Pulse(18)

‘The man had definitely had a drink of alcohol at some stage. Have you checked the bottle for his fingerprints?’

It was clear from his expression that he hadn’t.

‘And did you test the contents?’

‘It was empty.’

‘There must have been some residue left,’ I said. ‘According to his report, the pathologist thinks the cocaine was probably ingested orally. I wonder if it was in the whisky.’

‘Can you put cocaine in whisky?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘It will dissolve in almost any liquid. I remember a case a few years back when someone drank rum laced with cocaine. It killed him.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Deadly serious,’ I said. ‘A man dissolved a large quantity of cocaine into a bottle of rum to smuggle it into the UK. His girlfriend carried it because he claimed he was over the duty-free limit but the man was stopped by customs and the girlfriend gave up waiting. She gave the bottle to a taxi driver without realising its contents were lethal and he died after drinking a single shot.’

‘Couldn’t he taste it?’

‘Obviously not. Probably knocked it back in one go. And that’s not the only time. Someone else died drinking pear juice laced with cocaine, again after it was smuggled into the country.’

‘But how can you get it back out of the liquid?’

‘Simple,’ I said. ‘Gently evaporate it in a saucepan and you’ll be left with the cocaine powder at the bottom.’

‘So you think our nameless man was a smuggler?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t say that. I’m simply asking whether you’ve tested the whisky bottle as the possible source. Have you still got it?’

‘Yes,’ he said with certainty. ‘Everything was bagged up.’

I suddenly felt dreadfully light-headed and rocked slightly, grabbing hold of the handrail.

‘Are you all right, Dr Rankin?’ PC Filippos asked. ‘You’ve gone very pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said automatically.

I was always fine.

But in truth, this time, I was far from feeling fine. I was dizzy, shaky and I couldn’t focus my eyes properly. In fact, I was very close to passing out altogether. I slumped further against the handrail and only the policeman’s strong arms of the law stopped me falling over completely.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘Must be something I ate.’ Even though I doubted that. I hadn’t eaten anything at all since the previous evening and, even then, I had only consumed a reduced-calorie cup of vegetable soup.

‘Come on,’ he said, holding me tightly round my waist, ‘let’s get you inside and sat down.’

He all but carried me through the door of the police station. One of his colleagues rushed to help and, between them, they lifted me onto an upright chair in the reception area.

‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ said the colleague.

‘No,’ I said, trying but failing to be forceful. ‘No ambulance.’

I’d have had more chance of holding back the tide.





7


I was currently banned from entering Cheltenham General Hospital in the role of a clinician but, sadly, not as a patient.

However, my first embarrassment was that I knew the ambulance crew – I had seen them often at the hospital as they’d delivered other people.

‘Hello, Dr Rankin,’ one of them said cheerfully when he saw me sitting in the police station reception, ‘I’m Derek. What seems to be the problem?’

‘There’s no problem,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. Lot of fuss about nothing.’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Derek replied with a smile, crouching down to be on my level. There was something very reassuring about his manner – confident and in control. I leaned my head back against the wall and decided not to fight him. ‘Let’s get you into the ambulance and do some tests.’

The two paramedics lifted me onto an upright wheeled chair and took me out to their vehicle.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ PC Filippos said as he held the door open for us.

I nodded weakly at him. I really didn’t feel very well at all. My skin was clammy and I could feel more palpitations in my chest.

Doctors are notoriously bad at self-diagnosis, only surpassed by the general population at large who predictably diagnose a bout of indigestion as a life-threatening heart attack and a blocked sweat gland as terminal skin cancer. Doctors, however, tend to err the other way, dismissing potentially serious symptoms in themselves as trivial when they wouldn’t hesitate to refer to a specialist any patient presenting to them in a similar condition.

However, all of that notwithstanding, I had a pretty good idea what was wrong with me – lack of food resulting in blood-sugar levels that were too low.

Maybe skipping lunch, after having had no breakfast, hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

In the ambulance I was wired up to their ECG machine. I was not having a heart attack, Derek assured me. I knew that. But, nevertheless, the trace was somewhat irregular from the palpitations.

‘Blood sugar,’ I said. ‘It’s probably too low.’

‘Are you diabetic?’ Derek asked seriously.