The Surgeon, page 15
* * *
He got his travelling bag, his mobile phone, and went into the house.
Monday afternoon and evening passed without incident. He had no supplies, but there was some tinned food in a cupboard, and coffee. He had switched his mobile phone off.
Tuesday morning. He got up late. The sun was hidden behind a blanket of clouds the colour of old bruising. Looked like rain was coming. His bag was running worryingly low. He reckoned he might get another half dozen hits, if he were careful.
He drove into Aviemore on Tuesday afternoon, three miles distant, bought some milk and some processed food he could stick in the microwave. He bought a packet of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. He hadn’t smoked for twenty years, but thought, randomly, he would resurrect the habit. He bought some wine. He browsed the shops, bought a coffee, sat at an outdoor table. Aviemore had always bored him. Shops selling either outdoor gear, or overpriced tourist tat, possessing as much charm as a cheap fun park.
The rain stayed away.
He got back to the house, late afternoon. His nerves jangled. As ever, his mind was in overdrive. He wondered, not without a degree of dread, what mysteries his mobile phone held. Who was wanting what. He guessed Billy Watson was top of the list. Certainly his firm. Perhaps Mrs Shawbridge had stirred things up. If so, the partners would want a little tête-à-tête, for sure. And if things had escalated, perhaps the police were now interested.
But he chose to ignore it. Instead, he took another line. The evening wore on. He went for a walk at 8pm, around the loch, a distance of about four miles. Darkness was falling, but he knew the way. When he was much younger, he cycled the path. He and his mother. She was fit then, well, before the cancer. He felt a swell of profound sadness. If he could turn the clock back…
He got back to the house. He watched some mindless crap on TV. He went to bed at midnight.
On Wednesday, he got up at 8am in a deep state of depression. He took another line of cocaine. His heart and mind buzzed. He was awake once again. He still didn’t turn his mobile on. He wanted to toss the damn thing in the loch. He chose not to. Like most people in the civilised world, the phone was like an appendage to the human body. Losing a phone was like losing a limb.
The sun was out again, but in brief slants, finding the spaces between the clouds.
2pm. Just as Stark was finishing his lunch appointment with Edward Stoddart one hundred and eighty miles away, there came a knock on Bronson’s front door.
Bronson was sitting in the lounge. The view was directly of the loch. He had the television on, and therefore would not have heard a car approach and park at the side of the building. He did however hear the knock. He jumped at the sound. He remained still. Maybe he’d imagined it? It came again. His mind sparked into a hundred scenarios. He tried to focus. No point in ignoring it. Whoever they were, they knew very well he was here. His car was outside, and the television was blaring. And if they really wanted him, they could simply break the door down. Better then to confront. If it was Billy Watson, he could maybe reason, come to an arrangement. The threat Watson had made reared up – face burnt with acid.
The knock came again. More forceful. He heard a voice, shouting his name. He frowned, trying to understand. He went to the front door, opened it. He stared. It took a second before he found his voice. Standing before him was the last person he expected to see.
“Good God Almighty,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Stark went straight back to his flat. He checked his messages, half-hoping Jenny might have contacted him about drinks. But she hadn’t, and he wondered if maybe he should message her, then decided against it. Too much, too soon. Last thing he wanted was to be regarded as “pushy”. Last thing he wanted was to be rejected.
He experienced a range of emotions. The conclusions of Maggie’s research was mind-boggling and weird and terrifying. Yet, not surprising. He knew the truth in his dreams. He had known, all along, deep down, they were real. Maggie had merely “rubber-stamped” his own instinct.
He changed, put on his old, ragged running trousers, a T-shirt, his ancient running shoes, and hit the streets. He hadn’t run for days. The first mile was tough. The one thing he knew about running – about any exercise – was how quickly fitness and endurance dissipated through lack of routine. He felt stiff, his lungs tight. After a mile, once the blood started pumping, things got easier. The stiffness disappeared, the lungs were less laboured. He ran five miles, and felt good. Running made him forget, for a little while.
He got back, showered, changed. He had brought some work back with him, files packed into a small rucksack. Perhaps, he mused, he might buy a proper briefcase with his pay cheque. Probably not.
He laid the papers on the kitchen table. He tried to concentrate. But always, his thoughts steered back to the dream, the little girl, her terror and pain. The woman, her sadness and desolation.
He soldiered on, focused on the work. He gave up at 9pm, watched TV, and drifted asleep on the couch…
…and was in the girl’s bedroom.
Again watching from the corner. Everything was as before. The room was exactly the same. Dread filled his heart and squeezed his throat. He made out the shape under the covers. The shape moved. The girl sat up, looked at him. She pulled her blanket back. She was wearing pyjamas – bright with pink elephants. She made her way to him, stopped, and looked up. She was so tiny and frail.
“Make him pay,” she whispered.
She returned to her bed. Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Time meant nothing. Stark knew the sequence of events, and it terrified him. The bedroom door opened, the shadow slithered in…
…and then he was in the wood, in the place where the cherry-blossom tree stood. The woman stood before him. So pale. So tired. She turned, and spoke to him.
“I hid it there.” She pointed to the base of the tree. “Make him pay,” she whispered, and she touched his cheek. Her fingers were ice cold.
“Make him pay.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Stark woke. It was 5am. The TV was still on. He switched it off, let the silence calm him. He got up, went to the kitchen, got a glass of water, sat at his kitchen table. Strewn across it, the papers he had brought home. Also, his unopened laptop. In that quiet moment, he understood what he had to do.
He got a piece of scrap paper, wrote down what he intended to say. He crossed it out. It had to be simple. It had to be compelling. He at last found the words. Not perfect, but this was new territory. He opened his laptop. He typed the message, touched the “send” button, using his own private email address. It went.
What now? he wondered, and not for the first time thought that either he was dreaming, or he was insane, or maybe both.
Stark left his flat at 5.45am. He had a journey to make, to the woods beyond the town of Hamilton. Specifically, to Chatelherault Woods, to a cherry-blossom tree standing solitary in the centre of a clearing. He knew the path to get there, because he had walked it in his dreams. His destination was not far. He would be back in ample time to start another day with the firm of Stoddart, Jeffrey, Pritchard and Sloss.
The journey took him forty-five minutes. It was too early for rush hour, and traffic was light. He found the woods without difficulty. The main entrance was well signposted, comprising an asphalt car park, adjacent to a kids’ play area. Stark parked his car. There were no others. A hundred yards from the car park, a garden centre – a large building constructed of glass and bleached timber. Pale sunlight filtered through heavy clouds. At this time, a dreary, cheerless place.
He closed his eyes, focused, allowing his mind to open. The scene in his dream reared up. The way before him was clear. A path led from the car park, into the interior of the wood. He had dreamt this path, and the path was there, exactly as it should be. For a second, his resolve wavered. The sheer weirdness of the situation made his head spin. A new emotion bloomed in his chest – fear. He stood, took deep breaths, dug deep for the courage to continue. He made his way into the gloom.
He followed the main path for a mile. Trees on either side pressed in close, preventing daylight. Here, the world was still and quiet, the air close, almost stifling. A place where secrets were made, and kept. A lone jogger startled him, appearing suddenly from a bend. Stark stepped to one side. The jogger gave a curt nod, passed him, and a second later was gone. Stark stayed motionless, took several heartbeats to compose himself, moved on.
He reached a section where a barely discernible trail branched off from the main path, cutting a twisting swathe through the trees – exactly as he had dreamt. His pulse raced. He was close now.
He followed the trail, downhill, watching his footing. Easy to twist an ankle, to stumble, break a bone. In the near distance, the sound of a river flowing. He brushed back branches, kept moving. Twenty minutes later, the trees thinned a little, the ground flattened. He reached the clearing – a rough circle – the cherry-blossom tree in its centre. The image, vivid and beautiful, again tested his resolve. It was an exact reproduction of the image in his dream. He stopped, stared in fascination. There! The low branch on which she had hanged herself. Nothing had changed. Perhaps nothing would ever change, he thought, until the scales were balanced. Perhaps the tree was frozen in time, fixed forever, until matters were finally resolved.
Sunlight slanted down, finding a way between the clouds. Stark stepped up to the tree. He touched the rough bark with the tips of his fingers. Such tragedy had taken place, the tree a solemn silent witness. There was no wind, no movement. To Stark, the place possessed a perfect stillness.
The evening before, he had purchased a gardening hand trowel from a late-night DIY warehouse, which he’d brought with him, tucked in his coat pocket. He remembered what she had said, where she had pointed. The ground was layered with leaves and twigs, the soil soft. He squatted, began to dig, exactly where he knew he should dig. Less than a minute passed. He found what he was looking for. She hadn’t buried it far. He stood, held the object, cocooned in heavy plastic.
His dream was real, and he knew what he had to do.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Much to McGuigan’s intense frustration, he didn’t get the search warrant until that morning. He had spent over two hours the previous afternoon discussing things with the Crown lawyers. Minutiae. Details. But understandable. Details formed the building blocks, and cases were either won or lost based on the strength of those building blocks. A judge needed compelling evidence before signing off. All they had was a statement from a witness, lacking corroboration. But she was credible. And the significance was massive. A possible photograph of The Surgeon. Sheer gold dust. A real and tangible chance of a breakthrough.
It came at 10am that morning. A warrant faxed from the Crown office. The original wet copy was couriered, granting the requisite power to enter the office of Bronson Chapel, and also his flat. Plus, the authority to seize any papers relevant to Bronson held by the firm of SJPS.
He organised a team of four men and women to attend the flat. He headed a further team of six officers to attend Bronson’s place of work. They got there at 11am. The receptionist listened, Kenny Dawson explaining in his slow methodical way what was happening, their faces a mixture of shock and bewilderment. Those people in the waiting room – clients, he assumed – sat and stared, wide-eyed, blank-faced, doubtless bemused at the turn of events.
The receptionist said she would need to contact a partner. A natural reaction, he thought, and one which he had no particular problem with. They waited in the foyer. She spoke into the phone, waited ten seconds, nodded, turned her attention back to Dawson.
“Someone will be down right away,” she said.
“Thank you.”
They waited. Dawson gave McGuigan a meaningful look, the significance of which, McGuigan understood. Somewhere in the building, much worry and consternation.
Ten minutes later, three people came down the stairs behind the reception desk. Two men, a woman.
They noticed the police straight off. They approached them. McGuigan stepped forward, introduced himself.
The woman did likewise. “I’m Winnifred Marshall.” She glanced at the two men beside her. “This is Walter Hill, and Paul Hutchison. We’re the managing partners.”
The lawyer called Walter Hill gave a small courteous nod. The other – Paul Hutchison – gave no acknowledgement.
“Is Bronson Chapel in the building?” McGuigan asked. A long shot, but still.
Winnifred Marshall responded with the slightest shake of her head. “He isn’t in.” She licked her lips. She looked uncomfortable. A reasonable reaction, thought McGuigan.
She kept her voice low. “Can we go somewhere a little more private, Chief Inspector? Please? This is very… public.”
“Of course. If that’s what you want.”
He indicated to the others to remain where they were. Then he and Dawson followed the three lawyers through the waiting room, to a door at the far end, built to blend in with the surrounding décor. She opened it. They filed through to a corridor far less lavish, with offices on either side, busy with people hunched over computer screens. A young man, maybe in his late twenties, appeared from a room, carrying a file. McGuigan remembered him. The same young man he had seen during his last visit, walking up the stairs behind the reception desk. They exchanged brief looks. McGuigan experienced a tingle of something he could only describe as déjà vu. A flicker of lost memory; a trick, perhaps, of the mind.
He nodded. The young man nodded back, continuing on his way.
They were taken to a somewhat austere meeting room, furnished with some chairs, a table and a side table containing silver canisters of tea and coffee. There were only four chairs. Dawson stood at the door. McGuigan and the three sat. Neither coffee nor tea was offered.
“I have a warrant to search Bronson Chapel’s office…” he began.
“We know this,” snapped the man called Paul Hutchison. He held his hand out. “Let me see it.” His voice was indignant, verging on aggressive.
McGuigan assumed a professional neutrality, handed him the warrant.
“You have to understand,” said Winnifred, “as a firm of solicitors, the last thing we want is any trouble.”
“I can imagine.”
“Our reputation is… well, it’s all we have.” It was the other man who spoke – Walter Hill.
“It’s important, for sure.”
“Having a half-dozen police officers arrive at our front door,” continued Winnifred, “it’s not an ideal situation. It gets tongues wagging. Before you know it, all sorts of rumours are flying about.”
Hutchison tossed the warrant on the table. “It’s all bullshit.” He glared at McGuigan. “I know what this is about. You cops. Gloating at the prospect of pulling down a fancy law firm. We won’t be intimidated. Not by the likes of you.”
McGuigan placed the warrant in his inside jacket pocket. He appraised Hutchison. The man looked uncomfortable. He was sweating. He fidgeted. His eyes darted. Nerves? Perhaps.
“We’re not here to intimidate,” he replied. “We’re here to implement a warrant.”
“Of course,” said Winnifred, smiling. She cast Hutchison a venomous glance. “Paul doesn’t mean any offence.”
“Don’t condescend to me,” said Hutchison. “I meant every goddamned word.”
McGuigan inspected the man closer. Something was off. Hutchison was sweating, but it wasn’t warm. In fact, the room they were occupying was cold. There was a chill in the air. Hutchison was perturbed. Unreasonably so.
“You can’t believe a word she says,” said Hutchison.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Patricia Shawbridge,” he said, voice thick and harsh. “She’s the one who started this. My opinion? She’s got nothing better to do with her time. She’s rich and thinks she can just coast in and make foul accusations about one of our partners, and expect everyone…” and here he jabbed a finger at McGuigan, “…including you, to jump up and dance to every jig she plays. Let me tell you, Chief Inspector McGuigan, I’m not fucking dancing!”
McGuigan said nothing. A silence fell. The other two lawyers kept their focus on McGuigan, ashen-faced. Clearly, the outburst had shocked them.
Hutchison wasn’t finished. “To think, a lawyer from this firm would blackmail someone over a fucking photo on a mobile phone.”
McGuigan raised an eyebrow. “A photo?”
Hutchison blinked. Hesitation crept into his voice. “Yes.”
“Tell me about this photo.”
Hutchison began to bluster. “I assume you knew. After all, that’s why you’re here.”
“Please,” said McGuigan softly. “Tell me.”
“The photo.” Hutchison took a breath. “She told us Bronson had shown her a photo of the killer. The Surgeon.”
McGuigan assumed an expression of sudden interest. Hutchison had started it, and McGuigan would make damned well sure he would finish it. Nothing like a bit of sport, he thought, especially with an individual as obnoxious as Paul Hutchison. He appraised all three.
“You’re telling me Patricia Shawbridge told you that she’d been shown a photograph of one of the most prolific serial killers in British history?” He focused on Hutchison. “That’s what you’re telling me?”
Hutchison licked his lips. He was about to speak, then thought better of it.
“She told all three of you?”
They gave him blank stares.
“When was this?”
Walter Hill spoke up, a tremor in his voice. “Yesterday.”
McGuigan leaned forward. “Someone gave you this information yesterday.” He looked specifically at Hutchison, and he said, his voice still soft – “And you didn’t think to report this to the police?”
Hutchison’s face reddened. He stood up. “This is bullshit,” he muttered.
