Despite the number of people turned away, the motion-activated sliding doors at the entrance were permanently jammed open as a constant stream of urgent patients staggered across the threshold or were rushed into the building on stretchers by ambulance staff. Three sodden floor mats, caked in mud, were evidence of a half-hearted attempt to prevent new arrivals treading dirt and water into the hospital. Sandbags piled by the entrance warned that they expected worse to come.
The waiting room ached with sullen frustration, and was filled to bursting with people who had already been allowed in. Two babies wailed, but the only other human voice was their mother comforting them. Everyone else was doing that British thing of sitting in sullen silence, not speaking to the person sitting right next to them, even if it was a friend or relative, but looking at crumpled copies of AutoCar and OK! as though they were the most fascinating read ever. Those without magazines checked their watches every thirty seconds. The whole place smelled of mud and sweat and anger.
Jack braved the hostile stares of the waiting room by making his way straight to the front. ‘Do you mind?’ insisted an elderly man who was clutching a bloodied rag to a cut on his temple.
‘Not at all,’ Jack told him. He kicked the outstretched foot of a seated teenager who was slumped behind an article on the Jaguar XKR he would never own. ‘Get up, kid. This man needs your seat.’
Jack walked past the front desk. The pretty young redhead on reception was moaning to a nearby nurse that her boyfriend never noticed when she’d had her hair done, and why did she spend a fortune on it if he was never going to peel his eyes away from Match of the Day, the lazy, good-for-nothing sod? Even the sex wasn’t what it was; she wasn’t sure why she pretended any more. Hello, can I take your name, home address and GP details, please?
Beyond her, two tired doctors were discussing the latest batch of new patients. ‘There’s another capsized water taxi,’ raged the younger of the two. ‘Who the fuck is taking a water taxi out in this weather? We should just let the stupid bastards take themselves out of the gene pool if they insist on it.’ His older counterpart put a comforting arm around his shoulder and led him calmly back into the cubicles.
Jack had located the staff picture board. He scanned its contents quickly to locate the guy in charge. The photographs told him that the red-haired receptionist was Kirsty Donald, the nearby nurse was Kai Mahasintunan. Megan Tegg was a Senior House Officer — slim face, elfin features, short dark hair, cute rather than pretty, definitely Owen’s type. Terry Hartiman, the angry young doctor, looked a lot happier in his mug shot than in real life. Ah, there you go, the Clinical Director (Acting) was Amit Majunath — grey hair, thick glasses, slightly scarred face, best-dressed guy on the board.
Jack had already pissed off one consultant (Janette Brownlees, the photo told him) by abandoning the SUV across her reserved parking space. And within a few more minutes, here was another, refusing to answer any of Jack’s questions.
‘We’ll get to you as fast as we can, honestly,’ Majunath told him for the third time. The consultant peered over his tortoiseshell glasses at an LED display that repeatedly scrolled its mournful red warning above the reception desk: ‘Estimated Waiting Time Five Hours’. ‘So, Mr Harkness, please put your ID away. There’s really no point you flaunting your credentials in here.’
‘He can flaunt his credentials at me any time,’ the red-haired receptionist muttered, and smirked at her friend the nurse, who was checking paperwork at her desk. Jack caught her eye and grinned. She hadn’t thought that he could overhear her, and her pretty face blushed so deeply that her freckles almost disappeared. She picked up a manila folder and hid behind it.
‘I’m gonna have to insist…’ Jack began. He was interrupted by three trolleys being wheeled between him and the consultant, each bearing a soaking-wet victim in urgent need of treatment.
‘Insist all you like, Mr Harkness,’ Majunath replied wearily. ‘Clinical need is what takes priority. God knows I’d prefer a break. Do you know that when the river burst its banks, a funeral home was flooded and bodies got washed out into the street? The ambulance crews spent an hour working out who were the fresh victims.’ He turned to address the latest ambulance crew. ‘Straight through to resus. I’m right behind you.’ He held up his hands to forestall Jack’s renewed remonstration. ‘As soon as I can, I promise. We want to know who murdered Bobbie as much as you do. More so, I dare say. We’ve sealed off the crime scene, and you can use the Relatives Room as your base of operations if you wish. No doubt you’ll need that when the rest of your team arrives. But you must see we’re drowning tonight.’
‘Wait a minute,’ protested Jack. ‘Murdered who?’ This was an entirely unexpected piece of news. But Majunath was already off into resus.
Jack knew he didn’t have much time. If they’d called the police, then chasing the consultant was not going to be fast enough to get what he wanted.
On the reception desk, the redhead was saying goodbye to the nurse. Jack sauntered up to the counter.
‘Hi, Kirsty,’ he told her. ‘Cap’n Jack Harkness.’
She blushed again, and tried to hide it by facing her computer screen and typing. ‘Can I have your address?’
‘Fast work. I like that,’ he grinned. ‘Shouldn’t we go for dinner or something first? Or a trip out. Not soccer, though. Not a big fan.’
She ducked her head down, grinning too. ‘I’m sorry, I meant that I need your details to book you in.’
Jack showed his ID. ‘I’m not a patient. I’m here to investigate the murder. Mr Majunath said you’d help.’
Kirsty’s expression changed suddenly and completely. It was now one of deep concern, with the risk of tears. ‘Are you here to find out who killed
Bobbie?’ She blinked rapidly. ‘I’m sorry, I mean Roberta Nottingham.’
He kept his reassuring smile going. ‘Yeah. Need to see the scene.’
Jack let Kirsty lead him to a treatment room, but didn’t allow her in with him. She returned to her desk, full of gratitude. The security guard posted on the treatment room door unlocked it and let him in.
Jack slipped in unaccompanied, and saw the body. The brutal gnawed hole in the back of the skull, exposing the spine and lower part of the brain. The casual disregard for the body, with no attempt to conceal it from discovery. The sticky mess on the smooth floor in which the corpse lay sprawled. The sprays of blood over the wall and nearby equipment. The body had been rolled over, presumably in a futile attempt to treat the victim.
In less than a minute he’d seen enough. Enough time to confirm that this was the same kind of killing as before. Enough to know it wasn’t Owen. Enough time to find the Bekaran deep-tissue scanner casually abandoned beside a stainless-steel kidney dish on an instrument tray.
Jack asked the security guard to relock the room, and he returned to the front desk. Kirsty Donald was engaged in a frustrated conversation with a guy whose sharp suit was matched by his slick patter. His green eyes flicked lasciviously over the receptionist, and he kept smoothing his thin moustache with his fingers. He looked like a salesman who, by accident or design, had washed up in A amp;E this evening, and he was making every effort to get Kirsty to make him an appointment with the clinical director. His pinched features and over-earnest manner reminded Jack of Owen when he was trying too hard. While the sales guy held Kirsty’s attention, Jack surreptitiously looked at the Admissions details on the desk beside her.