Maybe it wasn't favouritism, maybe it had taken them that extra couple of years to scrape together the deposit on the new house, but would Mary have seen it any other way than Alcatraz was OK for her, but something had to be done to keep her precious sister out of its clutches?
He glanced again at the prices as he drove and whistled. If the salesman was right and these bore any resemblance to the late eighties prices, even with Mrs. Oto full time at Storey's, they must really have struggled.
But who ever knows anything about other folk's economy? he asked himself reproachfully. Just because a guy who works in a prison and a woman who works in a bookies get their hands on enough cash to put down on a posh house, you don't have to start thinking nasty thoughts.
You don't? came a telepathic echo from the passenger seat. In that case maybe you'd better get yourself another job!
Sixteen.
Luton Royal Infirmary is, according to The Lost Traveller's Guide, a jewel in the National Health Service's crown.
The Victorian chutzpah in selecting the design which made it look most like a royal palace has got to be envied by our own cautious age, and if the long corridors, high-vaulted chambers, and sweeping staircases pose certain problems of speed, heating, and access, these are obstacles not insuperable to the will to heal, the vocation to serve. That the Lost Traveller in Luton is statistically more likely to find him or herself in need of hospital treatment than the Lost Traveller in, say, Littlehampton is undeniable. But once admitted to this noble edifice, the invalid can relax in the certainty of receiving here a quality of care which in other parts of the country not even private health insurance can buy.'
Visitors outside visiting hours, however, were not so sure of such a gentle reception.
If Joe had known which ward Felix Naysmith was in, he would have attempted to bypass the Enquiries desk. But ignorance plus the suspicious gaze of a mountainous security man drove him to the counter where the receptionist looked carved from the same granite. Joe had hoped for someone he knew, but this was a stranger, and she didn't look programmed to dish out gratuitous information to casual enquirers, let alone admit them to the wards.
Without looking up from the ledger she was filling in, she said, 'Yes?'
Joe made a resolve to practise this way of saying 'Yes' in front of the bathroom mirror. It contained a greater negative force than his own most vehement 'No way!' thrice repeated.
'Joe!' said a voice behind him. 'How're you doing? You come to see Beryl?'
He turned to see Iris Tyler, a staff nurse he'd got to know through Beryl Boddington.
'Well, no ...' he began to say as his wireless-set circuits worked out that Beryl must be back on duty, which he ought to have remembered because Mirabelle had mentioned at least twice daily the train she was likely to be arriving on the previous evening with the sure addition that it was always so nice to be met at the station by someone with a car. Joe had refused to take the hint publicly, but mentally he had pencilled in the engagement, only to have it completely erased by the events of last night.
'... which is to say, yes, at least, I mean I thought I might catch her on her break, have a quick word, say hi, welcome home ...'
To his finely tuned ear it came out as unconvincing as a druggie's promises, but he'd forgotten that ninety per cent of Luton womanhood were plugged in to Aunt Mirabelle's personal Internet.
'Can't wait, huh?' said Iris, smiling on him fondly.
She murmured a few explanatory words to Granite-Face on the desk, whose features instantly dissolved into that knowing complicitous smile which, as sure as a masonic handshake, showed she was a paid-up member of the Mirabelle Tendency too.
Iris hurried him towards a lift with Joe still uncertain just how grateful he ought to be to God for offering him this cover story. Two possibilities lay ahead. Either Beryl would believe him when he said he couldn't wait to see her, which was another large step on the way to admitting they were an item. Or she wouldn't, in which case he had a lot of explaining to do.
Then the lift opened and he knew exactly how grateful he was.
Standing there were D S Chivers and D C Dildo Doberley.
'What the hell are you doing here, Sixsmith?' bellowed the sergeant.
'Just visiting,' stuttered Joe.
'Visiting who?' demanded Chivers.
Joe said, 'A friend,' which might hardly have satisfied the sergeant if Iris hadn't intervened.
'Mr. Sixsmith is here to see Nurse Boddington,' she said wrathfully. 'And I would ask you to moderate both your voice and your language. This is after all a hospital.'
Chivers looked ready to kill her but she stared him down and he growled, 'I need a pee, or is that too strong for you, Nurse?' and marched off towards the gents.
Joe said, 'Give us a minute,' and took Dildo aside.
'Anything new?' he asked.
'More than my life's worth to talk about a current case, Joe,' said Doberley virtuously.
'OK,' said Joe. 'How about you check out these names for me? Nothing to do with any of your current cases.'
He scribbled some names on the back of an old lunch bill.
'God, you eat cheap, Joe,' said Dildo, studying the bill. 'I don't.'
