Her Last Chance

HER LAST CHANCE A DI CROW NOVEL HJ REED Published by Inkubator Books www.inkubatorbooks.com Copyright © 2023 by HJ Reed HJ Reed has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work. ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-106-3 ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-107-0 ISBN (Hardback): 978-1-83756-108-7 HER LAST CHANCE is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. CONTENTS Inkubator Books Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Inkubator Newsletter About the Author JOIN THE INKUBATOR MAILING LIST You will be the first to learn about new releases plus the many FREE and discounted Kindle books we offer! bit.ly/3tpZe28 1 The house phone rings for the third time in twenty minutes. I look down at my hand and try to gauge the severity of what I call ‘the twitch’. It’s a little less than last time, a lot less than the time before. It begins at the wrist and works its way down to my fingers and starts up seemingly at random – except when a phone rings. Then, it happens every single time, a tremor so violent I can’t grip the handset, can’t do anything but wait until I get back enough control to answer the damned thing. Over the course of the last few months, various surgeons and psychiatrists have argued over whether the phenomenon is physical, psychological or a combination of both. So far they can’t make their minds up. All I know is that it’s one more thing to fight against, another hurdle in the obstacle course that life becomes when a bullet ploughs a furrow into your brain. A lump of metal lodged in the frontal lobe is bound to cause a few problems, and according to the experts, when it’s taken out, it’s very likely to cause a fair few more. After the surgery I asked the consultant what kind of problems. He waved his arms in a vague and very large circle. ‘I’m afraid it’s hard to say at this stage. Every case is unique, and to tell you the truth …’ He paused and gave me an apologetic grin. ‘Well, there aren’t that many cases to go on, Inspector Crow. Getting shot in the head is usually fatal, you see. If you like, I can try to get hold of some literature. It might give you some idea what to expect.’ The next morning a nurse came into my room, loaded with a sheaf of scientific articles and a book the size of a Bible entitled The handbook of Clinical Psychology, with a couple of Post-it notes poking helpfully out of the top. After three hours of squinting at acres of small print on tissue-paper pages, I gave up. ‘How the bloody hell am I supposed to deduce anything from that lot?’ I asked the consultant on his afternoon round. Again, I got the grin. ‘I’m just a humble brain surgeon, Inspector. You’re the detective.’ The phone’s still ringing, and I’ve still got the twitch, but it’s just on the right side of manageable now. I’d feel better if I knew who was on the other end, but the screen on the handset stubbornly displays a less than helpful ‘withheld’. I grit my teeth and pick up. ‘Is that Mr Alexander Crow?’ I know who it is – the damned woman from the clinic. Mid-fifties, five feet two, grey trouser suit, no sense of humour. An inner switch trips; the tremor stops and is replaced with another of the foibles my rewired brain has developed. ‘You can call me Al,’ I say in a faux downtown New York accent. It’s a bad chat-up line, one I last used on my ex-wife thirty years ago – as inappropriate then as it is now, but at least it gives me the few seconds I need to pull my thoughts into line. There’s a disapproving silence and then, ‘Dr Rogers has just informed us you’ve missed three consecutive appointments, Mr Crow.’ ‘Sorry, I forgot.’ I try to inject some sincerity into the lie, but it doesn’t cut any ice. ‘I’m afraid you can’t keep missing appointments, Mr Crow. It takes up valuable clinic time, not to mention the cost. It would be very helpful if you could let us know when you are unable to attend.’ The woman’s like an itch in an awkward place. ‘In the first place,’ I say, ‘it’s not “Mr”, it’s “Inspector”.’ I pause for effect, more out of habit than expectation. She knows as well as I do that it’s just a matter of time – my sick leave runs out in two months, and there’s no way the force is going to let me go back, not unless it’s to some dingy office where I’m well out of the public eye. It’s a fact I’d rather not think about, and being reminded of it by a clinic receptionist does nothing for the fragile hold I have on my temper. ‘In the second place,’ I say, when the silence has started to grate, ‘my medical insurance has forked out enough in private health subscriptions to keep your mid-grade sodding clinic going for the next ten years, so don’t talk to me about bloody cost.’ Finally, she takes the bait. ‘For your information, Mr Crow, the Duchess of Malvern uses our services and finds them more than satisfactory.’ ‘You mean she’s gaga as well? I’m sure she’ll be delighted to know you take the issue of confidentiality so seriously.’