Dead Man's Gift 02 - Last Night Read online

  19

  The underground car park at the Central Middlesex Hospital was almost full, and there was no immediate sign of either Frank Bale’s Jaguar or Frank Bale himself as Scope drove to the hospital entrance and pulled up.

  ‘Park the car and meet me inside,’ he told Orla. ‘He’s got to be in there somewhere.’ He got out and headed through the double doors. There were only two reasons why Bale could be here. Either he was visiting a friend or relative, or he was coming to speak to a prisoner being treated here. If it was the latter, then he’d have to sign in, which at least narrowed it down a bit.

  The reception area was spacious, modern and surprisingly quiet. A middle-aged woman with big glasses sat behind the counter, and he went over. ‘Has DCI Bale signed in yet?’ he asked. ‘It would have been in the last few minutes.’

  She shook her head. ‘Certainly not in the last few minutes. I’ve been here.’

  Scope acted puzzled. ‘Oh. Well, you might have seen him walk past. He’s a very big guy – quite fat, to be honest – almost bald, but with a few wisps of sandy hair. He stands out.’

  ‘Oh yes, him. I think he went by a few minutes ago. He had flowers with him. I’ve seen him a few times lately.’

  If Bale was visiting, and with flowers too, it had to be someone very close to him. Especially on a day like this, when he was always going to be preoccupied. Scope guessed it had to be his mother. ‘Do you have a Mrs Bale staying here?’ he asked.

  For the first time, the receptionist looked at him with suspicion. ‘I’m afraid that’s confidential information. Who are you exactly?’

  ‘A friend of DCI Bale’s,’ he said. ‘It’s very important I speak to him.’

  ‘I can’t help,’ she answered, stony-faced.

  Knowing he couldn’t force the issue, Scope turned away as Orla came through the door.

  ‘Bale’s brought flowers, so I’m guessing he’s visiting a female relative. Maybe his mum or his wife. We’re going to have to split up and search for him ward by ward. Just ask any staff member you see if they know which bed Mrs Bale’s in. You start at the bottom. I’ll do the top. If you find out, call me immediately, but don’t try anything, whatever you do. This guy’s dangerous.’

  She nodded. ‘Okay, I’m on it.’

  He smiled at her then. ‘Thanks. I appreciate this.’

  She nodded and they parted company, with Scope making for the escalators, and already dialling T Rex’s number in the hope that the hacker could access the hospital’s database and speed things up.

  It was 10.51 a.m.

  The room smelled of air freshener and decay, as it always did, which was why Frank always brought fresh cut flowers with him when he visited. For a few minutes at least, they managed to mask that stench of impending doom.

  Frank’s mother was dying. She was seventy-seven and had just had her third stroke in as many years – this one so massive that it had effectively left her brain-dead. The doctors had told him that they wanted to withhold fluids and let her die peacefully. Frank had consented on the proviso she was given her own room so that at least she could go with dignity, and they’d agreed.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ he said, looking down at the wizened and shrunken shadow of who his mother had once been. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing peacefully as Frank bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. Next he changed the old flowers and the water in the vase, before carefully arranging the new ones. He took a deep breath of their scent, then switched on the TV at the end of the bed, turning to Sky News, where they were just about to begin live coverage of the parliamentary select committee hearing into football match fixing.

  Frank stood staring at the screen as the camera panned round the hearing room, taking in the members of public and the journalists seated in rows behind the empty table where those giving evidence were going to sit, before stopping in front of the select committee itself – nine smartly dressed, well-scrubbed politicians: six men, three women – who were now taking their seats, as a couple of pedestrian-looking security guards looked on. In the middle was the committee’s chairman, Garth Crossman, a high-flying new addition to the Conservative Party who’d been tipped for the top, and whose right-wing views resonated with the general public. It seemed a pity that Crossman had to die, because his views resonated with Frank’s as well, but for a hundred and fifty grand he wasn’t going to shed any tears. Third from the left was Tim Horton. He was wearing the two-piece suit he’d had on in the hotel room earlier. The buttons were done up, but Frank could just make out the telltale bulge of the explosives. Tim looked tense and his cheeks were flushed, but he was acting normally, at least on the face of it. Frank felt his breathing getting faster as he realized the full enormity of what he was about to do. He was going to make history. Tomorrow every one of the world’s media outlets would lead with this story. It was an incredible feeling.

  The door to the meeting room opened and Matt Cohen, the man Tim Horton was here to kill, walked in, accompanied by a security guard.

  Without taking his eyes off the screen, he reached into his pocket for the mobile phone.

  The clock on the screen said 10.57.

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