Page 238 of Troubled Blood

“Have you got an in-patient there called Charlotte Ross?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the receptionist, “we don’t disclose—”

“She’s overdosed. She’s just called me from your facility, and she’s overdosed. You need to find her—she might be outside, have you got grounds there?”

“Sir, can I ask you—”

“Check Charlotte Ross’s whereabouts, now, I’ve got her on another line and she’s overdosed.”

He heard the woman speaking to someone away from the phone.

“… Mrs. Ross… first floor, just to make…”

The voice spoke in his ear again, still professionally bright, but anxious now.

“Sir, what number is Mrs. Ross calling from? She—in-patients don’t have their own mobiles.”

“She’s got one from somewhere,” said Strike, “as well as a shitload of drugs.”

Somewhere in the background of the call he heard shouting, then loud footsteps. He tried to insert another coin into the slot, but it fell straight through and came out at the bottom.

“Fuck—”

“Sir, I’m going to ask you not to talk to me like that—”

“No, I just—”

The line went dead. Charlotte’s breath was now barely audible.

Strike slammed as much change as he had in his pockets into the slot, then redialed telephone inquiries. Within a minute, he was again connected to the female voice at Symonds House.

“Symonds House—”

“Have you found her? I got cut off. Have you found her?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose—” said the harassed-sounding woman.

“She got hold of a mobile and the means to kill herself on your watch,” said Strike, “so you can bloody well disclose whether she’s dead—”

“Sir, I’d appreciate you not shouting at me—”

But then Strike heard distant male voices through the mobile clamped to his other ear. There was no point hanging up and ringing: Charlotte hadn’t heard his ten previous calls. She must have the mobile on silent.

“SHE’S HERE!” he bellowed, and the woman on the payphone line shrieked in shock. “FOLLOW MY VOICE, SHE’S HERE!”

Strike was bellowing into the phone, well aware of the almost impossible odds of searchers hearing him: he could hear swishing and cracking, and knew that Charlotte was outside, probably in undergrowth.

Then, through the mobile, he heard a man shout.

“Shit, she’s here—SHE’S HERE! Fuck… get an ambulance!”

“Sir,” said the shell-shocked woman, now that Strike had stopped yelling, “could I have your name?”

But Strike hung up. Over the sound of his change clattering into the returned coin box, he continued to listen to the two men who’d found Charlotte, one of them shouting details of her overdose to the emergency services, the other repeatedly calling Charlotte’s name, until somebody noticed that the mobile beside her was active, and turned it off.

55

Of louers sad calamities of old,

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