The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(44)

Ryan happened to believe every person was unique and the implication that the two women he represented were not worthy of this man’s time angered him immediately.

But he merely smiled.

“I understand, Mr Draycott. The thing is, we’re out of our depth,” he said, slipping into the role of harried, slightly dim policeman with difficulty. “This is the biggest case of the year; the most urgent murder hunt going on in the country right now. We need someone with gravitas and experience to give us some specialist advice. The only person we could think of was you.”

Phillips looked at Ryan as though he’d sprouted three heads. His SIO was rarely given to displays of flattery, or humility, come to that.

Still, it seemed to work because the mention of national coverage was enough to have the surgeon’s ears pricking up.

“What exactly is it you want me to do?”

“We need you to look at the wounds,” Phillips said, pulling out a file of photographs. “There are some close-up images here taken from both women. We’d like you to tell us what kind of level of skill we’re looking for in the man who did this because it’s not your bog-standard cut-and-run, that’s for sure. It’s a difficult question to ask but, do you know anyone who might be capable of this?”

Draycott sat down briefly on one of the easy chairs and studied each photograph with single-minded intensity. They waited while his long, artistic fingers turned over each page and listened to the sound of ambulance sirens outside, signalling an emergency was imminent.

“Amateurish,” he concluded.

Ryan and Phillips stared at him. Draycott was the first person to claim the incisions were anything short of highly skilled and it was enough to grab their attention.

“How so? We were led to believe these wounds demonstrated a high level of surgical skill.”

Draycott shuffled the photographs and thrust them back at Phillips.

“Those women have been hacked apart. As for knowing anybody capable of doing it?” He laughed shortly. “As far as I’m concerned, absolutely anybody could have achieved that sloppy job. If you want my honest opinion, you’re barking up the wrong tree sniffing around the hospital when the person you’re looking for is probably a bin man—or a butcher at best. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my patients.”

Ryan waited until the door clicked shut behind him before turning to Phillips.

“Funny, isn’t it? He’s the only one who seems to think our killer’s nothing special.”

“Downright peculiar, if y’ ask me.”

“He is the best,” Ryan mused. “Could be that he has very high standards and anything less won’t do. On the other hand—”

“He might not want us hanging around his department,” Phillips finished. “Poking our noses in.”

“Got it in one.”

*

Less than a five-minute walk away, Nicola Cassidy was transfixed with fear.

What if he came back?

Her body was weakened by blood loss and severe dehydration, but her mind was clear.

She was still alive.

He had not killed her, not yet. She was still alive and there was a chance of escape, if only she could muster the strength to move.

Move!

Her fingers clutched at the sodden sheets and she tried to pull herself up. The action brought a cry of pain as the wounds on her belly oozed and wept, the muscles in her stomach ripping apart.

“Hiiim, hiiiim,” she panted against the gag at her mouth, her nostrils sucking in deep breaths of stagnant air.

The sounds she made were guttural as she fought to survive. He had left her alone, but he might return at any moment and that was more terrifying than anything else, even death. The drugs had worn off and this may be her only chance of escape. Her mind begged her to take it, to grasp at the life she had left, while her body wanted to collapse into unconsciousness again, to retreat from the horror of reality until he came back and finished what he had started.

She would not allow it.

His would not be the last face she saw; his would not be the last sound she ever heard as he sliced her skin again. She would love and grow old and die peacefully in her bed, not writhing in agony at the mercy of a sadistic killer.

She gathered her strength, gritting her teeth against the pain she knew would come, and pulled against the surgical tape at her wrists and ankles.

Her scream was muffled against the gag and her chest shuddered. For one horrible moment, she thought she would faint, or worse.

She tried again.

Then again.

She pulled at the tape until her wrists were bloody and torn but, eventually, she worked her left hand free, twisting her arm until it fell away like a dead weight, the circulation having left it hours ago. It fell against her bedside table, disturbing the lamp so it clattered to the floor.

Nicola froze, listening for any sound, any indication that he might be there.

He did that sometimes. He waited at the end of the bed where she could not raise her head to see him, watching her silently until she sensed his presence.

He liked those times the best, she thought. He liked to watch her come around, just enough to believe she could survive, then he would stand up and she would discover he had been waiting there all along.

Like a spider.

She twisted her head to look down at the arm that was now free and began to shake. Hysteria threatened to overwhelm her over when she saw he had taken three of her fingers. There was nothing left, only bloody, infected stumps of flesh. She started panting again, willing herself to stay strong, to endure.