Dancing With Mortality Page 14

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ he asked.

  ‘Just with myself. I don’t like being deceived. You used me to get to Michael, and I let you do it.’

  He had nothing to say to that, other than ‘Sorry.’ She said she’d call him a taxi, so he finished his coffee as fast as he could, and said he’d wait in the street. She didn’t dissuade him.

  As he put on his coat he asked if he could call her again, just to assure her there would be no further questions from anybody.

  ‘I think that’s the least you can do, Harry. It was nice to meet you. Take care.’

  Then he was in the street and he saw the taxi ascending the hill to meet him.

  Chapter 14

  Sophie wasn’t at Heathrow to meet him the day he flew back. It was a Saturday morning, and she’d told him she wanted to go down to the house in Tunbridge Wells on the Friday night to fill the fridge and warm the place up. If the temperature in London was anything to go by, that was probably a wise move. He sat idly thumbing the in-flight magazine as the Heathrow Express train rumbled its way to Paddington. He still needed to negotiate the Circle Line to Charing Cross, but engineering works notwithstanding, he should make it home by mid-afternoon.

  The German ‘mission’, if he could call it that, was done. He’d reported back to Jack a day after returning to Frankfurt. Yes, she had remembered him from the hospital, and no she didn’t know where O’Reilly was. Could he resume normal life now, and for that matter, could Sabine?

  ‘Was she telling the truth, Harry?’

  ‘If she wasn’t then she’s a pretty good liar. Will you leave her alone now?’

  ‘No need for you to get protective. There’s no point in pursuing that line of enquiry any further. It could get a little messy if we were to put a German National under duress.’

  Anger and relief vied for supremacy. Relief won by a short head, and Harry kept his voice level. ‘Good, she had enough duress from yours truly. I’ll let her know. What will you do now?’

  ‘We’ll try O’Reilly’s father. Mother’s dead I think. He’s in Belfast, so we can take a more official line with him. Depends how stubborn he is I suppose.’

  ‘Right. Well, do you need anything more from me?’

  ‘Not right now, Harry. If I find out anything that throws light on Natalie’s death in the course of my enquiries I’ll let you know. But for now, thanks for your help.’

  And that was that. He’d phoned Sabine and relayed the good news. She didn’t sound particularly reassured.

  ‘I hope you’re right, Harry. Are you finished with your part in this now?’

  ‘Nothing more for me to do. I’m sorry I lied to you. But I’m glad we met. You told me enough for me to think Michael wasn’t involved after all, and maybe after all this time I can start to move on. So it wasn’t all bad, for me at least.’

  ‘I’m glad, Harry. I apologise for being so rude the morning you left, but it was a bit disturbing having the past dragged up like that. Anyway, if you’re ever near Heidelberg again, let me know. I’ll make another Pavlova.’

  He laughed, suddenly happy. ‘Sure, you can depend on it.’

  He made it back to Tunbridge Wells without delays. He phoned Sophie on the way and she picked him up from the station. He slung his two cases in the boot and claimed the driver’s seat.

  ‘Nice to drive on the right side of the road again,’ he said.

  ‘This is the left, darling,’ replied Sophie with a straight face.

  He placed his hand on the back of her neck, as if to throttle her. ‘Thank you for that.’

  ‘Any time.’ She grinned. ‘Good flight?’

  He looked at her. ‘You look gorgeous. I think I should exercise my conjugal rites when we get in. Last time you slept with me you were incapable.’

  She cast him a sideways glance. ‘Laying down the law now? I had too much beer last time. But if you’re patient and very nice to me...’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ It was good to be back. No more cloak and dagger, and maybe no more dreams about Ireland either. He felt a cautious optimism emerging as they pulled into the drive. It became so pervasive that as soon as they got inside he found himself casting patience aside as he reached for his only slightly protesting wife, and took her straight to the bedroom.

  They emerged a couple of hours later, and it was already dark.

  ‘I get first shower,’ said Sophie. ‘There’s mail for you downstairs.’

  He went down to the lounge in his dressing gown and turned on the lights. It was getting dark so early already, he thought, and the temperature outside was no doubt plummeting. The lounge was warm. His mail lay on the coffee table, and he sorted the envelopes. Statements and bills mostly, but there was also something from St. Thomas’s. He opened it and skimmed the contents.

  They wanted him to have a biopsy. An appointment had been made for the 15th November. It was all explained. Someone would slide a needle between his ribs under local anaesthetic and take a small liver sample for analysis. He should be prepared to stay in for six hours afterwards just to ensure there was no internal bleeding following the procedure. Apparently this was the best way of ascertaining just how damaged his liver might be. Please direct any questions he might have to Dr Ashe on the following extension. And so on.

  He sat down, placing the letter on the table as he did so. While he’d been away he’d completely forgotten he had this bloody condition. And of course he’d pledged to become the new, improved Harry, who would henceforth subsist on only lentils and pomegranate juice, and no doubt live to be 100 years old. Or perhaps it would only seem that long.

  Sophie came down the stairs, scrubbed and dressed. ‘All yours,’ she said. ‘I’m going to cook something.’

  ‘Ok. See you in a minute.’ He went back upstairs to the bathroom and stood under the shower. He put his left hand on the right side of his body, over his ribs. Before he discovered hep C he didn’t even know where his liver was. We take so much for granted, he reflected, certainly feels the same as ever. And they want to stick a needle in there. Well, I suppose there are worse places to put it.

  The shower was refreshing after so much travelling. He got dressed and then took the letter into the kitchen for a second opinion. Sophie took it with an enquiring look and started to read. ‘Stir that for me, will you?’ she said. There was what looked like a casserole simmering on the stove. He stirred as instructed, and waited.

  ‘This doesn’t seem like much fun,’ she remarked, after reading it twice. ‘You should go though.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. At least afterwards I’ll know what I’m up against.’

  ‘And they can treat it?’

  ‘Mmm. The drugs sound horrendous, and not too effective either. I’ll need to weigh up the pros and cons first.’

  ‘I think we should worry about it tomorrow.’ She looked worried nonetheless.

  ‘Don’t be too concerned, I’ll work something out.’

  ‘I know. Right now I’m more concerned about the casserole. Keep stirring.’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ He smiled to himself and did as he was told.

  Work assumed its normal routine once the inevitable jibes on his time away had been delivered. Certain colleagues felt obliged to let him know that now he was back the German economy could resume its normal upwards trajectory in spite of his best efforts to derail it, and that the women of Frankfurt would once again feel free to go out unaccompanied, as reported by the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung only that morning, should he require confirmation.

  Bloody wits, he thought without rancour. Gina wanted a run down of his time in the Frankfurt office and a discussion of what he needed to do now he was back. They went out for a lunch meeting, at which she made it clear that she was satisfied with what her German counterpart had told her about him. No mention was made of private clients in Heidelberg, for which he breathed a silent sigh of relief. Neil dragged him out for a drink that evening, but he cut it short after two beers. He was mindful that h
e needed to cut back on the booze, and that it wasn’t going to be a trivial undertaking given his liking for it. His willpower was about to be tested.

  The 15th arrived, and having booked the entire day off he arrived as scheduled at St. Thomas’s. A doctor he’d never met before escorted him to a cubicle, where he removed his shirt and lay on a hospital trolley while the needle was inserted. Even with the local it was an uncomfortable sensation, and then they wheeled him off to a recovery area, where his blood pressure was taken at hourly intervals. His shoulder hurt, which he thought was strange, and they told him it was referred pain and nothing to worry about. After six hours they discharged him, saying that in two weeks Dr Ashe would have the results. And would he make sure he had someone in the house with him tonight, just in case. He assured them that he’d find someone and left, feeling glad it was all over. He went straight to the station, just in time for the 4.15 train. The Mercedes was in the station car park and he was back in the house by 5.30.

  There was a jiffy bag on the hall floor when he opened the door. He picked it up and saw that it was postmarked Heidelberg. Must be the CDs Sabine promised, he thought. What he really wanted at that moment was a gin and tonic, so he made one and sat down at the kitchen table with it. Should I do this after a biopsy? he wondered. Probably not. He opened the envelope and two CDs slid out. The first one had a cover showing her and the group he’d seen at the Jazzhaus, clearly a studio recording, with a list of tracks and some blurb in German on the back. The second was a plain CD, no cover. And there was a letter, also in German. He began to read it.

  ‘Dear Harry, the first disk is an album I recorded in 1998. The second is a mix of tracks I played on over several years, and that I like the most. I hope you will too. Let me know what you think. On a separate subject – the phone number below is a public call box in Universitätsplatz. I will be there on Monday, 19th November at 11am. There is something I want to discuss with you privately. Do not call me from your mobile please, but either from a call box or your office. When you get this either text me with “Thank you for the CDs”, meaning yes I will call you at 11am, or “Where are my CDs?” for no, not available. Love, Sabine.’

  He was intrigued, she didn’t want to chance being overheard, that much was clear. Whatever it was it must be important if she’d gone to all this trouble. He texted her the ‘yes’ message and then decided it might be a good idea to dispose of her letter. He went upstairs to the little study, where he copied the phone number on to a post it note and then used the paper shredder. His mobile bleeped, he had an incoming text. It was her. ‘You’re welcome, speak soon x.’ He wondered what the hell it was about. Roll on Monday.

  He realised when he got back to the kitchen and retrieved his neglected drink, that Sophie knew nothing about his forays into the German jazz scene, and would wonder about the CDs if he started playing them in the house. He could invent some story explaining their arrival he supposed, but he didn’t want to do that. No, he’d keep them in the car, or play them when she stayed in Fulham, as she did at least one night a week, purely for the convenience of being close to work. He took them upstairs and found a drawer for them in the study. She would be home soon, and he was supposed to be resting. He’d wait for her call and then collect her from the station, and they would spend a normal evening together doing what married couples do. Which wasn’t always a hell of a lot admittedly, he thought, but I’d rather do that with her than without.

  As if on cue his mobile rang.

  ‘Hi, I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘How did it go today?’

  ‘It was fine. I don’t like hospitals that much though. I’m supposed to be taking it easy, and if I bleed to death in the night you need to be here to call someone.’

  ‘Harry! Can you drive? I can always get a taxi.’

  ‘No, I’m ok. I’m leaving now.’

  ‘Ok, see you soon.’

  He found his overcoat and car keys and then made for the car. He dumped the jiffy bag in the rubbish bin on his way past. It was only sensible to remove all incriminating evidence he figured. They’d make a spy out of him yet.

  There was a tiny meeting room on the 6th floor of the bank, big enough for two people and a phone. Harry booked it and made his way there just before 11am on Monday. Before going in he had a quick look around. There were dozens of people sat at neat rows of desks, staring at computer screens and tapping at keyboards. He had a fleeting vision of battery hens, then he stepped inside and closed the door.

  He could dial Germany without going through the operator, which was convenient. He just hoped someone else hadn’t reached the call box in Heidelberg ahead of Sabine, but the number wasn’t engaged, and she answered straight away.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. I’m at the office. This is all very mysterious, Sabine. What’s going on?’

  ‘Before I tell you, I need your promise that this conversation stays between you and me. It’s not to go any further. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ There was a short silence. ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’ He could sense the reluctance in her manner as she continued. ‘After you left Heidelberg I had a conversation about your visit with someone. That person asked me to contact you with a suggestion.’ Another pause.

  ‘What suggestion? And who was it?’

  She didn’t answer directly. ‘I think this is unwise, but I agreed to talk to you. The suggestion is that if you still want to know who killed Natalie, he may be able to help. He thinks the same man is responsible for the death of his sister.’

  ‘I see. And how can he help, exactly?’

  ‘He wants to meet you, Harry. I told him about your involvement with certain people, but he wasn’t put off. I still think it’s stupid, and the best thing for you to do is say no. But it’s your decision.’

  He thought for a moment. She was right, it was certainly risky on O’Reilly’s part. He could have no assurance that Harry wouldn’t simply turn up accompanied by Jack Hudson and anyone else from SIS he might care to bring along. So why do it?

  ‘Where do we meet?’ he asked.

  ‘You come to my place. You’ll need to arrange a week’s holiday, because we will be taking a long drive. And Harry – this concerns you and you only. Give me your word on that.’

  ‘You have my word. When do you want to go?’

  ‘In the next two weeks if possible. Let me know when you want to come, and I will fit it in with my schedule.’

  He wasn’t sure if he could take leave at such short notice. He’d just have to be creative about it. ‘Ok, I’ll get back to you. Tell him I agree to the meeting.’

  ‘Fine, see you soon then. Bye.’ She was gone.

  He wondered if he looked as furtive as he felt, and he was glad to have the privacy of the meeting room and the thinking space it offered. There was no reason for Jack to know about this, and if O’Reilly was right about Nat’s killer it was surely a step in the right direction. He must be pretty sure of himself on that score to reveal himself like this. Or was there another motive?

  He quietly exited the room and made his way to his next meeting, thinking that it might just be better to let sleeping dogs lie. But it seemed it was already too late, this one was wide awake, and ready to bark. And he wanted to be there when it did.

  He told Gina he was feeling run down and needed a week somewhere warm to recuperate, the Canary Islands perhaps. He was sorry for the short notice. She was less than pleased, but conceded that she would prefer him not to be working if he didn’t feel 100%. And he wouldn’t be paid for his absence.

  ‘Is Sophie going with you?’

  ‘No, just me. She’s busy at work.’

  ‘Everything all right at home?’

  ‘Fine, Gina. I just want to eat, sleep and see Lanzarote. Sophie can do without me for a week.’

  Gina didn’t press it. He told Sophie he was needed for a week in Frankfurt, which was almost the truth. Sophie and Gina had
never met, and as he wasn’t expecting that to change any time soon if ever, he thought he should be covered. He texted Sabine to say he could make it first week of December, which she confirmed, and he was ready to go.

  The last thing he had to do prior to leaving, apart from cancelling his next appointment with Cindy, was to discuss his biopsy results. Two weeks after the event he found himself once more in Dr Ashe’s office at St. Thomas’s, apprehensively awaiting the findings. The doctor came straight to the point.

  ‘Mr Ellis, your biopsy shows that your liver has stage 3 fibrosis, which is in the severe range. Given that...’

  ‘What does that mean?’ interjected Harry.

  ‘Sorry,’ replied Dr Ashe, shuffling Harry’s notes to one side. He leaned forward slightly, placing his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘Fibrosis is scarring, essentially, and too much scarring impairs liver function. Which eventually leads to cirrhosis and other complications. My recommendation is that you start treatment as soon as possible.’

  Perhaps I should be doing the praying, thought Harry. ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or you increase the risk of developing cirrhosis and liver failure. It could happen quite quickly, or it could be some years away. That’s what we’re looking at.’

  ‘I see.’ This was not what he wanted to hear. ‘Tell me about the treatment then.’

  The treatment consisted of one self administered weekly injection of interferon combined with ribavirin tablets, ideally over a 12 month period. If he didn’t respond after three months they might consider stopping it. These were powerful drugs, and he might suffer side effects like fatigue, itching, hair loss, possible thyroid problems and depression. People responded differently to treatment, and there was no way to predict how things would progress.

  ‘I know it sounds a bit daunting,’ said Dr Ashe, ‘but you may sail through the treatment with very few problems.’