“I think you’ll find I’m right.”
Johnstone said nothing. His expression informed everyone who cared to watch that it was a regular occurrence, and he was used to it.
Having gone through the list, the offending item was identified as a thick piece of rump steak – which Vincent was going to have for his tea – with a yellow ticket on it. Instead of the reduced price, it had gone through at full price, which was exactly £2.40 dearer than it should have been.
With a satisfied smile, Vincent paid his bill, repacked the items, and replaced them in his basket. He chose to say no more about it, and even thanked Rachel for her patience and her time.
On leaving the superstore, his attention was suddenly diverted when two women walked by, discussing what sounded like a double murder in Batley, both bodies having been discovered during the night.
Chapter Twelve
Sitting on a low wall in the furthest corner of the car park gave him a bird’s eye view of everything. Beside him was a copy of the Sun, opened at the crossword page, with a pen laid across the top. He was comfortably dressed in a grey quilted jacket, black jeans, and a flat cap.
His current position in life was not so good, but on reflection, it never had been. His clothes were stolen, as was the money in his pocket. He had nowhere he could call home save a small room in a hostel three or four miles away, and even there he had to take great care.
He observed a number of people enter the supermarket. As they did, the man he was waiting for came out. He was a little over six feet tall, thin as a rake. His hair was silver and clustered, like a knot of wire wool balls. His long, pointed nose came out of the shop before him. He still wore clothes that were so far out of fashion they were back in again; today was a brown pin-stripe suit.
Raymond Allen smiled as he observed Vincent Baines leave the store: some people never changed.
Ch
apter Thirteen
Chris Rydell glanced around the surgery with a feeling of trepidation. The room was clinically clean, and full of expensive medical equipment at the forefront of modern technology.
His gaze came to rest on the specialist sitting opposite. Mr Trent studied his notes. Chris noticed the personal file on him had grown much thicker a lot quicker than he’d anticipated. Trent was mid-fifties, tall, dark, and slim, with white teeth, and a glass eye. He lowered the document, glancing up at his patient.
“I’m really sorry, Mr Rydell, but the treatment doesn’t appear to be working as well as I’d hoped.”
Chris had expected the news. He wasn’t stupid. He’d had to live with the condition for long enough.
“I had hoped the latest drug would have stabilized the deterioration of your liver.”
So that’s what it had come to. His liver had finally called it a day.
Chris stared at the ceiling, sighing. Everything had been explained to him during previous meetings: new drugs were available, one or two of them still in the experimental stages. If he agreed and signed the proper forms, everyone would be happy for him to enter into trials. He was unsure.
Chris allowed his mind to wander to six months previous. The reason for his first visit was flu-like symptoms: a slight fever, shivering. That had grown more serious with periods of confusion and drowsiness, which had affected his working life, resulting in a couple of dangerous near misses on the road. That he couldn’t have.
Chris had been sixteen when he took up warehouse duties for a parcel courier company. He kept the warehouse tidy, helped sort through the collections, and loaded the vans for the deliveries; often asking for the delivery manifest to load up the van in reverse, to make life easier for the driver.
When he was old enough, the company had put him through his test. He’d finally started driving and delivering. With a new contract for the medical board, Chris delivered drugs and medicines to the local chemists and hospitals, but it wasn’t enough to keep the company afloat. Several cutbacks were made, staff and vehicles to start with. Eventually, they went under; everyone lost their jobs.
Chris’s father had persuaded him to go and talk to the man responsible for the medical contracts – to strike while the iron was hot. Chris had enough money to buy a new motorcycle, and as a gesture of goodwill, the people that worked for his father constructed a trailer for the back of his bike.
Chris visited the man with the contracts, persuading him that he would do the job for a fraction of the price the original parcel company had negotiated. He pointed out that he had the experience, because it was him who had made all the deliveries, so he knew the ropes and the locations. He was given a trial.
Within five years, his business had grown, and he’d invested the profits in his little empire by purchasing new bikes and phones, attributing each of them to the different contracts he was picking up. They kept him busy six nights a week. Now, his success was under threat again.
A knock at the door broke his train of thought.
Trent glanced up as the receptionist came through with another bunch of files. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr Trent, but you did ask for the results of the latest blood test as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Mrs Pendelbury.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled at Chris on the way out.
Trent read the results before turning his attention to his patient. “There really is no easy way to say this, Mr Rydell, but you’re entering a phase of complete liver failure.”