A Place Of Safety(76)

It was hard to believe, thought the chief inspector, looking down at the motionless, deathly pale form of Ann Lawrence, that she was still alive.

As Barnaby gazed at the figure on the bed, his sergeant was observing him. Some emotion, which Troy could not easily decipher, swept over Barnaby’s face then disappeared, leaving it expressionless. Abruptly he turned aside and spoke to the nurse who had admitted them.

‘Who do I talk to about this?’

‘Dr Miller. I’ll see if I can find him.’

While they were waiting, Barnaby remained silent, staring out of the window. Troy also averted his eyes from the white metal bed. He hated hospitals almost as much as he hated graveyards. Not that he had anything against the dead or dying personally. Just that they and he didn’t seem to have much in common. Having said that, this year he was thirty and a couple of months ago his grandma had died. The two incidents coming so close together had given him pause for thought. Of course he had all the time in the world to go yet - his parents were only fifty - even so, immortality, practically a dead cert a mere five years ago, now seemed a much more dodgy option. He was just thinking about waiting outside in the corridor when the nurse returned with a stressed-out-looking man wearing steel-rimmed glasses. He had a great frizz of very fair hair and wore a crumpled white coat.

As Barnaby started to speak, Dr Miller eased the two policemen out of the room, saying that, at least as far as he was concerned, the theory that unconscious patients heard and understood nothing was far from proven.

‘So what are her chances?’ said Barnaby.

‘Too early to say.’ He stood there on the balls of his feet, a busy man, ready to run. ‘She’s got a deep cut across the head and massive bruising which could mean brain trauma. We’ll know more when we’ve done a scan. We’ve got her stabilised, which is the first step.’

‘I see.’

‘The big danger is a subdural haemorrhage.’ He tugged on his stethoscope. ‘This means draining off blood beneath the outer membrane - always risky.’

‘Yes.’ Barnaby, his stomach playing pitch and toss, swallowed hard. ‘Thank you, Dr Miller. We do know who she is, by the way.’

‘Excellent.’ He was already striding off. ‘Tell admin. on your way out.’





There were quite a lot of bad-tempered motorists hanging around the multi-storey car park waiting for their vehicles as uniformed officers made a note of each and every registration.

There was also a police presence on the top level under the direction of Colin Willoughby. Barnaby did not like Inspector Willoughby. He was a rigid man. A toady and a snob without imagination, sensitivity or a shred of human understanding. The last sort of person, to the chief inspector’s thinking, to make a good police officer.

‘Good heavens,’ said Willoughby as they approached. He sounded so amazed they could have been visitors from another planet. ‘What are you doing here? Sir.’

‘The woman who’s been attacked is involved in a case I’m currently investigating. Charlie Leathers’ murder.’

‘An identification already?’ He was plainly more resentful than relieved.

‘Ann Lawrence,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘The Old Rectory, Ferne Basset.’

‘Hm.’

‘I’ve just come from Stoke Mandeville,’ said Barnaby.

‘Popped her clogs, has she?’

The DCI’s lips tightened with distaste. ‘Do you have an accurate time on the assault?’

‘Five to three the bloke found her.’

‘I see.’ Barnaby looked about him. ‘So, what stage are you at here?’

‘Oh, we’re doing everything by the book. No need to worry. Sir.’

‘I’m not worried. I’m just asking a straightforward question.’

‘All the numbers are being noted. And we’re—’

‘Who let those people up here?’ Barnaby jerked his head angrily towards a man and women stepping out of the lift. ‘Don’t you know enough to protect a scene where a savage assault has taken place?’

‘Go back down,’ shouted Inspector Willoughby at the top of his voice. He waved his arms furiously at the couple. ‘Go away! Now!’

They leapt back into the lift.

‘This approach, this whole level should have been taped off. And the stairs, which is how he escaped. What the hell are you playing at, man?’

‘It’s all happening. Sir.’

‘It’s not happening fast enough, is it?’

‘Her car’s a Humber Hawk, by the way,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘Very old.’

Willoughby glared. He did not like being interrupted, even by someone of his own rank. As for this plain-clothes upstart . . .