‘Downton Vale. One four seven Vale Avenue. But what has happened? Has there been an accident?’ Mr Khan looked from one to the other. ‘What has happened?’
Kevin shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’ He flashed a quick, tired smile. ‘Be grateful your boy is out of the country. Thanks for your help.’
As they turned to walk away, a white Transit van screamed round the corner and raced down the street towards them. Kevin stopped and looked over his shoulder at the frightened faces of Imran Begg’s parents. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘Come on, Paula, time we were somewhere else.’
As the black-clad armed police officers piled out of the van, they hurried back to the car. They were almost there when a voice yelled, ‘Oi. You two.’
Kevin grabbed the car door, but Paula stopped him. ‘They’re armed, Kevin. Armed and hyped.’
He grunted something incomprehensible and turned round. One of the interchangeable men in black was a few feet away from him, Heckler and Koch at the ready. The others had disappeared into Parvez Khan’s house. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he demanded.
‘DS Matthews, DC McIntyre. Bradfield Police Major Incident Team. And who the fuck are you?’
‘That’s irrelevant. We’re CTC. This is our game now.’
Kevin took a step forward. ‘I want some ID,’ he said. ‘Something to prove you’re not just some private army.’
The man in black just laughed. ‘Don’t push your luck.’ He turned on his heel and sauntered away.
Kevin stared after him. ‘Can you believe that? Can you fucking believe that?’
‘Only too easily,’ Paula sighed. ‘Are we off to Downton Vale, then?’
‘Oh, I think so. Better not tell the DCI, though. If that lot are anything to go by, it’ll be easier all round if we leave her out of the loop for now.’
It didn’t matter how many drills you did, you were never prepared for the real thing, Dr Elinor Blessing thought. A&E was a chaos of voices and bodies, the walking wounded and the triage teams, harassed nurses and stressed doctors trying to cope with whatever they were going to have to deal with next. Elinor had dealt with the only two chest trauma cases fairly swiftly. Neither was life-threatening and she had them admitted to Mr Denby’s ward as soon as they were stable. As she leaned against the wall in a quiet corner, writing up their charts, a flustered nurse caught sight of her and came over.
‘Doctor, I’ve got a man who came in on one of the Victoria Park ambulances, but I can’t make sense of his symptoms,’ he said.
Elinor, who was close enough to her training to feel reasonably confident with medical emergencies outside her speciality, pushed herself upright and followed him to a cubicle. ‘What’s the story?’
‘Paramedics brought him in. He’d been helping to rescue the injured, but he was on the point of collapse. They reckoned he might be about to arrest,’ the nurse said. ‘His pulse is all over the place. First it’s up around 140, then it’s down to 50. Sometimes it’s regular, then it’s arrhythmic. He’s been sick three times, bloody vomit. And his hands and feet are freezing.’
Elinor glanced at the chart for his name, and looked at the big man on the bed. He was conscious, but clearly in distress. ‘When did you start feeling ill, Mr Cross?’ she asked.
Before he could answer his body was seized with an uncontrollable tremor. It was over in seconds, but it was enough to convince Elinor Blessing that this was no normal cardiac ailment. ‘Start of the match. Before the bomb. My guts were griping,’ he managed to force out.
She reached out and touched his hand. In spite of the warmth in the hospital, his hands were like ice. His pale gooseberry eyes stared up at her, fear and pleading evident on his face. ‘Have you had any diarrhoea?’
He gave a faint nod. ‘Came out of me like water,’ he said. ‘Two, three times.’
Elinor ran through the mental checklist. Nausea. Diarrhoea. Erratic heart rate. Central nervous system problems. Bizarre and unlikely though it seemed, this looked like her second poisoning case in a week. And both connected to Bradfield Victoria. She gave herself a mental shake. Sometimes coincidence was exactly what it was, no more, no less. And sometimes poisoning was more to do with ignoring food hygiene than criminality. It wasn’t yet against the law to eat something past its sell-by date. ‘What did you have to eat at lunchtime?’ she asked.
‘Lamb kebabs. Rice with a fancy sauce with herbs.’ He was having trouble speaking. As if his mouth wasn’t quite working properly.
‘In a restaurant?’
‘No. He cooked it. Jake…’ Cross frowned. What was the name? He couldn’t grasp it. It felt too far away, just out of reach.
‘Can you remember how long ago that was?’ Elinor asked.
‘Dinner time. One o’clock, half past?’
Three hours ago. Well past the magic sixty minutes where washing out his stomach was a worthwhile option. ‘OK, we’re going to try to make you a bit more comfortable,’ she said.
She took the nurse to one side. ‘I’m not sure but I think he’s got some sort of cardiac glycoside poisoning. Digoxin or something.’
The nurse stared at her, panic widening his eyes. ‘He came in from Victoria Park. Are you saying the terrorists used some sort of chemical weapon?’
‘No, I’m not saying that,’ she said impatiently. ‘Symptoms this serious don’t start that fast. He was already poisoned before he got to the football. I need five minutes to check out the differentials just in case I’m wrong and the treatments just in case I’m right. Meanwhile, I need you to administer oxygen and set up an IV and a pulse oximeter. We need an ECG and we also need constant cardiac monitoring. Can you get that started? I’ll be back in five.’
