Peter James - Dead Tomorrow

‘Yes, she might rally every now and then, for a short while, when she gets a build-up of strength, but don’t be fooled. Those are her very last reserves she uses up, every time that happens. Lynn, you need to understand that without emergency medical treatment, she might not survive until tomorrow afternoon. She’s suffering almost total liver failure. Her body is being poisoned by her own toxins.’

Tears began streaming down Lynn’s face. She felt giddy, felt his firm hands steadying her as she swayed. Got to be strong, she thought. Come all this way. Got to be really strong now. The German woman was coming to collect her at midday. Just a few hours’ time. Have to hang on till then.

She stared back at him, determinedly. ‘Ross, I can’t, not tonight.’

‘Why on earth not? Are you mad?’

‘I can’t let her go into hospital to die. That’s what’s going to happen. She’s just going to die in there.’

‘She won’t die if she gets immediate treatment.’

‘But she will die without a new liver, Ross, and I don’t have any faith they are going to find her one.’

‘It’s her only chance, Lynn.’

‘I can’t tonight, Ross. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?’

‘I don’t understand your reluctance.’

Luke was coming up the stairs with the water. She took it gratefully from him, then he stayed, listening. She could hardly tell him to go away.

‘I want you to give her something yourself, Ross.’

‘I’m not a liver specialist, Lynn.’

‘You’re a fucking doctor, for Chrissake!’ she snapped at him. Then she shook her head at herself. ‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry, Ross. But you must be able to give her something. I don’t know, some boost for her liver, something to stop the damn pain, something to perk her up, a shot of vitamins or something.’

He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘Lynn, I’m going to call an ambulance.’

‘NO!’

Her sudden vehemence startled him. For some moments they both just stared at each other, in a kind of Mexican stand-off.

Then he gave her a strange look.

‘Is something going on, Lynn? That I don’t know about? Are you planning to take her abroad, is that it? To get a transplant in China?’

She stared back at him without responding, wondering whether she dared to take him into her trust, caught Luke’s eye, willing him to keep silent.

‘No,’ she said.

‘She wouldn’t survive the journey, Lynn.’

‘I – I’m not taking her abroad.’

‘So why do you want to delay her going into hospital?’

‘Just don’t ask me, Ross, OK?’

He frowned deeply. ‘I think you’d better tell me what’s going on. Are you seeing some alternative practitioner? A faith healer?’

‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly short of breath with nerves, the word jetting out. ‘Yes. I – I have someone-’

‘They could see her in hospital, surely?’

Lynn shook her head vigorously.

‘Do you understand how much you are endangering Caitlin’s life, doing this?’

‘And what the hell has your damn system done for her so far?’ Luke suddenly said, simmering with rage. ‘What’s your bloody National Health done for her? Drag her in and out of hospital for years, putting her on the transplant list and getting all her hopes up, finding her a liver, then deciding instead to give it to some fuck-wit alcoholic so he can have a couple more years in the boozer? What do you want to do – send her back up to that hell-hole so more people can promise her a liver she’s never going to bloody well get?’

He turned away, dabbing his eyes with the backs of his fists.

In the silence that followed, Lynn and the doctor stared bleakly at each other.

Sniffing, she said, ‘He’s right.’

‘Lynn,’ Ross Hunter said gravely, ‘I’ll give her a strong shot of antibiotics and I’ll leave you some tablets to give her every four hours. They’ll help reduce the infection which is causing her the pain. If I give her an enema, that will help too by reducing the protein build-up in the bowel. She should really be on a fluid drip – you need to get a lot of liquid down her.’

‘What sort?’

‘Glucose. She needs a lot. And you have to get her to eat, as much food as she can get down her.’

‘This will work, will it, Ross?’

He looked at her sternly. ‘If you do all those things, hopefully she will rally for a while. But what you are doing is dangerous and you’re only buying a short amount of time. Do you understand?’

She nodded.

‘I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon. Unless there’s a dramatic improvement, which I don’t think we’re going to see, then I’m sending her straight to hospital. All right?’

She threw her arms around him and hugged him.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, tearfully. ‘Thank you.’

Pulling his coat on, Glenn Branson left Bella Moy sitting in the warmth of the unmarked police car, crossed the narrow street behind the Metropole Hotel and once more rang the bell marked 1202, J. Baker. Then he stood outside the tower block in the icy wind, waiting for any sound to come down the speaker system.

Yet again, silence.

It was now just after four in the morning. In his pocket was the search warrant that had been signed at eleven last night by Juliet Smith, a senior magistrate he had always found helpful. Since then they had maintained a vigil here through the long night, only driving off for two brief periods.

The first had been to visit one of Cosmescu’s known haunts, the Rendezvous Casino in the Marina, but the manager told them, with some regret in his voice, that unusually Mr Baker had not been there for a few days. The second had been to get bacon sandwiches and coffee from the Market Diner, one the city’s few all-night cafés.

He got back into the car shivering, slamming the door gratefully against the elements. The smell of greasy bacon lingered.

Bella looked at him wearily. ‘I think it’s time to wake up the caretaker,’ she said.

‘Yup, seems very selfish to be the only ones appreciating this beautiful night,’ he said.

‘Very selfish,’ she agreed.

They climbed out, locked the doors, then walked back across to the front door. Glenn pressed the button marked Concierge.

There was no response. After a few moments he tried again. About thirty seconds went by, then there was a sharp crackle, followed by a voice with a strong Irish accent.

‘Yes, who’s that?’

‘Police,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We have a search warrant for one of your flats and need you to let us in.’

The man sounded suspicious. ‘Police, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fek! Just be giving me a minute, will ya, to get some clothes on.’

A short while later the front door was opened by a strong-looking, shaven-headed man of about sixty, with a broken, boxer’s nose, wearing a sweatshirt, baggy jogging bottoms and flip-flops.

‘Detective Sergeant Branson and Detective Sergeant Moy,’ Glenn said, holding up his warrant card.

Bella produced hers too and the Irishman squinted at them in turn with suspicion.

‘And your name is?’ Bella asked.

Folding his arms defensively, the concierge replied, ‘Dowler. Oliver Dowler.’

Then Glenn produced a sheet of paper. ‘We have a search warrant for Flat 1202 and we’ve been ringing the occupant’s bell regularly since just after eleven last night, with no response.’

‘Well, now… 1202?’ Oliver Dowler said with a frown. Then he raised a finger and gave a cheery smile. ‘I’m not surprised you’re getting no answer. The occupant vacated the premises yesterday. You’ve just missed him.’

Glenn cursed.

‘Vacated?’ Bella Moy queried.