her stripping in the sluice room. Weren't doctors ugly any more? He remembered the rancid old GP he'd been dragged to see regularly as a boy: a hideous crone with a man's haircut and moustache, who smelt of cheese and always had a Craven A dangling from the corner of her mouth as she mumbled in an incomprehensible eastern- European accent. No such worries with Jeremy Bishop. His modulated tones would have calmed a thrashing epileptic in an instant.
'I presume this is about Alison Willetts,' he said.
Holland looked at Thorne, who sipped his coffee. Let the constable handle it.
'And why would you presume that, sir?'
Thorne stared at Holland through the steam from his coffee-cup. Nice start: sarcasm, superiority, and a hint of aggression. Make your subject feel at ease. Bishop wasn't fazed at all. 'Alison Willetts was attacked and seriously injured. I treated her, and they don't send detective inspectors round when you haven't paid your par- king fines.' He smiled at Holland who could do little else but move on to item two in the do-it-yourself guide to interviews.
'We are investigating a very serious crime, which-'
'Has he done it again?'
Thorne almost spilt his coffee as he sat bolt upright in his chair. Holland looked across at him, thoroughly non plussed.
Bishop's amusement at the look on Holland's face was not lost on Thorne. He guessed that Bishop had seen that look many times as a junior doctor found themselves suddenly out of their depth and sought reassurance, or preferably hands-on assistance, from a senior colleague. Thorne decided that the hands-on approach was best.
'Done what again, sir?'
'Look, I'm sorry if I'm not supposed to know about the other victims. As far as I'm concerned it's simply a question of putting my patient's condition in context. I was informed that there had been other attacks. Anne Coburn and I are very old friends, Inspector, as I'm sure you're well aware.'
Thorne was very well aware that, despite Frank Keable's best intentions, the lid was not going to stay on this case for very long. Not that he ever really thought of cases as having lids.., saucepans had lids.., cases had… what?.., locks?.., well, only open and shut ones. Mind you, was there any point in a case that didn't open and shut. God he was fired…
'I'm sorry if we got you out of bed, sir.'
Bishop spread his arms across the back of the sofa. 'Oh, well, I obviously look as rough as you, Inspector.' Thorne raised an eyebrow. 'I spend a lot of time with people who don't get much sleep for one reason or another. The eyes give it away instantly. I've been on call all night. What's your excuse?' His laugh was somewhere between a chuckle and a snort.
Thorne laughed back at him through a good impression of a yawn. 'Yep… busy night. What about you, sir?'
Bishop stared at him. 'Oh… no, not really. Went in to treat an overdose at about three o'clock and got home about five thirty. But even when you're not called in, it's hard to relax when you're bleeper-watching. Thank God for cable TV.'
'Anything good on?'
'I'm a confirmed channel-hopper, I'm afraid. A lot of old sitcoms, the odd black-and-white film and a fair bit of smut.' He looked up and grinned in disbelief at Holland.
'Are you actually writing all that down, Constable?'
Thorne had been asking himself the same question.
'Only the bit about smut. Detective Constable Holland's life lacks excitement.' Thorne was astonished to see Holland actually blush.
Bishop stood up and stretched. 'I'm going to get another coffee. Anybody else?'
Thorne followed him into the kitchen and they chatted over the growing grumble of the kettle.
'So what time did you go in the night you treated Alison Willetts?'
'I was bleeped at about three o'clock, I think. One sugar, wasn't it?' Thorne nodded and waited for Bishop to continue.
'The patient was found outside by a service entrance… I'm sure you know all this.., and brought straight into A and E.'
'Did you call in when you were bleeped?'
'No need. It was a message saying red trauma. You just go. Sometimes you might get an extension number to ring, or sometimes it's just a message to phone in, but with a trauma call you just get in the car.'
'And when Alison Willetts was brought in, you were the first person to treat her?'
'That's correct. I checked her pupils – they were reacting. I bagged and masked her, intubated her, Midazolam to sedate her, ordered a CT of her head and an ECG, and handed it over to the junior anaesthetist.' Bishop took a sip of his coffee. 'Sorry, I must sound like an episode of Casualty.'
Thorne smiled. 'More like ER. On Casualty it's usually a cup of sweet tea and a couple of aspirin.'
Bishop laughed. 'Absolutely right. And the nursing staff aren't quite so attractive.'
'So if you were bleeped at three o'clock you got there, what, about half past?'
'Something like that, I suppose.'
'And Alison, the patient, was brought in about quarter to four?' Bishop sipped and nodded. 'So why were you bleeped in the first place?'
'I really couldn't tell you, I'm afraid. It isn't unusual sometimes you can spend ages trying to find out why you've been called in. I've been bleeped before when I shouldn't have been. As for that particular night, I've never really thought about it. I mean, if I'd known exactly what had happened – or, rather, what we'd later discover – I might have a better grasp of the sequence of events that night. It was just a routine emergency at the time. Sorry.'
Thorne put down his coffee-cup. 'Not to worry, sir. I'm sure we can find out.'
Bishop smiled as he picked up Thorne's cup, poured the unfinished coffee into the sink and opened the door of the dishwasher. 'Why I might, have been bleeped four Tuesdays ago? Good luck, Inspector)
As the car moved slowly through the traffic on Albert Bridge, Holland chose not to ask his superior officer a number of questions. Why did we bother driving all that way? Do you think Jeremy Bishop is giving Anne Coburn one? Why do you take the piss out of me all the time? Why do you think you're so much better than everybody else?
He looked across at Thorne, who was slumped in the passenger seat with his eyes shut. He was wide awake. Thorne spoke only once, to tell Holland that they weren't going back to the office just yet. Without opening his eyes he told him to turn right and drive along the river towards Whitechapel. They were going to call in at the Royal London Hospital first, to see just how cast-iron this alibi of Jeremy Bishop's really was.
Just call me the Amazing Performing Eyelid Woman. Only I can't sodding well perform, can I?
I went out with this actor once. He told me about a recurring dream where he was onstage ready to do his luvvie bit and then all the words just tumbled out of his head like water running really fast down the plughole. That's what it felt like when Anne was asking me to blink. Christ, I wanted to blink for her. No… I wanted to blink for me. I can do it, I know I can. I've been doing it all the fucking time when there's nobody there and I've been blinking when Anne's asked me to before. She asked me if I was in pain and I blinked once for yes. One blink. A fraction of a movement in one poxy eye and I felt like I'd just won the lottery, shagged Mel Gibson and been given a year's supply of chocolate.
Actually, I felt like I'd just run the London Marathon. A couple of blinks and I'm knackered. But when that therapist was watching I couldn't do it.
I was screaming at my eyelids inside my head. It felt like the signal went out from my-brain. But slowly. It was like some dodgy old Lady beetling along the circuits, or whatever they're called. Neuro-highways or whatever. It was on the right road and then it just got stuck at roadwork's somewhere. Like it lost interest. I know I can do it but I haven't got any control over it. When I'm not trying I'm blinking away like some nutter, but when I want to I'm as good as dead.
If blinking is all I've got left, I'm going to be the greatest fucking blinker you've ever seen. Stick with me, Anne. There's so much I want to tell you. I'll be blinking for England, I swear.
