The Police Doctor’s Secret

CHAPTER SEVEN

SERGEANT BARRY WATKINS was fretting. There were ten members of an élite police squad due to arrive in town in four hours and he was nervous.

He’d done everything right-hadn’t he? He’d spent half his time out at the wreck scene searching, and he still had a group of locals organised there now. Not that they’d find anything.

He’d thought it through. Something had happened in that plane, that much he could tell, but it might have happened anywhere. The pilot was a dope addict. What was the bet there’d been a fight in the back of the plane at some time? Some time past. Some time when the plane had been off his patch. There was nothing to say when the blood had been spilled.

All the same…

If there were criminals out there it’d look so much better if he found them. But spending the day scouring the stinking hot country near the wreck wasn’t his scene.

Maybe it’d be better if he was out there when the search party arrived, though, he thought. Maybe.

He thought about it and decided he was right. But it was so hot. If he was going to go he’d go down to the general store, buy himself a packet of fags and a few bottles of water. He’d pack the backpack with the medical kit so it looked like he was expecting to find someone. Yeah.

He’d just go down to the store now and then head straight out to the wreck.

Alistair settled Howard into the ward. He rang the urologist in Cairns and wrote up orders for morphine, but there was little else he could do.

‘Stones usually pass of their own accord,’ the urologist told him. ‘I’d advise you to sit on him for a couple of days before you send him on to Cairns. Keep an eye on his urine-the stones may well fragment themselves and come loose. Check for blood in the urine. Keep the pain under control. Give me a ring tomorrow and let me know what’s happening.’

Fine. And that was fine with Howard, too. Or, at least, it was better than going to Cairns. He didn’t even want to be in hospital. ‘Just give me painkillers,’ he whispered, his voice fuzzy from the drugs he’d been given. ‘I want to go home.’

‘I can’t give you morphine unless you’re in hospital, and until the stones pass nothing else will keep it under control. Can you cope with that pain on your own?’

‘No, but…’

‘Do you want to go to Cairns?’

‘No!’

‘Then settle back and accept a couple of days’ enforced rest,’ Alistair told him.

‘My car…’

‘Sarah’s bringing it in. I’ll go and check if she’s here, shall I?’

‘Yeah,’ Howard told him. ‘That’d be good.’ He closed his eyes and thought about it…for about two seconds before he stopped thinking about anything at all. After a night of agony, sleep was all Howard was going to think about for a long time.

Sarah drove down the main street of Dolphin Cove and, on impulse, drew to a stop outside the general store. Howard had bought those groceries here. How often did he buy those sort of packs? she wondered. It was a clearly defined set of items-bigger than one man would go through. If she found a helpful storekeeper he might be able to recall Howard’s spending patterns.

Maybe this wasn’t the first time this had happened. Maybe there’d been more people in the past. There was something about the cottage she’d just been in that spoke of organisation. It hinted at more than one group of people coming in and out.

There were so many questions. Shopping patterns might well answer one of them.

If there were wounded people… Time was so short.

She could but ask.

Howard’s car wasn’t in the hospital car park. Alistair glanced at his watch and felt a sharp stab of unease. Surely she should be here by now? It had seemed like a good idea to leave Sarah at the property alone so she could have a good poke around, but now…

He gazed along the main street and gave a sigh of relief. Here was Howard’s car-a distinctive yellow Ford-coming now.

No. It wasn’t coming here. She was stopping at the general store.

Why was she stopping? She’d know Howard would be nervous. She wouldn’t know that he’d fall asleep so fast.

He glanced at his watch. He had fifteen minutes before he was due in clinic. He might just walk down and meet her.

Desperation drove people to do things they’d never dream of doing in their lives. Amal had never before stolen so much as a loaf of bread. He wouldn’t have dreamt of doing so. But he had no currency. Nothing. His family were starving and Azron was so ill…

So what else could he do?

‘If they catch you before you have the necessary papers they’ll deport you straight away,’ he’d been told. ‘They don’t care what happens to you and your families. They’ll send you straight back to the authorities. You’ll be killed.’

He would be killed. He knew that for a fact. Dr Amal Inor was deemed a state criminal.

He hadn’t always been so. Of course he hadn’t. And that he was a criminal now seemed unthinkable. A successful and caring family doctor, Amal remembered with awful clarity the night when he’d become one-the night only seven weeks ago when he’d been woken abruptly from sleep. There’d been an assassination attempt on the head of the political opposition-a learned old cleric in his seventies-and it was only too clear who’d ordered the assassination.

No matter who had ordered the killing, it had gone awry. The old man hadn’t been killed. Dreadfully wounded, he’d been dragged to Amal’s house by his terrified friends. Why? Because Amal was known to be good-hearted. It was known everywhere that he was kind. The men had been sure that Amal would never turn anyone away.

They’d been right. Amal hadn’t been able to refuse, despite knowing the dreadful cost. So Amal had treated the old man, knowing in his heart that this was the end.

The man had survived, to be spirited out of the country. And Amal had fled too. He’d had no choice. He’d gathered what he could, paid the price demanded by the black marketeers who organised people-smuggling, and when they had finally come for him-as he had known they would-his house was deserted.

Amal and his wife and son were on their way to Australia.

Australia. To horror upon horror. To this.

How long could they survive? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to try.

He’d been watching the store for an hour now. People walked in, made their purchases and walked out. There was a petrol pump out at the front. The owner came out periodically to pump petrol. He stood at the petrol pumps and he gossiped, as if he had all the time in the world.

Amal had gone behind the building to check. There was a back door. If he was fast…

Dear heaven, he’d never done anything like this in his life. What turned a man into a criminal?

Desperation. He had no choice.

Max Hogg, owner of Dolphin Cove’s general store, was fed up with standing behind the counter, and when he saw Sarah pull up out front he strolled out to meet her. He knew who she was-the whole town knew who she was and what she was here for. Max was therefore delighted to meet her.

He was even more delighted-and intrigued-by her questions. Sure he could help her. He had all the time in the world. Now, when had he last seen Howard…?

Barry didn’t have all the time in the world. He was anxious and angry and the last person he wanted to see was Sarah. As he walked down the street towards them Max kept on talking to her, as if he couldn’t even see Barry.

‘I need some bottled water,’ he interrupted, and Sarah turned and smiled at him. It was a placatory smile, but Barry didn’t see it like that.

‘I need to talk to you, Barry,’ she told him, and he shrugged.

‘Later. I’m busy. Max, can you get me the water now?’

‘Sure thing, Barry,’ Max told him with easy geniality. ‘Hey, it’s a party. Here’s Dr Benn. Hi, Alistair. Can you keep Dr Rose amused while I go and serve Barry?’

‘Of course.’ Alistair walked up the steps of the shop’s veranda to join Sarah as Max and Barry walked inside the shop together.

And then all hell broke loose.

There was Max’s voice, raised in confusion. ‘Stop! Hey, stop! You haven’t paid for that. Where do you think you’re going? Barry!’

And then Barry. ‘What the…?’

Max again. ‘He’s pinching stuff. He’s-’

And, worst of all, Barry’s voice, raised in warning-‘Stop. This is the police. Stop now or I’ll shoot. Last warning… Stop or I’ll shoot. Now!’

The sound of gunfire split the hot sleepy afternoon as nothing else could. Alistair and Sarah gazed at each other for a fraction of a horrified moment.

And ran.

The man had stopped, but not of his own volition.

Out at the back of the store, in the centre of the dusty side lane leading from the storeroom to the road, he lay sprawled face down in the dirt. A pile of groceries was flung every which way about him.

They reached him together, Alistair and Sarah, while Max stood open-mouthed in horrified amazement and Barry stared down at his gun as if he couldn’t believe it had just done what it had.

As Alistair stooped over the figure Barry seemed to haul himself together. He took a step forward. The gun was aimed again. ‘Careful,’ he snapped. ‘He might be armed.’

Alistair simply ignored him. There was a spreading bloom of crimson over the man’s upper spine. Alistair’s fingers were on the man’s neck. Searching.

Sarah was down in the dust beside him.

‘He’s alive.’ Alistair looked up at Max, fiercely urgent, knowing instinctively that Max would be more use than Barry. ‘Max, hit the emergency number. Tell Claire I want the emergency cart down here now. Then get someone to bring my truck. The keys are in the nurses’ station. Move.’

Max was a big man, but he wasn’t slow. He took one searing, gulping breath-and moved.

‘Pressure,’ Alistair said, moving his palm to the source of blood and pressing down. ‘We need to stop the flow before we turn him. Hell, it’s pumping.’

‘Use this.’ Sarah had seen the oozing blood and her T-shirt was already over her head and folded into a wad. As she brought it over the wound Alistair lifted his hand. She placed the pad over and pushed. Then, as she applied as much pressure as she could, Alistair gently felt underneath him.

‘There’s an exit wound,’ he told her. ‘It’s bleeding, too, but not pumping. I’ll pressure it from underneath. Barry, grab more wadding. Cloth-anything.’

‘He didn’t stop,’ Barry said stupidly, and Sarah closed her eyes in frustration. She was fighting blood flow here. Desperately. She wanted help-not explanations.

‘Here.’ It was Max, back again with a speed that was almost stunning. He had a handful of teatowels and Sarah opened her eyes again and looked up with real gratitude. ‘Claire’s on her way with whoever she can find,’ Max told them. ‘Has he killed him?’

‘He’ll be lucky,’ Sarah said grimly. Blood was oozing between her fingers and she pushed harder. ‘Max, help me here. I want a tighter wad. Can you fold me one?’

‘Sure.’

They worked desperately. The most urgent thing was to stop the bleeding. At least slow it. More pressure…

And then Claire arrived, breathless, carting a huge bag. This town might be on its own medically, but in an emergency the population moved faster than any city emergency team Sarah had ever seen.

‘I need an IV line,’ Alistair told Claire, not bothering with explanations, not even bothering to look up. From the amount of blood Claire could see what most needed to be done, and explanations took a poor second in the list of their priorities. ‘Sarah, have you got that bleeding under control?’

She couldn’t press any harder. ‘I think so.’

‘Then we risk rolling him.’

A man Sarah recognised as the hospital orderly appeared then. He was carrying a stretcher, and Alistair signalled for it to be laid beside the stranger.

‘Okay,’ he told them. ‘Max, can you help us here? We roll over really, really slowly, so that Sarah’s pad’s not dislodged. Four of us rolling, keeping him rigid, keeping the pressure on his side. I want his shoulders kept in a straight line as he rolls. Sarah, keep your hand on the wound, keep pressing, and don’t stop. This way we get to see the damage to his chest and he gets to be on the stretcher. One, two… Now!’

They rolled.

Sarah’s hand moved with him so her fingers were caught under his back, still pressing.

They could see him fully now. He lay on the stretcher, staring up as Alistair worked over him.

Who was he?

He was a small man, in his late thirties or early forties, Sarah thought. Maybe Middle Eastern? He had a gentle face, she thought, though it was now haggard and unshaven-filthy-as if he hadn’t seen a wash for weeks.

His eyes were wide and pain filled.

He was conscious?

‘Keep still,’ Alistair told him, and he closed his eyes.

‘Do you understand us?’ Sarah asked, and got an almost imperceptible nod.

‘We’re doctors,’ she told him. She was still concentrating on maintaining pressure, and with her hand underneath him she wasn’t free to do anything else. Alistair had Claire pressing on the chest wound-the bullet had obviously left an entry and exit wound-and he was fixing an IV line. They needed to get fluids in fast. Saline. Plasma.

But was it any use? Sarah stared down at the chest wound and thought about where her fingers were feeling the pumping blood. Mentally she tracked the bullet’s path. Not heart. Thank God, not heart. But lung. It had to have hit lung.

The man’s eyes flickered open again. They found hers and she searched for an explanation. What explanation was there when he’d been shot for stealing…what? Loaves of bread?

She had to try.

‘We’re trying to help you,’ she said gently. They’d move him fast, but not before Alistair had done what was needed to try and stabilise him. He had the IV line in place and was searching in his bag for the oxygen mask. The orderly behind him had brought an oxygen cylinder.

The man’s eyes were on Sarah.

‘It was a mistake to shoot you,’ she said softly. ‘A dreadful mistake. We want to help you now. Do you understand?’

Once more, a tiny nod. He understood English, then. He was wearing trousers that must once have been neat, and a shirt that once might even have been a business shirt. His black brogues were coated with dust.

‘Azron,’ he whispered, in a voice that was thickly accented. ‘Help…Azron.’

‘Is Azron your son?’ she asked.

Alistair had an oxygen mask ready to put over his face, but Sarah gave an urgent shake of her head. The man’s need for oxygen was imperative, but there was another imperative that had to be considered. She thought back bleakly to the amount of blood she’d seen in the plane. Someone else was in trouble.

‘Yes.’

‘Where can we find him?’

‘Not…’ The man stared at her with eyes that were glazing with shock and with pain. ‘Not…’ He looked past her and his eyes rested on Barry. Barry who stood at a loss behind them, uniformed, his hand still holding his gun.

‘Not find,’ he whispered, and closed his eyes.

They loaded him into Alistair’s truck and closed the doors. Alistair and Sarah stayed in the back with him-Sarah was still acting as a human pressure pad and she couldn’t shift. Max drove.

‘I’ll report this,’ Barry said grimly, and Alistair winced.

‘You do that. Just stay out of my way.’

Claire moved forward to close the doors on them, and as she did Sarah looked backward. And frowned.

Had she imagined it?

Nothing.

Or…was it?

A wisp of cloth behind the buildings. A fleeting glimpse.

She almost called out. Almost. But Barry was still there. His hand was still on his gun.

She’d imagined it. She must have.

Amal groaned and she turned her attention to him. To imperatives.

They came so close to losing him-but somehow they didn’t. Somehow they succeeded.

For the next two hours Sarah and Alistair worked with the desperation of people who knew that their best efforts might well be in vain. The wound was dreadful.

The bullet had tracked in through the right lung. The gaping, sucking wound in the man’s back was whistling with air as well as blood. By the time they reached the hospital Sarah could feel the man’s trachea shifting to the side. The pressure of one collapsing lung, with air build-up in the cavity outside the lung in the chest wall, was causing everything else to shift, to shut down. Tension pneumothorax…

‘We need to put in a chest drain,’ she told Alistair as she listened to his chest. ‘I can’t.’

‘I can,’ he told her. ‘At least I think I can. I have the equipment. I’ve seen it done.’

‘I’ve read about it,’ she told him, and he gave a rueful grimace.

‘There you go, then. What a team. What are we waiting for?’

What were they waiting for? Expertise, she thought bleakly. That was what they urgently wanted here.

Expertise was in short supply. They were all this man had. They were all that stood between this man and death.

What had Sarah been told? She thought back to the publican’s blunt assessment of the situation.

‘We’re a one-doctor town. We know that. It’s a risk we take.’

The locals accepted that they had one doctor here and that in an emergency he might not be able to cope.

It was bad enough, but to have such a situation with a gun-happy cop…

‘What did you say to him before he lost consciousness?’ Alistair asked. He was fighting to put together equipment and waiting for a call he’d put through to Cairns to get some emergency on-line assistance from a specialist surgeon. Sarah was adjusting oxygen-the man needed more, but his lungs were losing capacity all the time.

‘He was frightened for his son.’

‘His son?’

‘Out at the farm I found three forged Australian passports prepared for Amal Inor, his wife Noa, and his five-year-old son Azron. I figure this guy must be Amal. He talked about his son. Azron. Which confirms it. I asked him where they were, but Barry was there. He was too frightened.’

Alistair grimaced. ‘Even if he pulls through we’re not going to be able to talk to him.’

‘No. We had that one opportunity. And because of Barry…’

‘Barry’s out of here,’ Alistair told her. ‘Even if I have to run the guy out of town myself.’

They took X-rays, confirming air in the right thorax. They cross-matched blood for transfusion and Alistair contacted locals with the same group. ‘They’re used to it,’ he told Sarah. ‘This is a small community. There’s never any trouble getting blood donors-everyone knows they may need it themselves some day.’ Then, with the assistance of a specialist thoracic surgeon, teleconferencing from Cairns, they managed the next step.

A chest tube was inserted into the chest cavity using a local anaesthetic.

Their patient was drifting in and out of consciousness. There was no way Sarah was risking a general anaesthetic, and he didn’t need it. Alistair had administered so much morphine he’d hardly even need the local anaesthetic she did administer.

Then she watched as Alistair carefully inserted what was needed. The trocar and cannula consisted of an outer tube inserted right into the chest, with a tiny valved suction tube inserted in the centre. Once in position, the outer tube was withdrawn, leaving the inner tube in place. The tube was connected to an underwater seal, which allowed the air leaking from the damaged lung to exit through the tube but no air back again.

The intention was to seal the lung. It would let the man breathe until more permanent repairs could be made.

And, blessedly, it worked. The tube in place, they could concentrate on stopping the bleeding.

The wound was a gaping mess. He’d need specialist surgery to repair it completely-he needed to be moved to Cairns-but they had to get him stable first. They worked on, and by the time Alistair stood back from the table Sarah was as exhausted as Alistair looked.

‘That’s it.’ Alistair’s whole body seemed to slump. ‘We’ve done all we can.’

‘He has a chance,’ Sarah whispered.

Alistair nodded. ‘A good chance. I think. Barring complications.’ He lifted the man’s hand and held it in his. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Amal. As I said, it’s a guess, but I think I’m right.’

He nodded. ‘Amal, can you hear us?’

Amal’s eyes fluttered open. He looked at them with eyes that were cloudy from drugs and pain and shock.

‘Amal, you’re safe now.’ Alistair’s voice gentled as he realised the man was taking in what he was being told. ‘You’re safe. But we need to find your family. Can you help us?’

Amal gazed up at them some more. He simply looked. Nothing.

‘Amal?’

There was a weak shake of the head. A tear appeared at the corner of the man’s right eye and trickled down his dusty cheek.

He closed his eyes.

This wasn’t sleep, Sarah thought. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t telling them anything.

He was still terrified. If they had shot him, imagine what they could do to his precious wife and son.

‘I’ll kill him.’

She’d never seen him this angry. Sarah followed Alistair out to the sinks, then stood back and watched as he hauled off his gown and turned the taps on full. Water spurted out of the faucet so hard it hit the bottom and burst up again, splashing over his shoes. He didn’t appear to notice. He’d held himself under rigid control while he was operating, she realised, but now combined tension and rage were threatening to overwhelm him.

‘He wasn’t armed.’ Alistair’s voice was a cold whisper. ‘He was carrying armloads of food and he was running away. Barry could have caught him. If he’d run he could have caught him. And he stands there like a moron and shoots…he shoots…’

Sarah walked forward and eased the taps back. His gown had caught-one of the ties was still fastened and the green fabric was still hanging uselessly around his waist. She undid the tie and let the thing fall.

‘Alistair…’

‘People.’ He finished washing and turned, staring blindly at her, so frustrated with rage that he hardly saw her. Or rather he did see her. And what he saw he didn’t like. ‘Stupid, irresponsible people. You damage and you damage and you damage…’

Was he talking about her?

‘Life’s so precious, and you don’t realise… Blasting like that with a gun-for a few loaves of bread! Taking drugs and getting behind a wheel…’

Yep, it seemed they were talking about her. Sarah’s face closed.

‘The police squad from Cairns has arrived,’ she said bleakly. ‘I need to talk to them before Barry cements his own version of events in their heads.’ She motioned to the cellphone on her belt. ‘Call me if you need me. Medical emergencies only.’

And she walked away before her own anger overwhelmed her. Before she could do what she really wanted to do.

Which was to hit him from here to the middle of next week. Hit someone.

Barry? Yes.

Alistair? Him, too.

The helicopter that had brought the police squad from Cairns was used to evacuate Amal. They were desperate to speak to him, but his life hung on him getting specialist treatment. If they kept him in Dolphin Cove he’d maybe be able to tell them something that would let them find his wife and son, but his damaged lung required surgery immediately. There wasn’t a choice.

So he went. Sarah stood on the veranda and watched the helicopter take off and thought she could have been on it.

She should have been on it. Her work here was done. For Sarah, who’d spent the last six years carefully not getting involved, it had been a prime opportunity for her to say, Amal needs medical attention during the flight and I’m offering to go with him. You don’t need me any more. I’m out of here.

But the helicopter that had brought the team had been used also to transfer someone else. An old man, a native of one of the inland settlements, who had been in Cairns for treatment for a tumour that had finally been termed inoperable. His doctors had been waiting for an opportunity to transport him back, to spend his last few weeks with his people, so the huge transport helicopter had also been carrying his doctor and a nurse.

There were therefore medical personnel already on board for the trip back to Cairns. They’d look after Amal.

And no one had suggested Sarah go, too. She’d found herself fading as much as she could into the background, as though she was afraid someone would suddenly turn and say, What are you doing here? Why don’t you leave?

Her job had been to come and determine how the pilot had died. She’d done that. There were detectives here now. Police who knew more about finding fugitives than she did.

‘What am I doing?’ She stooped and hugged Flotsam, who seemed entirely happy to be hugged. It was as if the little dog sensed her need and was pleased to oblige. ‘Alistair hates me. I don’t know what that kiss was about. It was crazy. He just hates me. And I…’

What was she feeling? She knew what she was feeling, and it was all about that kiss. Which was crazy.

She should go home. There was nothing here for her.

There was nothing at home for her.

‘I’ve stuffed it so badly,’ she said bleakly. ‘All I can do…all I can do, Flotsam, is see if I can redeem myself somehow. Where are Noa and Azron? If I could find them, if I could help in some way… There has to be something I can do.’

She thought of that wisp of cloth she’d seen back at the shop as she’d helped load Amal into the truck-cum-ambulance. Did it have any significance? Probably not, she thought, but she could go down and have a look. She could see if there was anything there that could explain it.

‘You’re making excuses to stay,’ she told herself fiercely. ‘You think there’s anything you can do that will make any difference?’

Of course there wasn’t. She was clutching at straws.

It wouldn’t make any difference at all.

‘To me, no,’ she told the little dog. ‘But maybe it’ll make a difference to Noa and Azron.’

Yeah, right.

She couldn’t help it. She hugged the little dog closer and knew that she had no choice. She was staying.

Like it or not, Sarah was involved. Right up to her heart.

Alistair watched the helicopter fade into the distance and he turned to the head of the police squad with a heavy heart. He was feeling sick. He should have prevented it. He knew Barry was a loose cannon. He should have pushed…

But he had to focus now on what lay ahead. The helicopter had brought back-up-a crack force of eight, with authority, intelligence and purpose. At least now they had some real help.

‘We’ve taken Barry off active duty pending an enquiry,’ he was told.

Larry, the head of the police team, had heard an outline of what had happened and was looking grave himself. News of the shooting would surely hit the national press. The last thing the Australian police force wanted was to be seen as gun-happy. And for one of their number to shoot unnecessarily, when he already had a record for unwarranted force…

There’d be questions right to the top.

‘It’s too late now,’ Alistair said, but the man beside him shook his head.

‘The prognosis is hopeful.’ Larry Giles was a senior detective with the Federal Police. He was good at his job and he’d spent time this morning and on the flight here getting up to speed on this case. By the time he landed he’d already been briefed by the consultant who’d talked Alistair through the operation and who’d be taking over Amal’s care back in Cairns.

A lot depended on Amal’s surviving. Larry hadn’t put pressure on-not exactly-but he knew Amal would get the very best medical care available to anyone. ‘All we need to do now is find the rest of his family,’ he told Alistair.

The man obviously had more confidence than Alistair felt.

‘The rest-whoever they are-are wounded,’ he said heavily. ‘And Sarah’s sure there’s a child.’

‘If Sarah says there’s a child there’ll be a child,’ Larry told him. ‘She’s good. With her remaining here we have an excellent medical team. We have decent trackers and we’ve brought a couple of sniffer dogs. We’ll work fast. We’re giving it our best shot.’

‘Sarah’s staying?’ He hadn’t really thought about her leaving, but now… Why didn’t she leave? If she left then maybe he could relax.

But it wasn’t to be.

‘For the time being I’ve asked that she stay,’ Larry told him. ‘I’ve worked with her before. She’s the best police doctor we have. I understand she’s been more than useful already.’

‘Yeah.’ Alistair’s response was no more than a grunt, and Larry gave him a curious look.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘No.’ Alistair gave a weary shake of his head. ‘No problem at all.’

Washing. It was nothing but laundry. Plus an over-vivid imagination.

Sarah stood where she’d stood earlier and stared at the fluttering line of laundry in the backyard next to the shop. There were sheets flapping in the wind. While she watched, a corner of the sheet whipped up and fluttered against the corner of the fence.

That was what she’d seen. It must have been. She was getting so desperate she was imagining things.

Damn. She stared at it with hopeless eyes. She was so weary she was almost asleep on her feet. She hadn’t been able to sleep here. She was so confused.

She was useless.

In the yard next to Max’s store, Mariette Hardy carried her second load of washing out into her backyard and started pegging it out. There’d been so much going on today she was running way behind. Her second son had some sort of tummy bug-he’d been ill now for two days, and she was starting to worry. On top of that there’d been the shooting next door. So upsetting.

But the washing had to be done. She’d changed Donny’s sheets twice today already. If she hadn’t known Alistair was busy she’d have taken him in to see him. But she’d give Donny another night before she called for medical help, she thought. If she had enough sheets.

She started pegging and then she faltered. There was too much room on the line.

There was a sheet missing.

Where was it?

It was windy. Hadn’t she pegged it hard enough?

She put her nose over the fence into the backyard of Max’s shop. Sometimes her washing ended up there.

Nothing. All she could see was a pool of blood where Amal’s body had lain.

She winced. Ugh.

Maybe it’d blown over and they’d used it, she thought, and good luck to them if they had. A sheet wasn’t a great price to pay for a man’s life. It might have helped keep the poor man alive.

She shrugged. She wouldn’t enquire, she decided. The police had enough on their minds without worrying about one sheet, and she had enough on her mind worrying about Donny.

Mariette went back to her laundry.

Up in the hills behind the town Noa cradled her son and she wept. She’d rewrapped his wound as best she could, in torn pieces of the clean sheet, but she didn’t have the knowledge to do more. He was feverish.

His father would know what to do.

Amal.

His father was dying. Maybe he was already dead.

No. She refused to believe it. The girl-the woman with the bright red hair-what had she said?

‘We’re doctors. We’re trying to help you.’

She’d hardly been able to see them. She’d kept back-Amal hadn’t known that she’d followed, but she’d been so fearful. So fearful.

We’re doctors. We’re trying to help you.

Could she believe it?

No. She could believe no one. Trust no one. Not any more.

And Amal was no longer capable of helping. There was only Noa between her son and death. Amal had done what he must and now it was her turn.

She ran her fingers through her little son’s soft curls, and with her other hand she cradled her last hope.

The cold, grim comfort of a small and ugly pistol.