The Key

42

Arkadian set off on foot for Davlat Hastenesi Hospital with fragments of his conversation with Gabriel repeating in his head:

I was set up.

Liv’s in danger.

So is my mother.

He had heard about the deaths at the hospital via a wind-up radio tuned to the news and recalled the look on Kathryn’s face after he dropped off the book, only a few hours ago. She had blamed him for Gabriel’s arrest, he had seen it in her eyes and heard it in her silence. He thought she would soften once her son was released. But she didn’t trust the system to protect him. And she had been right. Which was why he was walking through streets filled with dust and dazed people like a penitent sinner. He wanted to be there at the hospital — he needed to be there. The only way to make sure no evidence was overlooked or contaminated or accidentally lost was to be part of the investigation.

By the time he arrived police barriers had been set up, blocking off a section of the street running alongside the hospital. A solitary policeman was on guard, trying to keep back the surprisingly large crowd of reporters and television crews who had already gathered. Clearly not even an earthquake was enough to dislodge their interest in the story that had dominated the news for the past few weeks. Hooking his ID card into his jacket pocket, Arkadian nodded a greeting to the cop, who recognized him and stepped aside to let him pass.

In the middle of the cordoned-off area a large square tent had been erected on the pavement. It glowed brightly from within, the lights powered by a small generator. One of the side flaps peeled aside as Arkadian approached and a paper-suited crime scene technician emerged. It was Bulut Gul, a senior member of the forensics team and also one of the guys Arkadian genuinely trusted within the department.

‘Thought you were on leave,’ Bulut said, nodding at the sling.

‘So did I. I thought you might need a helping hand here — and I still have one that works.’ He nodded at the tent. ‘Who’s in there?’

‘According to the guard rota, he’s called Nesim Senturk.’ Bulut stepped over and opened the flap wide enough for him to see inside. ‘He’s one of the emergency draft. His service ID is missing, so we’re not sure yet which district he came from. All the databases at the station have been knocked offline or otherwise fried by the quake. They’re working on getting them back up again, but it’s not exactly top priority; everyone with a pulse is out on the streets cleaning up the mess.’

Arkadian tilted his head to get a better look at the man’s face. It was the same guard who had signed him in earlier when he had come to visit Liv and Kathryn. Following the explosion at the Citadel the police presence in the streets of Ruin had been raised significantly to calm the public and reassure the hordes of tourists that they were safe. In order to do this they had pulled in officers from several neighbouring forces, filling the main station house with unfamiliar faces. The dead guard was one of these.

‘Where’s his gun?’

‘Haven’t found it yet.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Not sure. Don’t think he fell though. Petersen is upstairs checking it out. My guess is he was tied up here and then injected with something. Look there on the side of his neck — puncture wound. We’ll run a tox test when we get the bodies shipped over to the lab, but God knows when that’s going to happen. The city’s in chaos at the moment with all emergency services spoken for. There’s broken gas mains and all sorts. At least we’re nice and convenient for the hospital if we need to store them somewhere cold.’

‘Where are the other bodies?’

‘Two more on the fourth floor — both Citadel survivors, though I guess we shouldn’t be calling them that any more.’

Arkadian felt a coldness creep over him. ‘Same deal as here?’

‘One of them looks the same, the other one’s — a bit more messy.’

‘Which one’s which?’

Bulut looked up. ‘You knew the woman, didn’t you? I saw your name on the sign-in sheet. If it’s any consolation, she wasn’t the messy one.’

‘Any suspects?’

‘Only one. Gabriel Mann.’

Arkadian looked up in surprise. ‘Gabriel! Why?’

‘He’s a fugitive.’

‘Doesn’t make him a murderer.’

‘No, but he’s connected to one of the victims, and we found his fingerprints in her room. A room that he is not supposed to have been in.’

Arkadian remembered how Gabriel had cut him off the moment he told him Liv’s flight details had been searched. He could imagine him, sprinting to the hospital to protect his mother — getting here too late.

‘How do you know they’re Gabriel’s prints if the databases are all down?’

‘Petersen recognized them. If he says they belong to Gabriel Mann, that’s good enough for me — for now, at least.’

Henrik Petersen was Ruin police force’s top prints guy. He displayed an artistry with his brushes and graphite powder few could match. He could lift a print off almost anything and had a photographic memory. Less than two weeks ago he had applied his skills in the city morgue after the body of Liv Adamsen’s brother had been stolen. He had found Gabriel’s prints then. So if he said he’d found another print that matched then there was no doubt about it — Gabriel had been here.

‘Mind if I go and have a look?’

‘Be my guest.’ Bulut turned back to the glowing tent. ‘Plenty to keep me busy right here.’

As he made his way to the car park entrance, Arkadian glanced over at the press pack straining behind the police barriers. A news camera pointed his way and he turned his head away until he’d entered the quiet of the underground car park.

At the bottom of the ramp he stopped and pulled his phone from his pocket. Still no service. He needed to contact Gabriel. There was something rotten at the heart of the police department, something that went so deep that assassins could apparently be spirited into police cells and hospital rooms. It made him sick to think of it. He wanted to warn Gabriel that he had a murder warrant hanging over him now, but he had no way of contacting him. He had to hope that Gabriel would call him when the phones came back on. Until then, he would do what he had come to do: make sure the crime scene was processed properly, ensure that nothing was missed. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and walked over to the stairs that would take him up to the fourth floor and his own personal act of remembrance to the woman he had failed.