“You gotta ring the bell, mate.” Cole turned to see a middle-aged man sitting on a chair nearby. He peered at Cole over a tabloid newspaper.
“Why?”
“They restrict the number of visitors in the ICU. Rules, innit?”
Cole shook his head and rang the bell. He stood and stared at the door.
“Now you gotta wait. Can take twenty minutes, mate.”
“What?” Cole looked over at him. “You having a laugh?”
“Ain’t being funny at all. They say they’re dying in there.”
“My brother ain't dying.”
The guy shrugged, then disappeared behind the paper again. “Just telling you how it is.”
According to Cole’s watch, nine minutes later, the door opened. A nurse stuck her head out. “Yes?”
Cole looked at his watch and then at the nurse. “Here to see Darren Cole. I’m his brother.”
The nurse nodded and pointed to her watch. “You’ve got ten minutes. Bed four. And keep it low.” She stood guard as he passed her, and he heard the door click behind him.
The hospital smell filled his nostrils. It was stronger than outside as if they needed more of whatever stuff they used to sterilise things in the ICU. He wrinkled his nose while he looked around the room and counted out the beds. Several had curtains drawn around them. Each had a number at the end and his eyes swept to bed four. He hurried over and scrunched his face at the person with the plastered leg. Wires and leads connected him to machines. Who the hell was that? Can’t be Daz. He moved closer and the patient in the bed turned his head to him. When he gave a flicker of a smile and muttered something that sounded like “Lew”. Cole stared open mouthed.
“Daz? That you?”
Daz beckoned with his hand. “I’m that bad... huh?”
“No, mate. You’re looking good.”
“Yeah, right... M… muppet.” Daz’s voice was low and broken,
“No seriously. You’re in good hands.”
“Don’t feel… nothing. Pumped... You know...”
“What mate?”
“Gear...” Daz coughed and rasped. Spasms rocked him, and his eyes rolled. An alarm sounded from a monitor. Cole looked around with wide eyes. The nurse rushed over and pushed Cole aside. She fiddled with the machines and the alarm stopped. An Asian doctor appeared from nowhere and he too, brushed by Cole. The nurse turned and ushered Cole further away from the bed while the doctor attended to Daz. “You have to leave now.”
“But... I just got here... What’s wrong with him? He’s only got a broken leg, right?”
“I’ll get someone to talk to you outside. Outside, okay?” She put her hand on his shoulder and walked him to the door.
Cole stopped. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
The nurse didn't make eye contact. She just opened the door.
“Nurse?” Cole grabbed her, but she shook him off and pushed him through the door. “Nurse?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and the door shut with a soft click.
Ten minutes later the Asian doctor came out of the ICU. He took Cole by the arm to a quiet corner.
“What’s your relationship with Darren?” he asked.
“He’s my twin brother. Got no other family.”
“Okay. Father? Mother?”
“Mum’s dead. Ain't seen my father in years. Maybe he's dead too.”
“Okay. I’m Mr Rasheed Ibrahim, consultant neurologist. Would you like to sit?”
“No.” Cole stood taller and folded his arms. “Just tell me already.”
“Your brother has a few problems. In particular, he has a cerebral edema...”
“A what?”
“It’s a brain swelling. We need to perform a decompressive craniectomy to relieve it as a matter of urgency. We’ll need you to sign forms at the station down the corridor.”
Cole blinked, unfolded his arms and shook his head. “Is it, like, serious?”
Ibrahim looked grave, locked eyes with Cole, and nodded. “He will get the best care. I promise you that.”
“Will he be all right, like? He won't die, will he?”
Ibrahim took a breath and looked away. “All I can promise is that we’ll do our best.”
Cole zoned out, and the words faded. Cole recalled the image of Daz mangled on the ground outside the bar in South Kensington. Then, as if someone else worked his thoughts, a different memory played for him. A blonde drinking champagne. “Bitch,” he muttered. He repeated himself. Louder. He muttered and mumbled until he noticed Ibrahim’s hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Cole? Mr. Cole? Please don't get angry. It won't solve anything.”
Cole’s breathing laboured and a look of concern crossed the consultant’s face. But Cole brushed him off. “I’m not gonna get angry. I’m gonna get that bitch.”
18
DI Marks finished reading the latest updates on the case file and logged out of the system. He grabbed a folder, beckoned at DS Gilmore, and they took the lift down several floors to the interview rooms.
After Marks signed for the key to room three, he turned to Gilmore. “Remember, our objective in this interview is Alice Madsen’s level of complicity.”
Samir Hassan sat on a chair in the interview room. His eyes were puffy and swollen, and several cuts and bruises marked his face. Both hands were cuffed to the table, and despite his situation, he looked at Marks with undisguised contempt. Marks ignored him and switched on the recording system.
Marks stated the formalities with an eye on the recording level indicators. Satisfied everything was in order, he stared at Hassan. “Please confirm for the record that you have waived to right to legal representation?”
Hassan nodded. “Yes.”
“Right.” Marks stretched out his hands and cracked his knuckles. He pushed a photograph over to the table. “Do you know this person?”
Hassan reached to pick it up, but the chain on his handcuffs was too short. Marks pushed it within range and let Hassan study it. He blinked several
