Winter knew The Rock reasonably well; it was just six hundred yards or so up the hill from Rachel’s flat at the foot of Highburgh Road. The steps Deans had fallen down led from the car park to the pub. The car park was on the street behind and sat easily higher than the pub’s roof, meaning there was a steep, narrow fifty yards of stone steps down to the side entrance into the pub. The steps were badly lit and it had always occurred to Winter that they would be a prime spot either for a mugging or for an unwary drunk to take a tumble. Deans most likely hadn’t been drunk though; he’d been on his way into the pub.
From memory, Winter knew there was a flight of steps, then a level area before another flight landed at the side door. This was where Deans had been found unconscious, blood leaking from his head and cuts and grazes to his hands. He’d have to have been falling at some rate to have bounced across the level area but, given the amount of snow and ice on the steps, it was possible — especially if he’d been given a helping hand to get on his way. The man was lucky he was going to hospital rather than the morgue.
The Western Infirmary was very much on its last legs; awaiting closure and demolition, it had been allowed to fall even further into scruffy disrepair. It was an ugly building, grown old and tired through overuse, like a wizened grandmother who had used all her energy and vitality in caring for ungrateful children. It was to be flattened and all the facilities transferred from its site on Dumbarton Road to the extended Gartnavel two miles away on Great Western Road. The death throes had been long and painful, seeing it had been thirteen years since the closure was announced and yet last rites had still not been called.
Winter managed to find a parking space on his second circuit of the hospital car park, currently doubling as an ice rink, and snatched his gear from the boot. He skated across to the entrance and took the well-trodden path to A&E. He’d spent too many Friday and Saturday nights in there for his liking, photographing the monotonously predictable aftermath of countless Glasgow nights out. Casualty carnage was par for the course at weekends and he didn’t know how the staff had the patience for it, particularly as they were likely to get a mouthful of abuse or worse for their trouble. There was a police room specially built into the corner of the waiting area, the reception staff tucked away behind perspex for their own safety.
This night was still young, however, and none of the handful of people waiting in the rows of blue metal seats looked like they were in the mood for trouble. At least a couple of them seemed to be nursing potentially broken bones courtesy of the icy pavements. There was no sign of Deans or any cops, which suggested he had been treated straight away. Winter went up to the first nurse he could find, introduced himself and was quickly taken through the double doors marked ‘Patients only beyond this point’, then into a room where, behind a curtain, Greg Deans was lying with his eyes closed and blood streaked down his face. A young, heavy-set doctor with extravagant sideburns was standing over Deans and, as he turned, Winter saw the name Meldrum on the tag on his blue scrubs. The doctor didn’t seem impressed at the interruption and glared at Winter.
‘Yes?’
‘Dr Meldrum, I’m Tony Winter. I’m with the SPSA and Strathclyde Police. I’m here to photograph Mr Deans’ injuries.’
The doctor’s brows furrowed, not best pleased at the suggestion.
‘Why? This guy has had a fall down a steep set of stairs. There is no suggestion of anything criminal. I’m sorry, pal, but I see no reason to allow you to photograph him.’
Winter indicated with a nod of the head that he wished to speak to the doctor outside the cubicle and, with an irritated frown, the medic agreed.
‘This better be good,’ he muttered at Winter, snapping off his latex gloves.
‘Doctor, it’s important that I be allowed to photograph Mr Deans. Any photographs I take of his injuries may be needed as evidence in court.’
‘I doubt that.’
Winter fought back the first response to fly into his mind.
‘Dr Meldrum, I’m asking you to let me do my job. I’ll be as quick as I can so that you can continue doing yours.’
‘The thing is, my job is treating him for a fall in icy conditions. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s treacherous out there. We’ve been treating breaks and dislocations since this time yesterday and I don’t see how this is any different. It’s not a police matter.’
Winter successfully struggled with his temper and came up with an answer he’d heard Rachel and Addison trot out a hundred times.
‘Doctor, we have reason to believe that Mr Deans’ injuries were not the result of an accident and are part of an ongoing investigation.’
The doctor raised his eyebrows almost mockingly and a sneer spread itself across his lips.
‘You’re kidding me, right? What’s this “we” stuff. You’re not a cop. How would you know something like that?’
Winter was very close to telling the guy to go fuck himself but managed to settle for a patronising smile, at the same time digging deep into his acquired repertoire of stock police responses.
‘I’m sorry to say that’s not for you to know, sir. All you do need to know is that a detective sergeant is on her way over here and if she finds that I haven’t photographed Mr Deans, then both you and I will be in a lot of trouble — a lot.’
Meldrum stuck his tongue into his cheek as he looked in the other direction, clearly unhappy but accepting that he could do nothing about it.
‘Right, just get on with it then. I really don’t see the point in this at all. He is extremely drowsy and ought not to be exerted. I’ll give you five minutes.’
You’ll give me as long as I need, Winter thought to himself. And you’ll give us even longer once Rachel gets here. He ducked back behind the curtain, leaving the grumbling doctor behind, and saw that Deans still had his eyes closed.
He quickly drew his Nikon from his bag and quietly lined up a full-length shot of the man on the hospital bed. At once, he saw the vivid flashes where the blood stained him at angry grates on his knees and inner thigh. A large discoloured welt had already formed near his shoulder, doubtless soon to turn the purple of a severe bruising. There was also a large piece of fine gauze covering the cut on his head. Winter focused and fired off a few shots, the clack-clack of the camera shutter causing Deans’ eyes to flutter open.
‘Who are you?’ he asked blearily, unable to focus.
‘Tony Winter. I was at your house with Detective Sergeant Narey.’
Deans gazed back at him, clearly trying to sort his muddled brain into some kind of order.
‘Oh. Right.’ He thought some more. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m photographing your injuries. You do know that you’ve had a bad fall?
‘Hm? Yes, yes. They told me. But why photograph me?’
‘I think you’ll need to ask DS Narey that. She’ll be here soon.’
Deans looked confused by the suggestion. Doubtless he’d had enough of Rachel haranguing him at his house without having her nip his bruised and battered head some more. The man closed his eyes again and Winter couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or merely letting him get on with it. Either way, he wasn’t going to wait to be asked. He took a few steps closer, moving to the left side of the bed, instinctively changing the camera lens in preparation for some close-up work.
Winter itched to take off the gauze that covered the wound on the right side of Deans’ temples. He wanted to see and to photograph the extent of the abrasion that had occurred when Deans had learned that being between The Rock and a hard place was no fun at all. Still, the gauze was paper thin and his lens could pick out most of the lacerations caused by the stone steps. They’d clearly torn at his skin, leaving it as raw as if it had been shredded with a cheese grater. The result was a streak of blood from temple to jaw that left its mark on the snow-white pillow Deans rested on. The contrast appealed to Winter as it always did.