Run #3
“The second clinical trial was overseen by Sylvie Leblanc, assisted by Stephan Dytrovich. I received confirmation yesterday. The information will reach the press this morning. Journalists—being who they are—are likely to make connections and draw conclusions linking the trial, the accident and the attack on Leblanc. No doubt the police will want to question Puchinsky, as well. While you have been away, I have also been looking into the minibus driver, Bill McDonald. According to the pathologist’s report, he had a rare and fatal blood disorder.
Probably had three to four months to live.
In addition, a substantial cash deposit had been made into his wife’s account two weeks before the accident. And I could not trace the donor.”
“You have solid proof of this?”
“This could be unrelated. But there will be enough evidence in the public domain to stop the release of this miracle drug. Puchinsky will never stand trial for murder, you do know that, don’t you? He is too clever. Nothing will stick. He has made sure nothing could be traced back to him.”
“Then I will—”
“No. I told you. Puchinsky will be dealt with when the time is right.”
“What if he tries to have Leblanc killed?”
“As desperate as he is, even he would not be that crazy or stupid. After tonight, she will have police protection. A guard on her room around the clock.”
“Hold on one second, Doctor. Lorenzo is back.”
Lorenzo enters the room and hands me my rucksack. I open the flap, dig out the contents of the attacker’s bag and lay everything on the table.
“There’s around three thousand in cash, an architect’s blueprint of the hospital, an empty vial and a blue Belarusian passport bearing the name of Dzmitryi Ganchar.
The photograph is definitely the man I tackled in the room.
There’s also a black metal handgun, probably manufactured in Eastern Europe—”
“A Makarov pistol, Russian design,” says Lorenzo, picking up the weapon.
“Lorenzo, scan and send a copy of the passport to me along with the serial number on the gun. I will do what I can. Now, where do we go from here?”
“Should we return to Monticiano?” I ask.
“After tonight, I advise you not to cross international borders. But you need to get out of London and go underground for a couple of weeks. I assume you gave the hospital your address in London?”
“I had no choice.”
“Then you must not return. Aksel needs to disappear. I suggest you use one of the disguises Mrs Bellacci provided and head to a remote location. What is the address of Dr Maurice Leblanc?”
“Honeycomb Cottage in Carlisle,” I respond.
“Where is Carlisle?” asks Lorenzo.
“It’s in the north of England. Before the border with Scotland.”
“How far from here?”
“Around three hundred miles.”
Romano makes a strange noise at the end of the phone, something like a muttered expletive in Italian.
“Of course,” he says. “That is what she meant.”
Lorenzo and I look puzzled at each other.
“What do you mean? What who meant?” I ask.
“Leblanc was not saying ‘echoes’. The nurse misheard her. I believe what she wanted to tell you was Ecosse. Scotland. And I think you know why.”
A coldness runs through me, my past coming back to haunt me.
“When I lost my memory in the train crash, I was on my way to Glasgow in Scotland.”
“And I think you will find answers in Scotland.”
“Scotland is a big country.”
“Then I urge you to stop off in Carlisle and visit Leblanc. Find out what he knows. But before you do that, I suggest you stay off the grid for at least two weeks. There will be a nationwide hunt for Aksel. Not only the police, but those who will doubtless come to the conclusion that Gabriel is still alive and is dangerous. I will send you the address and access arrangement for a lodge in the north of England, where you will be safe. Stay there for now. When things have settled, and I am satisfied that we are ready, I will contact you through Lorenzo.”
Once Romano rings off, I sit back and sip on lukewarm coffee. After a few seconds, Lorenzo’s phone pings with a message. He is quiet, and I notice him studying me when I look over.
“Since your accident,” he asks, “have you ever taken a train to Scotland?”
“Never.”
“The safe house Doctor Romano sent is in a place called the Lake District. Shall I leave the bike here and we take the train? Or would you be okay on the back of my motorbike? Three hundred miles is a long way to ride as a passenger.”
I don’t scare. I have no need for that emotion. But the thought of taking the northbound train fills me with foreboding and dread. On the other hand, riding the train might unlock hidden memories.
“Are motorbikes allowed on trains in this country?” he asks, clearly sensing my hesitation.
“No. We need to ride your bike. Doing so will not only help us avoid being spotted in public places but also give us greater flexibility and freedom. Would you agree to us taking turns? Riding the bike?”
“Would you agree to us taking turns in the bedroom?” he answers.
I smirk at him just as my stomach growls with hunger.
“If I say yes, can we please eat?”