The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(43)

“Nice road, this. My wife used to volunteer at the cat and dog shelter down at the other end,” he bobbed his head towards the shelter, four doors further down from Nicola Cassidy’s garden flat. “Handy to live around here, if you work at the hospital.”

Ryan was studying the enormous chimney rising over the rooftops directly ahead of them and realised it must be part of the hospital’s furnace. Fire could erase a multitude of sins.

“How many more d’ you reckon there are?” he thought aloud. “How many other women has he killed—the ones who wouldn’t be missed, let alone discovered?”

Phillips shook his head, feeling sick at the thought.

“Everything about his MO speaks of experience, from the lack of trace evidence all the way to bringing his own equipment,” Ryan continued. “You only perfect that kind of technique with practice, so there must have been others aside from Isobel Harris and Sharon Cooper. It stands to reason.”

“Hey, hey, lad,” Phillips put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder in quiet support. “We can only do what we can, when we can. You’re not superhuman and, God knows, neither am I.”

But Ryan thought of a city full of people, every one of them a potential target.

“He won’t wait for us to catch up with him. He’ll kill again and again. He won’t stop until we find him and, by then, who else will we have lost?”

Phillips said nothing but reached for a cigarette, only to change his mind at the last moment as he remembered a certain Irish redhead’s disapproval. He thought of a killer watching her, waiting to strike, and curled his hands into fists.

“Howay,” he said, heavily. “Let’s flush him out.”

There was a gap in traffic, and they crossed the street, cutting along a footpath that would lead them around to the hospital’s main entrance. As they passed beneath the chimney, Ryan looked up at the smoke-stained brickwork with renewed anger.

“He’s close, Frank. So close, I can almost smell him.”





CHAPTER 17


The Management Team of the Royal Victoria Infirmary was comprised of four senior clinicians, one of whom was a close friend of their own DCS Gregson. He and the Medical Director had spent many a pleasant afternoon on the golf course while their wives spent an even more pleasant afternoon without them. Thankfully, since the Director was at a conference in America, there was no need for Ryan and Phillips to go through the usual bureaucratic process of back-slapping and hoop-jumping. Instead, they sought out the Director’s next in command, Head of Emergency Medicine and reputed to be one of the UK’s leading cardiothoracic surgeons, Sebastien Draycott.

They had been inside the Emergency Department many times before and, as they stepped through its automatic doors once again, they could see why it was one of the best performing in the land. There was no sense of chaos they might have associated with a Major Trauma Centre, only calmness and order. Difficult patients were handled swiftly and those who were truly in need were given priority, ushered through to the ward without fuss while those who must wait their turn did so with long, resigned faces.

“Excuse me, we’re looking for Mr Draycott?”

The receptionist inspected his warrant card.

“I’ll alert him,” she said, holding up a finger to the next person in line. “You might have to wait a few minutes, mind. He had a suspected GBH come in not long ago.”

That would explain the squad car they’d seen parked outside, Ryan thought. One of their colleagues must be attending, in case GBH became something worse.

“Thank you, we’ll wait.”

*

They stood around for twenty minutes in the large waiting area of A&E until, eventually, they spotted Sebastien Draycott striding across the floor with a general air of authority. He was an arresting man and considerably younger than they had imagined although, as Ryan knew from his own experience, age was not always commensurate with expertise.

“Chief Inspector Ryan? Sebastien Draycott. You wanted to speak to me?”

He ignored Phillips completely, as befitted his status.

“Yes,” Ryan said. “Is there somewhere private we could talk?”

Draycott marched across the waiting room towards a side door marked, ‘PRIVATE’, with a sliding tab to denote whether the room was occupied or unoccupied. After a brief check to ensure it was free, they entered what was the hospital equivalent of a family room. Ryan recognised the counselling leaflets as being the same ones stacked on an identical table back at Police Headquarters.

“I’m afraid I haven’t much time,” Draycott said, straight off the bat. “I’m sure you appreciate this is a busy department.”

“Yes, of course,” Ryan replied. “We won’t keep you long. I presume you’re aware of the murders of Isobel Harris and DCI Sharon Cooper?”

“Yes.”

He ventured no further comment, so Ryan continued.

“Frankly speaking, Doctor—”

“I’m a surgeon. The correct title is Mister.”

Ryan studied him with growing interest.

“My apologies,” he said. “We’re looking for an expert opinion and your reputation precedes you. As you can imagine, we’re somewhat limited—”

“I should have thought that would be a job for the police pathologist,” Draycott said, cutting him off. “Without wishing to be rude, Chief Inspector, I hardly need to supplement my income providing expert opinions. I only tend to do so in the most unique cases, or those that interest me.”