Look Closer Page 2

  ‘You’re not going to want to hear this,’ said Hathaway, ‘but go home and wait for me to call you. It’d be better than sitting in one of the waiting areas here – that’s not going to do you any good.’

  Will closed his eyes. ‘Can I see her now?’ His voice shook, and he felt tears pricking his eyelids. ‘Would that be possible?’

  ‘She’s in a very sterile environment while we’re prepping for surgery, but you can see her through a window.’

  Will nodded, opened his eyes, sniffled, and then looked at Hathaway. ‘Just do everything you can for her, okay?’ he croaked.

  The older man nodded. ‘We will. Come on.’

  He stood and led Will through a network of corridors until they were side by side at a window, its curtains closed. Hathaway peered between a crack in the material, then partially opened them.

  Will put his hand over his mouth.

  Amy lay on a hospital gurney, swathed in blue sheets, her fair hair shaved on one side, her left cheek purple and bruised, congealed blood covering her face. Tubes and machines surrounded her while nurses worked, inserting needles, checking displays on screens and quietly talking, sharing information.

  He groaned. She looked so helpless, so utterly vulnerable, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  He jumped as Hathaway gently put a hand on his shoulder. ‘She’s not in pain. She’s medicated at the moment.’

  Will nodded, unable to speak.

  Hathaway turned to look down the corridor. ‘The police will probably want to talk to you in a bit.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They’re going to put an armed guard outside the operating area and on the room we’ll put Amy in for her recovery.’

  Will’s brow creased. ‘Armed guard? Why?’

  Hathaway shrugged and let the curtain fall back into place, and gestured towards the waiting area. ‘I don’t know. They haven’t told me. Sorry, Will – I have to get ready for her surgery.’ He pointed towards a row of chairs placed under a television set, its volume a low hum under the noise of the ward. ‘You can wait here for the police. They’ve set up a room elsewhere in the hospital. I’ll phone you as soon as I’m out of surgery to let you know how it went.’

  Will nodded dumbly, shook the surgeon’s hand, and traipsed towards the row of chairs. As he sat facing the television placed on the opposite wall, the twenty-four hour news channel replayed the footage he and Russell had seen earlier that morning.

  The reporter’s conjecture became increasingly excitable as he reiterated the scant facts the news channel been able to glean from the police and various experts in counter-terrorism.

  Will pushed the palms of his hands down on to his thighs to stop them from shaking. The man’s retelling of the events seemed oddly cold, with little humanity entering the man’s voice as he described the situation as if it were mere entertainment.

  ‘Mr Fletcher?’

  He jerked his head in the direction of the female voice.

  A young female police officer stood at the end of the row of chairs, a look of genuine concern on her face.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please come with me, sir. The detective in charge of the investigation would be grateful if you could speak with him now.’

  Will followed the policewoman as she led the way to an elevator. At the third floor, she waited until Will joined her in the corridor, and then led him through a series of offices and into a conference room. Knocking twice, she opened the door, stood to one side, and gestured to Will.

  ‘Inspector Lake, this is Will Fletcher.’

  3

  Detective Chief Inspector Trevor Lake stood, extended his hand to Will and indicated that he should take the seat opposite him.

  The desk had been cleared, along with the rest of the room, for the detective’s use.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Will,’ he began. ‘I can appreciate this must be very difficult for you at the moment.’

  Will nodded, mumbled a thanks, and sat down, dropping his backpack onto the floor next to him.

  Lake sat facing Will and turned to a clean page in a small notebook. ‘I’m just going to ask a few questions, to get a feel for what Amy’s movements were this morning.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Did she say where she was going?’

  Will shuffled in his seat. ‘She was really excited,’ he began, and then coughed to clear his throat, realising his voice had started to choke. ‘She’d landed an interview which could have been the career break she’d been after since we left university.’

  Lake nodded. ‘Did she tell you who the interview was with?’

  Will nodded. ‘Yes. Ian Rossiter.’

  The detective paused to scribble some notes into the notebook.

  Will remained silent, transfixed by the detective’s scrawl across the page and wondered how the words would be translated back at the police station. He noted Lake’s accent, tried to figure out where he’d come from, and settled on Wiltshire. Something about the softened consonants. He wondered idly how the detective had ended up joining the Met, and then frowned.

  ‘Why is there an armed guard outside the operating room?’

  The detective’s head shot up. ‘Who told you that?’

  Will shrugged. ‘I saw two of them walking towards the room when I was talking to Amy’s surgeon,’ he said, and then wondered why he’d so easily lied.

  ‘It’s just a precaution, due to the nature of her injuries and how she sustained them.’

  ‘You mean because she was shot when she was with Ian Rossiter.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Lake lowered his gaze and returned to his notebook. ‘Did Amy say where she was meeting Rossiter this morning?’

  Will frowned. ‘No, she didn’t, actually. I’d assumed it was at the newspaper offices. It seems wrong that a politician would willingly walk into a newspaper office, though.’

  Lake smiled. ‘Indeed it would. No, they met at the Three Birches Hotel in Marylebone. According to the staff, Amy had arranged to have a breakfast meeting with Rossiter.’

  ‘That would make sense. She said she was going to go into the office and type up the interview now I think of it.’

  The detective nodded, wrote something on the notepad. ‘Did you or Amy have a fight this morning?’

  ‘What are you trying to imply?’

  ‘It’s okay, calm down. Standard question I have to ask.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t.’

  ‘Did Amy seem on edge lately, perhaps stressed?’

  Will leaned back in the chair and sighed. ‘No more than usual. I mean, her job is really busy, and if she’s chasing a story, I’ll often find her asleep at the kitchen table where she’s been working all night to meet a deadline,’ he said, ‘but she thrives on it – especially the last couple of weeks. I’ve never seen her so excited about a story.’

  ‘Do you know what the angle of her story is?’

  Will shook his head. ‘No, I don’t ask, because usually, she can’t tell me anyway. I only found out last night that she was going to interview Rossiter.’ He leaned forward in his chair, put his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

  ‘Hang in there, Will, you’re doing well,’ said Lake. ‘Just a few more questions, and we’ll be done here.’

  ‘It appears that your girlfriend, Amy, and Ian Rossiter met as planned for a breakfast meeting at the Three Birches Hotel at nine o’clock. The hotel staff we’ve interviewed told us that at some point during that meeting, the conversation got a little heated – raised voices, a brief argument – before Rossiter stood to leave. Amy appears to have managed to placate him, and they finished their breakfast, although the same hotel staff also told me that it appeared a short-term truce had been struck, because the tone of the conversation afterwards was noticeably strained.’

  ‘Do you know what they discussed at the hotel?’

  ‘No. Amy’s notebook and voice recorder were taken from her at the scene of the incide
nt by her attackers.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. That’s one of the avenues of investigation we’re pursuing.’

  Will swallowed. ‘What happened between the hotel and the place where everyone was shot?’

  Lake leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. ‘I’ll only tell you this, because the press is going to have it figured out soon anyway. Around ten thirty, Amy and Rossiter left the hotel. Amy paid the breakfast bill, and then followed Rossiter to a waiting car outside the hotel. Rossiter’s bodyguard took the front passenger seat.’ He paused. ‘We’d naturally assumed that Rossiter offered to drop Amy off at her workplace – it was still raining hard.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  The detective shifted in his seat. ‘For some reason, the driver decided to take a short cut, rather than a direct route to her offices. As he drove along that street, a van cut in front of the car, two men with guns jumped out from the back, and attacked the occupants of the car.’

  Will paled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The driver was shot first – to prevent him from trying to manoeuvre the car out of the way. Then the bodyguard, then Amy.’

  Will frowned. ‘Why shoot Amy?’

  ‘We don’t know, Will – we don’t know who we’re dealing with yet, and we’re still conducting interviews. Maybe because she was a witness.’

  ‘Where did they go – the people that shot her?’

  ‘Unfortunately, it seems they picked the location of the attack at a point they knew they’d be sheltered from CCTV coverage,’ said the detective. ‘They were professionals, but we’ve got people scouring all the cameras in the vicinity right now, as well as the local underground stations.’

  ‘What happens next?’ asked Will, lifting his gaze to look directly at the detective. ‘What are you doing to find the people who shot her?’

  Lake sighed, tossed his pen on to the desk, and leaned back into his chair. ‘I’m sorry, Will. I can’t discuss that – it’s still an open investigation.’

  Will peered at his fingernails. The one on his right thumb was bleeding. He didn’t even remember biting it down to the quick. ‘What about Rossiter? Why didn’t they kill him?’

  Lake leaned back in his chair. ‘We don’t know.’ He ran a hand through thinning hair. ‘We think they heard the sirens and panicked – lucky for Rossiter, as he only sustained a flesh wound to his shoulder.’

  ‘Shame they didn’t panic sooner.’

  The detective ignored the remark. ‘My officers are still collating witness statements. I shouldn’t even be discussing this with you,’ he said. ‘I’m just hoping you might remember something which will give us a lead, a reason why this has happened.’

  Lake reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. He slid it across the desk towards Will. ‘I think I’ve got enough for now, but please, if you remember anything Amy’s told you in passing or find anything that might help us catch the people that did this to her, phone me immediately. It doesn’t matter what time of day or night.’

  ‘What happens if you don’t find them? I mean, after Amy recovers – what happens then? Will she always be in danger? Will they come after her?’

  The detective shrugged, an apologetic expression on his face. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that. Not yet. But we will make sure she’s safe while she’s here.’

  Will stood up, shouldered his backpack, and slipped the detective’s card into his trouser pocket. ‘Then I guess we’re done here.’

  ‘Thanks again, Will,’ said Lake. He stood and opened the door. The smells and sounds of the hospital echoed along the corridor outside. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I can tell you anything.’

  ‘That’s all I seem to be hearing this morning,’ said Will.

  4

  Will stood on the pavement outside the hospital, his mind numb.

  Beside him, a toddler chattered away excitedly to her mother who sat on a bench under the bus shelter, half listening to her child while she sent texts and checked messages on her mobile phone, a cigarette hanging from her lips.

  Behind the bus shelter, the Accident and Emergency department of the hospital remained busy, its doors opening and closing as regularly as clockwork, ambulances delivering a steady stream of casualties from the busy weekday city. Voices wafted across the breeze to where Will swayed with his thoughts, broken only by the sound of the bus as it braked to a halt, the doors hissing open.

  Will stood to the side, letting the mother and toddler onto the bus before him, and then made his way to the empty rear of the vehicle. He slid onto a seat nearest a window, pulled his backpack onto his lap and rested his head against the glass pane as the bus pulled away into a steady stream of traffic.

  He wanted to cry, the tears already forming, his throat raw and ready to let it all out. He beat his fist to a tuneless rhythm on the rubber seal of the window, the scenery passing in a blur.

  He rocked as the bus came to an abrupt stop, and then smeared condensation off the glass with the sleeve of his jacket and watched as the bus made its way through the city.

  Forty minutes later, Will climbed off the bus and began walking home. He jumped as his mobile phone began to ring, and reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the detective’s business card.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Will, it’s Jack. How are you? Any news?’

  ‘Not yet – she’s only just gone into the operating room,’ said Will. He could picture his boss pacing his office as he spoke, his dark grey hair pushed this way and that by his hands as he fought with bureaucracy for funding for his beloved archives department.

  ‘Well,’ said Jack, interrupting his thoughts, ‘take as much time as you need to be with her, Will. Your job will be here waiting for you.’ His voice was brusque, no-nonsense.

  Will’s lips pursed. He heard Jack struggling to keep his composure under the circumstances. His boss had first met Amy at the department’s Christmas party two years ago, and with their love of research, the pair had got on well.

  ‘I will, thanks, Jack,’ he said, not wishing to prolong the conversation. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  He hung up, put the phone back into his pocket, and pushed open the front door to the apartment block. Entering the lobby, he swore as he spied the sign pinned to the elevator doors, and then he altered course and pushed open the heavy fire exit door and began to climb the stairs to the eighth floor.

  As he climbed, he began making lists in his head: the friends he’d need to call to stave off any rumours the media may have started about Amy’s condition; her editor who would be concerned for her, but already sending her colleagues to report on the new angle to the story; and clothing and toiletries to take back to the hospital which Amy would need while she recovered.

  A heavy grinding sound penetrated his thoughts as he reached the sixth floor, and he cursed, and then leaned against the whitewashed concrete wall, sweat running between his shoulder blades.

  The elevator was back in working order.

  He eased himself away from the wall and slowly walked up the remaining flight of stairs. Reaching the eighth floor, he pushed open the fire exit door and began walking along the corridor towards the apartment. Reaching into his pocket for his keys, he thumbed through them while he walked until he found the small bronze-coloured one for the front door.

  He glanced up to insert the key into the lock and froze, his mouth open in disbelief.

  The lock had been broken. Splinters of wood protruded from around the brass lock, paint chips from the door frame scattered across the carpet under his feet. The door itself was closed against the frame – anyone casually passing the apartment would not have seen the damage caused.

  Will touched the scrape marks around the lock. A chisel or file had been used, the work thorough but not necessarily professional – a rush job.

  He looked over his shoulder, back along the corridor, but no one appeared from the closed doors of the fire esc
ape. The elevator sign at the end of the corridor blinked the letter “G” once.

  He stilled his breathing and listened. A television played loudly from the apartment two doors along, where an old lady lived, but he could hear nothing from within his home.

  He slowly pushed the door open, treading sawdust across the threshold, his heartbeat thudding steadily in his ears.

  The sheer devastation to the apartment was evident from the short narrow hallway which led through to the kitchen and living area. Pictures had been pulled from their hooks on the wall and lay broken on the thin carpet, their frames splintered among the shattered glass that crunched under his shoes.

  Bile rose in his throat as he entered the living area, his arms limp by his side as he slowly lowered his backpack to the floor, and then carefully walked into the room and circled the damage.

  A knife, or the tool used to break the front door lock, had been used to slice through the material of the matching sofa and arm chairs, the stuffing strewn throughout the room while the chairs had been tipped over, the underside linings ripped to shreds. The small coffee table had been turned upside down, scattering magazines and the television remote controls onto the floor. The dining table had been up-ended, the four accompanying chairs fallen onto their sides.

  Will raised his eyes to the kitchen area, where cupboard doors had been pulled open and the contents spilled over the tiled floor. Glasses, plates, and coffee mugs had been thrown onto the floor, and Will’s feet kicked against cutlery which had been tipped out of drawers onto the tiles. Even the refrigerator had been emptied, the smell of discarded food already beginning to permeate the air, along with a faint trace of cigarette smoke.

  Will blinked, recalled the elevator being out of service, then realised he’d nearly walked in on the intruder.

  He retched, and quickly crossed the living area to the floor-to-ceiling windows which opened out onto a small balcony. He pulled aside the curtain and yanked open the glass door, then stepped outside and breathed deeply, filling his lungs and fighting the urge to vomit.