“Are you sure?” Steve asked, making a note in his daybook and underlining it three times.
“Positive,” Myers said.
This was an exciting development. In theory, if he was related to Claude Winston, it ought to make it much easier to identify the man dressed as a doctor. Of course, the expression could just have been used as a mark of respect. He knew that Turkish males often referred to their elders as uncle, even when there was no familial tie but, as far as he was aware, there was no such custom amongst Afro-Caribbean communities.
“That’s really helpful,” Bull said. “Anything else?”
“Well,” Myers said, scratching his head in thought, “I might have misheard, but I could have sworn he referred to the person who was meeting them as Rodent. I must have misheard, but it definitely sounded like Rodent.”
Bull made another note. “When did you say you heard them saying all this?” he asked.
“During the flight.”
“I don’t understand,” Bull said, frowning in confusion. “You couldn’t hear what was being said during the phone call before take-off but you managed to overhear bits of their conversation during the flight when it would have been even noisier. Can you explain how?”
Myers nodded. “The open faced helmets we wear are all fitted with internal comms. Out of habit, I donned mine before starting the pre-flight checks, but they didn’t put theirs on until we were about to take off. At some point, one of them must have somehow activated their microphone. I think it was the girl; she seemed to spend most of the flight staring out of the window while the other two huddled together to talk. I think that’s why I only caught snippets of what was being discussed rather than being privy to the whole conversation.”
That made sense. “So, what happened after you landed?” Bull asked after checking his watch again. The battle axe had just sentried past them, and he sensed that she was literally counting down the seconds until she could evict him.
Myers’s face darkened. “It’s all a bit of a blur, I’m afraid. The two men were arguing. The big one was unhappy about something and the doctor was trying to get him to calm down. It was only when I heard the big man say something about ‘not leaving any loose ends’ that I realised they were arguing about what to do with me. A car pulled up… It was a small Rover, I think…”
Bull held up a hand to stay him “Do you mean a Metro?” he asked.
Myers shook his head. “No, a 214 or 216, red in colour. Anyway, a skinny white boy with ridiculously bushy sideburns running down the side of his face got out, couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty… As the doctor ushered the brute with the dreadlocks towards it, the evil bastard spun and pointed the gun at me. I tried to duck down, but the flight harnesses held me firmly in place, effectively making me a sitting duck…”
Myers was struggling to speak; his breathing had become increasingly laboured and little beads of perspiration were erupting from every pore in his face.
Bull became aware of the mean faced battle axe striding towards them. “Go on,” he whispered urgently. “We’re nearly finished, and you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.” He wasn’t sure that Myers would, but he couldn’t go back without hearing the last bit.
Myers nodded and then wiped the moisture from his brow. He stared at his glass longingly but it was empty. “I’m told that two shots were fired at me,” he said, “but I only saw one muzzle flash. After that, everything went black. What I do recall is the doctor pushing the big man’s gun arm up at the last moment. Do you think he was trying to save my life?”
Before Bull could answer, the scary ward sister was looming over him. “Right, that’s it. Time’s up. On your bike, sonny Jim.”
◆◆◆
When the phone rang, Garston assumed it would be Flogger calling him back about the antibiotics, but when he checked the caller ID his heart sank. It was Sonia again. He took a deep breath and pressed the green button with his thumb. “Hello Sonia,” he said, readying himself for the verbal onslaught that was sure to follow.
“YOU BASTARD,” she screamed at him. “You got my poor Errol killed. How could you do that to him? He trusted you!”
“What the hell are you on about?” Garston spluttered, reacting as though he had just been slapped. If it hadn’t been for the indescribably raw pain in her voice, he might have thought she was drunk.
Sonia couldn’t speak, but her sobbing spoke for itself.
“The last time I saw Errol he was alive and well,” he promised her, neglecting to add that he’d been running for his life, with the Old Bill hot on his heels.
“He’s dead… my poor baby’s dead…”
Garston’s throat suddenly went dry. “I don’t understand,” he said lamely, but it didn’t take him long to join the dots. Errol was the unnamed man he’d heard about on the news – the one who had been shot by the police during the incident down by the BTNA yesterday afternoon.
A piercing howl escaped Sonia’s lips, and her pain washed over him like a tangible entity. “He’s fucking dead, Deontay. The police… those motherfuckers shot him yesterday…” she broke off, wracked by giant sobs. “… I thought he was gonna pull through, but he didn’t…” a long pause while she struggled to catch her breath. “…My poor baby died during the night, all alone with tubes sticking out of him and an armed guard sitting by his side instead of me.”
Garston slumped down in the lumpy armchair, shocked. “I don’t know what to say,” he stammered.
“Tell me the truth, Deontay,” Sonia demanded, and he could tell she was on the verge of hysteria. “Were
