Ken McClure: Tangled Web

Le Clerc sifted through the contents that comprised mainly make-up items and paper tissues from what Gordon could see from his sentry position in front of the door. ‘No cards, no notebook,’ said Le Clerc.

‘But a mobile phone,’ said Mary.

Le Clerc looked at her and smiled. He picked up Sonia’s phone and started to check the call register as Sonia’s face began to register panic. Le Clerc muttered to himself, ‘UK, UK, UK... France.’ He pressed the call button and put the phone to his ear. He listened to the reply without saying anything then he switched the phone off. Still without saying anything, he took out his own phone and said into it, ‘Get me the address of the Clinique Martin, will you?’

Sonia collapsed down on to a chair in front of Balard’s desk and started sobbing loudly. ‘Le Clerc said to Gordon and Mary, ‘Let’s go. We can get the information in the car.’

As they left the room, the gendarme who had been stationed outside was sent in to take charge of Sonia Trool. Gordon and Mary got into the back of Le Clerc’s car while he and the driver sat in the front, waiting for the address of the clinic. It seemed unnaturally silent, apart from the sound of rain on the roof and the driver’s fingers drumming quietly on the steering wheel. Thirty seconds later the information came through and Le Clerc snapped, ‘Rue Dauphine!’

The silence changed in an instant as the car’s klaxon filled the air and flashing lights cleared the way ahead as the car leapt forward to start carving its way north through the evening traffic. Mary had to close her eyes on several occasions when the driver seemed to head for gaps that weren’t there in her view but always — and usually at the last moment, one opened up. When they were racing up the Boulevard San Michel, the driver asked Le Clerc, ‘Which end of Dauphine?’

‘Nearest the river,’ replied Le Clerc, who had been seeking the information on his radio. They reached the head of San Michel and turned west along by the river to finally enter Rue Dauphine on their left. The car drew to a halt outside the brightly-lit entrance to the Clinique Martin, its sign illuminated above its ambulance bay and flanked by two red crosses. It was clearly a much larger clinic than the St Pierre and larger than many small hospitals back home, thought Gordon.

They all went in together. The reception desk was staffed by two young ladies wearing smart maroon uniforms with their names displayed on enamel badges and with a red cross nestling below angel wings on their collar. Le Clerc did the talking after showing his ID to each in turn. He asked about Trool and was rewarded with what sounded to Gordon like a comprehensive reply. He didn’t catch all of it but Mary did and she whispered to him, ‘Trool is here... he’s with his patient who has been in a coma and is now close to death. He can’t possibly be disturbed at this time... his patient’s life is hanging in the balance... A theatre has been prepared in case Dr Trool feels there is a chance that an operation might save her life...’

Le Clerc turned to Gordon, uncertain of his ground and feeling ill equipped to make any kind of judgement on his own.

‘We have to stop him,’ said Gordon. ‘Right now!’

Le Clerc turned back to the receptionists and demanded to know Trool’s whereabouts in the hospital.

‘Third floor, room 316.’

Le Clerc turned on his heel and made for the elevators with Gordon and Mary hard on his heels.

‘C’mon... c’mon!’ urged Gordon as he watched the floor indicator fall with painful slowness. Even the doors seemed to take an age to slide back when the elevator finally arrived.

The arrows on the wall immediately opposite the doors as they stepped out on the third floor pointed to the right for 316 and with Le Clerc in the lead, they all hurried along the thirty metres or so to the room. Le Clerc and Gordon listened outside the door for a moment. They heard Trool’s voice saying calmly, ‘She’s fading fast — warn the theatre team to expect us in ten minutes.’

Le Clerc opened the door and stepped into the room. He said to the nurse who had just lifted the telephone, ‘Don’t bother. Other arrangements are being made for your patient.’

Trool got up from the bedside, his eyes wide with astonishment. He was wearing surgical greens with a mask slung round his neck. Anne-Marie lay unconscious with tubes inserted in her mouth and nose as a bank of electronically controlled apparatus behind her did what it had been programmed to do.

‘This is outrageous!’ blustered Trool.

‘We can certainly agree on that,’ said Gordon bitterly as he moved to examine Anne-Marie along with Mary.

‘Is she who you thought she was?’ asked Le Clerc.

‘Without a doubt,’ said Gordon, fighting against a lump in his throat. ‘This is Anne-Marie Palmer.’

Gordon’s full attention was now given to Anne-Marie as he fought to assess her condition quickly but he was aware of Le Clerc informing Trool that he was under arrest. It didn’t really register that the policeman had stopped talking until Mary let out a scream and he turned in time to see Le Clerc’s face open up in a huge crimson gash. He fell to the floor and Gordon saw the scalpel that had appeared in Trool’s hand. His eyes had a wild look in them as he first looked to Gordon and then at Mary.

Gordon pushed Mary behind him as Trool started to come towards them, exuding malice. At the very last moment when Gordon had backed away as far as he could, Trool suddenly turned his attention back to Anne-Marie. He threw down the scalpel and snatched the child up from the bed, freeing her from all her tubes and lines with a vicious tug that made Gordon wince. He ran to the door with the child under one arm, removing the key with his free hand and then locking the door behind him a fraction of a second before Gordon got to it.

‘Help Le Clerc, he’s in a bad way!’ said Gordon as he began crashing his shoulder against the door in an attempt to break it open. After a third try with no sign of success he conceded that he more likely to break his collarbone than the door lock. He grabbed the phone and called reception, declaring an emergency and asking to be released immediately. As he replaced the receiver, he was not at all sure that reception had understood his French that had been made worse by his state of high anxiety. Looking about him, he spotted the oxygen cylinder standing in the corner of the room. He snatched it up to start using it as a battering ram against the door. This was a much more successful ploy and he had broken through the panel above the lock before there was any sign of help arriving from downstairs.

Gordon released himself and ran along the corridor to the fire escape to start hurtling downstairs, two, three and even eight at a time when he lost rhythm on the last flight and had to launch himself through the air to the bottom landing. He was lucky and landed well enough to recover and race on to the emergency exit that he opened by crashing his foot against the horizontal bar.

He found himself in the clinic’s car park, looking almost directly at James Trool, some twenty metres away, still with Anne-Marie’s limp body under one arm while he searched feverishly through his pockets in what was clearly a vein attempt to find his car keys. Trool saw Gordon and froze for a moment before abandoning the search and turning to start running towards a narrow exit giving pedestrian access to the street. Gordon started off in pursuit but caught his trailing foot on a low rail when, in going for a short cut, he vaulted over a dividing wall in the car park. He went all his length and crashed into the grille of a parked Volvo.

The fall winded him but he was on his feet after a few seconds and back in pursuit. He just made it to the street in time to see Trool dodging through traffic at the head of the intersection as he ran towards Pont Neuf.