Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) Read Online Free

knife blade concealed inside a metal compact and saved their lives from the Bosnian gunman who had shot her. Clare liked cold steel.
    The irony was that she didn’t do pink – and she didn’t do plastic. Neither had she any love or respect for Rik Ferris. It was a chemical thing. In spite of that, she had kept the compact. The fact that it was gone told him that she had left of her own free will.
    The door burst open and the security guard came barrelling in. Behind him another man loomed in the corridor, bigger and meaner. Neither looked ready to take no for an answer.
    ‘I think you’d better leave, sir,’ the first guard said, and held the door open wide. He was breathing heavily. ‘Otherwise we call the police.’
    Harry walked past him and out into the corridor, just as the door across the way opened and a head popped out. It was one of the men in suits he’d seen earlier. He eyed Harry, then the guards, assessing details, before retreating inside without speaking.
    Harry walked back downstairs, shepherded by the bigger guard, and explained his problem to an admin assistant on the front desk. She tapped her keyboard, checked a couple of screens, then looked at him with an air of studied patience.
    ‘Well, her name’s on the list. Are you sure you went to the right room?’
    ‘Yes. I’ve been here three – no, four times. Upstairs, turn the corner, second room from the end on the right.’ He jerked a thumb at the guard. ‘He can tell you.’
    He received a doubting look and a shrug in return. ‘Well, I can only go by what it says here. Sorry.’ She turned back to her work.
    ‘Can I talk to the nurses on duty while she was here? They’ll confirm it.’
    The assistant shook her head. ‘That’s not allowed.’
    Harry took out his card. ‘In that case, let me speak to your supervisor.’
    The assistant took the card, and without looking at it stood up and walked away, her back rigid. She returned moments later with a large man in a smart suit and rimless glasses, checking his watch with a faint scowl of impatience.
    ‘Mr Randolph’s the unit manager,’ the receptionist announced, and disappeared behind her monitor with a smug smile.
    ‘Can I help?’ Randolph glanced at the card. ‘Mr Tate.’
    ‘Did she explain the problem?’
    ‘Uh, no. What’s your query?’
    ‘My query,’ Harry replied patiently, taking back his card, ‘is that a patient I’ve been visiting is no longer upstairs in the trauma ward. Jardine C – female.’
    ‘Really?’ Another scowl, this one at the assistant. He shuffled behind the desk and tapped the keyboard. More taps and huffing, watched by the assistant who yawned and stared balefully at Harry. ‘She was here, you say?’
    ‘Yes. About ten days ago when I last saw her. The nurses on duty then will remember.’
    ‘That won’t be any help, I’m afraid.’ Randolph seemed relieved to have found another hurdle to throw in his way. ‘Following a review of resources, most of the staff from two weeks ago have been rotated to other duties.’
    ‘So that’s it? You lose a patient and can’t tell me anything?’
    Randolph stretched his chin out and sniffed. ‘It’s not that simple, sir – and we don’t actually “lose” patients here. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Have you checked the . . . uh, patient’s home address? Maybe she discharged herself.’
    ‘With a gunshot wound to the stomach?’ Harry’s voice dropped to a dangerous level. ‘Are you serious?’
    The guard clamped a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘Excuse me, sir.’
    Harry turned and looked him in the eye. It was enough to make the man back off.
    Randolph, the seasoned bureaucrat, interjected quickly. ‘Mr Tate, there are hundreds of patients passing through this hospital at any one time. Perhaps you should address your concerns to the appropriate authorities.’
    ‘Authorities? What the hell does that mean? You’re in charge – so I’m asking you.’
    ‘That unit – the