minutes.’
‘So his brother-in-law really did save his life at the eleventh hour.’
‘Eleventh hour, fifty-ninth minute, fifty-ninth second, if you ask me.’ Budrani concluded.
‘Tavares’ brother-in-law came in with him, apparently. Where is David Green?’
‘No idea,’ Dr Budrani replied. ‘Said he was going to contact family and friends.’
‘Right,’ said Broderick, turning to address Calbot and Sullivan. ‘Can you two...?’
Broderick realised that only Calbot now stood in attendance.
‘Where’s Sullivan?’ he questioned.
‘Probably gone for a waz, guv,’ Calbot replied crudely.
‘
‘If you say so, sir,’ Calbot replied hiding a smirk.
Broderick took off down the corridor.
‘Come with me,’ he ordered. ‘We need to find David Green.’
The real reason for Sullivan’s disappearance had not been a call of nature. With that evening’s impending “date” lying heavily on her mind and having asked Calbot to cover for her, she had taken the opportunity to head downstairs to pathology. The time had come to let Laytham know that, romantically speaking, things were definitely a ‘no go’.
Finding the department a little easier than on her previous attempt, she arrived at the Cutting Room. Glancing through the portholes of the door, she could see the pathologist hard at work. Tiptoeing past, she entered the professor’s office. Finding a piece of paper and a pen on his desk, Sullivan resolved to take the coward’s way out and write him a note.
‘Ah-ha. Making good your escape, Detective Sergeant Sullivan?’
Sullivan perceptibly jumped with surprise. The professor stood in the doorway wearing his full surgical gown.
‘Jesus Christ, Laytham!’ Sullivan blurted out.
‘Sorry, I certainly didn’t mean to make you jump. Is everything all right?’
Sullivan composed herself. She realised how furtive she must look, but knew she had to somehow bite the bullet.
‘Fine. I was... just leaving you a little note. I’m sorry, but I’ll probably not manage to get away tonight.’
‘Well you’ve certainly gone out of your way to tell me. A text message would have sufficed.’
‘Ah, well I was over here anyway. Thought it was the least I could do, really.’
‘Oh? Visiting the hospital?’ Laytham asked.
‘Some enquiries. About the Bryant-Ferra case.
Laytham smiled. ‘Ah, yes. I’m working on your Mrs Brooks right now. Quite a mess. Old bones fracture so easily. I’ll be finished shortly, though, if you fancy hanging around.’
‘Uh... no, I think I’d better help Chief Inspector Broderick out. Thanks all the same.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll call you tomorrow, Detective Sergeant.’
Laytham returned to the Cutting Room, leaving Sullivan to wonder why she had failed so miserably in her attempt to give the professor the brush off.
‘Mr Green’s an excellent worker, Inspector,’ the General Manager explained to Broderick as they stood in the main reception area of the hospital.
‘Hugely over-qualified, actually.’ she continued. ‘He took early retirement from the civil service and decided to devote his time to the hospital. He’s also a leading fundraiser for our building fund. The fact is, in a rather short space of time, David’s become quite indispensable.’
‘That’s very commendable,’ Broderick replied.
‘His sister’s death came as a huge shock to him, though. They were very, very close.’
‘Yes, I believe so.’ Broderick confirmed.
The manager continued.
‘I made some enquiries and his colleagues tell me they are a little concerned about him. He’s become somewhat withdrawn. To be expected, I suppose. I’ve let him know that we don’t expect him to come in to work untill he feels absolutely fully able to do so. He won’t hear of it though.’
The more the Chief Inspector heard about David Green’s state of mind, the more worried he became
‘I see. Well, when you see him, tell him I need to speak with him urgently, will you?’
The hospital manager nodded understandingly and left as Calbot approached at speed.
‘Sir? No sign of Green in the workplace. He’s here somewhere, but no one can find him. They’ll call us if he turns up.’
‘Right.’ replied Broderick. ‘Well, no point wasting time. Let’s see if Laytham has anything on Mrs Brooks.’
Down on the lower ground floor, the seemingly endless corridors all looked the same to Sullivan. Even the sparse signs that did exist gave no help, giving directions to departments she wasn’t convinced she could pronounce, let alone find. She had not seen the most important sign, which clearly stated that she was about to enter a ‘CLOSED’ section of the hospital. But her mind had been on other things. Thinking ahead. That was about to change.
Becoming more and more exasperated, she finally opted to turn left. More double-doors followed by more corridors. Suddenly she heard an unfamiliar sound. A distinct creak. She turned to the see what was behind her. Nothing. Walking forward a few steps she became acutely aware of a second pair of footsteps, but where? Why was she feeling so disorientated? Why in a busy hospital was it so deserted down there? She heard the footsteps again. Were they in front of her? Behind her?
She picked up her pace and headed through the next set of double-doors. No corridor – this was a large room. An old operating theatre perhaps? It was poorly lit and ominously cold. She turned to leave, but the room was suddenly thrust into darkness.
‘Okay... who’s there?’ She called out, her voice tightening. ‘If this is some sort of joke...’
Sullivan barely had time to register the noise behind her, as an arm grabbed her around the neck and a surgical pad was placed over her mouth and nose. Her momentary struggle was followed by a descent into further darkness and deep unconsiousness.
Calbot and Broderick had reached the lower ground floor and were making their way to pathology. A way down the corridor ahead, a porter pushed a trolley across a corridor junction and on through double doors to the side. Broderick’s first thought was that it might be Green, but although they could not see a face, the momentary glimpse of the porter showed him to have a considerably larger frame than that of their suspect. The policemen continued on their way, assuming the body on the covered trolley to be on its way to the mortuary,
‘Another one bites the dust,’ Calbot remarked.
‘Yeah, they have a habit of doing that in hospitals,’ Broderick replied.
On reaching the Pathology Cutting Room, both officers could see that nobody was at work there. Moving on to Laytham’s office, Broderick opened the door to find nobody home there either. Laytham’s desk was immaculately laid. Everything in its place – pens, notepad, spare pipe and desk clock – arranged in the perfect order becoming of a surgeon. What Broderick did see however, was a written note lying abandoned on the floor infront of the professor’s desk. Reaching down to pick it up, Broderick easily read the message and the name of its author.
‘What the hell’s this?’ Broderick asked, turning to Calbot.
‘You tell me, guv.’ Calbot replied.
‘It’s appears to be a note to Laytham from Sullivan.’
‘Ah...yes...right,’ Calbot muttered.
Broderick stared at his detective constable.
‘Do you have any idea what this is about, Calbot?’ He demanded.
‘Well, not really. Only that she, er, said she was going to see him. Tell him she couldn’t meet him tonight.’
