fellow police officer, one he’d known ten years at least, lying critically ill, and seeing the various tubes and wires linking him to unknown instruments and life-saving fluids only incensed him more.
CDI Stafford lay motionless, his head a mass of bandages and dressings, the only piece of his flesh open to the air being his left eye. His arms were stretched out on the bed, almost entirely swathed in dressings, right down to his hands which were red and blistered. They’d been told that his body, beneath the frame that kept the covers off him, had suffered third degree burns and a broken pelvis where a ceiling joist had come spearing down onto him. He was lucky to be alive, they were informed. And make no mistake he was only just alive. He wasn’t out of the woods by a long chalk.
As they watched, Stafford opened his eye. It was obvious to them that he was heavily sedated.
‘Go easy on him,’ warned the doctor.
‘A good man is down,’ said the angry-looking officer. ‘And we need to find out who did this to him.’
Maloney held up a calming hand. ‘Not now,’ he said quietly. He bent over, closer to Stafford. ‘How are you?’ he said, his manner never quite able to manage empathy in these situations.
Awareness seemed to flicker on like a light in Stafford’s eye. He grew restless, his head trying to turn, his hand moving on the bed cover.
‘Easy,’ said the doctor. ‘Calm down, Mr Stafford.’ He glanced over to the machine at the side of the bed.
‘He’s trying to tell us something,’ said the officer. ‘What is it, boss? You know who did this to you?’
‘Accidents happen,’ said Maloney and the officer’s lips clamped shut. ‘It was an accident waiting to happen.’
Stafford raised his arm a little. He pointed to the officer’s pocket. ‘My notebook? He wants my notebook, sir.’ And Stafford’s hand grew more agitated as he said it. Before Maloney could respond the man put the notebook under Stafford’s hand and placed a pen gingerly between his trembling fingers.
‘That is not a good idea,’ said the doctor, but Maloney shook his head slightly and let him go ahead.
The stricken man scribbled something down, then pushed the pad away, exhausted. His eye closed and they heard his breathing rasping in his damaged throat. The doctor stepped between them, grasped the notebook and thrust it at the officer. ‘That’s enough!’ he insisted. ‘Can’t you see the man’s desperately ill?’
‘What’s it say?’ Maloney asked.
The officer looked at the page, sighed and handed it over to the Superintendent. In spidery capitals Stafford had scrawled: STYLES.
Maloney studied his fingernails. ‘Yes, I know, he was a good man. But I’m afraid he didn’t get out alive. He’d dead.’ Stafford’s frame trembled. ‘He’s taking it badly,’ said Maloney. ‘Probably blaming himself for dragging them out there on a hunch. His body has been formally identified. Sorry, Stafford…’
‘Right, that’s enough!’ said the doctor pointedly. ‘You can all leave now and let this man rest.’ He herded them out of the room, closing the door after them. He checked over Stafford’s vital signs, reassured himself that the man was as comfortable as he could be before leaving him alone.
Stafford woke from a series of nightmares that he could not quite remember, except that they left his mind a boiling pot of fear. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but it was dark outside now. A flood of pain swamped his entire being, as if he were lying in a cocoon of scorching flame. He was vaguely aware of his wife’s face hovering near him, hearing her distant voice, but that could have been minutes or hours ago, if it happened at all. But he could almost feel the pain in her voice as if it were something physical. More pain to add to his hell.
Then a face appeared in view. A man’s. He was smiling.
‘Good evening, Inspector Stafford,’ he said. ‘Don’t talk, it will only stress you.’ He sat down on a chair by the side of the bed. ‘You know, you are a resilient old rooster, we’ll give you that. Anyone else wouldn’t have come out of there alive. But here you are!’ Stafford felt something was wrong. He looked across at the man through a drugged, foggy haze. He wore a white doctor’s coat. Stafford struggled to speak but found he couldn’t. ‘The trouble with your kind is that you never give up. As long as there’s a single breath in you you’d keep at it till you found an answer. You had your chance but you wouldn’t listen, would you? Well, we can’t have that.’
He rose to his feet again, took out a small plastic box from his coat pocket. Snapping open the lid he removed a tiny, very fine syringe. He went over to one of the tubes that fed down into Stafford’s arm and at the top, near the bag of fluid; he punched the needle home and emptied the contents of the syringe. Once finished he packed it all away and stowed it out of sight in his coat again.
‘There, all done,’ he said. ‘In approximately twenty minutes your heart will go into arrest. In twenty-five minutes you’ll be declared dead.’ He patted his coat pocket. ‘Virtually undetectable, even if you know what you’re looking for.’ Stafford’s eye was glazed with abject terror, his head attempting to move but the pain almost too much to bear. ‘Don’t struggle, Inspector; count yourself amongst one of the lucky ones. Your end will be swift, but for many people it won’t be so. To return to Eden Doradus needs to wipe the place clean of trash. And anyhow let’s face it, a man like you couldn’t live a life like this, could you? Doradus is doing you a big favour. He specifically told me to ensure your end wasn’t painful.’
The man breezed out of the room and left Stafford to his racing thoughts. Was it a dream? Was it a nightmare? Had he really seen someone by his bed? He let out a scream, but it issued from his throat like a kitten’s terrified mewling.