Mia Malkova was dead.
Landing with her head twisted in an impossible position, supporting the weight of her body. The eyes lifeless, and when I took her pulse, there was nothing.
I checked on Clarissa.
A faint heartbeat and breathing remained steady but quiet. The eyelashes flickered, but that was the only response. When I put two fingers against her neck.
I turned my attention back to Mia.
As quietly as possible, I eased her body away from the wall. Searched her pockets. Nothing. I anticipated this. I was dealing with professionals.
Grabbing her arm, I lifted her from the floor. Carried her lifeless body on my shoulder to the door. Easing it open, I checked the corridor. Empty.
Linen chutes have been in institutions for several years before being considered a hazard. The cleaning of the discharged and wash doors, not the reason for the suggestion. But, from a concern that contaminated air circulated from one floor to another.
Discontinued installation because of the scepticism. Followed by publication of countless articles in the papers on this.
But carrying the rubbish and dirty washing many floors to the basement turned into a troublesome task and led to waste and laundry pilling up for a few days until disposed.
This developed into a more serious complication.
Considering how important to keep a clean environment in wards.
In particular, with the Coronavirus outbreak.
Soon after, the idea of using tubes became popular again.
The dilemma with bacterial infection potential solved by adding a ventilator to the shafts used in clinics.
Later, the manufacturer altered the design to accommodate this change.
There was one such sloping trough next to the elevator, which was being summoned. I needed to move fast.
Laundry chute access is fire resistant. Preventing the spread during a blaze. The flap was flushed, mounted with a yacht-style grip. The hazard rating lowers because the knob sunken into the opening.
I opened it with great care. Unfolding Mia's body from my shoulder and lowered into the tube. After balancing her on the rim, I let go. She fell backwards and disappeared into the black hole.
I replaced the door as the lift pinged. Visitors appeared after the doors parted with an inconspicuous sigh.
Nodding in politeness, standing to one side, before stepping into the elevator. I pressed for the basement and stood in the corner as it descended in virtual silence to a dark cellar.
There were five chutes exited into laundry bins lined up. Mia Malkova, landed head-first, arrived in the middle.
Removing a porter's coat from a hook on the wall, I wheeled the bin up an incline, where plastic transparent doors opened outwards into the night.
Crossing the carpark, undetected, I joined a path in the far corner. This led me to the Jaguar.
Careful in selecting where I parked., there were no streetlights or CCTV cameras. A long way to push a laundry-bin. The scenario appeared out of place, but continued unseen.
Manoeuvring the container round to the rear of the car, I opened the boot. With extreme care, lifted the body out, covering it with the sheets. I lowered Mia with tremendous discretion, and then went to close it.
It met resistance. I studied and checked on what was stopping me. I saw a television programme on a streaming service. The hero was dumping the corpse of a South-American assassin into the rear of a large gas-guzzler. He broke his legs to hide him away.
I hoped I didn't have to do that.
I shifted the corpse's position and then tried again.
This time the lid shut, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
There was no point in wiping the automobile free of my DNA. Fitzgerald knew by now, it was me who gained the E-Type.
I locked the motor. Then walked around the hospital's perimeter. Dropping the keys into the first drain I saw.
On returning to the car, I grabbed the bin. Proceeded to the laundry suite, which was still unoccupied.
I took the lift to the third floor, and when I returned to Clarissa's place, I discovered she was no longer there.
I ran out into the corridor to double-check. The wide passageway stood deserted.
I went inside and heard a distinct vibration coming from the centre of the hospital bed. I saw a mobile phone in the middle of the mattress.
The caller ID displayed PRIVATE NUMBER.
I answered.
"I've got Miss Briggs."
The words broke through the speaker as a deep and throaty whisper.
"Clarissa's just an innocent bystander!"
"Don't care! Saved her life twice. Hope to do it again?"
The handset had a protector round it, but it still didn't stop me from trying to crush it in my palm. I kept my tone steady and said, "What the fuck are you talking…?"
"Clarissa Briggs." The caller interrupted before pausing. "Or should it be Mila Azul of Ukrainian Intelligence?"
A moment's stillness, then a cry split the quiet.
"I'm so sorry."
Clarissa's voice snapped off in a gasp, followed by a scream of agony. Silence. Again, the dark whisper.
"Harm her. I will kill you." I expressed the words between gritted teeth. "Remember this, I mean what I say!."
An unsettling hush, while the caller contemplated what I asserted.
"Keep this phone, I'll be in touch."
The line went dead.
The mobile as tight as possible, in my grip.
Hands shaking.