Assassin

77

Greta Lyngstad placed a large bowl of spaghetti covered in tomato sauce and Parmesan cheese in front of Carver and said, 'Eat. You need it.'

'Thanks,' said Carver and piled in. Greta wasn't the best cook in the world, but he didn't care. Almost eighteen hours had passed since he'd been rudely interrupted, halfway through his dinner, and not a morsel of food had crossed his lips since. He was famished.

They'd moved from the doctor's study into his dining-room. Carver was bandaged like an Egyptian mummy from his shoulders to his waist. There were padded dressings on his buttocks – Greta had tactfully left a soft cushion on the dining-chair just to make him more comfortable – and more bandages round his thighs. Grantham and Lyngstad were standing at the far end of the room, by a window that looked out over a small, well-tended garden.

'So, is he fit to go?' asked Grantham, nodding in Carver's direction. He did not seem bothered by the fact that Carver was sitting at the other end of the tables well able to hear every word that was said.

'I am afraid that I can only discuss my patient's condition with him,' Lyngstad replied. He had clearly not forgotten Grantham's description of his stitching and was not going to forgive him any time soon.

Grantham sighed irritably. 'Oh, for God's sake. You ask him, Carver.'

'Ask who what?' said Carver innocently.

'You know.'

'Dr Lyngstad,' said Carver, 'first may I thank you for taking such trouble to patch me up. It must have been very difficult work. I appreciate it.'

'You're welcome, Mr Carver,' said Lyngstad with a little nod.

'I was just wondering…'

'Yes?'

'How long do you think it will be before I can go back to work?'

'Hmm…' Lyngstad gave a contemplative sigh, relishing the impatience that was radiating from Grantham as obviously as the light from a bulb. 'That would depend on your job. For example, if you were a civil servant, in a government department, I would say that you should take at least one month, possibly more, to recuperate – on full pay, of course. On the other hand, if we were at war, and the enemy were at the gate, so to speak, then I would look at your wounds, vicious as they are, and say, "They're a long way from your heart."'

'You mean they won't kill me?'

'Quite so, Mr Carver. You will experience considerable pain and discomfort for some time. It could be many weeks before the wounds are properly healed and months, or even years, before the scars begin to fade, if they fade at all. But so long as you keep the wounds clean and bandaged and take painkillers when necessary, you are in no danger. You still have almost full mobility. Your senses are not impaired. No vital organs have been damaged. So if this were a war, and the situation was very serious, then I would send you back to the front line. And since I note both that you are in excellent physical condition and that your body bears clear signs of previous injuries, I should say that you are closer to a soldier than a civil servant.'

'So he is ready to go then,' said Grantham.

Lyngstad ignored him. 'Does that answer your question, Mr Carver?'

'Yes, thank you, doctor.'

'Right,' said Grantham. 'We're off. I've already had your bags collected from the hotel. No need to hang around.'

'No,' said Carver.

'What do you mean, no?'

'Exactly what I said. Mrs Lyngstad has made me this excellent bowl of pasta. I can't just leave it here uneaten, that would be rude. Besides, I'm starving. So first I finish the pasta. Then I go.'

'Well said, Mr Carver,' said Lyngstad.

Just then, Greta appeared in the doorway that led to the kitchen, holding a saucepan. 'I've got a little bit more if you'd like it,' she said.