The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) Read Free

black, spiky hair tamed by some well-meaning nurse, far longer than she would ever have worn it. As he approached, McLean could see the change in her in an instant. Her eyes fluttered under eyelids, twitches in her face almost reminding him of her mischievous smile, then creasing into a frown. And all the while she muttered, quiet whimpers of terror. He was about to take her hand as he had done every day since she’d been brought here, but before he could, Doctor Wheeler once more stopped him.
    ‘Best to wait just now. A touch could bring her out too quickly. Let her come at her own pace.’
    ‘What’s happening to her? She looks scared.’
    ‘Difficult to be sure, but she’s probably reliving the last few moments before she was knocked out.’ Doctor Wheeler consulted the clipboard at the end of the bed, then pulled a pager out of her pocket. McLean hadn’t even heard it ping. ‘Gotta go. I’ll check back as soon as I can.’
    It was a special kind of hell, sitting there, watching the emotions skim across Emma’s face, wondering what it was that Needy had done to her. Just the bash to the skull, or had there been something more? McLean found it hard to recall the events clearly himself. Too much smoke inhalation and blows to his own head. Too much dealing with the past he thought he’d finished with but which didn’t want to let him go.
    ‘Oh my god. No.’
    The voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was hers. McLean looked around to see if any of the nurses in the ward had noticed. They were busy with the other patients and their machines. He reached out, about to take Emma’s hand where it lay on the covers, fingers flexing minutely. Before he could, she drew her hand away.
    ‘No, no, no, no. No!’ Louder now, and Emma started to shake. Her heart rate monitor pinged a warning, but still the nurses were oblivious. McLean went to stand, meaning to get some help, but a tiny hand whipped out and grabbed him by the wrist, surprisingly tight. He snapped his head around as Emma sat bolt upright, eyes wide open.
    ‘It took their souls. Trapped them all. They were lost. I was lost.’
    And then the grip was gone. Her eyes flipped up into her head and she dropped back into the pillows. McLean could only watch as the nurses gathered around, alerted by the motion. He couldn’t move, could only stare at Emma’s face as they bustled around her, checking monitors, adjusting drips, whispering urgent messages to each other. Did this happen whenever a patient woke from coma? Was there some procedure they followed?
    Slowly, the commotion died down. Everything that could be checked had been checked. The patient was asleep, heart rate steady. It was going to be OK. Everything was going to be fine. Still he sat and watched, oblivious to the passing of time. Minutes, hours, he didn’t really care. This was his fault, after all. He wasn’t going to shirk that responsibility. Not now. Not ever.
    She woke more slowly the second time; colour coming back to her cheeks as her breathing changed from deep and regular to shallow and swift. Her eyes opened slowly, a hand reaching up to her head as if feeling for the damage that had been inflicted. Then she noticed the tube taped to her arm, the needle.
    ‘It’s OK,’ McLean said, hoping to fend off the panic with a familiar face and voice. ‘You’re in hospital. You’ve been unconscious.’
    Emma slowly rolled over, her head too heavy for the wasted muscles in her neck to control. She squinted against the light, even though it was muted in the ward, and it took her a while to focus on him. Even longer for her to speak. He’d hoped for a smile, but was rewarded only with a frown. Her voice, when it finally came, was cracked and dry. The words as terrible as they were inevitable.
    ‘Who are you?’



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    ‘We’ve got sixteen girls who between them seem to speak about eight words of English, a Dutch captain screaming blue murder, Leith Ports chewing my ear off about a