The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) (35 page)

‘He loves that view,’ Blackett said. ‘There’s none
better, in my book. He often sits by the upstairs window, even in winter, watching
the players.’

Erica cycled back home, wrote up the piece on golf
and emailed it in. Ian Dunne should be pleased she was featuring his own
favourite sport. Not that he was any advertisement for healthy activity, with
his perennial fags.

Researching among old and new books of homeopathic
remedies for various patients, she was amused to find one for ‘exhaustion due
to partner’s excessive sexual demands’; she must tell Jamie about it,
especially as it was ‘China’. Though China was not an oriental remedy, but made
of Cinchona bark, like quinine. Jamie was often worn out from the demands of
his job, the problems of bureaucracy and politics that plague any hierarchy,
funding problems, and so on, but being young, he was always up for pleasure.
Hers, in particular. And his demands were every bit as excessive as her own.

Her erotic musings were interrupted by news
headlines on the radio, tuned to the local house music station. A man had been
found with severe injuries and loss of blood. A man who worked in the medical
sphere, the newsreader yelped breathlessly and ambiguously. Police were not
able to comment on whether there was any connection to the Operator killings.
The man was alive, but his condition was critical.

Another one, and so soon? It seemed incredible.
She tried contacting Gary Thomas but he wasn’t answering. Out covering the
story no doubt. It had just broken, after all.

Between late afternoon and early evening
appointments at Ivy Lodge, Erica managed to keep googling and following Twitter
until she could glean a little more. The injured man was said to be ‘an
alternative therapist’. He was still critical, having lost a lot of blood. The
man’s name was being withheld until next of kin had been informed; they must be
still trying to contact them.

Did this mean the Operator was branching out?
Should Erica, Miles and their colleagues start looking over their shoulders?
There was as yet no clue as to whether the Operator had been involved. The news
media made the connection cunningly, mentioning that ‘three murders involving
members of the medical profession have been committed lately by a killer dubbed
‘the Operator’, but police are so far refusing to link them to this attack.’

The tone implied that the police were a bunch of
party poopers and of course any fool would see there was a connection.

Erica thought about the injuries inflicted on the
other victims. Nails in the head, castration, the heart exposed. And now the
Operator – or whoever - had botched the killing, maybe left the victim with
injuries as horrible as those, but still alive. Was that better, or worse?

Her next patient came in to talk about his piles.
Harriet Vane and Peter Wimsey never had this trouble.

By the time she was at home, making a mushroom
stroganoff with fat-free bio yogurt, the news was more detailed. Surgeons were
trying to re-attach the man’s right hand which was almost severed, but there
had been major blood loss. There was also an injury to the back of the head.

The man had been identified as Craig Anderson.

Erica mechanically stirred
some French mustard into the sauce, but it was hard to eat any of it. She
picked at her green salad, the news going round in her head. She couldn’t
believe the Operator had attacked Anderson. With his pumped-up muscular body,
tense awareness, he’d be a hard man to take on. Even a blow to the back of the
head would be risky. Craig was a loner, isolated by his hatred and bitterness,
so who could get close enough to him to hit him without him noticing?

Also, why would the Operator attack someone so
totally opposed to the medical establishment? Someone who hated doctors, who
practised alternative medicine almost as an act of war. It didn’t make sense.

The doorbell rang, making her jump. It was Jamie.
As soon as she opened the door, he put his arms around her and they kissed for
a few blessed and absorbed moments before she pulled back to look at him. He
looked shattered, his face almost grey, his eyes narrowed with fatigue.

‘This is unexpected. Aren’t you on duty?’

‘Have been, for more hours than I can make sense
of. But I wanted to see you. I heard the news about Craig Anderson. I
remembered you talking about him. I know he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a
friend, but what with finding Kingston’s body, and now this man you know being
injured, I was concerned about you. If that’s alright.’

‘It’s alright. I’ve been trying to eat, without
much success. ‘

‘We can eat together. We’ve got to keep our
strength up, as our mothers would no doubt say. Though sometimes I wonder what
for.’

‘Jamie, how did you know it was Anderson? The news
just gave his name when I was cooking, and a few minutes later you arrived.’ A
frisson of doubt.

‘I heard it over the medics’ grapevine. He’s up in
the city hospital, but the word reached our dump pretty fast. We’ve all been
jumpy with these Operator killings. Any news gets passed around like
gonorrhoea.’

‘I thought he
was
the Operator when he came
to Ivy Lodge all hyped up, and I thought he was going to kill me. Well, the
thought crossed my mind. But I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He was so
bitter and screwed up. And now this has happened. His right hand. How is he,
have you any details?’

 ‘Sure you want to hear about it?’

She poured wine for them both. ‘Hell yes.’

Jamie sank back on the couch, his eyes almost
closed. His voice was soft and slow, he’d only had one glass of wine so far but
he was all in.

‘They think he’ll live. The head injury wasn’t
drastic, though there was a skull fracture. He was unconscious when he was
brought in. The hand might be saved, it’s not quite as bad as the media makes
out, but it may not function the same way as before. Nerve damage. Recovery
will be long and slow. He could be effectively disabled. ‘

‘As if the poor guy hadn’t suffered enough.’ She
was thinking of his dead son, his dead wife, and now this. He wouldn’t be
pumping iron for a long time, if ever, with that hand.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. Now
what? Will Bennett stood on the doorstep like bad news personified.

‘It’s about Anderson – I know you visited him
recently, I thought that, you know, finding Kingston and now this… I thought I’d
check you were, you know, all right.’ He looked rough, his eyes two dark
hollows. Ah, the pressure to get a result was starting to tell.

‘Yeah, right. You mean, check up on someone who
keeps meeting Operator victims, suspiciously often? Anyway, Inspector, it’s very
kind of you but I have a guest…’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Who is it Erica?’ Jamie’s clearly non-female
voice drifted down the hall.

‘Ah – well, a good thing you’re not alone. I hope…
well, good night,’ Will almost barked, as he strode off and she returned to
Jamie.

‘I think the Inspector is losing it. Thought he
could scent weakness and homed in, huh! Suspecting me because I met Anderson
probably, or trying to. Anyway, what were you saying about Anderson before?’

‘He has two black eyes.’

‘I can’t see anyone taking him on in a frontal
assault.’

‘The word is,’ Jamie said in a voice that was
almost a sigh, ‘it’s a contre coup injury. The black eyes... contre coup...
what was I saying?’ He pulled himself up and forced his eyes open. ‘I’d better
not finish that wine.’

‘Oh, yes... I’ve heard of that. Bouncing brain in
its little pond of fluid.’

‘Yeah. Certain types of head injury cause the
brain to bounce up and hit the facial bones from behind, causing black eyes;
usually it means that the moving head hit something, rather than that something
moving hit the head.’

She put her glass down. ‘You mean, he fell over
backwards and hit his head on something? Instead of being hit? Maybe someone
found him unconscious and carried out the hand injury; a copy-cat Operator type
assault, do you think? Or could someone have knocked him down with a punch to
the face, hence a black eye which wouldn’t show after the contre coup.’

‘No, now look Erica, this is very much inside
information, the police haven’t released details yet obviously.... but it looks
very much as if he might have done it himself. Cut off, or tried to cut off,
his hand, passed out, fell over backwards, and hit his head on something hard -
a tiled hearth, I think it was. There was some kind of banner or poster lying
across him.’

‘Oh, my god.’ She grabbed her glass again, and
swigged back the wine. ‘I knew he was in a state, but this..... I can’t believe
it.’

‘Well, it’s not official yet, and there may be
more to come out, if the police decide to make it public.’ He rubbed his eyes.

‘You really are exhausted aren’t you? They work
you too hard at that place - I hope it’ll all be worth it when you’re on the
golf course as a highly paid consultant.’

‘Been a shit day. Accident; child hit by car,
driver didn’t stop, horrible injuries, distraught parents, and I can’t do
enough. Pain relief isn’t powerful enough, our skills, my skills, aren’t good
enough to do more than a patch-up job. Even nature won’t be able to put
everything right, with all the healing power children have. Keen footballer,
this kid. Was.’ He sat up and took her hand.

‘Sorry Erica. One day I’ll learn not to care so
much, I suppose. ‘

‘I hope not. There aren’t enough doctors who have
the empathy you have. Come on, you need rest.’ She hauled him to his feet and
supported him into the bedroom. He had thought of her in the middle of his own
troubles. He needed some TLC too.

‘I don’t usually get much rest here,’ he murmured,
as Erica peeled off his jeans.

‘You will tonight. Though I’m not promising
anything about tomorrow morning... One unselfish act deserves another. I’ll
give you a massage to help you relax.’ She trailed her hair down his body. ‘With
my tongue, if you like.’

She woke up in the night to find her cheeks wet
with tears. Craig Anderson. She was crying for him. What was happening for
heaven’s sake? Beside her, Jamie was so deeply asleep he seemed to be scarcely
breathing. The light picked out the fine bones of his face and the smooth skin
of his shoulder. Somehow, while she was sleeping, the shock had worn off, and
she could feel something of the despair Anderson must have felt to do that to
himself, if he had. To have the willpower to try and cut off your own right
hand with your left; such a horrible, fundamental mutilation, such a way to
die, as he would have expected to if he hadn’t been found in time.

Erica felt she had let him down. He had come to
her, in denial perhaps, but he had come. She should have realised he felt this
way. She should have been able to do something about it. What remedy could she
have given him for this? All his anger had seemed turned outwards. What could
have happened to make it turn inwards against himself? He was religious, in a
fanatical way. She remembered the biblical texts on his wall, his way of
speaking. Surely suicide would go against his creed. But then, thoughts of
revenge and hatred had not seemed to go against his beliefs. Suicides usually
took pills or hanged themselves or slashed their wrists. To try to cut off his
hand - a picture jumped into her mind. One of the biblical texts on the wall,
written in big black curly letters on a white banner similar to the texts on
Anderson’s walls. IF THY HAND OFFEND THEE, CUT IT OFF.

How had Anderson’s hand offended him? He had
seemed so sure he was right about everything. Two possibilities came to mind.
Either he had made some drastic mistake over the treatment of a patient, in
which case she could well imagine he would turn his anger on himself at having
been proved wrong, fallen short of his own faith. Or he had used his hand to do
something else unspeakable. Like slit open a scrotum or a chest? Like hammer
nails into a person’s hands or head? Anderson could be the Operator after all.
Surely the police would think so.

But then why would he suddenly get a bad conscience
about it, if he did it in the first place, and more than once? Traditionally it’s
said that killers get a taste for the work, they escalate, as the rush killing
brings fails to last and they need higher and higher levels of stimulation.
Though some killers behaved as if they wanted to be stopped. Her brain whirled.
She got up stealthily for a drink of water. She couldn’t put the light on, or
read, or anything else she might have done if she’d been alone. It was
wonderful to have Jamie next to her, but there was a downside to sharing a bed.

She opened a new bottle of sparkling mineral water
and it fizzed out all over her. She swore, getting back into bed wiping
droplets of water from her belly and thighs. Jamie’s dark eyes were open, two
faint glints in the dark.

‘Sorry, woke up thinking about that stupid git
Craig Anderson. Stupid, stupid thing to do!’ Her voice rose.

‘Erica, you couldn’t have done anything to help
him if he didn’t choose to be helped. You know that. Don’t beat yourself up
over it.’

‘Listen who’s talking!’

‘Yeah, well, I’m as daft as you are. Come on, lie
down. Mm, you’re all wet. My favourite kind of woman. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’
He disappeared under the duvet.

Next day the police,
anxious to quell the excitement about another possible Operator attack, issued
a statement that the injuries were not thought to be the result of an attempted
murder such as those carried out by the person known as the Operator. Craig
Anderson was stable, surgeons were optimistic about re-attaching his right hand
which had been practically severed. His skull injury meant he was still very
ill and police were waiting to interview him about the circumstances in which
he was injured. They could have a long wait. Erica was desperate to know what
was behind Anderson’s self-mutilation or suicide attempt.

There was only one way to find out. She would have
to ring Will. She could try the city force, but they would probably refuse to
speak to her at all. Awkward, after their last brief meeting on her doorstep when
he’d done a runner at the sound of Jamie’s voice.

He was unavailable. Damn. She rang the city
hospital. She would have to be careful here. They would probably regard
homeopaths as witch doctors. She asked after Craig Anderson. No, she was not a
relative, she responded to the inevitable question. Nor a journalist. (Well she
wasn’t wearing her journalist’s visor at that moment.) She was a private
therapist and counsellor Mr Anderson had been consulting. This was technically
true. She still had his details on file. He had consulted her. She was a
trained counsellor. Hospitals used counselling staff these days, so they
shouldn’t be too suspicious.

She piled it on a bit, saying she’d been concerned
about him, and he had confided in her about certain anxieties which had been
preying on his mind. She was concerned that his injuries could be
self-inflicted. She knew that detail had not been made public so far. The voice
on the other end hesitated, while Erica waited. They could ask the local police
about her to check if she was genuine. They might then find out she was a
feature writer and assume she was after a news story. They might well check
with the police officer who no doubt was hanging around Anderson’s bed waiting
to be able to talk to him.

The decision was made, presumably without
checking. She would not be able to see him, he was too ill, immediate family
only, but she could talk to one of the staff looking after him.

She was put through to a Dr Mackson. Erica told
her that Anderson had been in a tense and distressed state, very bitter about
past bereavements. Mackson seemed to know about his wife and son, though she
didn’t say so directly. They were dancing around each other, both trying to
keep confidentiality. Presumably his relatives had told the hospital. Since his
opinions about doctors had been in the newspaper interview he gave, Erica didn’t
feel the need to keep that secret, so she mentioned his attitude to the medical
profession. She said she was worried about how he’d react to find himself in a
hospital, a hostile environment as far as he was concerned. Mackson said their
own counsellors would look into it.

They were getting quite cosy now, and the doctor
went so far as to confirm that it did look as if the injuries were
self-inflicted, and that there was something clearly on his mind. He had been
unable to make any statement, only muttering about ‘blood on his hands’,
presumably, she said, referring to the bleeding caused by the injury. Erica
could ring again in the near future and maybe see him when his condition had
improved.

Erica thanked her and rang off. Blood on his
hands? Cutting off his right hand? The police would not be slow to make a
connection, especially given Anderson’s opinion of doctors. She could see the
hunt for the Operator being scaled down. She could only hope Anderson’s family
had a good solicitor organised.