Sixty-One Nails Part 80

I rested back against the pillow, trying to organise my thoughts ahead of the interview I knew was coming. The doctor arrived before either Blackbird returned or the police arrived. She was a well-groomed, middleaged Asian lady who spoke with a light Birmingham accent.

"I'm Dr Agraval. I've looked after you since you were brought here on Sunday. How are you feeling?" She held a torch up to look into my eyes. "Not bad considering."

She took my hands in hers and turned them over, looking at the palms of my hands which were crisscrossed with a lattice of newly formed scar tissue. "Do you always heal this quickly? "

"Not usually," I answered truthfully.

"Hmm. Any headache or disturbed vision? Do you feel nauseous?"

"If I turn my head too quickly, my head thumps a bit, but apart from that, no."

She felt under my chin and around my neck. "Your glands are swollen."

"Is that bad?"

"Not necessarily. With the amount of water you took in, your immune system has gone into overdrive." She put a temperature probe into my ear and read off the digital display. "Your temperature's within the bounds of normal. Can you open your shirt please?" She held the metal end of her stethoscope in her hand to warm it while I struggled with the unfamiliar b.u.t.tons of the pyjamas they had provided for me, just as Blackbird returned with a plate of sandwiches.

"I leave you for a moment and you're taking your clothes off for another woman," she remarked casually. The doctor ignored her. I guess she'd heard it all before. We went through the routine of breathing in and out while the doctor pressed the stethoscope to various parts of my chest and then my back. I eyed the plate of sandwiches, my stomach making alarming noises. "There's nothing wrong with your appet.i.te, then?" she said. I shook my head.

"You can have those after I've taken your blood pressure. Eating will affect the result."

She slipped the armband up around my arm and began inflating it while Blackbird removed the cling film and put the cheese sandwiches on the table by my bed. After a few moments the doctor released the arm band and declared open season on the sandwiches. They were plain white bread and plastic cheese, but I wolfed them down. They tasted wonderful.

"Anything else bothering you? There are no broken bones, but sometimes a ligament strain can be just as painful."

"I feel a bit bruised," I told her around a mouthful of sandwich.

"Remarkable. I have patients who take months to make this much progress and you've only been here a couple of days."

"I guess I'm just fortunate I didn't take in much water."

"When they brought you in you were unconscious. Your lungs were full of foul muddy water and you were a hair's breadth from dead. We had to drain your lungs and give you oxygen to keep you alive."

"I'm just lucky, I guess." I exchanged a look with Blackbird.

"Beats me," she stood up and tucked the stethoscope into a pocket of her white coat. "Maybe it's something in the water. Maybe we should be bottling it and selling it as a treatment."

"That might not work," I said, chewing sandwich.

"I've seen stranger things, but not many," she said. "Are you up to talking with the law? They're hopping from foot to foot outside waiting for a shot at you. I told them I would see you first, but frankly there's nothing wrong with you that rest won't cure. I'm more worried about them than you. They look like death warmed up. "

"I suppose I had better see them."

She nodded and stood up. "If you get any dizziness or nausea I want to know immediately. I've written you a prescription for painkillers, so ask the nurse if you need them." She turned to leave. "Can I go home?"

The doctor turned back. "I would prefer to keep you in for observation, but I can't keep you here. See how you feel after you've spoken to the police. You may find you tire pretty quickly. Your system's repairing the damage and you may not have much energy for anything else."

She went to the door and opened it. "You can come in now." She nodded to me and left the door open. Two men entered. The first was short for a policemen, but wide with it. He stepped into the room sideways, more out of habit than need. His mid-brown hair was cut short and his dark jacket looked as if he might have slept in it. The second man looked innocuous next to the forcefulness of his colleague. He regarded the room with a pa.s.sive expression taking in the bed, the chair, Blackbird and me in one sweep. I suspected that if you asked him in a month's time what was in that room, he would be able to describe it all.

"We would like to talk to you about an incident at your flat last Thursday night," the second man said, without preamble.

"Sure. Come in." They were already in, but I wanted to make the point that this was my room, at least for now. "We would like to speak with you alone, please. Constable, would you take the young lady for a coffee or something. You can take a break. We'll come and find you if we need you."

"Sir." The constable held the door open for Blackbird and they filed out, closing the door quietly after them. The stocky man went to the side table and put down a small handheld tape recorder. He pressed Record. "Recording, one, two, three." He stopped the recorder and rewound it, then pressed play. His voice repeated itself from the machine. He rewound it again and pressed record.

"This is Detective Sergeant Bob Vincent with Detective Inspector Brian Tindall." He looked at his watch and then timed and dated the interview, naming the hospital and the ward. "DI Tindall leading."

He turned and sat in the chair by my bed and took out a notepad. The chair was too reclined for him. He perched on the edge of it, looking uncomfortable. DI Tindall walked up and down in the meagre s.p.a.ce at the end of my bed. He stopped and looked at me. "Would you state your name, please, sir, just for the record. "

"Petersen. Niall Petersen. "

"Age? "

"Forty-two. "

"Residence."

"I live at one hundred and forty-five Cromwell Road, South Ealing." DS Vincent noted this in his book. "Mr Petersen, we would like to know what you can tell us about the events of last Thursday night. "

"Very little, I'm afraid." I needed to keep this to a minimum. I knew I would find it hard to lie and that they would probably be able to tell if I did.

"You were discovered running down the street in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt at oh-four-seventeen. You were carrying a rucksack."

"As I told your colleagues, I was going away."

"One of my colleagues is dead. He was attacked by a virulent biological agent in your back garden. His face was eaten away to the point where if we didn't know who he was, forensics would have a hard time identifying him. "

"I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? You hear that, Bob? He's sorry." He strode around and leaned over the bed, grabbing a handful of pyjama and hauling me within inches of his face. "He had a wife and a four month-old baby. She isn't even allowed to see the body. Shall I let her know how sorry you are?" He shoved me backwards onto the pillow and stared down at me. He was breathing hard, trying to control his anger.

"There was nothing I could do. I wasn't even in the garden."

"You didn't see what happened."

"No."

"Or hear?"

"Well, I could hear some of it. They were on the radio. But I didn't know-"

"I quote: 'Tell them not to touch it. Tell them!' That was you, wasn't it?" He leaned over me. "Why did you say that if you couldn't see?"

"I didn't know. I was guessing."

"Guessing!" His face was inches from mine and spots of spittle landed on my face. I daren't raise my hand to wipe it away.

"Is that your usual technique for interviewing key witnesses, DI Tindall?"

The voice was new and came from the doorway. Tindall stood slowly, fighting to regain his dignity as the colour in his face faded slowly. He wiped his hands down the front of his jacket and turned to the door. DS Vincent stood up.

"Only I don't remember reading any of that in the procedures manual and I wondered if I had somehow missed that part."

"No, sir," said Tindall.

I registered the uniform of the man standing in the doorway holding an A4-sized white manila envelope and wondered why Tindall was addressing him as "sir". Then I noticed that the uniform was immaculate. The b.u.t.tons shone, and the shoulders and collar were covered in gold braid. It wasn't a regular constable's uniform.