David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good (8 page)

       
It made me think that
why she’d sent the boots was a more relevant question than who had sent them.
Could it be something to clear the air, after last night’s fight? An indication
of the kind of influence she could bring to bear, ahead of us working together?
Or a little demonstration that I was playing on her turf, and she was planning
to call the shots?

       
The only way to find out
would be to talk to her. I didn’t have her number so I made my way down to her
corridor and walked to the far end. The door to her room was closed, and there
was no reply when I knocked. I thought about waiting in the room opposite,
which was still vacant, but decided against it. The sickly disinfectant smell
that hung in the hospital air was making me queasy, so if I had to hang around
anywhere, I wanted it to be outside.

       
I’d planned to return to
the bench I’d used yesterday, but when I reached the garden I quickly changed
my mind. Three people were sprawling all over the one next to it. They were all
male, in their early twenties. Their jeans were ripped and stained, and their
T-shirts were covered with vulgar slogans and logos of bands I’d never heard
of. Their pale,
pointy heads
were shaved. They were
making enough noise for a dozen people. And even though it was still morning,
they were already acting like they were drunk. Crumpled beer cans
lay
in a broad circle around them. I counted thirteen. Then
the tallest of the group added a fourteenth as I settled on the bench furthest
away from them.

       
“What’re you looking
at?” he said, when he
realised
I was watching him.

       
I stayed silent, but held
his gaze until he eventually looked away.

       
The sun was shining
weakly through the light, fluffy clouds. It wasn’t warm, but it would still
have been a pleasant morning if I’d had the garden to myself. Or to share with
people I’d chosen to be with.
Although, if I was honest about
it, there weren’t very many of those left.

       
“
Oy
!”
a male voice said, breaking my chain of thought.

       
A man had entered the
garden from the opposite side and was gesturing half-heartedly at the three
lads. He was wearing a uniform, of sorts.
A security guard’s.
From a private company rather than the hospital itself, I’d say, judging by the
logo on his chest.

       
“Yes, you,” the guard
said. “All of you. I’ve told you before. This garden isn’t for you. It’s for
patients. Visitors. Hospital staff. And that’s all. You’re trespassing. So.
Stop what you’re doing and get lost.”

       
The guy who’d spoken to
me picked up an empty can from the ground, tossed it in the air, and headed it
into a bush.

       
“Going to make us?” he
said.

       
One of the others climbed
on the back of the bench and started to tight-rope-walk from one end to the
other. The third stood up and looked a little lost for a moment. Then he pulled
a flat, half-size bottle of generic supermarket whisky from his inside pocket,
twisted off the lid, and took a long swig.

       
“I’ve warned you,” the
guard said, after staring at each one in turn. “I’ve given you a chance. Be
gone in five minutes or I’ll be back with the police.”

       
“He won’t,” the tallest
one said in my direction as the guard slunk away. “He always threatens us. But
he never comes back.”

I sat in the garden for another twenty minutes, and saw that the lout
was right. The guard didn’t return. I was wondering whether he’d ever intended
to, if this was such a frequent occurrence. Or whether he always tried, but
could never get the police to show any interest. They must have bigger fish to
fry than a trio of half-hearted vandals. And the more I thought about it, the
more I began to suspect the threat was just an excuse to walk away.

       
Two minutes later a pair
of nurses opened the door the guard had used. They paused for a moment while
they took in the way the group was behaving,
then
backed away. That meant no fresh air for them, after all, which didn’t seem
right. It made me wonder whether I should have given the guard a hand, earlier.
I could have shown him a more practical approach to the problem. I was still
mulling this over, debating whether to have a little word with the lads before
heading upstairs to see if the MI5 agent was back in her room, when the door
opened again. And, as if she’d known I was thinking about her, the agent
appeared.

       
She wheeled straight out
onto the path. It seemed like she was looking in my direction, but I knew her
peripheral vision would be locked onto the
yobs
. The
residual twigs and broken branches made it hard for her to move, and as she
struggled forwards the three lads stopped what they were doing and stared at
her. She drew level with them, and the tall one reached into the bush to
retrieve the can he’d headed there earlier. She kept going, apparently
oblivious, until she was fifteen feet beyond their bench. Then the guy threw
the can. It looped up in the air, in a big lazy arc, and crashed down against
her right shoulder. She stopped. I held my breath. I guessed it would be too
much to ask for her to stand up, draw her Sig, and scare the life out of them,
but I was sure she’d do something to bring them into line.

       
She stayed still, and
did nothing.

       
Then it dawned on me.
She wouldn’t want to blow her cover. I didn’t have to worry, though, so I shot
her a look:

       
Want me to care of this?

       
She shook her head, and
started moving again. So did the hooligans. Two of them caught up with her
before she’d traveled three more yards, and the third - the one with the whisky
bottle - was only a couple of paces behind them. They shadowed her for a
moment, looming over her from behind, leering at their prey
,
then the tall one took hold of the chair’s hand grips. He pushed down and the
chair tipped, its front wheels leaving the ground. The agent let out a little
scream and the idiots around her grinned. The one holding the chair spun her
round in a complete circle and then let go, leaving her to crash down and roll
diagonally until her wheels became snagged with debris once again. She glanced
round, checking on their positions, then looked straight at me.

       
Stay where you are. Don’t interfere,
her eyes were saying.

       
I didn’t understand. I
assumed she was getting ready to make some kind of move, but she showed no sign
of responding. And I couldn’t help thinking that if she gave them much more
rope,
it wouldn’t be themselves they’d be trying to hang.

       
The guy who’d been
standing on the bench moved around behind the agent’s chair and pushed down on
her shoulders, pinning her in place. Then the taller one stepped across in
front of her and began to unzip what remained of his jeans. The agent’s eyes
registered nothing until she
realised
I was moving.
The
yob
noticed me coming towards him a moment later.
He glanced at the wall behind me,
then
took a large
step to his left. I adjusted my course to follow him, but as I drew close he
didn’t make an attempt to defend himself. Or even to argue with me. He just
threw himself backwards, going down like he’d been shot and almost burying the
side of his head into the ground.

Chapter Seven

The two
yobs
that were still on their feet
converged on their friend, then together they hauled the idiot up off the
ground. The three of them stood still for a moment, arms around each other like
exhausted runners at the end of a marathon. Then the tallest one broke free and
started for the exit at the far end of the garden. Little pieces of gravel were
still sticking out of his scalp and blood was oozing over the folds of his neck
onto his T-shirt. The others followed him without a word. I watched until the
door closed behind them, then became aware of the agent maneuvering her chair
past me as she wheeled towards the nearest bench.

       
I walked across and sat next
to her, expecting her to say something, but she seemed content to wait in
silence.

       
“What was that all
about?” I said, eventually.

       
“A couple of things,”
she said.

       
“The guy just threw
himself on the floor.”

       
“I know. He was playing
to the camera. But don’t worry. It won’t do him any good.”

       
“What do you mean,
‘playing to the camera?’”

       
“You saw where it was
mounted on the wall, right? Over there, behind the bench you were sitting on?”

       
“I saw it.”

       
“And you saw how he
lined himself up, with you between it and him? He was trying to make it look
like you assaulted him. Probably looking for compensation, from somewhere. But
he won’t get any.”

       
“Of course he won’t. I
didn’t touch him.”

       
“Ha. That’s not the
reason. It’s because the camera’s not working. I had cause to check it, very
recently.”

       
“I thought those cameras
were to protect innocent people.”

       
“They are.”

       
“But now the criminals
are using them to their advantage? That’s crazy.”

       
The agent shrugged.

       
“Criminals have rights,
too,” she said.

       
“You know what they call
us, in the States?” I said. “One nation, under CCTV. I used to think they were
joking. Now I can see why.”

       
“They do a lot of good,
too,” she said, after a moment. “The cameras. When they’re working. Did the
boots arrive yet, by the way?” I told them to put a rush on the delivery.”

       
“So you are M,” I said.
“I thought so.”

       
“You were right. I am.”

       
“Is that the whole of
your name?”

       
“No. It’s Melissa.
Melissa Wainwright.”

       
“Pleased to meet you,
Melissa. I’m David
Trevellyan
. But you already knew
that. You knew a lot about me, in fact. Including my shoe size, it seems.
Unless that was a lucky guess.”

       
“I saw the notes that
Jackson had made after your meeting. Our pencil-pushing friend is very
thorough. He’d written down the size. The brand. The
colour
.
Everything.”

       
“Well, thanks for
sending them. That was another surprise you sprang on me. A nice one, this
time, though.”

       
“I’m glad you like them.
I wasn’t sure they’d be an appropriate ‘welcome to the team’ present, in the
circumstances, though.”

       
“Why not? What’s
inappropriate about boots?”

       
“Well, I remember you
saying you couldn’t wait to leave the hospital. Now, here you are, having to
stay.”

       
“True. But it’s not a
problem. I’ve been stuck in worse places. And I’m very adaptable.”

       
“Can you adapt to
working with us, do you think?”

       
“Why shouldn’t I? Or are
you unusually hard to work with?”

       
“I wouldn’t say so. But
from what I hear, teamwork isn’t normally your forte.”

       
I shrugged. Working in
teams wasn’t usually a problem. It was leaving them intact when I’d finished
that was the issue.
Specially
if one of the team
members was hiding any
unsavoury
motives, which they
usually were, if there was a reason for me to be involved. And looking across
at the agent, I couldn’t help wondering if that would be case, here.

       
“How many times have you
operated in the UK before?” she said.

       
“I never have,” I said.
“Does that matter?”

       
“I think it might. Look
at how you just responded to those cameras. And our CCTV’s just the tip of the
iceberg. I’ve seen a list of the places you’ve been posted to lately, and I
don’t care where your passport says you were born. There are very real ways the
UK’s going to be the most foreign place you’ve ever worked. I don’t think
you’re going to like it.”

       
I didn’t say anything,
but I was beginning to think she might be right.