Cutting Edge

Eight

“Ah, Tom.”

“Tim.”

“How’re we today? Feeling better?”

“A little.”

“Good. That’s the spirit.”

Tim Fletcher felt like shit. He winced trying to lever himself up in the bed; with one arm covered in bandages and the other attached to a drip, it wasn’t easy.

The consultant stood near the end of the bed, white coat open over a pair of ox blood brogues, beige trousers, a gray tailored shirt with a white collar and silk tie in red and navy diagonal stripes. His face was full around the jaw, more than a little flushed below pouched eyes; the pupils themselves were unclouded and alert. He took the file containing Fletcher’s notes from one of the junior doctors, gave it a peripheral glance and handed it back.

“If you cut us, do we not bleed?” Laughing, the consultant took hold of Fletcher’s toes through the blanket and gave them an encouraging shake. “Gave the lie to that one, eh, Tom? Those buggers who think we’re made of stone.”

He lifted his head for the approval which his entourage duly gave.

“Well,” he said, “young chap like you, should heal quickly. Soon be ready for a spot of physio … Physio, yes, Sister?”

“Yes, Mr. Salt.”

“Soon have you back on your feet again.”

“Arsehole!” murmured Fletcher, as soon as the consultant and his party were out of earshot. And don’t tell me, he thought, that I’m ever going to end up like that, parading around at the head of some royal procession.

He leaned back against the pillows and let his head fall sideways and that was when he saw Karen, hovering uncertainly, brown paper bags of pears and grapes clasped against her waist, a dozen roses, red and white, resting lightly against her perfect breasts.

Resnick opened the door and went in. A woman with graying hair and a pair of red-framed glasses looked away from her desk, fingers continuing to peck at the keyboard of her computer.

“Any chance of seeing Mr. Salt?” His secretary looked doubtful.

“It’s to do with Fletcher, the houseman …”

“Such a dreadful business.”

“I understand Mr. Salt was responsible?”

She blinked behind her lenses, wide, oval frames.

“He took charge himself,” Resnick said.

“Mr. Salt went straight into theater the instant he heard, insisted. One of our own.” She looked down at the warrant card Resnick was holding open. “He’s finishing his rounds.”

“Should I wait or go and find him?”

For a moment, the secretary glanced at the green monitor of the display unit. “He sees his private patients in the afternoon.”

Resnick slipped his card back into his pocket. “I’ll go and see him now-before I have to pay for the privilege.”

Bernard Salt stood inside Sister Minton’s office, hands behind his back, feet apart in the at ease position, giving a lie to the way he was feeling. He could feel the sweat dampening today’s collar at the back of his neck, insinuating itself into the hair beneath his arms and at his crotch. He hoped to God she couldn’t smell it. The last thing he wanted was for her to realize he was rattled, even a little frightened.

Helen Minton was aware of her own breathing; forcing herself to sit back in her chair, she closed her eyes. “How many more times are we going to have to go through this?” she asked.

There was a single knock at the door and both started, but neither spoke; other than that, neither of them moved until Helen Minton opened her eyes and Salt was looking at his watch.

Two knocks at the door, followed close by two more.

“Come in,” Helen Minton said.

The first thing Resnick noticed was the rawness at the corner of her eyes; the second was the relief on the consultant’s face.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Resnick said, introducing himself. “I wondered”-looking at Salt-“if I could have a word about Tim Fletcher?”

“Of course, Inspector.” And then, “Helen, would it be all right if we made use of your office? I shouldn’t think we’ll be many minutes.”

The sister held Salt’s gaze until the consultant had to look away. Then she picked up the diary from the desk, the sheets on which she had been working out the next ward rota, and left them to it.

Bernard Salt closed the door lightly behind her. “Now, Inspector …” he began, moving across to sit in the Sister’s chair.

Bernard Salt, Resnick came away thinking, was a powerful man with powerfully held views; it had come as no surprise to learn that he had played rugby as a young man, swum butterfly and breast stroke; now golf three times a week and occasionally allowed himself to be badgered into an evening of bridge. More importantly, Resnick had gained a keener understanding of the wounds Tim Fletcher had sustained.

Those to the face were untidy but superficial; in time their scars would lend him a more interesting appearance than he might otherwise have grown into. The cuts to his upper arm had drawn a good deal of blood, but were less serious than the injuries to his hand. What interested Resnick, however, had been the consultant’s description of the damage that had been done to the houseman’s leg.

The blade had entered high in the thigh, having been driven with some considerable force into the gluteus maximus and subsequently drawn sharply through the remaining gluteal muscles and from there into the hamstring muscles at the back of the thigh; here pressure seemed to have been reapplied before the blade was forced through the gastrocnemius, running the length of the calf between ankle and knee.

Without the use of those muscles, Fletcher would be unable to flex either knee or ankle joints; unless they repaired themselves healthily, he would experience, at best, difficulty in walking or otherwise using the damaged leg.

“At worst?” Resnick had asked.

Salt had simply stared back at him without expression.

“The wounds to the leg, then?” Resnick had said. “Quite a different nature to the rest?”

“More serious,” Salt had agreed. “Potentially.”

“More deliberate?”

Salt had swiveled in the Sister’s chair, shaken his head and allowed a smile at the corners of his mouth. “I cannot speculate.”

“But they could suggest an attacker who knew what he was about?”

“Possibly.”

“One with a knowledge of anatomy, physiology?”

“A member of the St. John Ambulance Brigade, Inspector? Anyone, I should have thought, with basic knowledge of how the body works.”

“And without wishing you to speculate, Mr. Salt …”

“Please, Inspector.”

“You wouldn’t have formed any opinion as to the kind of weapon that was used in the attack?”

“Fine.” The same smile narrow at the edges of the consultant’s full mouth. “Sharp. Other than that, no, I’m afraid not.”

Resnick had thanked him and left the room, taking with him one further piece of knowledge that Tim Fletcher had yet to learn: the injuries to the tendons of his hand were unlikely to heal completely; the chances of him furthering his career in surgery or some similarly deft area of medicine were slight.

Fletcher was sleeping, Karen Archer’s hand trapped beneath his bandaged arm. The roses beside the bed were already beginning to wilt. Resnick couldn’t tell if the girl were bored or tired, sitting motionless in the centrally heated air. He wondered why Lynn Kellogg had felt about her as she did, the antagonism evident even in her verbal report. Half a mind to go over and talk to her, Resnick turned away instead, back into the main ward, reasoning that Fletcher needed all the rest he could get.

He sidestepped the drugs trolley and nearly bumped into a student nurse wearing a uniform that resembled a large J-Cloth with poppers and a belt. Just before the door he turned and there was the Sister, looking at him from the nurses’ station in the middle of the ward. Resnick hesitated, wondering if there were something she wanted to say to him, but she glanced away.

Resnick ignored the lift and took the stairs, no lover of hospitals. There was a queue of cars at the entrance to the multi-story car park as he drove out. If whoever attacked Tim Fletcher had found his victim by more than chance, if he had sought him out … He? Resnick took the exit from the roundabout that would take him along Derby Road, back to the station. He was thinking about the medical student who had been Karen Archer’s previous boyfriend: somebody with motivation to cause hurt, maim. Knowledge. The long trajectory from hip to knee and beyond. Resnick shuddered, realized that his own hand was touching his leg, as if to make sure it was still sound. He had to brake hard so as not to run the light by the Three Wheatsheaves, swerving into the left lane around a Metro which had belatedly signaled its intention to go right.

Ian Carew.

He would find out where he was living, pay a visit. Because something seemed obvious, that didn’t have to mean it was wrong.