The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(45)

In an enormous act of defiance, she ordered her broken arm to move, turning white with pain as she lifted it to her face. She used her remaining thumb to pick at the gag around her mouth, sucking great, gulping breaths of air into her body as it finally gave way.

Her lips were cracked and bone dry, but she didn’t notice.

Black spots swam in front of her eyes again and she bore down, ordering herself to continue just a little longer.

The scream was little more than a croak at first but then she was howling, crying out because her life depended upon it. But her neighbours weren’t at home and there were no convenient passers-by to come running.

“Help,” she sobbed, brokenly. “Please. Please.”

Nobody came and, after minutes passed, she knew she could not wait around for a miracle. She must be her own saviour.

*

Greg Iveson steered his van along Claremont Road, humming along to Tina Turner telling him he was simply the best. He could have done without taking on another plastering job, but his wife fancied a new pair of boots and they were hoping to buy an old VW campervan and take it for a spin around Cornwall, so he was racking up as many hours as he could. His mind was pleasantly occupied with thoughts of surfing and shellfish suppers when he spotted something in his peripheral vision.

“Shit!”

He slammed his foot on the brake as a woman stumbled into the road, half-naked and covered with blood. The van skidded to a stop, swerving dangerously to the side but not quick enough to avoid clipping her as she ran blindly towards freedom.

“Oh my God!”

He punched the hazard lights on his van and clambered out, practically falling over in his haste to see if she was alright.

He found her collapsed beneath his headlights, gasping for breath.

“Oh, Jesus. Wait—wait there. Don’t die. Please, don’t die. I’m going to call for help.”

But his hands were shaking so hard he dropped his phone.

There was so much blood.

And—oh, Jesus—parts of her were missing. His treacherous body wanted to retch, to pretend he hadn’t seen this woman who was only half alive, but she was trying to say something. Her mouth was opening and closing but no sound was coming out. Her eyes started to roll back, and he realised there would be no time to wait for an ambulance.

He acted like lightning, bending down to lift her up into his arms.

“Stay with me,” he begged her. “Please, stay with me.”

He was crying now, big, shuddering tears as he felt her slipping away. She was only a stranger, a woman he’d never met, but already he grieved.

He lifted her into the passenger side of the van and strapped her in as best he could, draped his hoodie across her body for warmth, then hurried around to the driver’s side. He willed himself to keep it together for just another few minutes.

“Come on. Come on!”

His hands were trembling so badly he couldn’t turn the ignition key but, on the third try, the van roared into life. With a final look at the woman slumped against the window beside him, he put the engine into gear and pushed the accelerator to the floor.





CHAPTER 18


Ryan and Phillips were crossing the foyer at Accident and Emergency when they spotted the van’s arrival at breakneck speed. Instinct had them surging forward through the automatic doors as a man in his mid-twenties leapt from the driver’s side and raced around to retrieve his passenger.

“Help! Somebody, help!”

Ryan covered the tarmac in seconds, long legs eating up the ground. When he saw the woman’s face and the wounds on her body, he understood the situation immediately.

Without a word, he helped to lift her from the car and held her close as they hurried back into the foyer, grateful to find Phillips had alerted the team of their new arrival. A group of men and women rushed forward with a gurney, taking her from him with gentle hands and wheeling her towards the resuscitation room. All around them, the waiting room forgot their burns and broken ankles, falling silent as they sensed the fear amongst medics and police alike.

Their faces became a blur as Ryan and Phillips watched their only witness disappear through a set of double doors.

“Adult trauma, call A&E resus department.”

The tannoy sounded above their heads and they saw Sebastien Draycott run across the waiting room to join others from the Major Trauma Unit—nurses, junior doctors and hospital porters bearing blood products—to try to save the woman’s life.

Ryan picked up his heels and ran after Draycott, who turned on him in anger.

“You can’t be in here! Stay back!”

“That woman is a victim of crime. I have every right to be here,” Ryan replied, flashing his warrant card and muscling aside the security guard who tried to stop him entering the resuscitation room. He followed the sound of urgent voices behind a half-veiled screen and waited to one side where he would not be in the way.

Phillips found him there.

“I’m praying for her,” he said, quietly.

Ryan was not a religious man, never had been, but he would have prayed to Old Nick himself if it would help.

“The van driver found her on Claremont Road,” he murmured. “Take down his statement while it’s fresh and send a car down there to preserve any evidence. Tell Faulkner to get down there, too. She can’t have run far by the time she was picked up.”