David Balaam - No One Is Sacrosanct

“I am aware of that, but has he not made any progress . . . with physiotherapy, or whatever it is you treat him with.” Christine asked, determined not to be stone-walled. “I have come a long way to see my former boss and friend, and I would just like a few moments with him,” she pleaded.

Ms Chambers hesitated momentarily, and Christine knew she had won. “OK, but just a short time. He will not recognize you and he has never recovered his speech, even though he has had extensive speech therapy.”

Christine followed the woman to the second floor and was ushered into a large high ceiling room, with panoramic windows overlooking the Golden Bay. “I like to think he enjoys the view.” The woman said respectfully. Crane was seated facing the window, head to one side; his left arm hanging limp. Although it was warm, he was dressed in a heavy navy cardigan with a shawl around his shoulders.

Chambers pulled up a high-backed comfortable chair for Christine. “I’ll leave you for a while,” she said, still wondering why this was only the third visitor she had seen since his arrival two years ago.

“I’ll be outside if you need me, ma’am,” Flynn said, at which Christine nodded.

She sat facing her old boss, and let a tear run down her cheek. This was not the man she knew. “What happened to you, Mike?” She whispered. She reached over and took his right hand to squeeze gently, not knowing if he could feel the same tingling sensation she was feeling. It was not the first time she had held a hand and talked calmly and caringly to someone. She had done this several times during her career at a crime scene whilst waiting for the emergency services. Those times, however, were different. The person in question was attended to and hopefully survived their injuries, or they died. Mike Crane was different. He was neither alive nor dead. Just suspended in time. Locked in a world he could not control or cry out for help from. Christine picked up a towel from the side of his chair and wiped some dribble from his lips, fighting back another tear. As she held the towel to his lips they started to quiver. He had been staring blankly at the blue horizon, but when Christine looked at the window herself, she realized he could see her reflection in it, as she saw his. “He knows I am here,” she told herself. She turned her chair closer, towards his, and their eyes met.

His lips were still quivering, but his vacant expression did not change. “Mike, can you hear me?” Christine asked optimistically, knowing full well the answer. “I married Clive Moran, but you knew that. We moved to France and adopted two beautiful twin girls from Hong Kong . . . my dear friend Mandy died recently, you met her once . . .” She stopped mid-sentence. With his lips trembling faster she leant closer until her ear was almost touching his mouth.

“Answer . . . stoke . . .”

She barely made out the words.

“Stoke . . . what is stoke, Mike? What answer?”

Then, suddenly, without warning his right hand lashed out and gripped her wrist with such strength she gave out a muffled scream. “ Answer . . . Stoke . . . Mandeville .” He released his grip as quickly as he had grasped her, and his head flopped back and his eyes glazed over, lost again in his worldly prison.

Christine stared at this broken man, trying to make herself remember what he had said . . . what he had said . . . ‘answer . . . Stoke Mandeville’.

Christine went to stand but faltered, feeling faint at the realization of these words and what they meant. Her friend . . . her dead friend, Mandy Silver must have told Crane what Graham King had found out about the coded text . . . Answer: Stoke Mandeville .

‘Christ! Were Mandy and Graham killed for this?’ She looked at Mike Crane for more answers but none were there. Who can she trust now, and what does Stoke Mandeville have to do with Peter Dunfold?

Christine Ling left the nursing home without saying goodbye to anyone. She did not want to say anything about Crane talking. She needed to have a meeting with Peter Dunfold, then stopped and remembered. She was no longer a DCI.

“Are you OK, ma’am, you looked a little shocked.” Mike Flynn asked, concerned for his old boss as she settled herself in the passenger seat. “How was DCI Crane?”

“As expected, Mike. No response from him at all.”

***

Mike Flynn dropped Christine off at the airport with a few hours to spare before her flight. Enough time to call Dallimore. “Martin, I need you to look at the autopsy reports for Ms Silver and Mr King. I saw DCI Crane today and he told me what Mandy had told him.”

“Which was?” Dallimore asked.

“I can’t tell you yet, Martin. I think they were killed because they knew something.”

“In that case, Christine, haven’t you just put your life in danger.”

***

Christine drove the thirty-minute journey to Seclin, a small village south of Lille, hoping her girls had not yet gone to bed. It was after nine o’clock, but she was sure Clive would allow them to watch TV a little longer on this occasion. They ran into her arms as soon as she opened the door. “I have missed you, my angels,” she said, hugging them close. “And what about me?” Clive asked, putting his arms around her waist.

She turned to kiss him. “Of course. More than anything,” she whispered.

When the girls were asleep, and she and Clive had eaten, she told him everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. He didn’t say a word until she had finished.

“Dallimore was right. You may have put yourself in danger. Let him handle it from herein, Christine. You have your life to live, and family to look after.” He said sympathetically.

“I know, I know. But why do I have the feeling Marcus Hartmann is still haunting me.”

DCI Dallimore looked at the two buff folders on his desk. He opened the one marked ‘Mandy Silver – Autopsy’, and read the contents praying that no-one had made a mistake. ‘. . . that the direction of tyre marks indicated the car had driven over the body at speed . . . ’

Dallimore studied the photos from the scene, and from the path-lab. They alone showed nothing untoward.

The second file was for Graham King ‘. . . white male, seventy-four, five-foot-ten inches, twelve stone six pounds. . .’ Dallimore scanned the report without noticing anything significant ‘. . . conclusion; subject died of a heart attack following a severe stroke.’

Dallimore leaned back and sighed. “Oh, damn you, Ling . . .” He called the coroners office and requested a second autopsy, but was told Mr King had been cremated, not buried. With nothing else to go on his superiors would never grant the time or resources to look into it further. He wrote an email to Christine Ling setting out what he had found, and that he was not in a position to take the enquiry any further.

Christine read the letter several times, feeling more and more annoyed each time she did so. “He’s right, Christine,” Clive said, trying to play down the situation.

“But what about justice for her parents . . . and me. This doesn't feel right, Clive.”

“I know, love, but we are here and you are retired from the force. You owe it to the girls, and me, to let go.” Clive hugged his wife and was grateful they lived where they did.

2008

Euston Station in London is one of the capital’s busiest, serving the Midlands, the North and Scotland. Around thirty million journeys are made to and from it each year, but it is particularly the arrivals that interest Fazal. His expert eyes scan the solo traveler - the young solo traveler. These young preadolescence children, of either sex, have usually left home to seek a new life in London. They could have been abused by a family member; run-away from a children’s home; been bullied at school, or for some of the older age group, eleven or twelve, just wanted to see London. Fazal was an expert at spotting the vulnerable. They would stand in the middle of the concourse staring vacantly up at the Underground board, wondering which direction to take. Some have an address of a hostel or even a relative, but all stop at some point to check their next move. That’s when Fazal strikes. “Where is it you are looking for, young man? I know London well.”