Page 25 of Return Ticket

They had brought her to this hospital, declared her dead, and sent her straight down here.

The signature of the doctor was indecipherable.

A door opened behind him and he turned to find a man a little way down a dimly-lit passageway, rubbing his head like he’d just woken up.

The man staggered toward him and then came to a stop, swaying slightly in surprise at the sight of him.

“What time is it?” he asked.

James checked his watch. “Nine thirty.”

The man rubbed his head again, then belched. Thumped his chest.

James studied him. He couldn’t work out if he was overworked, or drunk.

Then he shuffled closer, and the smell of him hit James.

The mystery was solved.

“Are you drunk?” he asked, politely. It was a rhetorical question.

“No.” The man managed half-hearted affront. “Worked all night, is all.”

An orderly or a doctor, James wondered. Given the lack of concern he seemed to have at being found in the state he was, James guessed he was a doctor.

He looked down at the book he was still holding. “I would like to be shown a body that was brought in five days ago. And your post mortem report, please.”

“Who’re you, then?” The man dragged a white coat off a hook on the wall, and struggled to put it on.

“Detective Sergeant Archer, of the Metropolitan Police.” He pulled out his warrant card, but the man waved it away without even looking at it. “And you are?”

The man flashed him a look, thumped his chest again. “Dr. Venables. Who’re you looking for again?”

James turned the book around to face him, pointed to the entry.

Venables squinted at the page, then shrugged. “This way.”

He shuffled over to a door, unlocked it with the key that was already in the lock, and then entered. James followed, and found himself in a cold room with four stretchers, although only two were in use.

“This one,” Venables said, and pulled back the covering sheet.

James looked down. “No. The victim in this case is a woman.”

“Oh.” He shuffled to the second body, and pulled the sheet back a little too hard, so the victim’s upper body was exposed.

James pulled the sheet up again, so it lay across her collarbone. “What was cause of death?” he asked.

Venables walked to the end of the stretcher, lifted the clipboard that hung from the back. Stared at it for a long time. “Haven’t got ’round to this one, yet.”

James studied him for a beat, then turned on his heel and walked out of the room. He knew some of the fury he felt was a result of what had happened with Wilcox, but he no longer had patience for incompetence or disinterest.

He had seen a telephone on the reception desk and he lifted it and put a call through to Dr. Jandicott. While he was arranging for the body to be transferred into Jandicott’s care, Venables had come out after him, and was now leaning against the wall, arms and legs crossed.

“So I don’t have to do the post mortem?” he asked when James replaced the receiver.

“No, the body will be transferred to Dr. Jandicott.”

“That’s good.” Venables pushed away from the wall, then turned as the door to the stairs opened and Hartridge stepped out.

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