Read Online To Kill Or Be Killed by Richard Wiseman - Free Book Online

everything was okay he tried to sit up. Pain from his bruises
made him wince. The memory of the bike skidding away from him and
realisation that he had a hospital gown on, added to which his
certainty that his bag would have been opened, brought a rush of
adrenalin which enabled him to sit up quickly and bypass the sudden
pain from the bump on the top of his head.
    “Hello.” The
constable said dourly.
    The voice was
Scottish. Wheeler took in the uniform.
    “Where am I?”
Wheeler feigned a vaguely foreign accent, somewhere Eastern
European.
    He took in the
room. Standard hospital single room, window to his right, bedside
table in that corner, red string for calling help above it, and to
his left, other side of the bed, the door. At the foot of the bed
an armchair for visitors, in which was seated the constable; young,
he noted, about twenty-five.
    “Stobhill
hospital Glasgow.”
    Wheeler
nodded.
    “I’ve to call
in, for a detective to interview you.”
    Wheeler feigned
a lack of understanding, crinkling his brow, a slight shake of the
head.
    “For what? I am
sorry?”
    “The hand gun
and fake passports matey.” The constable said flatly indicating his
certainty of Wheeler’s guilt of some crime.
    “I’m sorry I do
not ….” Wheeler touched his head and looked confused.
    The constable
spoke into his radio. Wheeler looked around the room. His clothes
were not there. This was tricky.
    In the
background to his inner voice planning he heard the constable call
for the detective.
    “He’s on his
way.”
    Wheeler looked
at the plastic jug and cup on the table by his bed. His throat was
very dry. He poured water and the idea came to him. He leant over
to the bedside table He shakily held the pitcher, poured and drank
some water. Then again, more desperately, with more exaggerated
shaking, he poured more water, feigned a pain in the head, let the
jug go and eyes rolling slumped off the bed on to the floor by the
table, between the bed and the wall.
    Instinctively,
as he had gambled he would, the constable came over and stood over
him. Then to his annoyance the constable pulled the red cord to
call for help. Clearly no fool, thought Wheeler, but too youthful
to be wise and experienced.
    Wheeler’s left
hand shot out and grabbed the PC’s belt, as he did so his right leg
swung up behind the policeman’s legs, caught him behind the knees
tipping the man back. Wheeler rose up on the man’s weight going
back, his right palm extending out into his victim’s chin. The
policeman crumpled back unconscious in a heavy heap.
    Wheeler,
dragged the man under the bed, arranged the covers on the door side
to cover the view from there, hiding his crime; he hopped into the
bed and pulled the cord again.
    A young Italian
looking girl, round in hips, dark hair in a bun, bulging in her
blue uniform, just under the obese side of portly, rolled in.
    “Hello. You’re
awake.” She saw him holding jug and then quizzically looked for the
constable.
    “I spill water.
He go to get help.”
    Wheeler
indicated the other side of the bed hoping she was too busy to
look.
    The nurse took
the jug “I’ll send someone to mop up.” She left with a withering
‘you’re wasting my time’ look.
    As soon as the
door closed, Wheeler was out of bed. The constable was just coming
round, his head emerging from under the bed. Wheeler karate chopped
him across the back of the head where it joined the spine, not hard
enough to kill, but enough to knock him cold again. Wheeler could
have killed him, but he knew that they had his description and too
many people had seen him. Killing witnesses was pointless at this
stage.
    Being
compromised he had to get out lie low, get a disguise, and then
head for London. He had planned to strip the policeman, but apart
from the man being too small, damned tailored uniforms, the
disguise was too easy to spot. As he hesitated he heard the rattle
of a trolley outside the door. He stepped behind the door, prayed
to the god