Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(77)
She didn’t dignify that with a reply. She turned her back on me and returned to rummaging in the trunks. I wondered what she was really looking for.
On my way out through the coach yard I heard a muffled barking behind me and looked back. A pale, mournful face was watching me from a second-floor window – Molly, holding Toby tightly to her chest. I stood and gave them what I hoped was a reassuring wave, and then headed off to see if Nightingale was still alive.
There was an armed police officer stationed outside Nightingale’s room. I showed him my warrant card and he made me leave my bags outside. A modern ICU can be surprisingly quiet: the monitoring equipment only makes a noise when something goes wrong, and since Nightingale was breathing on his own there was no Darth Vader wheezing from a respirator.
He looked old and out of place among the polyester bed covers with their crisp, easy-to-clean pastel colours. One limp arm was exposed and hooked up to half a dozen wires and tubes, his face was drawn and grey and his eyes closed. But his breathing was strong, even and unaided. There was a bowl of grapes on the sideboard, and a bunch of blue wildflowers had been stuffed, a bit randomly I thought, into a vase.
I stood next to the bed for a while, thinking that I should say something but nothing came to mind. Checking first to make sure that no one was likely to see me I reached out and squeezed his hand – it was surprisingly warm. I thought I felt something, a vague sense of wet pine, wood smoke and canvas, but it was so faint I couldn’t tell whether it was vestigia or not. I caught myself swaying on my feet, I was that tired. There was an institutional armchair in the corner of the room. Made of laminated chipboard and polyester-covered fire-retardant foam, it looked far too uncomfortable to sleep in. I sat down, let my head flop to one side and was gone in less than thirty seconds.
I woke up briefly to find Dr Walid and a pair of nurses bustling around Nightingale’s bed. I stared at them stupidly until Dr Walid saw me and told me to go back to sleep – at least, I think that’s what he said.
I woke again to the smell of coffee. Dr Walid had brought me a cardboard jug of latte and enough tubular sachets of sugar to make a significant dent in my grocery budget.
‘How is he?’ I asked.
‘He was shot in the chest,’ said Dr Walid. ‘That sort of thing’s bound to slow you down.’
‘Is he going to be all right?’
‘He’s going to live,’ said Dr Walid. ‘But I can’t say whether he’ll make a full recovery or not. It’s a good sign that he’s breathing unaided, though.’
I sipped the latte; it burned my tongue.
‘They locked me out of the Folly,’ I said.
‘I know,’ said Dr Walid.
‘Can you get me back in?’
Dr Walid laughed. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I’m just a civilian advisor with a bit of esoteric expertise. With Nightingale incapacitated, unlocking the Folly is a decision that has to be made by the Commissioner, if not higher up.’
‘Home Secretary?’ I asked.
Dr Walid shrugged. ‘At the very least,’ he said. ‘Do you know what you’re going to do?’
‘Do you have access to the internet?’ I asked.
In a teaching hospital like UCH, if you walk through the right doors it stops being a hospital and becomes a medical research and administrative centre. Dr Walid had an office there and, I was shocked to learn, students. ‘I don’t teach them the esoteric stuff,’ he explained, but was – and not wanting to blow his own trumpet – a world-renowned gastroenterologist. ‘Everyone needs a hobby,’ he said.
‘Mine is going to be job-hunting,’ I said.
‘I’d have a shower first,’ said Dr Walid, ‘if you’re planning any interviews.’
Dr Walid’s office was an awkwardly narrow room with a window at the thin end and shelves covering the entire length of both long walls. Every surface was piled with folders, professional journals and reference books. At one end of the narrow shelf that served as a desk, a PC bobbed uncertainly in a sea of hard copy. I dumped my bags and plugged the laptop into the mains to recharge the batteries. The modem was hidden behind a stack of Gut: an International Journal of Gastroenterology and Hepatology. A jaunty subtitle revealed that Gut had indeed been voted Best Journal of Gastroenterology by gastroenterologists worldwide. I didn’t know whether to be worried or reassured by the implication that there were many more magazines devoted to the smooth functioning of my intestines. The socket for the modem looked suspiciously jury-rigged and definitely not standard NHS issue. When I asked Dr Walid about it, he merely said that he liked to keep certain of his files secure.
‘From who?’ I asked.
‘Other researchers,’ he said. ‘They’re always looking to pirate my work.’ Apparently the hepatologists were the worst. ‘What do you expect from people who deal with so much bile?’ said Dr Walid, and then looked disappointed that I didn’t get the joke.
Content that work was possible, I let Dr Walid show me to the staff bathroom down the corridor where I showered in a cubicle big enough, and equipped for, a paraplegic, his wheelchair, a care assistant and her guide dog. There was soap provided, a generic lemon-smelling antibiotic cake that felt ferocious enough to strip off the upper layer of my epidermis.
While I showered, I thought about the mechanics of how Nightingale got shot. Despite the lurid fantasies of the Daily Mail, you can’t just walk into a random pub and buy a handgun, especially not a high-end semiautomatic like the one carried so inexpertly by Christopher Pinkman the night before. Which meant that there was no way that Henry Pyke had manoeuvred Pinkman into place in the time between our arrival at the Royal Opera House and our emergence from the stage door less than twenty minutes later. Henry Pyke must have known that we were planning to trap him on Bow Street, and that left three options: either he foresaw the future, he read somebody’s mind or somebody who knew about the plan was one of his sequestrated puppets.