Chapter sixteen
Harvey floated up from a deep pool of sleep, gasping for breath as he broke the surface. His throat was paper dry, and he craned a bruised neck to see that he lay in a hospital bed in a small room. Cold metal hung around his wrists, and when he tried to lift himself up he found that he was hand-cuffed to the railings at the side of the bed.
Starch pale sheets and beige walls reflected an early morning sun clipping through the windows. The door was wedged open and the clinks and laboured breaths of hospital-bound patients drifted in from a nearby ward - faint sounds of busy people; sterile aroma of disinfectant; distant chatter of a TV show.
Harvey shunted himself up the bed, leaning against the pillows. He felt groggy and disorientated and very, very sore. His body was one large bruise. Bandages wrapped across his chest where a stain of blood seeped from a wound on the left side. His other injuries had been redressed and the dull itchy ache was a reassuring sign of healing.
'Hello Sweetie.' A large nurse bustled into the room. The nametag 'Yvonne' on one voluminous breast, a silver watch chain on the other. She stood close to the bed, leaning on his arm as she inspected the bandaging, clucking with approval as she did.
'Where am I?' Harvey rasped. His throat was just getting used to taking in air again. Speaking clearly would take a little longer.
'Sacred Heart Hospital.' Yvonne replied, tapping at a monitor on the wall and checking her own watch. 'You were caught up in a terrible accident in the West End. Looks like you were the only survivor.'
'Oh,' Harvey said. 'And I'm handcuffed to the bed.'
'The Police are here to talk to you. They seem to think you're a dangerous criminal or some such. They're in the hallway just waiting for you to wake up. Those restraints are to make sure you stay and listen to them. Now, what is that smell?' she said, wrinkling her nose.
Harvey slumped back into the pillow. 'Tiger balm,' he said.
'Oh, that sounds like one of those ointments gentlemen use for "strengthening the rod"'. She jabbed him in the ribs and winked like a vaudeville entertainer. 'Eastern medicines and all that nonsense. I saw a programme on it once.'
The nurse's voice faded away and Harvey suppressed a wave of nausea that threatened to have him throwing up. Black dots and translucent worms fought a battle beneath his eyelids. He slowed his breathing. Flashes of the fight in Starbucks replayed themselves in his mind. The tight feeling of strangulation and the honey-sweet breath of the yoga warrior as she whispered hatred in his ear. The deafening roar of Ganesha blurred into the crashing articulated truck that smashed through the cafe window and whipped the warrior away and into the wall. He remembered stumbling from the debris, sparks of electricity from broken strip lighting, then a sharp pain in his back.
'Could I have a drink of water?' he asked.
'Sure sweetie.' Yvonne had stopped talking, looking down on Harvey with concern. She poured water into a cup from a nearby jug and raised it to his lips. He let the water flow down his throat.
'Now, if you're well enough to chat to me,' the nurse said. 'You will be well enough to talk to the Police. They have a few questions they want to ask you, see what you remember about the accident. I suppose you can't remember much, but try your best.'
The nurse smiled, patted him on the leg, and left the room closing the door behind her.
Muted voices sounded on the other side of the door. Harvey considered his options. He was bound to the bed, so most likely a suspect in the carnage of the Starbucks accident. But they couldn't suspect him of anything else, so perhaps he could bluff ignorance or feign incoherence until they went away. Once alone he would be able to work on a way to free himself from the bed and make his escape.
Muddy memories of the yoga warrior's taunts returned. Had she followed him from Chinatown? Did she work for an organisation that was connected? Was she using him to remove the Trustees, or was she there to protect them?
The caf? was a location where his abilities would be of little use. No feng shui capable amongst the fixed furnishings. Thus, a perfect place to lay a trap. The yoga warrior had walked into the place and knew Harvey would be there. She was prepped and ready to kill him. So was she the end of it, or was she a contractor hired and the real enemy was still out there? And if so, which of the remaining Valentine Trust had hired her?
A cold dread overcame the constant ache in his body. The pain in his body faded, eclipsed by the fear running through his system, cold and heavy, plummeting into his stomach and settling there. His skin prickled with heat and he looked around for someone to help him breathe. The Trust was on to him. Would he be prevented from inflicting the vengeance on behalf of his sister?
The door opened and he knew he was in trouble. The policewoman he had seen at the scene of Grace's suicide, the cemetery and most recently at Master Loo's shop came walking through the doorway, followed by a large bulldog of a man.
The police woman hung her coat on the back of a chair and smiled at Harvey as she sat down, smoothing her skirt as she did so. The man leaned against the back wall of the room, crossed his arms and glared at Harvey.
Pretty cop ugly cop, Harvey thought.
'How are you feeling?' the woman asked, leaning forward on her elbows, her face full of concern for the apparent injuries on Harvey. He shrugged, then winced as stitches in his chest pinged open. The itching became unbearable and he flexed his arms against the restraints.
The police woman drew a slim tape recorder from her bag and placed it on the side table.
'My name is Detective Constable Amanda Morgan. We are conducting an interview on the premises of the Sacred Heart hospital ward seven. Present is Detective Sergeant Kirkwood. Also present is Harvey Barker, of no fixed abode. This interview is being recorded and the time is ten forty ay em.'
Harvey glanced at the recorder then levelled his gaze at Amanda.
'Could you undo these restraints?' he asked.
'And why would I do that? Let my prime suspect have a chance of skipping out of here?'
'Prime suspect?' Harvey said, tilting his head in a quizzical manner. 'What could I be a suspect of?'
'You tell me. The murder of three people, for starters. Perhaps you were responsible for the woman's death in the cafe too. So make it four.'
Harvey narrowed his eyes. The other policeman shifted his stance and downcast his eyes, seemingly on the verge of interrupting.
Harvey took advantage and played the "innocent bystander" card. 'I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about.'
'I think you know exactly what I am talking about. I think you are a professional killer and know enough to keep the red tape tangled. Do you want a solicitor present before we continue? You can either elect to call your own or I can call the duty solicitor.'
Harvey shook his head, a wry smile on his face. 'I've lost enough blood already. Besides, I don't want the interview to end because I'm amused by this fanciful story.'
'The Serious Crime Unit will be here once your records are circulated through the hospital admittance system,' said Amanda. 'Your name will kick up some flag on some dirt-bag computer and you'll be whisked away quicker than you can flash a smug grin. So I'm getting this on record before that happens.'
'Do you recognise the weapon in this photograph?' Kirkwood finally interrupted, producing a photograph from his pocket and pulling Harvey's attention away. He lay the photograph of Harvey's pistol on the hospital bed. 'This weapon was found at the scene of the Starbucks cafe. The clip empty of seven rounds.'
Harvey remained quiet but glanced back at Amanda. On one level he was aware that she was building a case on him, in a direct and confrontational way. On another level he wanted her to continue. To stay in the room and continue talking to him.
'Does the name Daniel MacDonald mean anything to you?'
'Should it?'
'Daniel MacDonald's house was the scene of a mass slaughter. What the papers are calling "the Walthamstow Warground". Seven men died and one man walked aw
ay. A variety of weapons were used in that house, and I think a ballistics comparison will match the weapon found at the Starbucks was also a weapon used at that house.
'All the blood samples from that scene of crime have been matched with the dead mercenaries found on the scene, as well as a very dead Daniel MacDonald. All the blood samples, that is, bar one. Blood samples and traces of scalp hair on the rim of a wheelbarrow. A small cut and a large bruise would be the result,' Amanda referred to the hospital report. 'And it looks as if you have a nasty bruise and contusion on the back of your head, the swelling and colouration conducive with a day old injury.'
At the mention of his injury, Harvey felt the throb at the back of his head. Despite his whole body aching, he watched her intensely. A curl of blonde hair trailed around her neck and shoulders, contrasting with the dark suit. Her blue eyes flashed dangerously.
'Does the name Donald Grace mean anything to you?'
Harvey again shook his head.
'For the record,' Kirkwood said, 'the client indicated negative with a movement of his head.'
'Your description matches that of a pest control worker, the last person to see Mr Grace alive before he tragically committed suicide,' said Amanda. 'The description, right down to the ying yang pendant, came from the secretary who will be able to identify you in a lineout.'
'You say he committed suicide. How can that be murder?'
'You used some kind of gas or other type of poison to affect the balance of his mind. What was it? Some kind of hallucinagen?'
Harvey remained silent.
'Would it surprise you to know that these men were both trustees that sat on the board of a foundation called The Valentine Trust? And that the members of that trust were slowly shrinking? Each one of them being killed off in highly dramatic, violent and unusual ways. A suicide, a tragic explosion, caught up in a shootout. Each one killed in a manner as to not draw the suspicion of a casual investigation, but certainly sending a message to the rest of the trustees.'
Harvey was amazed. Here was this police detective piecing together crimes committed through feng shui. Only a very limited selection of people were aware that such things were possible, let alone identify when it was used. Yet this woman doggedly pursued evidence contrary to the concrete laws of procedural investigation. If she had gotten this far tracking him down, perhaps her uncanny skills had led her to whoever was trying to kill him? Would she be able to help him?
'And if you are in such a non-committal mood, perhaps you can tell me what this is?' Amanda held up a bagua tablet. 'This was found at the Walthamstow scene. And these, ' Amanda held up two more, 'Were amongst the debris of the Starbucks cafe.'
Harvey stared into her eyes. What more do you know, he thought. What else have you discovered about the Trust?
'Perhaps, then, you can explain to me why I've been dragging up these awful memories whenever I hold them for too long?' She threw the tablets onto the hospital bed and pulled her hand back as if she had stuck it in a fire.
'Shall we take a break?' Kirkwood said, gathering the tablets from the bed covers and placing them into an evidence bag.
'No,' Amanda said, shaking her head. 'I'm okay. I want to continue.'
'Fine,' Kirkwood looked dubious, but returned to the far wall.
'Yesterday, you were caught up in an accident in which an articulated lorry ploughed into a city centre Starbucks,' Amanda said. 'You were the only survivor, stumbling from the rubble, until you were struck down by a piece of debris. I was the first officer on the scene, helping any of the injured and making sure you were kept alive. I've seen a few bullet wounds, and knew you had just been shot minutes before. Only the doctors didn't find any bullet, just a wad of bloodied newspaper.
'I know you killed these men. I know what connected them to each other. What I don't know is why you killed them - perhaps I can guess at that - but also, how you killed them. I mean, each one looks like a tragic freak of violence, an accident, a pointless suicide. Yet you were there on each and every occasion. Like a ghoul attracted to death. And now someone is out to end you too. Desperate enough to drive an artic lorry into a cafe where you drink and take pot shots as you emerge?'
Amanda gripped hold of the bed sheets, curling them under her fists.
'Interview ending for a ten minute break.' Kirkwood spoke at the microphone of the recorder, 'Time is now ten-fifty-five.' He clicked the pause button and stood back.
Amanda jerked up, taking a deep breath. She walked from the bedside and Kirkwood joined her by the window.
'Interesting interview technique.' Kirkwood said in a low tone. 'A little unorthodox, usually we like to tease a confession out of the suspect, let them sweat out the guilt. But like you said, you have no time.'
'When is the military arriving?' Amanda asked.
'I would have thought they would be here by now. You may have earned a ride along with Serious Crimes, but the Army will just sweep everything up and stonewall any cooperation from us.' A ping sounded from Kirkwood's jacket and he removed his Blackberry. 'Won't be a minute,' he said, walking from the room while frowning at the miniature screen.
'Can I have a cigarette?' Harvey said.
'No smoking, mate. Or whatever you call yourself.'
Harvey glanced at the bedside table and the paused tape recorder. 'Harvey,' he said. 'Harvey Barker.'
Amanda smiled. She walked to the end of the room and held up the clear plastic bag with the tablets within. She weighed them thoughtfully in her hand.
'What is it with these things?' Amanda asked Harvey, holding up the bag of tablets. 'I get very weird feelings whenever I touch them.'
'What kind of weird feelings?' Harvey asked.
Amanda hesitated, unsure of whether she should continue the conversation. She glanced at the closed door and moved closer to the bed.
'Well,' she said, 'They make me feel blue and kind of depressed. At first, at least. And then I start remembering things from my past. Things I thought I had forgotten, about friends, about family. Always sad memories too.'
'I guess the answer would be not to hold them,' Harvey offered, his voice touched with concern. He knew the effect the bagua tablets would have, the ability to blacken a mood, create inauspicious luck, lace emotions with poison. Whatever the situation between himself and the police, he did not want the detective to suffer needlessly.
'That would be the smart answer, wouldn't it,' Amanda said. 'But I never could leave well alone. It seemed to revolve around one memory in particular. A friend at school. I couldn't believe how vivid the memory was, after all this time. And I haven't thought of her in over ten years.'
'Perhaps you could get back in touch with this old friend. Friends reunited search or something.'
'She's dead,' Amanda said.
Harvey remained quiet. He knew she wanted to talk, so he left a vacuum in the conversation for her to fill.
'And it's not so much the impact of her death that's hurting me, but the guilt I felt years later. She was bullied at school and I was her best friend. I can remember her huddled in a corner, the other girls circled around her like vultures in their brown uniforms, pecking at her with rulers. At the time I thought it was cruel, but just something that would pass. Something to endure and get on with, like maths or the annual end-of-term concert.
'Funnily enough, there weren't many times that Danielle was happy. But she used to love our weekly story time with Mrs Lamborn, who read a chapter of Pilgrim's Progress to the class every month. We would draw the story together as it was read aloud, just us two in the back of the class. Her pictures of Pilgrim were really good and she would draw everyone that Pilgrim met. I guess she saw herself in Pilgrim, and her progress was school.
'Mrs Lamborn stopped reading the story after Danielle died. I think she saw how much Danielle enjoyed the story and she stopped. Out of respect. Or whatever.
'Danielle took her own life. A wonderful girl, the best friend I could have wished for, and she ended her life. It
wasn't until years later, after her mother left her father, that her mother came to me with a small pink envelope. Danielle had written me a letter before she died, and the mother was too upset to pass it to me at the time.
'I kept hold of that letter, unopened, for over two months. I was fifteen. Small for my age, sporty but awkward. And all I could see was a finger pointing at me from a dead Danielle, accusing me of all the things I never did, but should have.
'If I could have gone back and stopped those bullies I would. At least confront them, do something. Anything. But instead I stood on the sidelines, waiting for it to be over so I could walk home with her.'
Amanda leant against the windowsill, the sun warming the back of her neck. She didn't feel inhibited about talking about her past to a stranger. It wasn't him she was talking to - it was herself. A therapy session that needed the words to be said, to be out there.
'The guilt almost tore me apart too. I came very close to doing something very stupid. But I didn't, and I sat down one night, opened the envelope and read the letter and cried the hardest I have ever cried in all my life.
'Her words were beautiful to me. Her last thoughts were to hope that I had a good birthday and that she would miss me.
Amanda felt the tears well up and turned to the winter sun.
'I didn't quickly forget Danielle, but I did eventually. The life of a teenager is a heady whirlwind of stuff and nonsense. Unimportant things seem life changing and I grew into me. But something remained. A strength that I've rarely needed but always known is there.'
There was a brisk knock on the door and Kirkwood entered the room.
'Bad news,' he said not looking up from the Blackberry in his hand. 'The Military Police are on the way. Be here in ten minutes and don't want anyone talking to the suspect. Emailed me over a copy of the court order. Court order by email, go figure.'
'I knew it,' Amanda said. 'Well, we had him first. So the least they can do is keep us in the loop.'
There was another knock on the door and the nurse walked in balancing a tray covered with a towel in one hand, deftly closing the door behind her with the other.
'Excuse me,' Amanda said. 'We need to have a little privacy when conducting the interview.'
'This won't take a moment, sweetie,' the nurse said as she placed the tray on a cabinet and removed the towel. Two syringes lay on the silver tray and she took hold of one in her meaty hand. She moved quickly, gripping Kirkwood by the head and firmly plunging the needle into the side of his beef slab neck.
Kirkwood jerked away from the nurse, about to speak, but instead grabbed at his chest. His face squeezed tight in agony.
'Watch,' the nurse said. 'This is my favourite part.'