Tilly Bagshawe - Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow

Goodman looked blank.

‘He was stabbed in the heart,’ the surgeon clarified. ‘We’ve done the best we can for him, but I’m by no means certain he’ll survive.’

‘All the more reason we need to talk to him,’ Johnson said gruffly. ‘Can you wake him up?’

‘No.’ The surgeon looked at the sweating cop in the syrup-stained shirt with distaste. ‘I can’t.’

‘Did he say anything before he went into surgery?’ Goodman asked, hoping to get something useful out of the doctor before Johnson alienated him completely. ‘Was he conscious at any time? I’m sorry to press you, Dr Rhamatian. But we think whoever did this to Treyvon Raymond may have murdered a young woman a few days ago. If Treyvon saw his attacker, or can remember anything at all, it’s vital that you tell us.’

‘I understand,’ said the surgeon. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know what happened before his surgery. You need to speak to the paramedics who brought him in. I’ll get the names for you. Hey!’ Turning around he glared at Johnson, who was trying to open the door to the recovery room. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t go in there.’

‘Oh, I think you’ll find I can,’ Johnson said rudely. ‘I’m gonna ask that boy some questions while he’s still alive to be asked ’em, whether you like it or not.’

‘I told you, he’s sedated. He won’t be able to hear you.’

‘Then I won’t be bothering him, will I?’ said Johnson. ‘Look, Doc, you did your job already. Now it’s time for us to do ours.’

Dr Rhamatian looked at Goodman as if to say, Can’t you do something?

‘I’m sorry,’ Goodman muttered. But he did nothing to restrain his partner as Johnson pulled open the door and walked in.

‘So am I,’ said the surgeon angrily. ‘For the boy’s sake. This is an outrage.’

He stormed off, presumably in search of reinforcements. Goodman hurriedly followed Johnson into the recovery suite.

‘Do you have to be such a dick?’ he asked Johnson. ‘The man was helping us.’

‘No he wasn’t.’ Johnson didn’t look up from the bed, where Trey Raymond was lying prone and still, his bandaged chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, with the help of a machine that looked like a cross between a prop from a 1960s sci-fi movie and a pool cleaner, complete with long, corrugated tubing. His arms, neck and cheeks were covered in shallow knife wounds, exactly as Lisa’s had been, and his face was bruised beyond recognition. No wonder the killer had left him for dead.

‘The kid’s dying, Lou,’ said Johnson. ‘Even you can see that. It’s now or never.’

‘I know,’ Goodman said somberly. ‘But—’

He was interrupted by Johnson’s loud clapping, his fat hands crashing together inches above Trey’s unresponsive face.

‘Wake up!’ he shouted. ‘Tell us who did this to you. TREY!’

‘Mick, come on—’

‘I said, WAKE UP, DIPSHIT!’ Johnson bellowed. ‘Open your GODDAMN EYES!’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Grabbing him by the shoulders, Goodman pulled Johnson back. ‘Stop it. Leave him alone. What the hell is wrong with you?’

Johnson turned, and for a moment looked as if he were about to punch his partner in the face. But before he had a chance, Trey suddenly opened his eyes and let out a panicked scream.

‘I don’t know!’ he yelled, his arms twitching manically. ‘Please! Oh God! I DON’T KNOW!’ His head was tossing from side to side. He screamed again and then an awful gurgling sound began from somewhere deep in his throat. Even Johnson looked alarmed. One of the machines started beeping and a stream of nurses and medics ran into the room, as Trey slumped back, unresponsive, onto the bed.

‘Who let you in here?’ one of the interns barked at Goodman and Johnson. ‘This is medical personnel only. Get out!’

Johnson hesitated, but only for a moment. He followed Goodman out.

Out in the corridor, Goodman turned on him. ‘What in God’s name was that? We could get prosecuted! What if the kid’s family make a complaint?’

Johnson laughed. ‘What if they do?’ There could be no mistaking the racist undertone in his words. The unspoken implication that nobody would listen to the likes of Marsha Raymond, a poor, black single mother from Westmont. Not for the first time, Goodman felt a surge of real dislike for the man he was forced to work with.

‘Where are you going?’ he called after Johnson, who was already headed for the exit.

‘Back to the precinct,’ said Johnson. ‘The boy’s clearly not gonna make it, so that ship’s sailed. Still, at least we now know one thing for sure.’

‘We do?’

‘Sure we do. It’s the same killer. Assuming Trey dies, that’s two victims inside of a week, both attacked and dumped the same exact way.’

‘OK,’ said Goodman, not sure why this obvious fact seemed to please his partner so much.

‘So you tell me,’ Johnson spelled it out. ‘Who’s the one person that connects both of the victims?’

The penny dropped.

It pained Goodman to admit it. But this time, Johnson was right.

As far as they knew, Lisa Flannagan and Trey Raymond had only one thing in common.

They were both close to Dr Nikki Roberts.

Earlier that morning, Nikki Roberts sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. Her sweat-drenched T-shirt clung to her body and she was shaking, shivering, as if she’d just been pulled out of icy water. Her bedside clock said 4.52 a.m. Wearily she sank back against the pillows.

It was the same dream she’d been having for months, or a variant of it anyway: Doug was in danger, about to die, and was screaming out to Nikki, begging her for help. But she didn’t help him, and he died, and it was all her fault. Sometimes he was drowning and she stood and watched from the beach, letting it happen. Sometimes he was in a car, careening out of control, and Nikki held some sort of remote control that could activate the brakes, but she refused to use it. In tonight’s version, they’d been walking along the clifftop path at Big Sur and Doug had somehow lost his footing and slipped off the edge. He was reaching out to Nikki, pleading for her hand to pull him back to safety. But this time, instead of simply refusing or ignoring him, she’d actively peeled off his clinging fingers one by one and pushed him to his death, watching as he was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. She’d murdered him. And the worst part was, in the dream, the act had left her with a sense of elation, a tremendous feeling of power.

A few hours later, an emotional Nikki met her friend Gretchen Adler for brunch on Melrose.

‘I had the dream again,’ she said as the two women sat down at Glorious Greens café.

‘The Doug dream?’ said Gretchen.

Nikki nodded. ‘Only this time it was worse.’

Nikki filled Gretchen in on her latest nightmare while a handsome waiter hovered over them. Nikki ordered her usual poached eggs, toast and triple-shot latte, while Gretchen went for a vile-looking kale-and-beetroot smoothie and a bowl of something involving sprouted grains. Gretchen was Nikki’s oldest friend – they’d known each other since high school – and a sweetheart of the first order, but for most of her adult life she’d been fighting an on-off battle with her weight. As far as Nikki could tell, she rarely got any thinner, but was always raving about some new diet or other. At the moment it was raw-vegan.

‘You look exhausted,’ Gretchen told Nikki. ‘You know, if you’re having sleep problems you should really think about going vegan, or at least only eating raw last thing at night. What did you have for dinner last night?’