Careless Love

15

Banks and Annie soon found themselves back in the tree-lined lane of stone mansions at an intersection about a hundred yards from Mia’s flat. A light breeze had sprung up, and the high bare branches trembled against the moonlit sky, casting shadows everywhere. Dry leaves skittered across the pavement and rough road surface. The air smelled of woodsmoke and wet dogs.

Blackstone and DC Musgrave were standing with DC Collier, who had been tasked with watching Randall’s house.

‘What happened?’ Banks asked.

‘Randall went into Mia Carney’s building, sir,’ said DC Collier.

‘How did he know where she lived?’ Annie asked.

‘She brought Randall and Sarah Chen together. Who knows? Maybe she invited them all over to a soirée.’

‘Makes as much sense as anything in this case,’ said Blackstone. ‘Besides, it doesn’t really matter at the moment, does it? The question is, what do we do about it?’

‘Did Mia let him in?’ Banks asked DC Collier.

‘Hard to tell, sir. The front door was open, so he didn’t need to ring the bell. After that... I don’t know. Should I have gone after him?’

‘No, lad,’ said Blackstone patting DC Collier’s arm. ‘You did the right thing. We’ll take it from here.’ He looked at Banks. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Why don’t Annie and I go see what’s happening? Confront them. Unless you’d—’

‘No,’ said Blackstone. ‘Too many cooks. Besides, it was your case from the start, and you’ve talked to her before. You’re familiar with the terrain. DCs Collier and Musgrave and I will take positions at the front and back exits, in case we’re needed.’

‘Thanks, Ken,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s hope you won’t be.’

‘Me, too. Good luck.’

Banks and Annie walked along the lane towards the large house. It looked sinister against the night sky, with its gothic gables and turrets, roof slates reflecting a hint of moonlight. Banks could see the lights on in Mia’s flat and one on the ground floor. Her living room was large enough to have two windows facing the street, and both were dimly lit, with the curtains open, just as they had been when Banks and Annie had visited earlier. Banks could see the edges of some of the paintings on the walls.

‘What do you think?’ Annie asked.

‘Not sure. If they’re in it together, they could be hatching some sort of escape plan, or some way of covering one another.’

‘Or if Randall thinks Mia is a liability... Remember, we planted the idea.’

‘Yes. I’ve thought of that, too.’

‘Perhaps we’d better just go up and ask them?’

‘Right,’ said Banks.

They moved closer to the house. The front door was still on the latch. Banks and Annie made little sound as they climbed slowly up to the second floor. Pausing before Mia’s door, Banks strained to hear the sounds of conversation, or argument, but the room appeared to be silent, not even a distant hint of a Chopin nocturne.

Banks tapped on the door and said, ‘Mia?’

No answer.

He held his breath, Annie beside him. Banks tried the handle. Locked.

He knocked again, harder this time. Still no answer. For a moment, he wondered if DC Collier could be wrong. He said he’d followed Randall from Bramhope and seen him enter the building, but he hadn’t seen him enter Mia’s flat. Maybe he was somewhere else in the house? Maybe he was visiting another tenant? Then he realised that his reasoning was simply a delaying tactic, that Randall knowing someone else in the same house as Mia would be beyond coincidence. Whether they were hatching a plot together or one of them was in danger, it was time to intervene.

Banks took a few steps back, lifted his leg and snap-kicked the door. It took him two kicks to get it open, then he and Annie hurried inside, where they saw Randall putting something in his bag beside the sofa. Mia was nowhere to be seen.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ said Randall.

‘Where is she?’ Banks asked, moving forward.

Then he saw her.

Mia lay on the sofa, her eyes closed, her clothing dishevelled, top torn open.

‘Move away, doctor,’ said Banks, shoving Randall back. He bent over Mia. Her skin was cold and clammy, and she was hardly breathing. ‘Annie, call an ambulance. Tell them we need paramedics fast.’

‘I found her like this,’ said Randall. ‘I think she must have taken something. I was trying to resuscitate her when you burst in.’

‘What were you putting back in your bag when we walked in?’ Banks went on. ‘What have you given her, you bastard?’

‘Nothing. She was like this when I found her. She must have taken an overdose.’

‘You’re lying. Show me.’ Banks snatched the bag from him and upturned it so its contents fell all over the glass coffee table.

‘You can’t do that. I’m a doctor. That’s—’

But Banks was already going through the contents of the bag, and one of the first things he found was a used syringe. ‘Are you in the habit of leaving sharps in your bag like this?’ he asked.

‘I... You startled me...’

‘What did you shoot her up with?’

‘I told you. Nothing. I was trying to help her.’

Banks grabbed Randall by the throat and bent him backwards over the sofa. He could hear Annie talking to emergency services on the telephone.

‘Stop it. My back. You’ll break my back.’

‘I can find it, whatever you used. I’m sure there’ll be an empty phial somewhere among this lot. But you can save me a lot of time. It’s over now, Randall. You’ve nothing more to gain.’

‘All right. All right! Let me go.’

Banks let go. Randall stood up, rubbed his back then straightened his clothes. ‘Morphine,’ he said.

‘How much?’

‘A hundred and fifty milligrams.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘I’ve still got emergency on the line,’ said Annie. ‘The infirmary’s not far away.’

‘Tell them we’ve got a morphine overdose, that she’s hardly breathing. Tell them to inform A&E. And get this bastard out of here.’ He pushed Randall towards Annie.

Annie gave the message over the phone, then cuffed Randall and half dragged him towards the stairs. Banks bent over Mia again. He felt for a pulse first in her neck and then on her wrist, but he couldn’t feel anything. Cursing his lack of first-aid knowledge, he could think of only one thing to do, and that was to keep her breathing at all costs. Gently, he tilted her head back and began mouth-to-mouth.

He didn’t know how long he’d been doing it before he heard the sirens, then the sound of heavy, fast-moving footsteps on the stairs. A hand touched his shoulder, and a calm voice said, ‘Move aside, sir. We’ll take over now.’

Banks flopped back in an armchair and put his head in his hands. ‘I think it’s too late,’ he said. ‘I think she’s dead.’

But Mia wasn’t dead. Not quite. Banks, Annie and Blackstone paced the waiting area while the doctors gathered around her. Fortunately, Annie had been able to tell the hospital over the phone what the problem was, and that it had happened recently. Opioid overdoses weren’t exactly out of the ordinary in a big city like Leeds. Though both paramedics and A&E were prepared, the doctors looked serious as they rushed Mia into the depths of the building on a gurney, and they wouldn’t even deign to answer any of Banks’s questions about her chances.

‘I hate these places,’ said Banks.

‘Who doesn’t?’ said Annie.

‘They always make me wish I still smoked.’

‘Ironic, that, isn’t it?’ said Blackstone. ‘This is probably exactly where you’d end up if you still smoked.’

‘Very funny.’

Blackstone’s phone purred. ‘Yes?’

Banks heard him grunt ‘OK’ a few times. Finally, he turned and said, ‘Collier and Musgrave got Randall to Elland Road. They’ve got him waiting in an interview room. Unfortunately, he’s insisting on having a solicitor present. I told them to let him sit and sweat it out for a while.’

‘Liversedge again?’

‘Aye,’ said Blackstone.

‘I don’t think he’ll be a problem, do you?’

‘Doubt it.’

They found a coffee machine, fed it some coins, then sat down with their drinks. The coffee lacked flavour, but it didn’t really seem to matter. It wasn’t a busy night, not like a weekend, but there was a fair bit of bleeding and moaning around the place before one of the doctors came back. She looked about twelve years old and tired beyond belief. Even the stethoscope around her neck looked weary. ‘We’ve done what we can to make her comfortable and slow down the absorption,’ she said. ‘Naloxone to reverse the effects of morphine first, then activated charcoal to make sure her system doesn’t absorb any more. It was a large dose for someone as small as her, and for someone who isn’t used to opioids. But we’re not out of the woods yet. Not by a long chalk. There’s still a long way to go. Her breathing’s really shallow. We’ll have to intubate her. Who gave her mouth-to-mouth?’

‘I did,’ said Banks.

‘You probably saved her life.’

‘Will she make it?’ Banks asked.

‘It all depends on how much damage was already done,’ said the doctor. ‘Opioid overdoses can be tricky things. They can cause brain damage, for a start, or coma. We’ll have to do an EKG and monitor her vital signs. Luckily, we know the exact dose she was given from the phial and syringe we found in the bag you brought. That was good thinking. And if you’d been maybe even ten minutes later... All I can tell you is that we’ll know more in the morning. My colleagues are still with her. Don’t worry, she’s in good hands.’

‘We’ll be putting a man outside her room,’ said Banks. ‘That OK?’

‘She won’t have a room for a while yet, not while she’s being treated by the team, but if you tell your man to ask for me, that’s Dr Elaine Logan, then I’ll make sure he’s in the right place when we send her up to intensive care.’ She paused and frowned. ‘There was also a blow to the back of her head. Nothing serious, but probably enough to stun her and give her a slight concussion. Did somebody do this to her? Is she in danger from anyone? Is there something more we should know about?’

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ said Banks. ‘Yes, someone did this to her, but he’s in custody.’

Dr Logan started to turn away, gave another low wattage smile and said, ‘Just let me know if he escapes, then. OK?’

Anthony Randall had been stewing in an interview room for over two hours before Banks and Blackstone got around to talking to him while Annie watched from the next room through the two-way mirror. Liversedge made the usual noises about abuse of upstanding members of the public. Banks and Blackstone ignored him and focused their attention on Randall. As the building was fairly new, the interview room didn’t have the same atmosphere or smell as the ones at Eastvale. It could almost have been a doctor’s waiting room.

‘It must be your lucky day, Tony,’ said Banks. ‘You got a Detective Superintendent and a DCI interviewing you. I doubt that’s happened since Dick’s day, if it ever did happen. Hope it makes you feel important.’

Randall scowled. ‘I want to go home.’

‘Don’t we all?’ said Banks, as Blackstone set up the video and recording equipment. ‘But I’m afraid it’s going to be a long night. That’s unless you want to confess right up front?’

‘Confess to what? I haven’t done anything wrong.’

Banks sighed and turned to Blackstone. ‘Like I said, Ken. Long night.’

Blackstone nodded.

‘You can’t interview my client without a break for any longer than—’

‘We know his rights, Mr Liversedge. If you’d keep your interruptions to a minimum we’ll get through this a lot faster, and then we’ll be able to move on to your part in all this.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, I think you do. No matter. It’ll dawn on you eventually if you pay attention. You ready, Mr Randall?’

Randall nodded without looking at them. Blackstone turned on the machines and went through the formalities of the caution. Their advantage with Randall, Banks realised, was that he wasn’t a habitual criminal. He hadn’t been through this sort of process before, hadn’t become inured to it. He’d never been in jail, and the odds were that the thought terrified him, as it did most people. That might make him lie to avoid prison at all costs, but it might also make him hope that, somehow, if he could explain himself, they would understand and come to realise that he wasn’t the sort of person who belonged in a jail cell. Or so Banks hoped. It had happened before, and it beat the usual ‘No comment’ interviews you got from hardened criminals. But he wouldn’t let himself forget that Randall was intelligent and shrewd. And, in all likelihood, a murderer.

‘Funny you didn’t ask how Mia was doing,’ Banks said.

Randall shrugged. ‘I did my best to help her.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Banks. ‘To get rid of her, more like. You’ve already admitted you gave her a shot of morphine. According to the doctor at the hospital, she’d been hit on the back of the head before being injected. Did you really believe you could get away with it?’

‘I told you. I found her like that. I was trying to help her.’

‘Is that why you ripped her blouse open?’

‘Don’t you understand, man? She was hardly breathing, and the heartbeat was dangerously slow. Her heart’s right here.’ He banged the centre of his chest.

‘Sounds hollow to me,’ said Banks.

Liversedge gave him a stern look but said nothing.

‘How were you going to arrange things? Make it appear as if she injected herself and hit her head on the side of the table when she fell?’

‘That’s what must have happened.’

‘You do realise, don’t you, Mr Randall,’ said Ken Blackstone, ‘that our forensic team will be carefully studying the scene and the clothing you were wearing when you were brought here. There’ll be traces.’

‘Well, of course there will,’ said Randall. ‘I was trying to save the poor girl’s life.’

‘What were you doing in Mariela Carney’s flat?’ Banks asked.

‘I just went to talk to her.’

‘A woman you told us you’d never met before, never heard of?’ said Banks. ‘Whom you suddenly went to visit after thinking over our previous little chat with you? Lucky for her you didn’t know we’d already found her.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do, Mr Randall,’ said Banks. ‘Mia Carney was the only person left linking you to Sarah Chen. And don’t try to tell us you don’t know who she was. Think carefully about what you say.’

‘All right, so I knew Sarah Chen. I lied about that. I didn’t want to get involved. She was over the age of consent. We were both adults. Nobody was forced into anything. I know my rights. It wasn’t illegal.’

‘You paid for her company.’

‘So what? I never made her do anything she didn’t want to do.’

‘Gave you a thrill to have a pretty young woman in your bed, did it? Made you feel young again? Vibrant? Virile?’

‘Say what you like. It doesn’t mean I killed her.’

‘What happened that night in the bothy, Tony?’ Banks asked. ‘What made you smash Sarah over the head with a rock?’

‘You’re talking rubbish.’

‘But you were with her, weren’t you?’

‘I didn’t see her that night. Obviously, she went out with some other bloke. Tramp like that, you can hardly expect her to stick with just one man. Perhaps he was the maniac you should be after.’

‘Any idea who he might be?’

‘Me? No.’

‘That’s because he doesn’t exist. Come off it, Tony. Once more, I’d suggest you stop lying and tell us the truth. Our CSI teams and scientific support are very good indeed. There’ll be evidence to connect you with the scene in Mia’s flat, and we’ll find it. There’ll be evidence in the bothy to connect you with Sarah’s murder, and we’ll find that, too. It may take a while, but we’ll find it. We may have to take that bothy apart stone by stone but, by God, we’ll do it. Perhaps you had a good reason for what you did? Was it self-defence? Was she blackmailing you? I don’t think your Medical Ethics Committee would have been too thrilled to hear about what you were up to, would it? Come on, tell the truth.’

Randall folded his arms. ‘I don’t have to say anything.’

‘No, you don’t. But you heard DCI Blackstone issue the warning. Anything you don’t say now but rely on later in court will go against you.’

‘What makes you think I’ll end up in court?’

‘Mia Carney.’

‘Is she... I mean...?’

‘Whether Mia lives or dies, the scientific evidence won’t lie, nor will Annie or me. It’ll be your fingerprints we find on the syringe and phial, not Mia’s. You didn’t have time to arrange the scene the way you wanted it to look. We’ll be taking a sample from you, too, for DNA testing.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Well, that’s your prerogative. We’ll get it, anyway, one way or another. But it sounds better to a jury if you give it voluntarily.’

‘Are you saying that if I’ve got nothing to hide, then I have no reason not to submit an intimate sample?’

‘That’s about it. But you don’t have to get too intimate. Saliva will do.’

‘But what if I just happen to value my privacy? What if I don’t want to end up in some police database?’

‘Again, I can’t imagine why it would bother you if you haven’t done anything illegal, and don’t intend to. Besides, all samples are destroyed if you’re not convicted of anything. Come on, we’re already searching your house.’

Randall jerked forward from his chair. ‘You’re doing what?’

‘Searching your house. Calm down. It’s quite legal. We have a warrant.’ Banks glanced at his watch. ‘The lads should be giving it a good going over right at this very moment.’

Randall half stood and spread his palms on the table. ‘You’ve no right! Do you hear me? You’ve no right. I’m an upstanding pillar of the community. Tell them, Brian.’

Liversedge just swallowed and turned pale.

‘Oh, spare me the theatrics,’ said Banks. ‘You’re a lecherous, murderous bastard. No doubt you expected something like this, so I imagine you’ve tidied up pretty well at home. Got rid of the clothing and shoes stained with Sarah’s blood. Right? Use the washing machine, did you? Well, as I said, our experts are very good, and if it’s there, even in minute quantities, they’ll find it.’

Randall raked his fingers through his curly grey hair. ‘I’ve admitted to knowing Sarah. She’s been at my house on occasion. No doubt she might have had her period, or a nosebleed or something, while she was there, which would explain any traces of blood your experts might find.’

‘Why did you phone Laurence Hadfield three times a week ago last Saturday, around the time Adrienne Munro, Sarah Chen and Hadfield himself died?’

‘I told you. To arrange a round of golf for the following day.’

‘Did Laurence Hadfield call you before eight o’clock to tell you Adrienne Munro had taken an overdose of Mandrax in his bathroom? Did he ask you to come over and see if there was anything you could do? Did you take Sarah with you and ring him on the way? What happened then?’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘Why did you call back at half past eleven? Did you want to find out how things were, whether he’d got rid of the body?’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘Or did you want to tell him that you’d killed Sarah and needed his help? Does Mia know what happened that night? Is that why you tried to kill her?’

‘I was trying to save her. Can’t you understand?’

‘My client is tired, Superintendent,’ said Liversedge. ‘I suggest we take a short break now, perhaps some refreshments?’

Banks drummed his fingers on the table. He was tired, too. And he didn’t feel they would get any further with Randall tonight. Perhaps a night in the cells would change his perspective.

‘OK,’ Banks said. ‘Interview suspended at eleven thirty-five.’

Blackstone turned off the video and audio. Without looking at Randall or Liversedge, Banks said to him, ‘Ken, will you arrange for Mr Randall to be taken to the custody suite. I hear they’re quite nice and modern. Have him fingerprinted and take saliva samples for DNA analysis.’ He glanced quickly at Randall, who was turning pale. ‘Only if he consents, of course. Oh, and give the poor bugger a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit. Two sugars, I’d say.’

It was beyond late when Banks got home, and most of the lights were out in Helmthorpe when he drove through the village on his way up the hill to Gratly. Despite the lateness of the hour and the prospect of another busy day tomorrow, he was glad to be back at Newhope Cottage for the night and not in some hotel. Tired as he was, he felt too wired and on edge to go straight to bed. He’d been listening to The Doors Live at the Isle of Wight to help him stay awake on the drive home, and Jim Morrison’s dark lyric wanderings still haunted his imagination, but once in his conservatory with a glass of wine, he felt like some jazz, so he put on Miles and Coltrane live in Stockholm, from 1960, and settled back in his chair.

It had been an exhausting day, both physically and emotionally, and Banks was feeling his age. His bones ached, mostly from standing out in the damp chilly weather, and the evening’s vindaloo sat uneasily in his stomach. He was relying on Zantac more and these days, and he realised he might have to think about changing his diet. He would talk to his doctor about it on his next visit; then he remembered he hadn’t scheduled a visit in a couple of years. He was probably off the list now.

Which led to thoughts of Anthony Randall. There was no doubt in Banks’s mind that Randall had tried to kill Mia Carney that evening, and he could only hope the attempt hadn’t succeeded. Randall must have thought that Mia had known something incriminatory about his relationship with Sarah Chen in order to attempt her murder. He wanted a clean slate. Only Randall’s arrogance could have led him to believe that he would get away with it, even if Banks and Blackstone hadn’t arrived on the scene and caught him red-handed.

He thought about Mia and tried to fathom his complex and contradictory feelings towards her. In the end, he decided that he felt the way he did because of Zelda, who had had no choice about the way she had to live and the way she had been mistreated. Mia had groomed and exploited girls for the pleasure of men, for money, and two of them had died. But the girls had a choice. And Mia had seemed to care about them. A prostitute with a heart of gold? He doubted it. Both she and the girls were probably well paid. It was definitely prostitution, after a fashion, but Adrienne and Sarah hadn’t been raped and exploited by unscrupulous pimps. And although Annie had done it, he nevertheless felt equally guilty that they had planted the idea in Randall’s mind that Mia could be a liability. The moral conundrums of it all were too much for him to handle so late after such a day. He gulped down some wine and let a Coltrane solo carry him away.

Tying Randall to the attempted murder of Mia Carney would be easy now, but it might be a bit harder to nail him for the murder of Sarah Chen, unless Mia survived and really had something to tell them. They would certainly be able to link Randall and Sarah, and would no doubt find evidence of her presence at his house, in his bed, but whether their evidence would carry enough weight for a murder charge was another matter. The CSIs and scientific support were working as hard as they could. They had already found the stone they thought was used to kill Sarah, part of a pile in the corner, sheltered inside the bothy, so spared to some degree from the elements. Scientific support had found blood and a partial fingerprint on it. If the blood was matched with Sarah’s and the print with Randall, they would be on more solid ground, though they doubted there would be enough points of comparison on the prints to use in court. The pathologist at Sarah’s post-mortem earlier that day had also found traces of skin under her nails, which could be a match with Randall’s, if he had killed her. Apparently, Sarah had put up quite a fight.

As ‘So What?’ morphed into ‘On Green Dolphin Street’, Banks replenished his drink.

Just before bed, he called the hospital. It was very late, he knew, but they never slept, did they? It took him a long time to persuade the nurse who answered the phone to let him speak with one the doctors on the Mia Carney team, but in the end he was in luck, and he was put through to Dr Elaine Logan.

She sounded as exhausted as he felt. ‘How’s the patient?’ he asked.

‘She’s still unconscious,’ said Dr Logan. ‘We think we’ve managed to control the morphine, and we’ve got her on a respirator, but her heart rate is still too slow for my liking, and it appears she suffered from a slight arrhythmia. Nothing to worry about normally, but in these circumstances... She’s being closely monitored. I’ve asked to be informed of any changes in her condition. I still wouldn’t expect any news until tomorrow, though.’

‘Thank you,’ said Banks. ‘It sounds as if you should try to get some sleep, doctor.’

Banks heard a cross between a laugh and a yawn. ‘That would be nice. Not yet for a while, though, I don’t think. Is that John Coltrane and Miles Davis I hear in the background?’

Banks was stunned into silence for a moment. Out of the mouths of babes... ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Stockholm, 1960.’

‘Ah, that one. Thought so.’

‘You know Miles and Coltrane?’

He heard her laugh again. ‘Don’t sound so surprised. My grandparents loved jazz. I picked it up from then. Goodnight, Superintendent Banks. Sweet dreams.’

Some hope of that, Banks thought. Grandparents, indeed. Then before she hung up, he heard the sound of an alarm and an urgent voice over the PA system in the background. ‘Must run,’ said Dr Logan.

‘Is that Mia?’ Banks asked, but the line had gone dead.

Banks lay tossing and turning in his bed, but sleep just wouldn’t come. He found some Beethoven cello sonatas played by Jacqueline Du Pré on his old iPod and put in his earbuds, but even the music didn’t help. His mind kept jump-cutting through the events of the evening juxtaposed with wild dreams about what had happened in the bothy and at Hadfield’s house. Eventually he gave up and went downstairs to make a cup of tea and sit in the conservatory. It was almost four in the morning, dark and cold, and it wouldn’t be daylight for hours yet. This had always been his worst time of the night, when all his faculties were at their lowest ebb and the silky tendrils of depression started to slink in and twist around his thoughts and memories, wrapping them in darkness. Again and again his mind went back to the alarm and the urgent voice over the PA. Was it Mia? Was she dead? Had he and Annie brought it on her?

He considered his options. He could remain as he was, he could phone the hospital again, or he could reach for a bottle of whisky. In the end, he decided on none of these, but quickly got dressed, went out to his car and set off back to Leeds.

There was very little traffic on the roads. Even the A1 was quiet except for a few long-haul lorries and delivery vans. He passed a couple of patrol cars lurking in lay-bys, the officers either grabbing forty winks or hoping to trap some unfortunate speeder.

The city was asleep, as much as cities ever sleep. Lights came on in windows here and there as people got up early to get ready for work; vans dropped off the morning papers, and the bundles landed with a thud outside darkened newsagents; street sweepers moved at a snail’s pace along the edge of a major road. There were even a few pedestrians about, some of them clearly winding their ways back home after a long night on the town. Banks heard a couple of distant sirens, too, before he entered the city centre and found a parking spot in the street near Leeds General Infirmary.

It looked as if he had arrived just after a car crash, as the A&E was swarming with firefighters and harrowed doctors and nurses, and a bloody body was being rushed in on a stretcher. Banks bypassed the chaos and followed the signs to intensive care. The hospital was already a hive of activity, despite the early hour, and he wondered how anyone ever got any sleep. At the nurses’ station he asked for Dr Logan, but no one knew where she was. Someone suggested that she might have gone home. When he enquired after Mariela Carney, the nurse he was talking to became suspicious and asked him why he wanted to know. Banks apologised for not introducing himself immediately and brought out his warrant card. The nurse examined it closely, then asked him to follow her.

A uniformed constable sat outside the room. The poor kid looked so tired he might slip down to the floor at any moment. Banks showed his card again, and the PC did his best to sit to attention. Banks told him to relax.

‘The doctor’s in with her now,’ the PC said.

Gingerly, Banks opened the door. The lights were dim, but he could see Mia’s dark halo of hair against the white sheets, and Dr Elaine Logan checking the monitors and making notes on a clipboard.

She turned when he entered. ‘You,’ was all she said.

‘Is it OK to be in here?’ Banks whispered.

‘I don’t suppose you can do any harm,’ Dr Logan said. She rubbed her eyes. ‘And there’s no need to whisper. She can’t hear you, anyway.’

Banks sat beside the bed. ‘Is she OK?’ he asked

‘I’d hardly say that, but she’s improving,’ said the doctor. ‘She gave us all a scare earlier.’

‘Was that when we were on the phone?’

‘Yes. She suffered a myocardial infarction.’

‘A heart attack?’

‘Yes. Lack of oxygen to the heart muscle, coupled with her existing arrhythmia. Luckily she was here and — well, you heard — we were able to treat her immediately, before any serious damage was done. There may be some moderate damage to the heart, but for the moment she’s resting comfortably. Naturally, she’s receiving oxygen, and her breathing is still assisted. But what on earth are you doing here?’

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Banks.

‘I hope you’ve not come to me for sleeping pills.’

‘Wouldn’t think of it. No, I just wanted to... you know... I was worried.’

‘About your witness?’

‘It’s not just that.’

‘You have feelings for her?’

‘It’s not... For Christ’s sake, she’s a young woman. I’ve got a daughter not much older than her.’

Dr Logan put her hand on Banks’s arm. ‘Why don’t you sit with her for a while? It’s all right. Don’t worry. She’s hooked up to all the monitors she needs, and the slightest change in her will have us all running up here as fast as we can.’

‘Thanks, doctor. If that’s OK.’

‘I wouldn’t say it otherwise. I’ll let your man on the door know you’ll be here for a while. I have a feeling he’s been secretly yearning to go outside for a smoke.’

Banks smiled. ‘Let him go, then. But ask him to bring me back a big strong black coffee, or I’ll have him on the carpet.’

‘You’re a hard taskmaster, I can tell.’

Dr Logan left Banks alone in the room with Mia. He was aware of the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing, the beeping from the machines, the slow drip of an IV, the various tubes attached to her body. He could also hear, but only just, occasional sounds from outside: someone walking past, the clatter of a tray, a patient calling out for painkillers. The constable, smelling of smoke, came in with coffee and disappeared again.

And so the hours passed. There was a clock above the door, and Banks mostly just sat and watched Mia breathing as he listened to the second hand make its rounds minute after slow minute.

Mia opened her eyes at seven minutes past eight. It may have been a trick of the light, but Banks thought he saw, as her lids slowly lifted, a swirling mass of dark red fire deep in her eyes, as if she were returning from some distant circle of the inferno.