Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [59]
Liz apologised to Laska and she and the nurse hurried away from the room, leaving Laska once more on her own, watching the darkness through the window.
She sat there, deep in thought, until the first bronzed hint of daylight glowed against the horizon. She took that as a hint that perhaps it was time to return to her room, when Fitz rushed in, even more agitated than the nurse had been.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Laska.
‘I need to speak to Liz.’
‘She went off to deal with a patient. I suppose –’
‘I’ve got to speak to her,’ said Fitz. ‘I was out on patrol with Brown and some of the security guards. One of them went missing. He stopped answering his walkie-talkie.’
‘So?’ said Laska. ‘Maybe he dropped it or something. Or he’s somewhere where he can’t get a decent signal. I have terrible trouble with my mobile.
Everyone does.’
‘But we found him,’ said Fitz, barely listening to what Laska was saying. ‘Dr Oldfield was standing over him. There was blood on Oldfield’s shirt.’ He made for the door, still talking; Laska had follow him to hear what he was saying.
‘And the guard. . . He’s been stabbed. He’s dead.’
Liz heard of the security guard’s death moments after she arrived to placate Mrs Hersh. By the time she got to the man’s body – spread-eagled across the main corridor in the basement, midway between the chapel and a storeroom –
it was already surrounded by a handful of hushed, whispering onlookers. Dr Oldfield, his hands still red with the man’s blood, had found a seat, clearly shaken by what had happened. Dr Smith was bending over the body, his gloved hands minutely examining the great gash in the corpse’s chest.
102
The dead man was Mike Farrell. He’d been at the Retreat for longer than Liz; seemed a nice enough guy, though he very much kept himself to himself.
He’d organised the sweepstake for the last World Cup.
That was the only thing Liz could remember about him. And now he lay on the floor, his eyes empty and staring, and a deep incision in his chest that had, with almost medical accuracy, drained the life from him. Mike Farrell was dead, and Liz didn’t even know if he had a family.
‘Fascinating,’ said Smith, the emotion of the situation – or was it mere sentiment? – seeming to have passed him by. He glanced up at Liz as he talked, though he spoke as if for the sole benefit of his two friends, who clustered behind him. ‘It looks like the assailant stood behind him, used his – or her –
left hand to silence the victim, while stabbing – two or three times, I’d say –
into the chest cavity with the right. That’s not going to help us find the murderer, though I suppose it may eliminate, what, 10 per cent of the British population. . . ’
‘Unless they’re a left-hander trying to throw us off the scent,’ said Trix.
‘Of course, that’s possible, but the force of this impact – look at the fractured rib just here – makes that a little unlikely.’ Smith grinned at his friends, though neither seemed quite as interested in the minutiae of the body as Smith. ‘And I’d say a woman – unless she was very strong – probably wouldn’t have the strength to stab with the knife in quite this way.’
Liz shook her head. She’d clearly fallen asleep and had woken in a nightmare of the sort she said she never had any more. ‘You’re saying it’s murder?’
she said.
‘If it isn’t, it’s one hell of a suicide,’ said Fitz grimly.
‘I’m no expert,’ said Smith, more diplomatically, ‘but I don’t see there’s any other conclusion one can draw.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘I did,’ said Oldfield, finally getting to his feet. The front of his shirt showed blooming flowers of crimson. ‘He was already dead. Still warm, but, with that injury. . . There was nothing I could do for him.’ He sighed. ‘A terrible tragedy.
He was hoping to retire soon. He and his wife were looking for a property in Marbella, I believe.’
Liz felt a pang of guilt: she might have stopped short of thinking Dr Oldfield capable of murder, but