“You didn’t take it, did you, Bill?”
“What? The tape?” He shook his head. “No, why would I do that?”
Tennison suddenly looked weary. She slumped back in the chair, rubbing her forehead. “Getting paranoid. It’ll be here somewhere.”
There was a reason for Otley’s lingering presence. Out it came, a touch of asperity in his tone.
“Guv, can you get Dalton off my back? I can’t work with him. I could have got a lot more out of those kids-one bit him this afternoon. I nearly did myself,” Otley said darkly.
He was a bastard, Otley, and a chauvinist pig to boot, but she trusted his instincts, because they so often chimed with her own.
“What do you make of him?” she asked.
“Not a lot. Don’t know why he’s on board, do you?”
Tennison shook her head. With a grunted “G’night,” Otley left her alone. She got up, arching her back, and stood with hands on hips looking over her desk. She lifted the reports and files and checked everywhere. She peered down the side of the desk and underneath her chair.
She sat down again, and looked at her watch. Yawning, she picked up the phone and dialed. As she waited she drew Otley’s report toward her and started reading.
“Hello… Dr. Gordon’s receptionist, please.” She waited, reading. “It’s Jane Tennison. I’m sorry, but I’m running a bit late. I’ve got an appointment at six-thirty.” She listened, nodding. “Great, see you then.”
She dropped the phone down and moved slowly around the desk, the report in her hand, still reading. She stopped dead and stared. She read it again, the bit that had frozen her to the spot.
“Oh, shit…!”
Moving fast, she went into the corridor. To the left, outside the Squad Room doors, Commander Chiswick was having a quiet word with Dalton, whose back was toward her, and as Tennison strode quickly up, Chiswick lightly tapped Dalton on the arm, shutting him up.
“Evening, sir,” Tennison greeted the Commander. She turned to Dalton and indicated her office. “Before you go…”
When Dalton came in, a moment or two later, she was leaning against the desk. He’d barely crossed the threshold before Tennison said, “Has anyone looked at that hand?”
“It’s nothing,” Dalton said, bending his wrist to show her. “I put a bandage over it.”
“I’m sorry, there’s no easy way to tell you this.” Tennison reached behind her for Otley’s report and held it up. “Billy Matthews has full-blown AIDS. I think you should get to a hospital.”
Dalton frowned at her, blinking rapidly. “The bloody little bastard,” he burst out hoarsely. “I had to have a shower when we got back. I’ll go and see the nurse.” He hadn’t quite grasped it, Tennison could see. “The little shit!”
“I’m sorry…”
Dalton went very quiet, staring at his hand. Only now was he realizing the full implications, his tan fading as the blood drained from his face. He looked scared now, dead scared.
“He bit me, he broke the skin, he… bit me.” He swallowed and looked at Tennison, his voice quavering. “Jesus Christ. I was bleeding…”
“Go to the hospital, you’ll need a tetanus injection for starters.”
Dalton didn’t move. He simply stared at her, mouth hanging open, looking about ten years old.
“Would you like someone to go with you? Do you want me to take you?”
“No, no, it’s okay…” He turned away, holding the wrist of his injured hand. “I’ve got my own car… er… thank you.”
He went out and turned right, heading for the stairs.
Tennison emerged from behind the screen, buttoning up her blouse. She took her suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Seated at the leather-topped desk in his white coat, Dr. Gordon was making an entry in her medical file, having already prepared the sample stickers for the lab tests. The glass slides in their plastic containers were by his elbow.
“Can I ask-if somebody has full-blown AIDS and bites somebody else, actually draws blood, how dangerous is it?”
Dr. Gordon was the same age as Tennison, if not younger, though this had never bothered her. He had a friendly, amiable disposition, which was more important. He looked at her over his silver-framed glasses.
“Very. It’s not the fact that the AIDS carrier has drawn blood, but if his blood then makes contact with the open wound… human bite is extremely dangerous, contains more bacteria than a dog bite. Full-blown AIDS?” He put his pen down, laced his fingers when he saw how intently she was listening to him.
“Often their gums bleed, it’s really dependent on how far advanced the AIDS carrier is, but bleeding gums, mouth sores…”
“How soon can it be diagnosed?”
He tilted his head slightly. “It’s not you, is it?”
“No, it’s not me.” Tennison sat down, smoothing her blouse inside the shoulders of her jacket. “I’m fine. Well-a bit ratty, but I put that down to my periods being a bit erratic.”
“Well, it could be the onset of the menopause. We’ll get these samples over to the lab, but until I get the results I won’t prescribe anything.” Dr. Gordon leaned forward, regarding her soberly. “Your friend should be tested for antibodies immediately, but that will only prove he or she doesn’t have it already. I’m afraid it’ll take three to six months to zero convert and they should have HIV tests every four to six weeks for the next six months.”
“So it’ll be six months before he knows?”
“Afraid so. That’s how long it will take to show a positive infection.” He held up a cautioning finger. “However, full-blown AIDS can take anywhere up to eight to ten years to develop.”
“Thank you very much,” Tennison said, getting up. “Do you have any leaflets I could take?”
While he found her some she thoughtfully put on her raincoat and collected her briefcase. She turned to him.
“You mind if I say something? ‘Onset of menopause’ may not mean much to you, but it does to a woman. It means a lot.”
Dr. Gordon paused, watching her, waiting.
Briefcase clasped in her hands, Tennison was studying her shoes. “I’m not married, maybe never will be, so it doesn’t make all that much difference to me-but I am only forty-four, and…” She shook her head rapidly, shoulders slumping. “Oh, forget it!”
“Be a couple of days,” Dr. Gordon said kindly, handing her the leaflets. “I’ll call you.”
“Thank you,” Tennison said, stuffing them in her pocket. “And thank you for fitting me in. I’m sorry I was late.”
As she got to the door her bleeper sounded. She fished it out and pressed a button. “Can I use your phone?”
7
In the softening gloom of early dusk the unkempt graves and slanting headstones of St. Margaret’s Crypt flashed red and yellow in the lights of the patrol car and ambulance parked outside the rusting iron gates. Two uniformed officers were cordoning off the area inside the churchyard with yellow marking ribbons: POLICE LINE-DO NOT CROSS. Arc lamps had been set up. The sudden harsh glare as they were switched on transformed the crypt into a ghastly gothic world of drunken shadows and crumbling statues, broken glass glittering in the long grass.
A motley collection of human detritus watched with befuddled curiosity. Some were crouched on the low broken-down wall, others slumped on the pavement, wrapped in blankets with layers of newspaper inside. Empty wine and cider bottles filled the gutters. Situated between the Bullring and the underpass of Waterloo Bridge, the derelict churchyard was home to a nighttime population of summer residents; the winter months were far too cold for sleeping on gravestones, even topped up with Thunderbird wine and two liters of Woodpecker.
Otley was talking to the police photographer when he saw Tennison’s Sierra nosing along the narrow cobbled street. She stopped some distance away, leaving room for the ambulance, and wound her window down. Otley went across and leaned in.