AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Jamie had no reply. He’d felt the same way. There had been rumors in the past. He’d heard something happened when Adam had last gone for his routine jabs, but when Jamie had asked, Adam had laughed it off. It was nothing, he’d said. Allergic reaction, that’s all. Stupid proud bastard, Adam Bishop. And it might be the end of him if they don’t move fast.
Back in the room, Marsh turns and points to the board.
“So, we are going to work this in two ways. First, following up the evidence from the other murders. Something will point to who this fucker is. Tim, chase up the lab for any outstanding evidence. Rich, go back to the owners of the VW vans. Something must line up. And second …”
He pauses. Jamie knows why he’s stopped: Marsh never had faith in Adam’s theory, the connection to Cole.
He clears his throat. “Bishop believed that the offender was under the influence of Cole, working under his control somehow. Because of what we now know”—he glances to Jamie—“that Pippa Hoxton was being held at his house, that Adam was taken from his surgery, I’m inclined to agree. Any thoughts?”
Quiet from the room.
“Then good. For some reason, we still haven’t had the fucking visitor logs from Belmarsh, so I’ll get the chief constable to apply his considerable influence there. The patient records have been shipped to our storeroom. I want someone to go through them today, look at staff lists, anyone that might have passed through that surgery.”
“Do you want me to go and see Cole?”
All eyes turn to Romilly. She’s said it quietly, but it was what everyone was thinking.
“No,” Marsh says resolutely. “Everyone needs to stay far away from that fucker. He’s not going to tell us where Adam is, and I’m not giving him the satisfaction of jumping to his side, begging for scraps.” Romilly doesn’t reply. “Do you hear me?” he repeats, and she nods slowly.
“DS Hoxton will coordinate, working as my second-in-command. And if anything comes in—however small—tell us straight away.”
Marsh pauses. He holds the tension in the room. Everyone is poised, keen to get to work.
“This is your top—no, your only job,” he says. “Nobody sleeps, nobody shits, nobody goes home until I say so.” Marsh looks out into the room, then locks eyes with Romilly before turning back to the detectives waiting. “There is no bigger priority right now than finding DCI Adam Bishop.
And finding him alive.”
HE’S HERE. AT last.
So handsome, so brave. So fucking angry. He stares at me with those beautiful blue eyes, glaring, breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring with the force of every breath.
The tape is back on his mouth. Once he realized who I am, he started shouting the place down, and I couldn’t have that. He wasn’t happy. He frantically twisted his head from side to side as I tried to stick it across. Shouting, cursing. I grabbed a handful of hair and pulled his head back hard. He didn’t shut up, even then, and it took all my strength to hold him still as I wrapped the tape around his head, over his mouth, around and around until there was no chance of him getting free.
I let him go and he struggles, but the chair stays upright. It’s big, heavy, there’s no chance of him tipping it over. He realizes that quickly and stops, saving his energy.
He makes a noise, a grunt behind his tape. He’s trying to talk to me, and I smile.
“I think you’ve said enough, don’t you, Adam?” I reply. “You’ve had your turn. Now it’s mine.”
I look at the cut on his forehead where I hit him. The blood has congealed now, a wet sticky mess, and I reach forward with one finger, pressing it into the scab. He groans quietly, his eyes rolling upward, then back to me.
I turn my attention to the tubing in his arms, the cannulae I carefully inserted while he was unconscious. I know he’s been trying hard not to look at them, but now I move behind him and grab his head again. I push it forward, forcing it down.
He makes a little noise, a groan of dissent, and he screws his eyes shut. His face is pale, his skin clammy.
“Look at it, Adam,” I say. He breathes hard again, the tape going in and out on his mouth. “Look at it,” I shout.
He moves his head as much as he can, a little movement left and right, saying no. He’s making me angry, his refusal to comply. I try again, and a clump of his hair comes out in my hand.
I let go of his head, and it snaps back upright. I go to the table on the far side and pick up a knife, a small scalpel, still in its sterile wrapping. I open it, light flashing on the sharp stainless steel. His eyes are open now, fixed. I carry it over.
“You see this, Adam?” I say. He doesn’t move. “Do you see this?” I shout.
He nods, a quick up and down.
“You do as I say, and we’ll get on just fine.” I glance up at the clock. It’s just past midday. “I connect these cannulae, get your blood flowing, and everything will be okay for you. Simple and painless. Like Pippa Hoxton.” I know it’s a lie, that she died in fear, in pain, suspended from the ceiling like a pig waiting for its throat to be slit, but he doesn’t need to know that. He stares at my face, unblinking. “I doubt there will be enough time for your team to find you, but at least you won’t suffer. But if you don’t. If you make trouble …” I put the blade in front of his nose, so close he looks at it almost cross-eyed. Then I move it down to his arm.
His hand has been secured palm upward, making sure the soft pale surface of his forearm and inner elbow is exposed for the needle. I move the blade down.
