Glasgow Stobhill Hospital
11- 30 a.m.
April 17th
Wheeler rose through layers of unconsciousness to the sound of rattling cups and unfamiliar voices. To the watching police officer, sitting in the armchair near the bed, as he had been for the last hour, the stirring body was a relief. The constable was bored by his watch. The suddenly opening eyes and look of fearful unawareness were reassuring for the officer too.
Wheeler felt his way round his body, wiggled toes, waggled fingers and reassured that everything was okay he tried to sit up. Pain from his bruises made him wince. The memory of the bike skidding away from him and realisation that he had a hospital gown on, added to which his certainty that his bag would have been opened, brought a rush of adrenalin which enabled him to sit up quickly and bypass the sudden pain from the bump on the top of his head.
“Hello.” The constable said dourly.
The voice was Scottish. Wheeler took in the uniform.
“Where am I?” Wheeler feigned a vaguely foreign accent, somewhere Eastern European.
He took in the room. Standard hospital single room, window to his right, bedside table in that corner, red string for calling help above it, and to his left, other side of the bed, the door. At the foot of the bed an armchair for visitors, in which was seated the constable; young, he noted, about twenty-five.
“Stobhill hospital Glasgow.”
Wheeler nodded.
“I’ve to call in, for a detective to interview you.”
Wheeler feigned a lack of understanding, crinkling his brow, a slight shake of the head.
“For what? I am sorry?”
“The hand gun and fake passports matey.” The constable said flatly indicating his certainty of Wheeler’s guilt of some crime.
“I’m sorry I do not…” Wheeler touched his head and looked confused.
The constable spoke into his radio. Wheeler looked around the room. His clothes were not there. This was tricky.
In the background to his inner voice planning he heard the constable call for the detective.
“He’s on his way.”
Wheeler looked at the plastic jug and cup on the table by his bed. His throat was very dry. He poured water and the idea came to him. He leant over to the bedside table He shakily held the pitcher, poured and drank some water. Then again, more desperately, with more exaggerated shaking, he poured more water, feigned a pain in the head, let the jug go and eyes rolling slumped off the bed on to the floor by the table, between the bed and the wall.
Instinctively, as he had gambled he would, the constable came over and stood over him. Then to his annoyance the constable pulled the red cord to call for help. Clearly no fool, thought Wheeler, but too youthful to be wise and experienced.
Wheeler’s left hand shot out and grabbed the PC’s belt, as he did so his right leg swung up behind the policeman’s legs, caught him behind the knees tipping the man back. Wheeler rose up on the man’s weight going back, his right palm extending out into his victim’s chin. The policeman crumpled back unconscious in a heavy heap.
Wheeler, dragged the man under the bed, arranged the covers on the door side to cover the view from there, hiding his crime; he hopped into the bed and pulled the cord again.
A young Italian looking girl, round in hips, dark hair in a bun, bulging in her blue uniform, just under the obese side of portly, rolled in.
“Hello. You’re awake.” She saw him holding jug and then quizzically looked for the constable.
“I spill water. He go to get help.”
Wheeler indicated the other side of the bed hoping she was too busy to look.
The nurse took the jug “I’ll send someone to mop up.” She left with a withering ‘you’re wasting my time’ look.
As soon as the door closed, Wheeler was out of bed. The constable was just coming round, his head emerging from under the bed. Wheeler karate chopped him across the back of the head where it joined the spine, not hard enough to kill, but enough to knock him cold again. Wheeler could have killed him, but he knew that they had his description and too many people had seen him. Killing witnesses was pointless at this stage.
Being compromised he had to get out lie low, get a disguise, and then head for London. He had planned to strip the policeman, but apart from the man being too small, damned tailored uniforms, the disguise was too easy to spot. As he hesitated he heard the rattle of a trolley outside the door. He stepped behind the door, prayed to the god of hit men that the cleaner was a male and the right size and seeing a short, very thin, bald man step in front of him sighed and knocked this man out too.
As the body slumped forward onto the floor Wheeler thought of a Carry On film. After tying and gagging the bodies, taking keys, radio, tear gas, baton, all cash, the cleaner’s keys and from the cleaner’s belt one of those folding multi-tools in a leather belt case, popped them into a white bin bag from the cleaner’s trolley, he stepped into the corridor, knowing the detective was on the way.
In the corridor the occasional nurse passed by, he could see to his right the reception for his ward and to his left a corridor with a wall end and a dog leg right turn. On the floor there was a neat red line, indicating a route through the hospital. Wheeler instinctively went down to the dog leg, turned right to see a long corridor with wards off to left and right, indicated by different coloured lines on the floor. The nearest sign was radiology. Wheeler headed straight for it, noting a staircase and lift on the right as he passed them.
He was on the first floor. He walked into radiology and the reception. Self conscious in his hospital gown he knew he didn’t have long. He confidently walked past reception and seeing a changing room walked straight into that. There was a dressing gown hanging there, he immediately put it on. There were four lockers; three were locked, so clearly full. Wheeler pulled out the cleaner’s multi-tool, selected screw driver, inserted it in each locker and twisted the locks open, each forceful jerk making his head rock.
The contents of the lockers yielded cotton track suit bottoms and a ‘hoody’, just too small, but bearable, an oversize T- Shirt, jeans the right length, but too narrow at the waist, but thankfully, work boots in tan leather and thick socks which, though loose, would do the job. There was no coat in any, but a fold up umbrella, a clear rain poncho the kind old people wear, a green bobble hat, some cheap jewellery, two watches, one waterproof, a wallet, a purse, two loose credit cards and some cash in notes and change.
Wheeler added these to the white bin bag. Tugged and squeezed into the clothes and finally put on a pair of glasses, which though female, looked acceptable and changed his face. He added the bobble hat and clear poncho.
Having done this speedily and with some nervousness he walked rapidly out through the busy reception turned right, through the stair doors and down to the first floor. He followed signs for the casualty exit, where he knew there might be police, but not as many he was sure would be at reception.
As Wheeler had made the stairs the summoned detective entered the room Wheeler had left behind him and found his constable and the cleaner both still unconscious. Immediately he made a call on his radio putting out an alert, but sadly too late. Wheeler’s luck changed. He passed through casualty, fortunately for him lacking any police presence, and outside he saw a bus stop across from the entrance with a waiting bus.
He wasn’t an odd sight to the bus driver. Wheeler looked like the standard alcoholic homeless passenger he always saw returning from casualty. Wheeler paid his fare and sat down. There were agonizing moments of waiting for the bus to go and then they were away.
Police cars with sirens headed into the hospital as the bus came out and Wheeler smiled. Some shopping, a neat change, cheap hotel room and a change of look would put him back on track. He gingerly touched the top of his head and winced. He hoped that his luck would change for the better from there on in.
He knew, as an experienced assassin that even the best plans went wrong. He mused on the fact, as the bus swung widely around a corner just missing someone chancing a quick run across a junction, that he had no plan on this job at all. It was all chance, in a way, until he got to London and actually got the contract. He didn’t like it. It wasn’t the way he usually worked. Bruised and uncomfortably dressed and unarmed he had a moment of feeling vulnerable. He quickly shrugged it off. The only way, he well knew, was forward.