Kissing the Dragon - 31. Hospital

Ben’s ward is easy to find. Just follow the string of blue uniforms standing casually around in the corridor, chatting to each other, and peering suspiciously at passers-by. After nodding at a couple, I clump to a halt on my crutches and peer into the room, only to spy two empty beds. For a moment I am paralysed, a chill running through me. Until I hear the unmistakable laughter of Detective Sergeant Chaudhary and notice the powder blue nylon curtain drawn around another part of the room. For a moment, I wonder if I should come back later, and consider turning around and hobbling off. Until her manicured fingernails clamp around the edge of the curtain and draw it back to reveal a bruised and bandaged Ben Whitehead sitting up on the bed, his raised ankle in a cast. Both his and Chaudhary’s heads have turned my way so I shuffle into the room. When I come to a stop at the end of the bed, words escape me, and I can only stare dumbfounded.

“Hello, sunshine,” comes Ben’s cheerful voice, giving me his usual crinkled smile. “Those for me?”

Feeling like a complete idiot, I stare down at the basket of flowers I picked up from the minuscule hospital florist, a huge summer arrangement—totally inappropriate for February—of orange daisies, yellow lilies, purple irises, burgundy snapdragons, cream mini-roses, red tulips, and pink boronia. A ‘get well’ vomit-in-a-basket collection.

“Uh, yes,” I manage to choke out, popping the arrangement onto a cupboard behind me with an array of ‘get well’ cards and far more tasteful floral displays. “And how much of an idiot did I feel hauling that lot up here?”

“It’s the thought that counts,” says Chaudhary.

“Either that, or a giant pink teddy,” I add.

Ben laughs aloud, and immediately I relax. How I have missed that sound. Not familiar with hospital protocol, I balance on my crutch at the foot of the bed, resting one hand on the cool iron frame. Ben sits up straighter smiling at me, something even Chaudhary has picked up on after a double-take.

“Look,” I say, breaking the spell. “I can come back if you’ve got important matters to discuss.”

“Don’t be daft, Mr McCann. Glad you’re here. Gives me a chance to scoot back to work,” she says, standing. “Got a mound of paperwork to wade through.”

“Don’t let me chase you off,” I reply, unable to take my gaze off the patient.

“You’re actually doing me a favour. And Ben can fill you in on what’s been happening.”

As she squeezes past me, I turn briefly to smile my gratitude, catching the knowing wink she has aimed at Ben.

“Subtle,” I say, after she leaves.

“Come and sit,” he says, nodding to the plastic chair beside the bed.

I can barely breathe, but hobble around to the spot he indicates. To be honest, it is all I can do to stop myself clambering onto the bed with him. After dropping down in the seat, I rest my crutch up against the wall.

“You look like shit,” he says, providing the kind of compliment I am happy to accept. He leans over then and touches my chin with his good hand, his smile fading.

“Thanks. Looks like I’m in good company. What on earth happened to you?”

“Unlike film coppers, we don’t have stunt doubles. You passed out soon after the ambulance crew arrived. Once they told me you were okay and after I’d been patched up, I went back to find Schwartz, only to find signs of his blood but no body. Which is crazy because I thought I’d taken him out.”

“Maybe the sister—?”

No, only one set of bloody prints in the frost. And I do mean bloody. The guy’s tough and resourceful. Maybe I should have stayed on him. Anyway, chasing his trail down through the back woods behind the mansion was probably not a good idea in the pitch black. I tripped headlong into a ditch with bloody brick wall—“

“A ha-ha. It’s called a ha-ha.”

“Yeah, ha-fucking-ha. So apart from having a minor bullet wound in the shoulder, I end up with a broken arm, fractured ankle, and severely bruised ego.”

“Ouch,” I say, with a cringe of concern. “Suppose a roll in the hay is out of the question?”

“God, just the thought of having you right now is killing me. But keep that thought simmering.”

A silence falls between us. I doubt that I am the only person in the world to find hospital conversation awkward and painful to maintain.

“How was the funeral?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Fine, apparently. According to Derek.”

Derek and Hugh came to visit me straight from the funeral and gave me the lowdown. Snow fell gently but unceasingly the day they lowered Denny’s body into the ground. Few knew that Denny had been raised Catholic, not until their car convoy pulled up outside the Immaculate Conception Church in Dorchester, and they joined the remains of their deceased friend’s family. Most of us, apparently, knew very little about the man.

Vaughan and Oscar came to see me later in the day, on their way to Heathrow, matching luggage on wheels in tow. With Ben out of action, Chaudhary had interviewed Vaughan. Oddly enough, he was candid about his membership with The Open Lockup, what he called his haven in a time of turmoil. I decided not to probe. Chaudhary had clearly told him about my involvement and knowledge of the place, so I asked whether he knew about the inspiration behind the themed rooms. Apparently Mr Pandit, the owner, often held a competition to come up with the best suggestions. Back then, Vaughan told me with a chuckle, he had submitted polaroids of the master bedroom at 26 Cyder Drive, but had heard nothing back. At any other time I might have been angry, but the pain medication and the realisation that I did not know when I would see him again kept me grounded. Moreover, another mystery solved.

After that fateful night, I spent three days in a different hospital to Ben—my school’s private health care finally useful for something—treated for a gunshot wound, getting progressively sick and tired of people telling me how lucky I was to have a through-and-through, no subsidiary damage, and a professional copper on the scene who apparently did all the right things. Luck, I eventually blurted to one of orderlies, would have been for me to have never met the fucking bastard who shot me in the first place. After that, observations about my remarkable fortune stopped. Perhaps the use of expletives has a time and a place.

“Have they caught him?” I ask.

“No. Nor her. Chaudhary just updated me. But they’re not giving up.”

Not exactly what I want to hear, that the man who calmly planned to kill me is still wandering the streets. Ben must realise what I am thinking because I feel his gaze scrutinise my face.

“We’ll catch them, sunshine. It’s just a matter of time.”

“I know,” I say, more to placate him than anything else. “And, by the way, you need a shave.”

“Do I? Is it that bad?” he says, smoothing the bristles around his chin with his good hand.

“You usually have that sexy male model sandblasted look. Right now you’re beginning to resemble Tin Tin’s Captain Haddock.”

“Sexy male model, eh? The question is, can I trust you with a cutthroat?”

“Me? You want me to give you a shave?”

“Got something better to do?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a long, leisurely blow—.”

Just then a nurse strides unannounced into the room, oblivious to our conversation. She gives Ben a cursory smile while grabbing his arm and taking his blood pressure. Red cheeked, I turn my attention to peeling a label from my aluminium crutch mainly to avoid Ben’s face as he struggles to suppress laughter.

“As I was saying, sunshine. Can I trust you with a sharp razor?”

“I don’t know. Can you?”

Still deaf to our chat, the nurse completes her check, writes on his chart, and then exits the room.

“Why don’t we find out.”

Slightly unorthodox, I clump into the bathroom and grab the only thing I can find, an unused stainless steel bedpan that I half fill with hot water from the room’s bathroom. His cutthroat razor and shaving gel are also in there, so I roll in the overbed table on wheels and bring everything, including a spare hand towel, back to his bedside. While I prep him for the shave, he continues to fill me in.

“As much as I hate to admit it, you were right,” he says, as I massage hot water into his beard. When I grasp his head with both hands and smile sweetly into his face, he peers at me quizzically before rolling his eyes. “Okay, so Tony Harrison didn’t overdose. And Roland Keith didn’t hang himself. But then it wasn’t Hand either. Your friend, Kit Hansen, real name Carter Schwartz, is our killer.”

“The delightful Nichole Schwartz’s brother.”

While I spray blue foam gel onto the fingertips of my left hand, put down the can and then bring my hands together to begin lathering up, he watches me carefully before continuing on.

“Her twin brother. Yes, I forgot you had the pleasure of getting to know her, too. She’s how they managed to stay one step ahead of Morgan and his henchman.”

“Wait. How did you figure out that he was the killer? Until I got your text message I had no idea.”

“Elizabeth Morretti, Roland Keith’s girlfriend. Driving back I zapped her your photo of the party guests, hoping she would identify Hand. You can probably guess my reaction when she called instantly and pointed out Schwartz instead. That’s why I got to you before anyone else. She remembered him from the night O’Keith died. While the boy entertained, she’d been asleep in the spare room. When we checked later, the teachers confirmed Schwartz had dinner with them that night, but ducked out early telling them he’d had an urgent call from his editor. Morretti woke and happened to peer out of the window when Schwartz left the building, saw him climbing into a Mercedes outside their apartment block. She’d also heard an American accent when he first arrived. Schwartz can’t have known she was there, otherwise we’d have had another body on our hands. As we know, the man was ruthless. If only she had come forward sooner.”

He falls silent then, and I wake him from his reverie by slapping a handful of foam onto his right cheek. Good on him, he grins fleetingly before his mouth flatlines again as I begin to massage gel into his beard.

“What the hell was I thinking?” he murmurs.

“What do you mean?”

“That night. Texting you to get out. I could have got you killed.”

Once again I bring his gaze to mine, while bringing up my left hand and lathering foam into his other cheek. Concentrating on the task at hand, on getting as much lather into either side of his beard, I think back on that bizarre night.

“Don’t doubt yourself, Ben. You absolutely did the right thing. Anyone else would have done the same. You didn’t know what was happening in that bedroom. And by then he had slipped me a Mickey Finn. My number was already up.”

As I rub soapy circles around his face and beneath his chin, I have a revelation about what would have happened if he had not texted me. Kit would have calmly waited for me to pass out on the bed before carrying my body down and dumping me in the waters of the pool. Of course he would. The text message had angered him, forced his hand to strike me and in doing so, kept me conscious. If not, like Tony and Roland, I might have slipped into unconsciousness and out of this world without ever knowing a thing.

“In fact, you saved me, Ben.”

“I’m not sure about—“

I grab his face again and turn him until he looks me in the eyes.

“I’m serious. You saved me. In more ways than one.”

Although no smile appears, the frown troubling his eyes and brows relaxes.

“Okay, then. Our interviews with Elizabeth Morretti, Roland’s girlfriend, as well as the Winterbourne family, father and son, have allowed us to fill in a lot of the blanks. Roland O’Keith took a job the night he was killed, for a known client. Morretti says it sounded like a woman’s voice on the phone making the booking.”

“Nichole Schwartz?”

“Most likely. Doing so on behalf of Hugh, without the man’s knowledge. And if we know anything about the Schwartz twins, it’s that they are meticulous. We found absolutely nothing at the scene of McDonald’s death. And the blood beneath the bedroom carpet at Harrison’s was found more by luck than anything else. One difference is that McDonald and Harrison were both alone.“

“Was Hugh involved in any way?”

“No. At least, not knowingly. When I showed him his own mobile number in McDonald’s diary, he confessed the whole story. Harrison and he were former clients of McDonald, a long time ago, and had remained friends. But when Winterbourne junior decided to run as a Conservative candidate in the bi-elections, he needed to ensure McDonald didn’t get tempted to blab to the press. Unknown to anyone, including his father and his partner, he offered McDonald five grand hush money. To his credit, the boy refused. He was not in the blackmail business, not into messing up people’s lives, and gave his word that he would never betray Winterbourne’s trust.”

“Honourable to the last.”

“You could say that.”

“Hold still a moment.”

Right then, using each thumb, I smear foam around his mouth, along the prickly moustache, the space beneath his nose, along his perfect Cupid’s bow and into the angel’s dimple, then along the space beneath his plump bottom lip. Of all our encounters, this feels by far the most intimate and I sense the beast stirring between my legs. When my hands freeze momentarily as I glance into his eyes, his face tugs into a sexy smile. As though hearing my thoughts, his free hand drifts down into my lap and he squeezes a gasp out of me.

“I’d be careful doing that while I’m holding one of these,” I warn, picking up the cutthroat and waving it in front of his nose.

“So anyway,” he continues, still smiling. “That’s when all the trouble started. Winterbourne junior felt indebted so he hired McDonald for his computer skills, purchasing top of the range home computing and audio visual equipment from him at full retail price. He also employed him to fix his father’s laptop which had packed up. What he didn’t know was that the device belonged to Morgan who, apparently, was also unaware of all of this. McDonald not only managed to fix the thing, but to restore all the data, and in doing so found the CCTV footage of the hit in the car park. He called Wintercorp and insisted on talking to Jeremy about a password issue. But Winterbourne senior was out of town, so the call was forwarded on to Morgan. As luck would have it—or not, in McDonald’s case—Nichole Schwartz had been in the room with Morgan and Hand when they took the call.”

“Was he going to blackmail them?”

“Maybe. Morgan didn’t say anything about money being mentioned. If I was going to hazard a guess, I’d say that McDonald simply wanted to bring the clip to Hugh’s father’s attention.”

“Morgan would have kept Schwartz in the loop because he trusted her. And she would have agreed to keep the knowledge from Winterbourne because she needed the information herself. What I wouldn’t give to have seen Morgan’s face when he found out the truth,” I say, wiping my hands on the towel before picking up the razor. “Is this thing sharp?”

“Should be. Although I haven’t used it in over a week.”

“Just in case, do you have any Band Aids? Maybe a first aid kit?”

“We’re in a hospital. And you’re scaring me now.”

“Okay. Here goes nothing. Shout if I hit an artery.”

A first tentative stroke beside his ear demonstrates the keenness of the blade. Whitehead’s trimmed flesh glistens and, happily, there is no sign of an accidental nick, so I continue on.

“And is that when Morgan set Hand onto them?”

“Except that every time Hand turned up, someone had either beaten him to it—as in the case of McDonald—or finished the job later.”

“Kit—Carter Schwartz.”

“Yes, tipped off by his sister. You probably don’t want to hear this, but he’s a professional killer.”

Maybe I should be more surprised, but I remember only too clearly the emotionless way he had planned to end my days.

“Go on.”

“They call people like him professional fixers or cleaners. They sort out corporate or government messes where hard diplomacy and aggressive legal action are no longer effective. Mainly working underground. Get paid big money. All under the radar and obviously illegal. Interpol have been after him for almost a decade. Think about the death of Litvinenko, the Russian secret service officer. Still unresolved. In Schwartz’s eyes, Hand would have been viewed as nothing more than a rank amateur. The difference is that on this occasion, the job was not sponsored, but personal. If it wasn’t for you, the rent boy’s deaths might have remained suicides. Well, McDonald’s certainly. And Denny Harrison’s would have eventually been written off as unresolved.”

“Not a freelance journalist then?” I mutter, wondering exactly how many lies he had fed me.

“Yes, he was that, too. One of his many covers. Along with a whole portfolio of names and fake IDs. And a damn fine journalist according to sources at the most recent magazine where he worked. But not the first person in the world to hold down more than one job. Of course, he hasn’t checked in for over a fortnight now.”

“So what? He happened to be over here for a professional hit? Or was it just coincidence?”

“Coincidence? As a history teacher, you know better than that, Colin,” says Ben. “As I said, this was personal. Maybe Schwartz latching himself onto your sports teacher’s family when they met in Canada over Christmas was a lucky break. But the sister was already working for Wintercorp finding out background information. He’d have had the call from her by then, telling him they were ready to begin settling an old score, something that involved getting close to Harrison, and, I’m afraid, to you. So the town of Croxburgh would have been very much in his sights. He’d have done his research. Easier for him to get around without bringing attention to himself when he’s part of Jeremy’s family group. He could be quite the charmer, as you found out yourself.”

“Oh yes,” I say, pulling a face. While I have only his chin left to shave, I stop and observe him watching me.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks, carefully.

How do I answer that? Physically, yes, of course. Even if the pain in my leg has dulled now, helped by surgery and painkilling drugs, the memory of the agony from the gunshot will stay with me until I die. Emotionally? As yet, I have not had the courage to face that possibility.

“I’ll survive. Keep still.”

While he holds still for me, I cup his chin and scrape off the final foam covering his mouth and chin. I cannot help smiling at his trust, his complete obeisance, although in truth, even with only his left hand usable, he could disable me in a heartbeat.

“Kit—Schwartz told me it was something to do with an ex-employee. That the video was a bonus.“

After rinsing the blade and leaning back, I survey his face for any cuts or stubborn clumps of stubble.

“Now that took some unearthing. Carter Wallace—their uncle—worked for Morgan’s organisation as the chief financial officer back in 2010, five years ago, before Morgan joined forces with Winterbourne. The weekend after he handed in his notice, Wallace and four male friends died in a plane crash off the west coast of Scotland.”

“What happened?”

“Reports called it a freak accident, a fuel tank explosion midair.”

After I lean in a couple of times and scrape at a few stray clumps like an artist putting the finishing touches to his canvas, a sudden thought comes to me.

“The picture in his apartment. Men together standing in front of a small aircraft. Two young lads, three older men. One of them—the uncle I suppose—looked the spitting image of Carter, and two were around my age. They all seemed really happy.”

“They probably were. Apparently the uncle was a skilled pilot.”

“And gay.”

“Can’t be sure. But it looks that way. Sounds like he was a really good guy. When his sister’s husband walked out on her, leaving her alone with two kids to bring up—”

“Carter and Nichole?”

“Correct. He took care of them financially. Until they finished college. The kids owed him everything.”

“Then why not just take out Hand and Morgan? Why us?”

“Actually, you inadvertently stumbled on that answer. Give me your phone.”

Intrigued, I pull out my phone and hand it over. While he thumbs through screens with his good hand he continues talking.

“CID have been keeping tabs on Morgan and his team for a long time. Before he joined forces with Wintercorp, he used to be into some questionable business practices. And as profitable and renowned as his former company was, what brought him onto our radar was the significant number of current and previous employees, business associates and suppliers, who either disappeared, or met with accidents.”

“I still don’t get it—”

“Wait a second. Here,” he says, swiping the screen before holding the phone out to me. “I saw this the night the whole thing went down with Morgan and Hand. While you were talking to Chaudhary.”

“I was going to ask you about that. How did you know we’d be in the hunting lodge?”

“Let me tell you, this baby saved your life,” he says, twirling the phone before my face. “Well, this and the tracking device I had installed after the stunt you pulled. The morning we found O’Keith hanging from the ceiling.”

“You tampered with my phone?” I ask, peering at the display.

“My phone. And just as well I did.”

When I look up at him confused, he taps the display to confirm the photograph is the one he means, of us together at Denny and Alfie’s house. The one sitting on the grand piano in Hugh’s father’s mansion.

“Who’s in the picture?” he asks.

“From front to back? Tony, Roland, then Denny, Hugh and me.”

“Five of you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Hold that thought. In 2004, Morgan’s ex-lawyer dies of a heroin overdose. A year later, a supplier who was suing Morgan’s company for nonpayment, falls off a bridge in Cornwall late at night, apparently drunk, hits his head and drowns. Four years ago, a year before Schwartz’s uncle died, a former employee—“

“Hangs himself?”

“Herself. But yes, you’re getting the picture.”

“No wonder Morgan and Hand were freaking out in the hunting lodge. So I was due to meet the same fate as Butterworth. Death by drowning. And Hugh?”

“Bullet to the head, made to look like suicide. Same as Callaghan. But like I said, both Winterbourne senior and Morgan trusted the Schwartz woman. She would have had access to private information, letters, emails, communications between workers. And would have overheard confidential conversations.”

“So are you telling me that Carter and Nichole Schwartz were systematically bumping off the people in the photograph, using copycat deaths? People Morgan isn’t even related to? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t need to make sense. The Morgans don’t have kids. But Morgan made it his business to know who Hugh’s friends were. The Schwartz offspring knew Morgan or Hand would eventually cotton on to the truth, would know someone was coming after them, would sense the noose tightening around their necks.”

“But Morgan is still alive.”

“Ironically, yes, thanks to you. He’d have been left until last. Once he’d been around to see Winterbourne’s son and friends systematically taken care of.”

“Oh, my God,” I say, as the whole thing dawns on me. “The link is the two photos. Hugh’s friends in retaliation for their uncle and his friends. Five deaths for five. And all of us PLU. Like the uncle’s friends probably were.”

“PLU?”

“People like us.”

For a second, I wait for him to roll his eyes in disgust at the Billyism, but instead he surprises me and grins widely. After dipping the cloth into the still hot water, carefully dabbing the final spots of foam and then wiping his chin dry, I lean back and survey my handiwork. He is nothing short of striking, clean shaven, fresh faced and alert.

“Hello handsome. Welcome back. Happy to do that for you as well as helping in the shower or bath. And cooking for you, if you want,” I say, the words out before I realise I am pushing the limits. “Until you’re back to full health, of course.”

“Thank you, Colin,” he says, staring to the end of the bed, lost in thought. “I think I’m finally beginning to understand.”

“Family vendetta? An eye for an eye?”

“Not that, sunshine,” he says softly, turning to me, his eyes smiling into mine, as he smooths the good hand across his newly shaven chin.

“Not that.”