For those in search of the truth.
~~~
The final book in the The Harry Fingle Collection.
~~~
‘For over four years people have wanted me dead. Why? Because I expose people who’re corrupt, immoral, paedophiles, criminals, and more. I take no prisoners, do no one favours, and dig until I expose the truth. I don’t stop until I’m done.’ Harry Fingle.
Chapter One
Pain sliced through every part of my body, like a surgeon dragging a scalpel slowly down my torso. No limb, organ, or sinew escaped. Words could not describe the agony. I wanted to scream, but my mouth stayed closed. Instead, I grunted and made odd, coughing noises from the back of my throat, and felt my own sticky saliva–smelling of blood and vomit–dribble from my mouth and down my cheeks. All around me seemed hazy: grey, like fog and mist. The vomit-inducing stench of disinfectant filled the air. Ghostly shapes wafted around in the blur. Sometimes they moved close and became still, then made a noise and went away. I had no idea where I was or what was happening. Nothing made any sense.
It’s the end of life. Death beckons. Yes, take me. I’ll put up no fight. No more pain…
~~~
‘His name is Harry Fingle. He’s forty-one.’
‘Are you his next of kin? Do you know his address?’
‘I’m just an old friend. He’s an investigative journalist for The Morning Times. He lives in Chiswick. I’ll check his address.
‘We’d been out on a bender. He’d just had some bad news and wanted someone to talk to. We had a lot to drink, and were crossing a road to make for a restaurant. He was walking behind me. I heard the roar of a car’s engine and turned to see this big, black car appear from nowhere, driving fast, and heading directly for us. I dived out of the way and tried to grab Harry, but was too late. It knocked him down, ran him over, and drove away. It was ghastly. There was blood everywhere.’ Max put his hand to his head then covered his mouth. ‘I need to sit down. I feel I’m goner be sick.’ He shook his head. ‘This is shit.’
‘Sure,’ the young, female doctor replied and ushered Max to a lone, plastic chair against the wall of the emergency reception bay where Harry had been rushed from the ambulance. ‘Here, take this.’ The doctor handed Max a plastic vomit bag. ‘Can I get you some water?’
Max stroked his beard, swept his hand through his curly, black hair, and rubbed his forehead. He looked the doctor in the eyes. ‘Will he live?’
The doctor, who was in her mid-twenties and had just graduated from medical school, touched the back of her tied-back, blonde hair, fumbled for a moment with the instruments in the top left pocket of her green, stained tunic, and looked at Max. She shrugged a little. ‘I hope so. We’ll do our best, but he’s in a bad way.’
~~~
Warm, fetid air met Max as he pushed back the door to his apartment an hour later. It was midnight. The outside temperature was 21° C. His flat–like most London properties–had no air conditioner and felt hot and stuffy. He didn’t seem to notice; he dumped his leather bag by the front door, made for the kitchen, poured a large whisky, gulped it down, poured another one, and stood staring out of the window at the clear night sky. After a short while, he walked back slowly to where he’d left his bag and retrieved his phone.
Harry’s two parents were dead. He didn’t have a brother or sister. Max knew of no other relatives. The hospital authorities had taken down Max’s contact details and said they would list him as the de facto next of kin until someone else–a blood relation–appeared. Until that happened, Max would be the first person the hospital would inform of any change in Harry’s condition. He didn’t like it. It felt like a huge pressure. He scrolled through his contacts for someone he could talk to about Harry.
