“Coffee? Wonderful coffee!” sang Mario, as though he had never seen Resnick before. “Best coffee you can buy!”
“What’s happened?” Resnick asked. “What’s been happening?”
“The wife,” Mario said, “she had a baby.” Explaining nothing.
Then, as now, Resnick drank one espresso and slid his cup back across the counter for another.
Across from him a mother and daughter, similar hair styles, identical expressions, listened to Mario declaring undying love to the pair of them and were pleased. A serious young man who had strolled in from the poly refolded his Guardian as he spooned chocolatey froth from the top of his cappuccino. No more than eighteen, a woman prised the dummy from her three-year-old’s mouth so that he could drink his banana milk shake. Along to Resnick’s right, a man with check cap and a hump glanced around before slipping his false teeth into his handkerchief, the better to deal with his sausage roll.
“Inspector.”
“Ms. Olds.” Resnick recognized the voice and didn’t turn his head. He waited until Suzanne Olds had climbed on to the stool alongside him, careful to smooth down the skirt of her light gray suit, the hem settling several inches short of the knee. She lifted a small leather bag into her lap and snapped it open; its matching satchel, containing court notes and papers, rested by her feet.
“Ah!” cried Mario. “Bellissima!”
“Stuff it, Mario!” she said, enunciating beautifully. “Or I’ll have this man arrest you for sexual harassment.”
Resnick walked through the Center with her, a tall woman in her mid-thirties, slender, an inch or two under six foot. Standing on the escalator, passing between the Early Learning Center and Thornton’s Chocolates, Suzanne Olds made him feel shabby, she made him feel good. She was talking about a case she was in the middle of defending, three black youths who had been stopped by a police car on the edge of the Forest, two in the morning. Illegal substances, backchat, a charge of resisting arrest.
“Why do it?” she asked, buses pulling away behind her, turning right into Trinity Square. “When there are real crimes to be solved.”
“Hospital doctor attacked!” called the paper seller. “Slasher at large!”
“Enjoy your say in court,” Resnick said, already moving.
“Next time the coffee’s on me,” she called after him, but Resnick failed to hear her, her voice drowned in the sound of traffic as he hurried away, fists punched deep into his pockets.
Eight
“Ah, Tom.”
“Tim.”
“How’re we today? Feeling better?”
“A little.”
“Good. That’s the spirit.”
Tim Fletcher felt like shit. He winced trying to lever himself up in the bed; with one arm covered in bandages and the other attached to a drip, it wasn’t easy.
The consultant stood near the end of the bed, white coat open over a pair of ox blood brogues, beige trousers, a gray tailored shirt with a white collar and silk tie in red and navy diagonal stripes. His face was full around the jaw, more than a little flushed below pouched eyes; the pupils themselves were unclouded and alert. He took the file containing Fletcher’s notes from one of the junior doctors, gave it a peripheral glance and handed it back.
“If you cut us, do we not bleed?” Laughing, the consultant took hold of Fletcher’s toes through the blanket and gave them an encouraging shake. “Gave the lie to that one, eh, Tom? Those buggers who think we’re made of stone.”
He lifted his head for the approval which his entourage duly gave.
“Well,” he said, “young chap like you, should heal quickly. Soon be ready for a spot of physio … Physio, yes, Sister?”
“Yes, Mr. Salt.”
“Soon have you back on your feet again.”
“Arsehole!” murmured Fletcher, as soon as the consultant and his party were out of earshot. And don’t tell me, he thought, that I’m ever going to end up like that, parading around at the head of some royal procession.
He leaned back against the pillows and let his head fall sideways and that was when he saw Karen, hovering uncertainly, brown paper bags of pears and grapes clasped against her waist, a dozen roses, red and white, resting lightly against her perfect breasts.
Resnick opened the door and went in. A woman with graying hair and a pair of red-framed glasses looked away from her desk, fingers continuing to peck at the keyboard of her computer.
“Any chance of seeing Mr. Salt?” His secretary looked doubtful.
“It’s to do with Fletcher, the houseman …”
“Such a dreadful business.”
“I understand Mr. Salt was responsible?”
She blinked behind her lenses, wide, oval frames.
“He took charge himself,” Resnick said.
“Mr. Salt went straight into theater the instant he heard, insisted. One of our own.” She looked down at the warrant card Resnick was holding open. “He’s finishing his rounds.”
“Should I wait or go and find him?”
For a moment, the secretary glanced at the green monitor of the display unit. “He sees his private patients in the afternoon.”
Resnick slipped his card back into his pocket. “I’ll go and see him now-before I have to pay for the privilege.”
Bernard Salt stood inside Sister Minton’s office, hands behind his back, feet apart in the at ease position, giving a lie to the way he was feeling. He could feel the sweat dampening today’s collar at the back of his neck, insinuating itself into the hair beneath his arms and at his crotch. He hoped to God she couldn’t smell it. The last thing he wanted was for her to realize he was rattled, even a little frightened.
Helen Minton was aware of her own breathing; forcing herself to sit back in her chair, she closed her eyes. “How many more times are we going to have to go through this?” she asked.
There was a single knock at the door and both started, but neither spoke; other than that, neither of them moved until Helen Minton opened her eyes and Salt was looking at his watch.
Two knocks at the door, followed close by two more.
“Come in,” Helen Minton said.
The first thing Resnick noticed was the rawness at the corner of her eyes; the second was the relief on the consultant’s face.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Resnick said, introducing himself. “I wondered”-looking at Salt-“if I could have a word about Tim Fletcher?”
“Of course, Inspector.” And then, “Helen, would it be all right if we made use of your office? I shouldn’t think we’ll be many minutes.”
The sister held Salt’s gaze until the consultant had to look away. Then she picked up the diary from the desk, the sheets on which she had been working out the next ward rota, and left them to it.
Bernard Salt closed the door lightly behind her. “Now, Inspector …” he began, moving across to sit in the Sister’s chair.
Bernard Salt, Resnick came away thinking, was a powerful man with powerfully held views; it had come as no surprise to learn that he had played rugby as a young man, swum butterfly and breast stroke; now golf three times a week and occasionally allowed himself to be badgered into an evening of bridge. More importantly, Resnick had gained a keener understanding of the wounds Tim Fletcher had sustained.
Those to the face were untidy but superficial; in time their scars would lend him a more interesting appearance than he might otherwise have grown into. The cuts to his upper arm had drawn a good deal of blood, but were less serious than the injuries to his hand. What interested Resnick, however, had been the consultant’s description of the damage that had been done to the houseman’s leg.
The blade had entered high in the thigh, having been driven with some considerable force into the gluteus maximus and subsequently drawn sharply through the remaining gluteal muscles and from there into the hamstring muscles at the back of the thigh; here pressure seemed to have been reapplied before the blade was forced through the gastrocnemius, running the length of the calf between ankle and knee.