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I stir behind closed eyelids, my mind ceasing dream mode to bring him back to wakefulness. At first, I was slightly confused; I heard the noises of the hospital ward waking. Then, a feeling of dread crept over my face. The sound of rain falling thickly outside, the beautiful sound was passing right through the open window.
I hadn't expected to be in the hospital with anaemia. My haemoglobin levels were deficient, causing dizzy spells and palpitations when I walked up a hill or an incline. However, the doctor had insisted on a blood test, and I received a phone call the same day. So here I am, in an assessment ward, waiting to be transferred, prodded, and probed until they discover the reasoning behind my sudden onset of anaemia.
After an iron infusion, a porter moved me onto a ward with four other men—all with different ailments.
The man was entirely hidden by the privacy curtain in the bed next to mine except for his feet. And they were the worst feet I had ever seen with varicose veins, bunions, and deformed toes.
He wore a grey T-shirt and Ipswich Town football club shorts. I wanted to talk about football to find a common bond with him, but Arsenal played just as bad as Ipswich. So, I decided not to bring the subject up.
The man adjacent to me had an unreadable name and looked like a pot-bellied tramp, with his long grey hair, a scruffy beard, and an out-of-control stomach that hung in a light blue T-shirt over baggy dark blue jogging bottoms. He burped his way through the night.
Patrick Gatehouse lay in the bed opposite me and hardly spoke a word. He was sleeping through every noise or disturbance that was customary on a hospital ward at night.
Next to Patrick was an empty bed, but next to me, on my right, was William. An ill man with mental health issues snored his way through Pink Floyd music, which he played through his laptop, loud enough so everyone else could hear.
The one saving grace of the first night was the tall, dark-haired Lithuanian nurse, whose cheerful demeanour disguised a high standard of professionalism. She wore a protective face mask like the rest of the medical staff, but what I found mesmerising were her gorgeous indigo eyes, which were like pools of dark water in the night, that glinted with humour and care.
A four-foot-eleven-inch nurse from Singapore ably assisted her, whose happy face belied her tender years.
My first two transfusions seemed to take forever, continuing well into the early hours of the morning, and what followed was one of the worst night sleeps I had ever experienced. At moments like that, I missed the wise and comforting words of my late wife.
I wasn't expecting any visitors, and I couldn't think of anyone who would be bothered to take the time to come and visit me.
Visiting hours were between ten in the morning and eight at night, and I had to book in advance because of the coronavirus regulations.
When I finally regained consciousness and worked out exactly where I was, I discovered addition to our little band of merry men.
Ray Bethesda was an American who had lived in England for over ten years and yet hadn't lost his accent. What he hadn't done with his life wasn't worth mentioning, but he was good company for all that.
A nurse took my blood pressure first thing, and I lay on top of the sheet and thin blanket and waited with anticipation for a cup of tea and some toast for breakfast. Before placing my order, an Indian nurse came bounding up to my bed and wrote that I was nil by mouth on the board above my head.
"Why is that?" I demanded, shocked by the suddenness of it all.
"You will have an endoscopy later this morning," she said in her accentless English.
Disappointed, I sat there and listened and watched everyone eat their breakfast, with my arms folded in negativity and the best glum expression I could conjure up. I was allowed to sip water with my medication and brush my teeth when I washed and changed, but that was it.
Ten o'clock came and went, and then to my surprise, when I was giving up all hope of seeing anyone or receiving any good news, Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Burton strolled into the ward as though she owned the place.
"There you are," she said, pulling up a chair.
"Here I am," I said, actually relieved to see her.
"Can't have you wasting away in here," she said, "I've got a job for you."
"What sort of job?" I felt the excitement building up inside of me.
She leant forward and lowered her voice.
"Missing person."
"Missing person?" I repeated.
"Come on," she said, without expanding, "I've spoken to the doctor; whatever is wrong with you isn't life-threatening; get your stuff together and let's get out of here. We've got work to do."
"I hope you don't mind," DCI Burton began as we walked to her car. "But I took the liberty in arranging the meeting at your place." "Why?" "Because it's safer." "Who are we meeting?" "You'll see." I didn't have to wait long as within fifteen minutes of us arriving back at my home in Woodside Park, the front doorbell rang. Sandra answered the door for me and led our guest into the lounge where I was waiting. "DCI Burton, Mr Noone? Thank you so much for seeing me at such short notice," he said, looking across the room at my friend. "Not at all, Mr Flynn. Would you please sit down and make yourself comfortable? May I introduce you to my friend and colleague, Quintus Noone? Who I believe was the man you wanted to see?" We shook hands "Mr Noone, thank you so much for seeing me. I don't know where to start; the police have made such a hash of everything, no disrespect to you, DCI Burton, and the press made it
It wasn't difficult to find a sports shop that sold Northern Aspect equipment, and once I was in there, it wasn't difficult to find the bag I was after. It was the most oversized, hard-wearing kitbag they had; the Northern Aspect Headquarters model had plenty of colours to choose from; I purchased a red one.I smiled with self-satisfaction as I made my way back to Woodside Park.When I returned home, instead of DCI Burton being there to heap praise on my ability to find the right bag, I found a note, which read:Quintus,I have gone to Cheltenham and will not be back until tonight.Sandra xxxThree kisses? Didn't that mean something?Somewhat disappointed she wasn't there but pleased and proud that she had taken such a bold step so soon, I sat down and began to examine the bag.The walls were of a textile I had never seen before: strong but somewhat supple and certainly watertight. It felt like a very hard-wearing fabric -- lat
But when I awoke the next day, I felt Sandra Burton's naked body pressed up against mine. I didn't remember her coming back or sliding into bed next to me, but I felt comfort in the fact that she was there.When she woke, she didn't seem embarrassed, and when I finally got out of bed, I found her downstairs examining the bag.She looked up at me smiling and then asked whether I had given the bag the once over."Indeed, I have," I reply, "And the longer I looked at it, the more it looked like a murder weapon.""Nobody would stand a chance once they were locked in this type of bag," Sandra said, and I smiled grimly."As I see it," I continued, "either Tina Davis was exceptionally demented, or she someone murdered her.""I can tell you how demented she was," Sandra replied. "I've just returned from Cheltenham."I nodded, and the DCI continued, "I went there to meet Jenny Quance. She was Tina Davis's landlady, and she's a gorgeous lady. W
"We're sure a certain person or persons unknown murdered Tina Davis?" Sandra asked, to which I nodded my answer. "We've seen the bag, you've met Tina's landlady, and because of what we now know, we can be confident that somebody intentionally killer her. So, I'd say the likelihood that she died by suicide or accident is about the same as the prospect that she died of natural causes." I smiled grimly and let her continue. "If, as we think she was, murdered, then she was killed in the safe house on Suffolk Street or killed elsewhere, and her body was brought into the safe house, apparently by the killer or killers.""Which do you think it was, Sandra?" I inquired."Killing an MI6 agent in an MI6 safe house seems an extremely daring thing to do.""But consider the option," I replied. "How much boldness would it take to kill an MI6 woman elsewhere, then lock her body in a holdall and drop it in the bathtub of her very own flat, even if that flat were not in a safe h
I paused at the door, looking intently out into the street. Then, after a few moments, satisfied that the time was right, I stepped out into the street. Reaching Finchley High Road, I waved for a taxi, and my trackers followed suit.Almost immediately, a taxi pulled over to pick me up. As I stepped in, I shouted above the din of the street, "The London to Edinburgh overnighter leaves in forty minutes, driver. I will double your fare if you get us to King's Cross in time!"Then, I saw two climbing into another newly-arrived taxi.The taxi across the street made a quick, illegal, 180-degree turn and followed close behind us."Faster if you can, driver," I said, and as my pursuers drew nearer."Slow down a bit now," I said next, and the driver gave me a quizzical look in his rear-view mirror."We want to lose them, but not quite yet, driver," he said. "We should play them along for a bit, don't you think?"As we sped towards Kings Cross,
"I beg your pardon," Sandra said, "I thought perhaps you had the rest of the mission laid out already.""If only!" I sighed. "If I could solve murders involving espionage by following a recipe, Sandra, even the dozy sods at Scotland Yard could do it. As a rule, I plan my assignment one move at a time," I continued. "I have a purpose in mind and an overall impression of how to get there, but any new advance can make me change my ideas. For example, I was planning to stay in London for at least another few days, but the sudden and dramatic visit from Hector Nelson has changed my mind.""How?" Sandra asked."His attendance, in camouflage, no less and that of his followers served as a warning that direct inspection in the city might involve grave danger while encouraging inadequate palpable compensation.""I see.""But the information Nelson gave us alternative lines of thought that already seemed promising to me, and these thoughts make our presence i
"It's a shame Hector couldn't have stayed longer," Sandra said suddenly. "I would be interested in hearing his opinion concerning enigmatic Mediterranean couple, about which so much spoke about in the media." "That is one of the issues on which I plan to speak to about when I next meet up with him," I replied, "although I have little hope of making much progress." "Of all the bizarre details about this case," Sandra said, "the story of the secretive couple appears to be the only one formally recognised by the police. I wonder whether this is particularly significant, or whether -- " "Whether it's just additional diversion?" I finished her sentence. "The likelihood cannot be disregarded, specifically because it would be an astute move for the crime squad to make." "Do you think they're using some distraction here?" "That is the problem," I replied. "If I were running the investigation, I would be careful regarding the evidence I circulated. To
"Perhaps you can answer one for me, Detective Chief Inspector?""Of course!" She replied. "Ask me whatever you wish.""We haven't seen the body of Tina Davis, and I doubt whether we will," I continued, "so we cannot know exactly how progressive the state of putrefaction was when the police found the body.""No, Quintus," she replied, "all we have is the description provided by the team investigating the crime.""But we know something about the holdall," I said, "and we know Tina Davis was alive seven or eight days before they found her in it. Do you think the body could have reached an advanced state of decomposition genuinely? Or do you think someone would have required some unnatural assistance? ""It is tough for me to guess without knowing the actual cause of death," she replied. "We still don't even know whether she was dead when she was put into the bag, or ..."Her voice trailed away, but I sat in silence."Some toxins and cert