Blood Work Part 3

'What kind of tests?' Jane Harrington's voice boomed, shocked, from the earpiece of her phone. Kate held it away from her ear then put it back and spoke into it, her voice a hoa.r.s.e whisper. 'I think I might have been raped.'

South Hampstead Hospital was built, like many similar inst.i.tutional buildings throughout the country, in the mid-Victorian era. In the year 1860 to be exact. It started life as a hospital for consumption and other diseases of the chest and much of the old Victorian architecture was still present, although new buildings had been attached over the years, most notably the teaching wing of the hospital which was inaugurated in 1904. The majority of the property was Grade II listed, now, which meant a lot of the offices and consulting rooms were poorly heated, relying on old, cast-iron radiators that the administration hadn't yet managed to justify the expense of replacing. What the rooms lost in terms of heat, however, was more than made up for in terms of ambience and in architectural charm.

Jane Harrington's office was a testament to clutter. The shelves lining her walls were jammed with books, with papers, with articles clipped from medical journals, with videos and DVDs and with a poorly tended ivy or two in inappropriate pots. Her equally cluttered desk sat beneath a bay window that looked out over a small quadrangle, at the far end of which stood the towered east wing of the original hospital. The windows were leaded lights, the desk was old oak and a visitor might be forgiven for imagining they were in the study of a don from one of the older colleges of Oxford or Cambridge.

Jane hung up her telephone, shocked at what she had heard. Kate Walker was more than just a dear friend, she was like a younger sister to her.

She drummed her fingers on her desk for a moment, then s.n.a.t.c.hed up her telephone and pushed the b.u.t.ton to connect with her administrative a.s.sistant. 'Adrian, it's Jane. Can you cancel my tutorials for this morning and rearrange as best you can? Thank you.'

She hung up again and looked out of the window at a group of nurses who were walking across the quad, their traditional black cloaks flapping in the wind like a storytelling of ravens. She always thought the collective noun rather odd. Less sinister, she supposed, than a murder of crows. The cloaks were originally coloured blue with the founding of the hospital, but with the death of Prince Albert they had been changed to black. Like the ties of Harrow schoolboys, the colour was originally only to last for a hundred years as a memorial to the German father of nine, but like the school, again, South Hampstead Hospital had stuck with it. Jane watched them thoughtfully as they walked out of sight, hurrying out of the persistent rain into the main part of the hospital. She came to a decision and picked up the telephone once more and punched in a number. 'I'd like to speak to Dr Caroline Akunin please.'

She waited for a moment while the call was put through. 'Caroline. It's Jane Harrington. Have you left for the frozen steppes yet or are you still on call as a police surgeon?' She listened and nodded tersely. 'Good, I need a favour.'

The sight of a man's p.e.n.i.s would not normally have alarmed Valerie Manners. She was a nurse after all and nearing retirement. She had seen more examples of the male reproductive organ than most women of her generation, even including those who had lived through the free love era of the sixties and the wife-swapping fad of the seventies. This one, however, was attached to a raggedy man, and although not impressive, was unpleasantly semi-priapic and being wagged in her general direction as she cut though the lower part of South Hampstead Common on her way home after a late s.h.i.+ft at the hospital. Caught off guard, she ran off the path and through some trees and bushes into open gra.s.sland, running uphill and not looking back. She ran for three and a half minutes and then stopped, realising that she wasn't being followed. Panting for breath she leaned against a tree and willed her wildly beating heart to calm down. She berated herself for a fool, flashers weren't rapists. They might develop into rapists but at the flasher stage of their development they were usually harmless. She knew that much from reading American crime novels. She put her panicking down to tiredness and being too wired after far too may cups of coffee to get her though the night s.h.i.+ft. She was getting too old to work nights, she told herself. Her breathing slowed eventually and as she smoothed down her rumpled uniform, a bird fluttered noisily up through the branches of a tree nearby, startling her again. She looked across at the undergrowth beneath the tree and something caught her eye. She moved a little nearer, tentatively, and bent down to have a closer look. When she saw what it was, Valerie Manners, who had been a nurse for more years than she remembered, who had always despised those trainees who fainted or screamed at the sight of blood and injury, screamed, backed against the tree, all colour drained from her face, and fainted.

Sally Cartwright spun the wheel, kicking up loose bits of gravel, and parked her car next door to a brand-new Land Rover Discovery. She turned to Delaney. 'You got any coins, sir?'

Delaney looked across at her puzzled. 'What for?'

'The parking meter.'

Delaney shook his head in disbelief and opened her glovebox and pulled out an on police business sign, which he put on the dashboard.

'Anybody clamps this car, Constable, and they'll have their b.o.l.l.o.c.ks as Adam's apples.'

'Yes, sir.'

Sally smiled and opened the door, looking up at the neo-Gothic splendour of the grand entrance to the South Hampstead Hospital. Delaney followed her glance, taking in the familiar sight. One thing the Victorians were good at. Hospitals and cemeteries.

They walked in through the main reception and headed towards the intensive care unit, or ICU; just like the acronyms with the Met, Delaney had trouble keeping up. Why they couldn't just stick with what people knew and what made sense, was a puzzle beyond the capabilities of his detective brain. Too many middle managers in unnecessary jobs, he suspected.

Sally followed him as he walked up the long sweeping staircase at the end of the corridor. The floor was cool, tiled and clean, but the smell of the place was just as every bit unpleasant to Delaney as it always had been. Even as a kid he had hated the smell of hospitals, the particular ethyl odours hanging in the air like an anaesthetist's gas. As a child it had reminded him of boring hours at sick relatives' bedsides, and of operations he had had, once for a broken wrist and another when a kidney was removed. But as an adult the smell reminded him of just one thing: the death of his wife. He strode forward purposefully as he reached the top of the staircase and turned left to the intensive care unit. At least now, maybe, if Norris survived, he could learn something about why his wife had had to die four years ago on that cold station forecourt in Pinner Green. He could finally learn who did it. And, more importantly, with that knowledge he could visit retribution on those responsible. It wouldn't ease the guilt he still felt over her death, nothing would do that, but the need to root out and hurt the people who had cut short her life was as powerful in him as the need for his lungs to draw breath and his heart to pump blood.

Since his mid-teens Kevin Norrell had been a larger-than-life character. Now, however, as Delaney looked down at his ma.s.sive frame he looked as harmless as a beached and rotting whale. He nodded at the armed and uniformed police officer who stood on guard outside the intensive care room and turned to the young doctor who was adjusting a drip that protruded, like a number of others, from the comatose Norrell's arm. 'What's the prognosis?'

The junior doctor shrugged. 'He lost a lot of blood from the stabbing. He had to be resuscitated on the way into hospital and again on the operating table.'

Sally looked down at the grotesque figure on the bed. 'What does that mean?'

Delaney answered. 'It means his brain was deprived of oxygen for a while, he could be brain-damaged.' He turned back to the young doctor. 'How bad is it?'

The junior doctor shrugged again. 'We'll wait and see. If he doesn't come round we'll do some more tests. Check his brain activity.'

'When will you know?'

'Check back later in the day.'

Delaney nodded. 'Can I see the other guy?'

'He's in surgery now. When he comes out you can see him. You won't be able to talk to him though, not for a while.'

Delaney and Sally walked back down the corridor, outside and across the car park to a small canteen that was run by volunteers to provide refreshment to the hospital visitors. It was a wooden A-frame and built like an alpine ski lodge, as incongruent in the rain-slashed English morning as a palm tree in Piccadilly.

Sally went inside while Delaney held back, taking advantage of a lull in the rain to spark up a cigarette. He drew deep on it, ignoring the disapproving glances from pa.s.sers-by as he let out a stream of smoke. He felt conflicted. Ordinarily, seeing Norrell in intensive care would have brightened his mood. But the steroid-enhanced, bonehead muscle for hire had information stored somewhere within his Neolithic brain that Delaney needed. The thought that the man might die was almost too much for him to bear. Not when he was this close, not after so long.

He ground his cigarette under heel and went inside to join Sally who had brought a couple of teas over to a small table by the window. Inside the cafe was more like a scout hut, or the village hall from Dad's Army. Delaney sat down half expecting to see 'Dig for Victory' posters on the wall or 'Eat less Bread'. He took a sip of his tea, scowled and poured some sugar into it from a gla.s.s dispenser.

Sally looked at him for a moment. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

'Talk about what?'

'What happened that night?'

'No.'

Sally didn't answer him for a second. 'We were due to interview Norrell this morning, right?'

'Operative word being due.'

'In connection with the murder of your wife?'

'That's right.'

Sally seemed to steel herself. 'Well, the last time I looked, and with all due respect, sir, I'm a police detective. Not a waitress. Not a chauffeur. Not a dogsbody.'

Delaney waved a hand, a little amused by her angry tone. 'And the point would be?'

'That this is a police investigation, as you told the governor. And as far as I know I'm on your team, aren't I?'

Delaney looked at her for a moment then sighed. 'I'm sure you know it all anyway.'

'Go on.'

'About four years ago. I was off duty. I stopped to fill up in a petrol station when it was being raided. They were armed with shotguns. My wife was in the car with me.'

'What happened?'

'One of them fired his sawn-off, shattering the plate window. I jumped in the car and attempted to follow them. They shot back at us. Disabling the car. Killing my wife.'

'I'm sorry.'

Delaney nodded. 'As I said, you've heard it all before. We were never able to trace the van, we never found out the ident.i.ty of the raiders. It was a closed book. A cold case. And then Norrell started talking about it.'

'You think he was genuine? You really think he knew something?'

Delaney shrugged his shoulders. 'I hope so. I hope he lives long enough for us to find out.'

He looked out of the window; the wind had picked up again and with it the rain. Fat beads of water were splas.h.i.+ng repeatedly and loudly against the gla.s.s of the window, running quickly down the pane now. Delaney turned back to Sally Cartwright.

'I'm going outside for another smoke.'

Kate walked across the quadrangle. Her head was angled down, her eyes squinting against the rain. She looked at her shoes, getting more spattered and besmirched by the minute, but she barely registered the fact. Still numb, her mind still reeling, she walked in a daze, not noticing her friend waving to her through the window of her office or the man at the far end of the quadrangle who was watching her.

She crossed the quad and walked into the entrance, shaking her hair as she hurried up the stone steps to the first floor. Jane Harrington ushered her into her office, making sympathetic noises about being wet through and helping her out of her coat as she shut the door behind her. 'Sit down, Kate. I'll make some tea. Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?'

Kate shook her head. 'Just tea would be great.' She smiled gratefully, pleased that her friend was letting her take her time and hadn't demanded to know what had happened straight away. If she could have answered that question she wouldn't be here in the first place. Jane had been her friend for many years. In her forties she was older than her and wiser than most. She had been pestering her for years to join her in private practice at the teaching hospital and clinic attached to the university, but Kate had always had different ambitions, a different agenda. Now, as she sat coc.o.o.ned in an armchair behind mullioned windows, she was not sure she had made the right choices. But what she did know was that she didn't know anyone she would rather turn to if she ever needed help. And if she ever needed help, it was certainly now.

A short while later Jane handed her a mug of strong, sweet tea and sat opposite her.

'Ready to talk about it?'

'I don't know what happened, Jane.' Her voice was strained, she felt on the verge of tears.

'Then tell me what you do know.'

'I was at the Holly Bush. Taking a swim in a bottle of vodka.'

'That's not like you.'

'I met Jack yesterday.'

Jane nodded understanding. 'It didn't go well?'

Kate shook her head. 'I decided to drown my sorrows. Bad enough to get dumped by the man. Now I'm turning into him.'

Jane smiled sympathetically. 'Go on.'

'I got chatting to a man at the bar. He'd started talking to me. I didn't think he was trying to pick me up.'

Jane Harrington frowned.

'Yeah, I know, you don't have to say it. His name is Archer. He's a doctor so I thought I could trust him for goodness' sake.'

Jane reacted at the name. 'Paul Archer?'

Kate looked up, surprised. 'Do you know him?'

Jane jerked her thumb at the window. 'He works here. He's a paediatrician.'

'What do you know about him?'

'I know he has a reputation.'

'Reputation for what?'

'As a ladies' man. He's married but it doesn't stop him apparently.'

Kate put her head in her hands. 's.h.i.+t.'

'Or didn't stop him, I should say. His wife's divorcing him.'

'What am I going to do, Jane?'

'Tell me exactly what happened.'

Kate stood up angrily. 'That's just it, I don't know what happened. I don't remember leaving the pub, I don't remember going home. I remember being in the pub, listening to Madeleine Peyroux, drinking b.l.o.o.d.y Marys, talking to Paul Archer and the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed at seven thirty this morning, bare as a jaybird with a stark b.o.l.l.o.c.k naked man lying beside me.'

'Dr Archer?'

'Yes, Dr b.l.o.o.d.y Archer.' She sat down again and looked at her friend with sore, bloodshot and devastated eyes. 'I think he raped me, Jane. I think he slipped some Rohypnol, or something like it, in my drink and he raped me.'

Jane took her friend's hand and held it as tears ran down her cheek. 'It's going to be okay, Kate. We're going to find out what happened and if he has done what you say, then we are going to make him pay for it.'

'But if I can't remember . . . ?'

'The first thing we are going to do is take a blood test. See if there is anything in your system.'

'And then what?'

'I've asked Dr Caroline Akunin to come over here.'

Kate looked up agitated. 'No, Jane. I don't want that.'

'You haven't showered, have you?'

Kate shook her head.

'So you must have had it in mind.'

'I don't want to go to the police. I can't.'

'That's why I asked her to come here.'

Kate held her head in her hands again. 'I've performed the procedures often enough in the past. Feeling sorry for the women. Pitying them. Christ, Jane, I never thought I'd be in their shoes.'

Jane took her hand again. 'You're not at fault here, Kate.'

'Aren't I? I went out and got smashed. Maybe I did want to act like Jack. Wash my problems away in a lake of alcohol, have meaningless, emotionless s.e.x.'

Jane shook her head. 'Are you saying this is what you wanted?'

'If it's what I wanted, I would have remembered, wouldn't I?'

Dr Caroline Akunin was a stunningly beautiful, black woman in her late thirties. She was tall, elegant, shaved her hair and was seven months pregnant. She looked sympathetically at Kate as Jane Harrington closed the door behind her office, leaving the two women alone.

Kate nodded at the doctor's swollen belly. 'Nearly due then?'