Scaredy Cat Read Free Page B

'Plus of course, there's the journey to consider.'
    Thorne nodded. He'd already started to consider it. Hol and looked confused.
    'From what I can gather, you're presuming that Alison had her stroke at home in south-east London,' said Coburn. 'He would have had to. keep her alive until he could get her to the Royal London, which is at least...' 'Five miles away.'
    'Right. He'd have passed any number of hospitals on the way. Why did he drive al the way to the Royal London?'
    Thorne had no idea, but he'd done some checking. 'Camberwel to Whitechapel, he'd have passed three major
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    hospitals, even on the most direct route. How would he have kept her alive?'
    'Bag and mask's the most obvious way. He might have had to pul over every ten minutes or so for half a dozen good squeezes on the bag but it's fairly straightforward.' 'So, a doctor, then?'
    'I think so, yes. A failed medical student possibly - chiropractor, perhaps.., a wel -read physiotherapist at a hel of a stretch. I've no idea where you'd even begin.'
    Hol and stopped scribbling in his notebook. 'A hypodermic needle in a haystack?'
    Coburn's expr6ssion told Thorne that she'd found it about as funny as he had.
    'You'd better start looking for it then, Hol and,' Thorne told him. 'I'l see you tomorrow. Get a cab back.'
    Every step that he and Dr Coburn took towards Alison's room fil ed Thorne with something approaching dread. It was a terrible thought but he would have found it easier had Alison been one of Hendricks's 'patients'. He couldn't help but wonder if it might not have been easier for Alison too. They walked through to the Chandler Wing then took the lift to the second floor and Medical ITU.
    'You don't like hospitals, do you, Detective Inspector?'
    An odd question. Thorne couldn't believe that anybody liked hospitals. 'I've spent tOO much time in them.'
    'Professional y or...?' She didn't finish the question because she couldn't. What were the right words? 'On an amateur basis?'
    Thorne looked straight at her. 'I had a smal operation last year.' But that wasn't it. 'And my mother was in hospital a long time before she died.'
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    Coburn nodded. 'Stroke.'
    'Three of them. Eighteen months ago. You real y do know how brains work, don't you?'
    She smiled. He smiled back. They stepped out of the lift. 'By the way, it was a hernia.'
    The signs on the wails fascinated Thorne: Movement and Balance; Senility; Dementia. There was even a Headache Clinic. The place was busy but the people they passed as they moved through the building were not the usual walking wounded. He saw no blood, no bandages or plaster casts. The corridors and waiting areas seemed ful of people moving slowly and deliberately. They looked lost or
    bewildered. Thorne wondered what he looked like to them. Much the same, almost certainly.
    They walked on in silence past a canteen fil ed with the casual chatter that Thorne would have associated with a large factory or office building. He wondered if they ever got that smel out of the food.
    'What about doctors? Are we on your shit list?'
    For a ridiculous second he wondered if she was coming on to him. Then he remembered the faces of those bloody medical students. This was not a woman about whom he could presume anything. 'Wel , not at the moment an3weay. Too many of them responsible for putting us on to this. You for a start.'
    'I think my husband can take credit for that.' Her tone was brisk, without an ounce of false modesty.
    She caught Thorne's fleeting glance towards where a wedding ring should have been. 'Soon to be ex-husband, I should say. It was a chance remark, real y. One of the more civilised moments in a rather bloody how-shal we-handlethe-divorce session.'
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    fhorne looked straight ahead, saying nothing. Christ,
    he was so English!
    'What about the china? Who keeps the cat? Did you hear about the lunatic who's stroking out women al over London? You know the sort of thing...'
    Phobia. Death.