Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [reading in the dark TXT] 📗

“That’s right.” I looked at Dehan. She shook her head that she had no questions—not for Simon at least—and we stood. “Take it easy, Simon.” I patted his shoulder and we went inside to look for Dr. Fenshaw.

We found him in his office, sitting behind his desk reading a file. He looked up and smiled. “Come in. Sit down. Was the interview helpful?”

We sat and while I scratched my chin, Dehan asked what I was about to ask. “Who is Dr. Peters?”

He frowned. “I don’t know any Dr. Peters.”

I said, “Let me ask you a different question. Who was Simon’s visitor?”

He went very still. “I am not in a position to answer that question.”

I grunted. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” I put the photograph on the desk and watched his face. “That’s him, right? It’s OK, Simon already identified him, but he identified him as Dr. Peters. Can you think why he would use a false name to talk to Simon?”

His expression became abstracted. He shook his head slowly, then blinked and shook it more vigorously. “I… Really, I am not in a position to answer that question. Especially as you have no jurisdiction in this country. Have an English detective come, with a warrant, and I will happily answer any questions you like.”

“I understand. Just answer me this, which I am pretty sure is not covered by any kind of privilege. It should be a matter of public record and I am pretty sure you don’t want a lot of cops, American or English, tramping around asking this kind of question—was he appointed by the court, did you choose him, or did he offer himself?”

He sighed heavily. “I certainly didn’t choose him. As to whether he was appointed by the judge or offered his services, I don’t know. It may have been a bit of both. It made sense, anyway, for obvious reasons.”

“OK, thank you, Doctor. I imagine Detective Inspector Green will be in touch in due course. You have been very helpful.”

His face didn’t really reveal whether he was happy about that or not, probably because he himself wasn’t sure.

We stepped out into the evening sunshine and made our way to the car in the small parking lot at the side of the clinic. We pulled out and headed back out the gate, past the small hamlet of Goodnestone and up the long, narrow road through the fields, toward the dark mass of the forest. We had the windows down to let in the warm, evening breeze, and a vast murmuration of starlings swarmed across the sky in the east, seeming to fold over itself and reform like a bizarre piece of giant, flying plasma. Eventually, it seemed to be sucked into the trees and vanished.

Dehan watched it disappear and spoke, still staring at the trees. “I have to tell you, Stone, I am feeling a little lost here. Who the hell is Dr. Peters now?”

We were swallowed by the trees and engulfed suddenly in green-mottled darkness. The headlamps came on and we plunged ever deeper into a long, black tunnel, split here and there by thin slashes of evening sunlight. I glanced in the mirror and saw the glowing portal of light through which we had entered diminishing and withdrawing behind us.

“Dr. Peters was a fake name,” I said.

She looked at me with a face of irony. “Yeah, I’d got that far, Sherlock. I’m asking who he is in reality. Who is the guy in the photograph?”

“Well, I still have to prove the connection, Dehan. But the guy in the photograph was Brad Johnson’s defense attorney back in 2003. It looks like he was appointed to represent Simon Clarence when Dr. Fenshaw decided to section him…”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Holy attorneys, Batman…”

“Have you got your seatbelt on?”

“Of course, why?”

“Things could get bumpy.”

I was watching the mirror and a car had just pulled out from a narrow, overgrown path behind us and was closing fast. I began to accelerate, speeding toward the glowing end of the long tunnel of trees. The car behind us switched on its headlamps and continued to close, gaining speed. Then it was pulling over to the right-hand side of the road, aiming to overtake. I heard a roar of a powerful engine and what I could now see was a dark blue Audi drew level with us. I glanced and saw an extended arm and the glint of metal. I bellowed, “Brace!” and slammed on the brakes.

Dehan lunged forward, covering her head with her arms. The Audi overshot us and I saw a flash of flame inside the cab. Hot rage welled up in my belly. I let out the clutch, floored the gas and climbed through the gears, first, second, third, fourth until I was inches from his trunk. Then I floored the clutch and the gas at the same time. The revs screamed into the red and at six thousand revs, I released the clutch. We were maybe three feet from the Audi. The engine bit, the car bucked and we surged forward, smashing hard into the Audi’s trunk. As the steel bit, I yanked the steering wheel right, dragging his rear axle with me into the middle of the road.

Then I braked steadily, keeping control as he skidded sideways away from me down the blacktop. I growled at Dehan, “Stay down!”

Then I floored the gas again, charging straight for his passenger door. I could see a cowering silhouette inside, covering its head with its arms. I muttered something unprintable about trying to shoot my wife and reached for the hand brake. Then shouted something equally unprintable about the jackasses who decided to replace the handbrake with a stupid button. I spun the wheel hard left and hit the brake pedal.

It wasn’t exactly a handbrake turn, but the car swung its ass in a