Cold Kill by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online Page B

bright that it was blinding. He closed his eyes. His whole body was numb and he had no energy to swim. His body went limp in the water. At least he had tried. He felt totally relaxed, at peace with what was happening to him.
    The blood was draining from his extremities, retreating to the body’s core – the final stage of hypothermia. He would feel nothing in the final seconds. There were worse ways to die, he decided.
    The light was still there, so intense that it burned through his eyelids. And now there was a roaring, thudding noise. He opened his eyes and gasped as a wave washed over him. He coughed, retched, then blinked up at the light. It was as bright as day. Brighter. An intense white light filled the night sky. Then he saw the figure dropping down towards him. A figure in orange with a white head like a giant insect. Corke smiled. It was an angel from heaven. He wanted to tell the angel that he didn’t believe in heaven. Hell, maybe, but there was no such place as heaven. And if there was no heaven, there were no angels. The figure kept descending. An orange jumpsuit. Black boots. Corke’s face went under the water, his eyes still open. It didn’t sting any more. Nothing hurt. There was no pain, and no fear. Just acceptance.
    The figure hit the water, and Corke felt arms surround him in an enveloping bear hug. He closed his eyes and slid into unconsciousness.
    Sam Hargrove walked quickly along the hospital corridor, heels squeaking on the linoleum. His shoes were handmade and they shone under the overhead fluorescent lights. He was wearing a black wool overcoat over a dark blue pinstripe suit and a pale yellow shirt; his red tie was decorated with miniature cricket bats. He was carrying a bulging leather briefcase, scuffed at the corners, and he swung it in time with his walk. A middle-aged nurse stepped out of a side room and blocked his way. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
    ‘I’m here to see Anthony Corke,’ said Hargrove. He brushed his greying hair across his forehead. ‘He was brought in about six hours ago.’ He spelt out Corke’s surname slowly, as if she had learning difficulties.
    She frowned. ‘And you are?’
    ‘His solicitor,’ said Hargrove, the lie coming as naturally as his smile.
    ‘Visiting hours are between five and seven,’ she said curtly.
    Hargrove continued to smile, but his eyes hardened. ‘My client has been arrested on a serious charge, and he has a right to legal representation. Any interference with it would result in a claim for damages laid against this hospital. I’m sure your NHS trust’s administrator wouldn’t want that, now, would he?’
    ‘There’s a policeman with him,’ said the nurse.
    ‘Which is why he needs my counsel,’ said Hargrove. He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘I don’t have all day, Miss . . .’ He peered at the nurse’s name-tag. ‘Miss Longworth. I know it’s a frightful cliché, but my time really is money.’
    The nurse pointed down the corridor. ‘It’s the third room on the left.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Hargrove, and headed along the corridor. He opened the door without knocking. A young uniformed policeman was leaning against a large cast-iron radiator. As the door opened he jolted upright and straightened, hands behind his back. ‘You’re not supposed to be in here,’ he said.
    Hargrove looked round the room. There was only one bed. The occupant’s eyes were closed, his hands at his sides. He was wearing a pale blue surgical gown. There was monitoring equipment on the table next to the bed but it wasn’t switched on. A thin chain ran from the man’s ankle to the metal rail at the foot. ‘I’m Mr Corke’s solicitor,’ said Hargrove. ‘Can you explain to me why he’s chained to the bed?’
    ‘My chief inspector’s orders, sir,’ said the constable.
    ‘My client has just been dragged out of the North Sea,’ said Hargrove. ‘He almost drowned.’
    ‘I’m told he has to be restrained,’ said the