Tie unfastened, Ben Golding walked into the children’s ward, making for his patient’s bedside. The long, delayed flight from Madrid had caught him unawares, his eyes puffy, his breath smelling of fresh toothpaste from a quick clean-up in the doctors’ restroom. Pushing all thoughts of the farmhouse, his brother and Gina out of his mind, he smiled at his patient, a boy of six who was sitting on his bed with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Picking up the notes from the bottom of the bed, Ben read down the page and checked the blood results, finally smiling at the child and moving on to his next patient.
‘I thought you were still in Madrid.’
Ben looked up to see Megan Griffiths walking over to him, her smile sympathetic but forced. ‘Sorry to hear about your brother’s suicide.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Suicide.’
‘But I heard—’
‘It wasn’t suicide,’ Ben repeated, gesturing to the patient nearest to them. His eyebrows raised, he glanced back at Megan. ‘What’s happening here?’
Clearing her throat, Megan began. ‘Sean’s stable, even put on a little weight. Do you want to operate tomorrow? You’ve got a space in the afternoon.’
He hesitated. ‘No, leave him for another couple of days.’
‘But I thought—’
‘I’m the consultant in charge.’
‘But I was standing in for you while you were away, Mr Golding.’
‘Then it’s a good thing I’m back, isn’t it?’ he replied, walking off.
Thirty-five minutes later Ben had finished his ward round, making for his consulting room with Sean’s file under his arm. Away from his patients he felt tiredness sidle up to him like an unwelcome mongrel rubbing at his calves and he paused, taking in a breath and leaning against an old wrought iron radiator. Behind him, the water pipes banged morosely to the timing of the corridor clock. His gaze moved over to the blank gold face, painted images marking out the corners of the clock’s surround: spring, summer, autumn and winter. His eyes fixed on the images, then on the clock again, on the large black hands and the ponderous swinging pendulum.
Suddenly a gowned figure passed in the loggia, nodding to Ben, unrecognisable in his surgery greens. He nodded back, trying to straighten his tie along with his thoughts. But his mind buzzed with unease – with the image of his dead brother, and Gina, and the skull. Without telling Francis, Ben had removed the skull from the hospital storage and taken it home. Agitated, he had paced the house, going from room to room, thinking of his study and dismissing it as being too obvious a hiding place. Finally he had walked into the kitchen and stood for a long moment staring at the washing machine.
He had taken his laundry out of his overnight bag and wrapped the skull in a shirt, together with the authentication papers and Francis Asturias’s report, pushing the bundle to the back of the drum. Slamming the door shut, he had then turned the dial to a full programme and heard the comforting click of the lock. Of course he hadn’t pressed the START button, but it would look more convincing if anyone broke in.
He had had no idea who – if, anyone – would break in.
All the way to the Whitechapel Hospital Ben had kept wondering if he was right about Leon. Just how well had he known his brother? Maybe Leon had committed suicide. Maybe his instability had made him hear voices in the house. Maybe, in his madness, he had taken his life, after all.
But he didn’t believe it.
Reaching the consulting rooms, Ben paused when he saw two decorators setting up ladders. One of the men setting about scraping down a door surround – apparently the area was about to be repainted. Momentarily catching his foot in a dustsheet, Ben turned to the nearest man. ‘How long will this take?’
‘Depends,’ the man replied sullenly. ‘Three days, at most.’
‘Three days?’
‘Or so.’
Ben took in a breath. ‘It’s just that my consulting room is over there and I need to use it for my patients.’
‘Didn’t you get the memo about the redecorating? It went all over the hospital yesterday.’
‘I was in Spain yesterday.’
‘Can’t blame me then if you didn’t see the memo, can you?’ the man replied sourly, then relented. ‘We knock off at five thirty. Then we’ll be out of your way till morning.’
Nodding, Ben ducked under the ladder and walked into his consulting room. The smell of paint was not overly strong, the repetitive scraping on the woodwork outside soon dropping into the mixed clutter of background noise. A stack of mail was waiting for him together with some reports, typed and ready for signing. Turning up the gas fire, Ben heard the comforting hiss enter the room and sat down, picking up the first of the reports and beginning to read. A few minutes passed, the gas hissing, the rain beating against the window and the desk lamp making a yellow island of illumination on the papers as the daylight failed.
Making a correction on one of the reports, he then signed another, leaning back to read a third. In the distance he heard the sound of the church clock chiming and realised that an hour had passed and that the decorators would soon be leaving. Pausing, he then heard the noises of the men packing up in the corridor outside, followed by the smack of the ladder hitting the side of the wall as they left it for the night.
Concentrating, he steeled himself to think of work and not Spain, not the skull, or the lost baby. Not Leon or the man Gina had told him about. The stranger who had come visiting Leon during the last week of his life … Weary, Ben’s head nodded and he snapped himself awake impatiently. He would finish his reports and then go home, retire early and maybe find a few hours’ grace in sleep.
Coughing, he turned on his recording machine. There was silence outside, and slowly he began to enter his report:
‘Case notes on Sean McGee, aged six years and three months. Admitted to the Whitechapel Hospital four months ago, to have a malignant tumour removed. Operation performed by Ben Golding. Operation successful, no recurrence of tumour at the site or elsewhere.’
Pausing, Ben glanced at the child’s notes, then at the X-rays, holding then up to the lamplight to look more closely. The gas fire kept hissing, the corridor outside silent, the rain stilled. Satisfied, he laid the X-rays down on the desk and began to dictate.
‘The child’s overall condition is good, and he has lately regained some of his lost weight. Blood pressure and pulse normal, reflexes—’
Suddenly there was a noise outside and Ben glanced towards the door. It began as a soft banging and then altered, becoming eerie, like someone scraping their fingernails along the wall.
And then he heard footsteps, quiet but unmistakable. Bugger it, he thought. The decorators were back.
‘Who’s there?’
Silence from outside the door.
Walking into the corridor, Ben glanced around. The place was deserted. No patients, staff or decorators. No lights on anywhere, except his room – and a soft glow coming from the loggia in the distance.
‘Is there anyone there?’
Silence again.
Impatiently he walked back into his room, then sat down and started to dictate again.
‘The patient presented with—’
The sound came back. Only this time there was an accompanying noise, like two men walking and whispering. Frowning, Ben looked at his watch. It was later than he had thought, seven o’clock. No one would be in the consulting rooms now, and the nurses would be busy changing shifts. Unless … He wandered over to his secretary’s office and opened the door.
‘Sylvia, are you there?’
No answer.
Turning, Ben walked the length of the consulting room corridor, stopping at every door, opening it and looking inside. Every one was empty. No lights burning, no evidence of anyone working late. His thoughts shifted tack. Maybe the consulting rooms had been broken into? Addicts looking for drugs. It happened quite often. Curious, he moved down to the last room, opening the door and looking into the darkness.
‘Anyone there?’
No response.
But he felt something. A creeping sensation that he was being watched. Unnerved, Ben paused, his hand gripping the door handle. His breathing speeded up, sweat sheening his skin as he heard a movement behind him.