After calling ahead and writing down directions from a guy named Jason McCullick, York screwed up the scrap of paper and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. His hand brushed against something else. Standing in the subtle breeze of twilight he pulled the foreign object from his pocket and held it at arm's length, scrutinising its existence.
Remember this, Nicolas…Remember me.
On the night of his back-alley scrap with the Valentine Killer, he recalled the blurry image of the blonde woman looking down at him, assuring him help was coming. For some unexplainable reason, he’d believed her unequivocally. As his mind raced backwards, he remembered her sliding something into his pocket. Then she took off and he proceeded to bleed to death.
Keep your eyes open. Help is on the way.
Tentatively, he unfolded the slip of paper and read what was written in neat effeminate handwriting.
Nicolas
If you recall speaking to me on the phone, then you know who I am and what I can offer. I have been watching you. I can only apologise for the cloak and dagger routine but I in turn am being observed. If they see me talking to you, they will know I am not who I say I am.
When the time is right, I will arrange to meet you.
What I said to you on the phone is accurate. Your son is alive.
Below is the address of a house I have had under surveillance for some time. I believe Frasier, amongst others, is being held there by an organisation headed up by someone who goes by the alias “The Face.” One wrong move here and he will disappear, and probably so too will your son.
I don’t know where else to turn now. I am desperate and you are the one person remaining who might be able to help.
You need only to believe, Nicolas, and you’re one step closer to getting him back.
K.
York toppled against the car, a sharp stab of pain lancing through his wound. He bit down on his lip to stop from crying out. A billion questions danced around in his head:
Who was this woman and how did she know these things? Could he trust her, and who were “they”?
How was he the one remaining person who could help her?
Shoving the note down into his pocket he stood up straight and brushed himself off, took several deep breaths. He thought about calling Graham and getting him to run some checks on the address, but the author of the note was right, he needed to play it cool.
Heading unsteadily into the hospital reception, he asked the desk girl for Jason McCullick.
‘Someone say my name?’ The voice emanated from behind the desk in a small back office. Poking his head around the door, a lean thirty-something with a full head of wiry red hair and matching beard eyed him unashamedly. ‘Help you?’
‘DCI Nicolas York,’ he replied holding up his ID.
‘Ah, the mysterious detective up from the Big Smoke,’ said McCullick cheerily in a thick Scottish brogue. ‘Thank you for calling ahead, sir. How exactly can we help you?’
York plucked off his hat and laid it on the reception counter. ‘I’m not even sure you can. I just have a few questions about Arthur Faulkner if you wouldn’t mind indulging me.’
‘Ah, the illustrious Mr Faulkner,’ said McCullick. ‘Colourful character, that one.’
‘So I hear.’
McCullick looked him up and down. ‘You okay, Inspector? You’re looking a little ashen.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.’
Unlocking the door from the inside, McCullick let York into the office and offered him a cup of coffee. He graciously accepted, needing something to warm him through.
‘So what exactly is it about Arthur that interests you so much?’ asked the young carer.
‘Well, that’s a touchy subject. Do you care directly for him?’
‘We’re no wee outfit here,' said McCullick. 'We have over four hundred patients and I myself am merely one of two thousand staff members.’
‘You call them patients?’
‘Did you miss the sign on your way in saying “hospital?” We run a facility for the sick here, my friend, regardless of what they might have done to put themselves here.’
York nodded. ‘And Arthur Faulkner?’
‘Aye, Arthur is amongst the sickest, been here since 1966. Totally delusional, hasn’t responded to treatment in over twenty-five years. Man still thinks he’s being brutalised inside a POW camp, hospitalised a number of the carers believing them to be German soldiers. Last time that happened was over three years ago now, though. These days he just sits at his window and stares out into the day. Man really has suffered.’
He’s suffered? York wanted to say. What about the wife of the doctor he murdered? What about the son he tortured? Instead he said, ‘Can I see him?’
‘Aye,’ the Scot replied. ‘That is if he’s pliant. Spends most of his days pretty zoned out now. He doesn’t get any visitors.’ Grabbing a large bunch of keys, he added, ‘Sign in at reception and pop on this pass. We’ll see if the patient is in the mood for company.’
*
As they walked, York wondered why they always painted the walls inside hospitals white. He thought about asking McCullick but decided against it. The moans and voices from some of the cells radiated out into the corridor, echoing eerily back and forth. ‘Everyone has their own cell?’ York asked.
‘My God, yes!’ gasped McCullick as though the question was stupid. ‘Would you throw a
