Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [60]
‘What were you doing down here?’ Liz’s tone was more accusatory than she would have liked; it was a subconscious reaction, she supposed, to feeling so utterly and uniquely out of her depth.
‘The Warwick team I told you about? They were waiting on me to read through their paper before submitting it to the BMJ. I thought I’d better come 103
in early and get cracking.’ Oldfield glanced at his watch. ‘I arrived about an hour ago, and went to my office, only to find that my printer was out of paper.’
He pointed to the stationery cupboard, no more than ten yards further down the corridor. ‘When I came down here to get a ream or two. . . ’ He managed an apologetic grimace.
‘I imagine the police will confirm that Dr Oldfield is in the clear,’ announced Smith. ‘The arrangement of the particles of blood on his shirt seem wrong to me.’ He paused, looking around to see if any of the others found this as interesting as he obviously did. ‘And I’m almost certain that this poor man was not murdered here.’ He pointed at the mud and grass that clogged the dead man’s heels. ‘He was dragged in from outside. To throw us off the scent, I daresay.’
Liz shivered. She didn’t like this ‘us’ at all: for all Smith’s apparent and unexpected competence in the area, this was clearly a job for the police. And they were welcome to it.
‘I’ve never liked this part of the building,’ said Smith suddenly. ‘I have even less reason to like it now.’
‘Has anyone called the police?’ asked Liz, desperate to assert her authority.
‘I tried,’ said Fitz. ‘Looks like the lines are down.’
‘And the man’s next of kin will need informing,’ added Oldfield.
‘I’ll get someone to phone through, one way or another,’ said Liz. ‘Meanwhile, I suggest we leave well alone – let the professionals do their job.’
Smith, about to remove some blades of grass from the dead man’s boots, immediately withdrew his hand, and got to his feet. ‘But of course,’ he said.
He turned to his friends with a smile. ‘Come on. We have work to do.’
‘Please let’s handle this matter sensitively,’ said Liz. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this mess, but I don’t want to cause any of the patients needless alarm.’
‘You can rely on me,’ said Smith, before ushering the two students away from the body.
‘I know the value of discretion,’ came the whispered voice of Oldfield at her ear, almost making Liz jump. ‘And if I happen to see Dr Thomson before you do, I will fill him in.’ Oldfield made a show of looking at his watch. ‘It’s now eight o’clock. He should be here any time in the next couple of hours.’
The smile that followed was doubtless Oldfield’s attempt at showing that he had a sense of humour, but as he turned for the stairs Liz wasn’t sure if she found his attitude any more bearable in the circumstances than Smith’s.
Tracy Wade had been roused from her sleep on many occasions in the past, and for a wide variety of professional reasons. Sometimes demented old biddies required a little gentle encouragement to return to their beds. Often pain 104
relief needed to be upped in the wee small hours to get the patient through the night. Once – dozing in the obstetrics department of an inner-city hospital – she’d been roused to help with a birth complication. A woman who spoke not a word of English had been about to give birth to triplets – and two out of three of the children were breech.
That had been quite a night. But nothing could have prepared her for the rough shaking of the shoulders that interrupted a weird dream about marsh-mallows and an identity parade of masked soap stars. Tracy was sitting in the staff room and must have nodded off in the middle of a gripping article on the UK’s future at the heart of Europe.
Liz Bartholomew was standing over Tracy, her face utterly drained of colour.
‘Sorry, Dr Bartholomew,’ said Tracy, rubbing her eyes. ‘Must have nodded off. . . ’
‘There’s been. . . There’s been an accident,’ said Liz, almost babbling in her panic. ‘Mike Farrell is dead.’
‘Oh my goodness!