Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [81]
A greasy spoon that catered for cab drivers and other servants of the twilight economy allowed the inspector to refuel with a fried-egg roll, a jam doughnut and a double espresso. Half an hour later, he strolled back into the hospital carrying a small latte for Joyce. After another couple of minutes waiting for the lift, he reached the third floor. Walking into Groves’s room, he saw Joyce slumped face-down over the bed. Stepping closer, he could see a small hole where the boy had been shot in the back of the head. The stench indicated that he’d voided his bowels, and a pool of urine had collected at his feet.
‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ the inspector groaned, ‘what a fucking mess.’ With his legs turning to jelly, he had to force himself to step closer to the bed. Careful not to disturb anything, he made himself look at the pulverized face of Sandra Groves lying on a pillow stained black with blood. Shot several times in the face, she was, to all intents and purposes, no longer recognisable, no longer obviously human. Carlyle’s gaze followed the blood splatter, his eyes stopping on a clump of hair and skin that had stuck to the wall above the bed. He felt sick to his stomach.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, for his own benefit rather than anything else. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he swallowed the bile in his throat and waited for the risk of his meal regurgitating to subside. Quickly, he took in the rest of the scene. The machines that Groves was still hooked up to stood silently by her bed, their screens blank. The killer had been careful to switch them off, to stop the alarm going off when her vital organs stopped functioning. On the bed, by Joyce’s head, lay a small semi-automatic pistol. Carlyle took out his mobile phone and called the front desk at Charing Cross. This business wouldn’t fall to them, but if he didn’t get things started on the right foot, Carlyle knew that he could be in for an even longer night than the one he was already facing.
Sensing movement behind him, he swivelled round to confront the Ward Sister. ‘What in the name of . . . ?’ She tried to look beyond him, at the mess in the corner, so he shuffled a couple of steps sideways in a half-hearted attempt to block her view.
They were distracted from this stand-off by some movement from the bed nearest the door. A head emerged from under the covers, followed by a bony finger which pointed at the inspector. ‘It was him! It was him!’ the patient yelled through her a drug-induced haze. ‘He did it!’
The Sister looked at Carlyle cautiously, unsure of whether she should stand her ground or run for help. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she looked ready to bolt, but his accuser’s glassy, unfocused eyes gave her pause. The woman was so out of it, it was amazing she even realised that a shooting had occurred. Holding up a hand, Carlyle issued precise instructions over the phone, speaking loudly enough for the Ward Sister to understand that he had the situation under control.
Ending the call, he held the Sister’s gaze. She was a chunky, no-nonsense-looking blonde, maybe ten years younger than he was. Not a bad-looking woman but, you could clearly see, well on the way to being crushed by the daily grind. Excitement like this she could do without. ‘The police . . .’ Carlyle started. ‘More police will be here in a couple of minutes, along with a team of technicians and a pathologist – the usual crew.’
‘Yes,’ the Sister replied, her voice shaking just a little.
‘Make sure that they are shown straight here.’
The woman nodded.
‘In the meantime,’ Carlyle told her, ‘I don’t want anyone passing up and down that corridor outside.’
‘I understand,’ the Sister said, more