Chapter 16 – Recovery
Mr and Mrs Randerson strode imperiously along the tenth-floor corridors, towards the lifts. Jasmin, Dave and Tommy followed along behind, swapping puzzled glances. Jasmin was intrigued. The Randersons were clearly fruitcakes, but if there was just a slight chance that they knew of a working lift that would get them to the top floor, then Jasmin was happy to take it.
The lift area was empty. It seemed that people had finally given up their futile stabbing at the call button, their arguing and complaining, and had just decided to make use of the restaurant. People were odd, thought Jasmin.
The Randersons stood in front of the middle of the three lifts. Mr Randerson pressed the call button and the lift appeared within minutes. They entered. Jasmin and Dave entered too. Mr Randerson then put out a hand to stop Tommy.
“Best you stay here, eh Tommy?” he said in a tone that was both affable and somehow threatening. Tommy wasn’t fussed. He nodded to Jasmin, watched the doors close and the lift rise up. He headed back to the restaurant to see if there were any more doughnuts.
James finished his meal. He had watched Harden leave, but he couldn’t see the main door, so he was unaware that his parents were now being detained in the back of a police van. Stannard was starting to stir. James found some water in a cup and tipped it over her. She spluttered and sat up.
“Are you ok?” he asked, cautiously.
Stannard looked around, totally disoriented. Her head was killing her. She felt sick. What was the last thing she remembered? The kid. Emma Venton. The girl had hit her. Then... it just felt like she’d had the most terrible, but vivid, dream.
“Where am I?”
“In McDonalds,” said James, simply.
Stannard shook her head.
“But I’m a vegetarian,” she said, groggily.
“Bet you steal your husband’s chips though,” joked James, helping her to her feet. “I’m so glad you’re normal again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember anything that’s happened in the last few hours? Kidnapping my sister? Top floor? I think Emma Venton did something to you and to Mr Harden. You became like those sleepwalking patients and nurses.”
“I did?” Stannard felt very unsteady on her feet. She must have concussion. She wanted to be sick again. James decided against offering her a burger.
“Mrs Stannard, you’ve got to do something. Mr Harden has got my sister and Dr Soames on floor 36. They’re prisoners. I don’t know why. It’s Emma Venton. She’s controlling people somehow. But you’re ok now. Mr Harden has told everyone there is a security alert to keep people away from the top floor. You’ve got to go and tell all those policemen the truth.”
Stannard tried focusing. What was the truth? She could see the riot police in the reception area. The banging noise that she thought was just in her head, was actually coming from outside, she now realised. She met the eyes of PC Nelson, who gratefully came running over towards them.
“Ma’am, where did you come from?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, clinging on to his arm for support. “Have you seen Chief Superintendent Harden?”
“He was here a few minutes ago. He’s treating this place like some kind of G20 demo. He’s just had two people nicked for trying to get in. Just a man and a woman who were trying to see their kid. There’s going to be violence any minute. TV crews are outside. The Met is going to be hauled over the coals for this one.”
“I need to get to a phone,” said Stannard, feeling her stomach heave again. Her memory of the last few hours was foggy, but somehow she believed James. “Chief Superintendent Harden is...” she chose her words carefully, “… unwell. I have to go over his head. Who’s in charge down here?”
“CO19 seem to have taken over,” said Nelson. “Sergeant Blunt. Cocky so-and-so. Reckons himself.”
“What about my sister?” asked James, urgently.
“We’ll get her back, James, I promise,” Stannard assured him. She could really do with a cup of tea. “I’ll take some officers up to floor 36 and we’ll sort this all out.”
James couldn’t help but wonder if that would be enough.
Jasmin stepped out onto the 36th floor behind the Randersons. She looked up and down the empty corridors warily. Dave started filming again.
“Where’s Philip?”
The Randersons just smiled at her.
“Why don’t you look around, Miss Sharma?” asked Mrs Randerson, icily. “You’re the one who is supposed to be good at uncovering stories.”
Jasmin noticed a mop propped up against the door of a ward. She walked towards it. Dave followed, camera rolling.
Jasmin opened the door of the ward. What she saw made her blood run cold. There were six beds in the ward. None of them had sheets on. The mattresses were covered in plastic sheeting. Three of the beds each had a body on it. A dead body, Jasmin noted. She recognised one of them.
“Ryan Hawkins,” muttered Dave Sturn. Jasmin tentatively approached the body.
“Strangled.” She looked back into the corridor where the Randersons stood watching. It was unthinkable that they had done this. These two petty, over-protective, badly dressed, fussy parents. Irritating? Yes. Cold-blooded killers? No. This wasn’t Midsomer Murders.
Dave was busy roving with his camera. There were two other bodies in the room. Both were young men. One was dressed like a cleaner. The other was in a flashy, shiny suit. Dave didn’t know either of them, although he had a feeling the second man had been a CID officer.
Jasmin stood before Mrs Randerson, looking appalled.
“You knew about this?” she asked.
“He was a grubby little man,” said Mrs Randerson. “Dishonest, like the rest of your profession, Miss Sharma.”
“Did you kill him?” asked Jasmin, almost fearful of her own words.
“Certainly not!” stormed Mr Randerson. Mrs Randerson looked as though someone had criticised her garden.
“Then who killed him?” asked Jasmin, looking over her shoulder, relieved that Dave was pointing the camera at her now. “Why?”
“Look in his pocket.”
Jasmin noticed that one of Ryan Hawkins’ jacket pockets had a slight bulge in it. She didn’t want to touch the corpse at all, but she reluctantly delved her hand into the pocket and pulled out a digital camera. She switched it on and scrolled through the photos.
“Samantha Blake in her hospital bed,” she said to Dave. This was low, even for Ryan. But it didn’t explain why Hawkins was dead.
“Samantha Blake is very special to my Philip. This disgusting individual had to be punished for taking these photos of her, just to sell to a newspaper.”
“Who killed him?”
“In life,” clarified Mr Randerson, “there are always those to do the dirty jobs.”
“Which brings us back to you, Miss Sharma. I told you that your wickedness would not go unpunished. Wicked boys and girls always get what they deserve. We’ve always taught Philip that.”
Behind the Randersons, Chief Superintendent Harden and PC O’Brien walked into the room.
“Nurse Winter,” called out Dr Soames. “I think Philip is coming out of his coma.”
Nurse Winter had been standing over Ivan Reddington, who was still on his knees, staring into space. Nurse Winter looked up. The blank expression on her face made it impossible to tell whether she believed Dr Soames, but she approached the bed anyway.
She leaned over Philip and peered closely at his eyes. Dr Soames deftly removed the syringe from his pocket and injected the anaesthetic directly into Nurse Winter’s right buttock. She looked at him, and for a second there was a trace of emotion. Surprise. Then she collapsed. Dr Soames caught her with his free hand and laid her as gently as possible on the floor.
Sam looked around the ward. The patients in the other beds hadn’t stirred.
“She hasn’t got the key for the handcuffs,” Dr Soames reported, as he checked the nurse’s pockets.
“I might be able to help,” said Sam. “I can snap the chain.” Dr Soames raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t comment and he didn’t doubt her.
“But you can’t walk.”
With difficulty, and some considerable pain, Sam swung her legs so she was sitting up on the side of the bed. She grabbed hold of her bedside locker for balance and was able to get herself into a standing position. She was only two metres away from Dr Soames, but there was nothing to grab hold of on the wall. Would she have the strength to walk the distance without the aid of crutches?
She placed one leg forward. Then another. Now she had no choice but to let go of the locker. She released her grip and took another step. Her legs gave way. She pitched forward, breaking her fall with her hands. Agonising pains shot down both legs.
Dr Soames pulled at his handcuffs in useless frustration.
“Sam, are you all right?”
Sam nodded, catching her breath. She was only a metre away from Dr Soames’ outstretched hand. Using her hands, she dragged herself forward several centimetres. The pain shot through her legs again.
“That’s it, Sam. Good girl.”
Sam gritted her teeth. If one more person said that to her...! She heaved her body further along the floor. Dr Soames hand was almost within touching range. With one last painful effort, she pulled herself the remaining distance.
“Well. It seems our little urchin has found her true place in the world,” said a high-pitched, borderline-hysterical voice.
Sam looked up. At first she saw a pair of faux-suede, Victorian-style, lace-up ankle boots, with four rows of shiny metal buttons reflecting the little light in the room. She forced her gaze upwards and beyond the ankles took in a neat navy-blue suit, cream blouse and a string of pearls. Sam’s first thought was that, good effort though it was, the footwear did not match the Reiss suit.
“Mrs Randerson,” said Dr Soames, in disbelief.
Philip’s mother? A penny started to drop in Sam’s head. It was crazy. She needed to think about it. A theory had formed in her mind and she needed to see if it fitted the facts. She felt Dr Soames take hold of her hand.
“Help me with her, for pity’s sake!” Dr Soames appealed to the Randersons. Mrs Randerson simply regarded the prone girl with haughty contempt.
“She seems to have found her correct station in life. I don’t know what my Philip sees in her,” she sneered. Mr Randerson, who was still clutching his shopping bags, smiled encouragingly at Sam.
“I’m sure she’s not all bad, dear,” he offered. “You know what young people are like.”
As carefully as he could, Dr Soames helped Sam to her feet. She fell against the metal rail alongside Philip’s bed. As she fell, she pulled at the handcuffs’ chain. It snapped cleanly.
Now that he was free, Dr Soames helped Samantha back to her own bed and gently raised her legs back on to the mattress. She was in agony.
“Mrs Randerson, what are you doing up here?” he asked as he helped Sam. “Are you a prisoner?”
“Don’t be silly, Dr Soames. Nobody here is a prisoner. But some people do need to be taught some manners. You, for example. I don’t remember anyone giving you permission to leave Philip’s bed.” She examined the handcuffs. “Samantha broke them, did she? If Philip is to start courting her then she must learn how to behave. But she’s not the only one.”
She turned to the door. PC O’Brien and Chief Superintendent Harden were pushing a hospital bed into the ward. Restrained in the bed, with a gag in her mouth, was Jasmin Sharma. They pushed her into a space against the wall opposite Sam’s bed and left her there. Behind her, a handcuffed Dave Sturn was led in. His camera was on Jasmin’s bed.
“This is ridiculous,” said Soames and started marching towards the door. Harden barred his way. Dr Soames knew better than to get into a fight with a sleepwalker, particularly one as tough as Harden.
“The dirty Miss Sharma,” announced Mrs Randerson. “The television star. The liar. With a wicked tongue. Dennis, would you mind?”
Mr Randerson pulled out a large container from one of his shopping bags. Inside was a thick, orange liquid. He uncapped the container and began to tip it over Jasmin Sharma and her bed. The orange liquid splattered over her white nurse’s uniform, over her face and into her hair. Jasmin was trying to scream, trying to break free of her bonds, but she was helpless.
“What are you doing?” asked Dr Soames.
Dave Sturn took a step towards Jasmin’s bed but Harden restrained him with a meaty hand.
“Is that alcohol gel?” asked Sam, incredulously. She could smell it from her own bed. “When you said she was dirty, I didn’t think you meant you were literally going to disinfect her.”
“Oh, something a little stronger than that,” said Mrs Randerson, laying a napkin on the chair she was about to sit on. “Alcohol gel is very flammable. We’re going to set fire to Miss Sharma.”