shortly.” She removed the thermometer and examined it. “Your temperature’s normal, though I’d say it’s the only thing about you that is!”
Later that morning, Dr Hayward came in and he certainly seemed less than cheerful. He gave Alex a thorough check-up, starting with his blood pressure and pulse rate and moving on to examine his wound.
He barely spoke a word as he did it.
“It’s lucky that you keep yourself fit,” he remarked at last. He looked and spoke like a long-suffering headmaster. “All those shenanigans could have caused you serious damage, but it looks as if your stitches have held and you’re generally in one piece.”
“When can I go home?”
“We’ll just keep you here until the end of the day. I’m afraid the people you work for want to speak to you.”
“I don’t work for anyone,” Alex said.
“Well … you know who I mean. Anyway, there’s always a chance your system will react against the beating you’ve given it. So I want you to stay in bed today and I’ll come in and have another look at you after tea.” He stood up. “And one last thing, Alex. I’m going to prescribe you at least two weeks’ rest and recuperation. I absolutely insist on it.”
“Can I go back to school?”
“I’m afraid not. Just over a week ago you were having major surgery. I know you’ve made an amazing recovery but there are still all sorts of risks—infection and all the rest of it. Two weeks’ holiday, Alex. And no arguments!”
Dr Hayward departed and Alex was left on his own. To kill some time, he went for a walk down the corridor, past room eight. It was empty. Nobody had mentioned Paul Drevin and it seemed that the other boy had gone.
There is nothing worse than being in hospital when you don’t feel you need to be there, and by eleven o’clock Alex was in a bad mood. Jack rang and he told her not to come in; he would see her when she came to collect him. His next visitor arrived just before lunch. It wasn’t the person he had expected.
He had realized that MI6 would want to know what had happened at Hornchurch Towers and that they would send someone to debrief him. He had expected Mrs Jones. But instead it was John Crawley who arrived, dressed in a nasty blue blazer with a crest on the pocket, and holding a box of Roses chocolates.
Crawley had once claimed to be a personnel manager, and Alex still wasn’t quite sure what he did at MI6.
He was in his late thirties with thinning hair and a rather worried-looking face. He looked like the sort of man who counted paperclips and kept his pencils in a special drawer.
He sat down by the bed. “Got you these,” he said, handing over the chocolates.
“Thank you, Mr Crawley.” Now that he was closer, Alex could see that the badge on the jacket belonged to Royal Tunbridge Wells Golf and Croquet Club.
“Mrs Jones apologized for not coming herself. She’s in Berlin. She asked me to find out what’s been going on. The police wanted to talk to you too, but I’ve had a word with them and they won’t be bothering you.
How are you feeling, by the way? We were all very shocked by what happened. I had a run-in with Scorpia about ten years ago and it nearly did for me. Anyway, let’s get back to Force Three. What exactly happened?”
Crawley took out a miniature tape recorder and laid it on the bed. Quickly, Alex took him through the events, starting with the moment the four men had walked into the hospital. It occurred to him that Crawley had let slip a little clue about his past. He too had fought against Scorpia. Had he once been a field agent himself? Alex described the fight in the hospital, his meeting with Kaspar in the derelict flat, the ransom demand and his escape from the fire. Crawley blinked several times as Alex spoke but didn’t interrupt.
“Well, that’s quite an adventure,” he commented, when Alex had finished. “I remember when you and I first met. I could see straight away you were something special. I knew your father. I wasn’t allowed to tell you that before. I worked with him a couple of times.”
“In the field?”
“Yes. That was before…” Crawley ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I got hurt and had to stop. But you’re just like him. Remarkable. Anyway, I have a few questions and then I’ll leave you in peace.” He had turned the tape recorder off; now he switched it back on. “The man who interrogated you. You say he called himself Kaspar. Can you describe him?”
“That’s easy, Mr Crawley. He hasn’t got the sort of face you’d forget.”
“Tattoos?”
“Yes.” Alex described the man who had come so close to removing his little finger.
“And he definitely told you that he represented Force Three.”
“Yes. He talked a lot about global warming and that sort of thing.”
“I would have said he rather added to it by setting fire to the building.”
“I thought so too.”
“What else can you tell me about him? Did he speak with an accent?” Alex thought back. “I don’t think he was English. He might have had a slight French accent. I’m not sure.” Crawley nodded. “Just one more question. The other three men in the tower block. You call them Combat Jacket, Spectacles and Silver Tooth. Did you hear any names?”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“Thank you, Alex.” Crawley pressed a button on the tape recorder. There was a click as it stopped turning.
“So who is Kaspar? Who are Force Three? What was it all about?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
