CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Molly shuffled down the stairs, her bag swung over her shoulder. It was such a relief, she realised, to be heading home, to know that her flat wouldn't be broken into anymore, to go back to a sense of normal.
She smiled at Greg as he quickly picked up around the cabin. Disconnecting her mobile from the computer, he handed it back to her. "Here you go, then."
No sooner had he done so, than all the lights in the cabin flickered off.
"Power outage," He mumbled. "I guess we're lucky we're leaving today then, yeah? Ready to go?"
Molly nodded, all too ready to leave it all behind her, when the email alert sounded from her phone. Pulling it from her pocket, she glanced at the screen. Unable to suppress her gasp, she fell back onto the arm of the sofa.
"Greg!" She croaked.
He was by her side in an instant. "What's wrong?"
"Morrison…he was taken into custody, right?"
Greg nodded.
"Then you've got the wrong man," Molly whispered, her mouth suddenly feeling dry, handing the Detective Inspector her mobile.
There it was. An anonymous email. Greg opened it, refusing to believe the worst without cause.
Unfortunately, he wound up with cause.
Kitten, the email read. I noticed your mobile was being traced, so I didn't call. Actually, that's why I've been avoiding contact. Don't be mad, sweetheart – it's all for you. I hope that wanker who kidnapped you won't be reading your mobile. Don't think he will – doesn't seem very bright. But, I've found you, Kitten. I'm coming for you. No one can hurt you from now on.
Greg wanted to throw the damn thing down in an instant. How? How could he have possibly found her?
Speak of the devil, it continued. I got one of them. One of those tossers who locked you in that filthy flat and made you fight? (I know how much that bothered you – hate to call up old memories, but hopefully this'll help you sleep easily.) I know how frightened that made you – so I've taken the liberty of disposing of one of them. Claimed he was a doctor. That's funny – he doesn't seem to know GHB when he sees it. He'll be at Bart's for a while now – but don't worry, he won't be breathing much longer.
"Oh, my God." Greg sighed, realisation washing over him. "He has John."
Molly turned green; she swayed from where she was sitting. "Is he all right?"
"I don't know." Greg mumbled, taking out his own mobile. He lifted it up to find the screen black, except for the CHANGE BATTERIES light flashing.
"Fuck!"
He made a dash for the door.
"Molly," he said, throwing on his coat. "Stay here. I'm going to use the phone at the front desk to call Bart's and see if John's all right, and if they know who drugged him."
"Can't you use mine?"
Greg shook his head. "Looks like he's got it wired somehow. He's tracing it. He'd know I was making the calls."
Molly nodded, her breath shaking.
He walked up to her, taking her hands. "Don't open the door for anyone. I'll be back in two seconds. Just…don't open the door, all right?"
The cottage was cold and solitary without Greg, Molly found. She sat on the sofa, with her legs pulled up to her chest, resting her chin on her knee, trying to distract herself.
John was hurt, she thought, her lungs constricting. And all because of her. He'd been drugged, because he'd helped her defend herself. It wasn't right. She hoped he was all right. Just, not dead or hurt beyond repair.
Five minutes passed. The power flickered back on. Ten minutes. Sitting alone in the cabin was deafening. She needed to do something.
An idea came into her head. It probably was a very bad idea, but the only one she had. Maybe, if the stalker was attached to her mobile, he would get a video downloaded onto it. She didn't think that Paxton or Birdie tried to talk to him, to try to put it through his head that they didn't want this. Truthfully, the mere idea made her start to shake. But she had to try something.
She sat down in front of the desktop, connected her mobile to the machine once more, and turned on the web cam. She breathed slowly, pressed Record, and started talking.
Greg ran through the front doors of the main building. Showing his I.D to the small swell of people in line, shoving them aside. He caught an annoying whiff of perfume that smelt of money. Dodging the wearer, a rather twiggy young woman, and accidentally bumping straight into the man next to her, he didn't hesitate to push the other man out of the way. Couldn't they just move? Were they so consumed with their holiday plans that none of them could budge an inch for the police?
To the clerk at the front desk, he said, "I need to use your phone."
"You can't just come back here and—"
He shoved his I.D card in the clerk's face and pushed through behind the desk. Dialling the number for Bart's he cursed in a hushed voice, and waited for the phone to ring, plugging in his own mobile to the wall.
After a moment of ringing, an overly friendly correspondent voiced, "St. Bartholomew's Hospital."
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade," He said, letting the introduction slur. "I need information on Dr. John Watson. How long he's been admitted, status," If he's dead or alive. "Who might've done it."
"Sorry," The correspondent said. "What wing might he be in?"
"He was drugged. GHB, I think."
"We didn't get a call for that," The correspondent said confusedly. "I'll check over the whole hospital. It might take a moment."
Greg shook his head, cringing, and looked towards his own phone, hoping that Molly would have a mind to call or text him if she saw anything suspicious.
He ignored the pounding in his ears, the throb of his head, and the haze over his eyes.
The people on the other side of the desk looked impatient, their posh eyes set, appalled at the disruptive start of their holidays. It was disgusting to see how little they cared about what might actually be happening. However, he didn't have room to be angry, with his mind already in such a buzzed state.
The clerk was trying to calm them. "I assure you this doesn't happen often. Just a drill, of course."
"A drill. Why would you need a drill if it never happens?"
The clerk sucked in her cheeks. "New rule. The Cumbria Constabulary wants to be certain we're prepared for anything that could possibly happen. Please, just sit and make yourselves comfortable."
The correspondent remained silent for a long time. Greg heard a keyboard clicking from the other end of the phone line. "I'm sorry. There's no John Watson admitted into our hospital."
Greg's face fell, and within that moment, his mobile went off. The caller I.D flashed, JOHN.
Slamming the hotel phone down, he quickly picked up his mobile. "John? You all right?"
"Yeah. Fine," John's voice replied, utterly calm from the other end, albeit a bit confused. "Woke up a bit…well, I felt a bit hung-over. My flat's upside down, too. But I wrote a note, apparently, telling me to call you. Did I call last night or something? Do you have any idea what's going on?"
Greg felt his entire body freeze up. He could not breathe. His heart stopped. The heated air felt as though he was dunking into a bucket of ice.
"Shit" was all he said, letting his own mobile crash to the ground, cracking the screen.
But he was out in an instant, running back to his car. Everything stopped. His heart stopped. His breathing stopped. Mind in a fog, he couldn't be pressed to think of anything else. Adrenaline kept his body going as he pressed the gas pedal down to the floor, a flume of black smog gushing out the back.
Stupid. Stupid. He was so fucking stupid. Get the bodyguard away from the victim using the pseudo-injury of a third party – they taught that sort of thing in training. It was obvious in hindsight.
The car raced along the lane, swerving on the curves, swearing and muttering insults to himself.
His watch ticked in his ears, each passing second was a danger moment. It only took one to pull a trigger. He hated it. He was running out of time. The ticking continued. He wished he could stop it.
He continued, breaking speed records, with only one thing on his mind. Molly.
A/N: Normally I don't like to do author's notes mid-story, but I'd like to know. In the next chapter the stalker's identity becomes clear. Who do you think it is? Your clue: we have already met him.