Warriors: An Alex Hawke Novel by Ted Bell

Author:Ted Bell [Bell, Ted]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Espionage, Suspense, General, Crime
ISBN: 9780062279408
Google: ww7jnQEACAAJ
Amazon: B00DB3A9M2
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-04-01T04:00:00+00:00

C H A P T E R 3 6

Cambridge

When Hawke, Halter, and Congreve had arrived at Cambridge four days earlier, after their meeting at Hawkesmoor, they crossed the narrow bridge spanning the river Cam and parked in Halter’s reserved space at Magdalene College. Space for automobiles was severely limited in narrow lanes of the old market town and only the highest of the high rated such a perk as Halter had. Ambrose was suitably impressed and said so.

Congreve and Hawke bade good-bye to the good professor and made their way across a snowy Jesus Green, and so to the labyrinthine maze of gardens, dead ends, and circuitous alleyways leading to the nineteenth-century building that housed the Cambridge morgue. Congreve, who had had reason to visit on numerous occasions, led the way.

The mortuary was to be found in the basement of an old military hospital built in 1879. It had been erected as part of the initiative of Florence Nightingale after the Crimean War to improve medical facilities for the army, Ambrose informed Hawke as they made their way.

“Really?” Hawke said. “Fascinating.”

“Listen and learn,” Congreve replied, not willing to rise to the flick of sarcasm he knew so well. “Look, there it is. Quite fabulous, isn’t it?”

Hawke lifted his eyes from the gravel path and saw a somber black van drawn up in the building’s courtyard. The place was massive and foreboding, dominated by a large clock tower. He didn’t care much for hospitals, and morgues even less. But he was intensely curious about the corpse waiting for them in the basement. One is naturally beset with morbid feelings upon visiting such places, but Congreve seemed to relish the whole idea.

“Impressive,” Hawke said as they entered the dingy grey foyer, and meant it.

The hospital had been built on a grand, traditionally solid Victorian scale, with malevolent green corridors that seemed to go on for a quarter of a mile if not longer. Hawke began to think they would never arrive at their destination. Finally, they entered a creaky musty old lift and began their descent. Hawke felt ever more uneasy in the grim confines.

Hawke, seeing the detective who’d agreed to meet them emerge from a swinging door, strode forward to meet him.

“I’m Detective Inspector Cummings, how do you do, sir?” the fellow said, extending his hand first to Hawke and then to the world-famous criminalist Ambrose Congreve.

“Thank you for taking the time,” Hawke said, shaking the man’s hand. “You’ve met Chief Inspector Congreve, I believe?”

“Indeed. We worked a difficult chase together some years ago. Nice to see you again, Chief Inspector.”

“And you as well, Archie. I understand we’re in for a treat this evening.”

“Not sure I’d call it that. One of the worst I’ve seen, actually. Right this way, gentlemen.”

They followed him down an oppressive green-tiled corridor made hideous by fluorescent lighting and entered the morgue proper. It was precisely as dismal as Hawke had imagined a mortuary of the Victorian era might appear, but an unexpected feeling swept over him just before the detective inspector pulled out the stainless steel drawer and revealed the victim.

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