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  If Mr Trenchard felt any regret for having gone AWOL, he didn’t show it; he was his usual, breezy self, as he sailed through the wards, casting pearls of medical wisdom overboard as the flotilla of junior doctors and other assorted acolytes paddled frantically behind, doing their best to keep up – both mentally and physically. He did give Kash’s shoulder a paternal squeeze at one point, but that might just as easily have been because of Kash’s hesitation in diagnosing an obvious case of cholecystitis rather than a discreet expression of sympathy for what Kash had been through with Edmund Chaloner. Kash certainly wasn’t going to ask Trenchard what he’d meant by it.

  He did feel a need to talk to someone about the dead boy, though, but knew instinctively that it was too soon to start sharing his thoughts about the whole business with Claire; that would surely drive her away. And in any case, while they had managed to chat for a couple of minutes a handful of times since the meal in the restaurant, that had only been when their paths crossed during their busy days. Their different schedules seemed designed by some malign administrator bent on keeping them apart for as long as possible, and they hadn’t been able to pencil in another evening when they were both free.

  As for Angela, since her mini breakdown she had gone into super-professional mode, her face a mask of determined efficiency. She might as well have had a sign around her neck saying ‘Don’t Talk to Me’, and Kash was happy to obey. That left his mother, of course, to whom he would normally pour out his heart about whatever was bothering him. But the one thing he never liked talking about to her was death.

  Which left one other person. Liz Murray. If he went and had a chat with her, he’d be following Mr Trenchard’s instructions, wouldn’t he? Two birds.

  *

  Up on ward fourteen, the sense of nobody going anywhere and nothing needing to be done had an immediate calming effect. Of course, in reality, there were plenty of things needing to be done: after all, this was a place where most of the patients were incontinent. And while they might not be going anywhere, it didn’t stop them trying, and they often fell out of bed. With the weekly enemas, and monthly injections of Modecate, and all the daily doses of pills in between, the staff seemed to swarm, bees buzzing amongst withered flowers.

  But despite all the activity, there was none of the sublimated panic of the emergency department. The worst that could happen on ward fourteen was that you checked out a little earlier than expected. And no one was going to lose any sleep over that.

  Kash was taking it all in when Liz spotted him and waved him over with a bony hand.

  ‘You’re Dr Kash, aren’t you?’

  ‘You remembered.’

  She frowned. ‘I’ve still got all my marbles, young man. Most of them, anyway.’ She wagged a finger reprovingly. ‘That’s the problem with being old. One of the problems, anyway. People assuming you’re gaga. Just because I’m dying—’

  ‘Liz, come on.’

  ‘Oh shut up, Doctor. Just because I’m dying, people think there’s nothing going on in here.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘Lights on, but nobody at home. People talk to you as if you’re daft.’

  ‘I’m sure nobody does,’ Kash said reassuringly.

  She gave a little snort. ‘Well, that nice Mr Trenchard didn’t, I’ll give you that. You know what he also didn’t do? He didn’t ask me how I am. And what a blessed relief that is.’

  ‘Why’s that? It’s what we’re supposed to do.’

  ‘All right, then, you try it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Try asking me how I am.’

  Kash hesitated. ‘OK, Mrs Murray. Er, how are you?’

  ‘How d’you bloody think?’ she shot back.

  Kash smiled. ‘Ah. Point taken. So what did you and Mr Trenchard talk about? When he came to see you about your tummy.’ He was genuinely interested.

  ‘He asked me what I thought.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What people are up to.’

  ‘And what are people up to?’

  She gave him a sly look. ‘That’d be telling.’

  He laughed. ‘I suppose it would. Well, how about if I told you something first?’

  ‘Something interesting? Is it smutty?’

  ‘No!’

  She shrugged. ‘Shame. Never mind. Go on then. I’m all ears.’ She heaved herself upright in the bed.

  Suddenly the idea of unburdening himself to Liz Murray felt ridiculous. And almost certainly against hospital rules. What had he meant to say to her anyway? He glanced at his watch.

  ‘I’m afraid it’ll have to wait until next time, Liz. I’ve got to go.’

  She made a clucking sound. ‘Away you go, then.’ As he turned to leave, she plucked at his sleeve, pulling him back. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though.’ She beckoned him closer and whispered in his ear. ‘Our lovely Mr Trenchard. Not everyone likes him, you know.’

  *

  ‘Do you play squash?’

  Kash was about to drop his white coat in the laundry and call it a night. Mr Trenchard was wearing his trademark pinstripe suit with a white shirt and emerald green tie. He looked immaculate as usual, his hair swept back, his skin glowing. The only unusual thing was the squash bag over one shoulder, the handle of a single racquet sticking out. But the idea of Trenchard running around on a squash court, grunting and getting sweaty, was almost impossible to visualize.

  ‘Not really,’ said Kash. ‘I tried it once, but . . .’

  ‘Quite right. Stupid game. Can’t think of a better way to induce a cardiac arrest while grinding your every meniscus to bits. Not to mention the strain on your wrist.’ He nodded to the flesh-coloured wrist-support protruding from his shirt-cuff. ‘Some people you can only meet on a squash court, though. Either there or a golf course – and life’s decidedly too short for that.’ He grinned, showing perfect white teeth. ‘So you’re not a squash player, Kash. Good for you. But some form of exercise, aside from walking a dozen miles a day up and down these corridors, is to be recommended. Doesn’t matter what, so long as you enjoy it. Mens sana in corpore sano and all that.’ He laughed. ‘More Latin for you, I’m afraid. A healthy mind in a healthy body. Actually, that’s not quite right. It’s a mistake to think of the mind as being in the body, you see. The mind is the body. Not two separate things. Anyway, neurobiology isn’t your speciality, so I won’t lead you down that particular rabbit-hole, fascinating though it might be to some of us.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Trenchard. That’s the second piece of good advice you’ve given me.’

  ‘Only the second? Is that all? You clearly haven’t been paying attention.’

  ‘No, no. I mean the second piece of . . . personal advice.’

  ‘Ah.’ Trenchard narrowed his eyes. ‘And how’s that been going?’

  Kash felt the blood rushing to his face. ‘Well, I think. So far. I almost messed it up, but . . . everything turned out OK. More than OK, I hope.’

  Trenchard chuckled. ‘Good.’ He clapped him on the shoulder as he marched past. ‘We’ll make a surgeon of you yet!’

  *

  Kash was just opening the door to his flat when his pager bleeped. He sighed. Really? It wasn’t a number he recognized. Maybe a misdial, then. Easy enough to do in an emergency. He wasn’t on call tonight, and sleep had never seemed so enticing. He considered ignoring it for a moment, but knew that wasn’t really an option. He went inside and reached for the phone by the door.

  ‘Kash?’

  ‘Ange?’ It sounded like her voice, but slowed-down, distorted. He imagined her with the phone in one hand, a glass of red wine in the other. ‘Is that you?’

  On the other end of the line, he heard what sounded like a sigh of relief.

  ‘I’m not on tonight, Ange. I was—’

  ‘I need to see you, Kash.’

  ‘Ange, what’s going on?’

  ‘No emergency, Kash, I just need to talk. You see, I know where your brilliant Mr Trenchard was that night. I know it all. A
nd you need to know it too.’

  11

  It was a wild wet walk to the Balti, and Kash was cold and irritable by the time he arrived. It was midnight, and the staff were cashing up at a corner table. A few customers remained. In one corner, Angela sat alone nursing a near-empty pint glass. Several empty bottles of Cobra sat nearby.

  ‘This had better be good, Ange. I’m whacked.’ He softened his tone. ‘If I don’t get some sleep soon, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get through another day.’

  Ange signalled to a waiter for another glass and two more bottles of beer. They sat in silence as she poured. Then she leaned forward. ‘Doesn’t it bother you, Kash, what happened to the Chaloner boy?’

  ‘Every death bothers me, Ange, but we’re doctors. We’re going to see a lot more of it before—’

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean Trenchard. I mean – where was he that night? And why hasn’t anybody asked?’

  She had a point. He certainly hadn’t heard anybody mention it. Because he is who he is, Kash supposed. And would the outcome really have been different if he’d been there?

  ‘Mr Trenchard is a great surgeon. A great technical surgeon. The best I’ve ever worked with. That’s why I wanted him there. That’s why I called him. But he’s also a charmer. People think he’s perfect, that he can do no wrong. But he can. And when he does, the shit splatters those around him while he remains Teflon-coated.’

  Kash thought about what Liz had said. Not everyone likes him.

  ‘Ange,’ he said, putting a hand on her arm. ‘You’re upset. You’ve had a few beers. Why don’t we both get some sleep and then tomorrow we can talk about this properly?’

  Ange put down her glass with a thump. ‘Do you want to know where he was, the night Edmund Chaloner died?’

  Kash sighed and looked at the untouched pint in front of him. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Michael Trenchard wasn’t out on an emergency that night, Kash. He was having dinner with Hilary Williams.’

  ‘The anaesthetist?’

  Ange nodded.

  Hilary Williams was a widow with two teenage sons, but had that classic ‘English Rose’ look that seemed to defy time. She also had a reputation as the best anaesthetist the Victory had. Kash remembered being slightly daunted by her.

  ‘That’s not exactly a crime, is it?’

  Ange snorted. ‘I don’t imagine his wife knew about it.’

  ‘They’re colleagues,’ Kash said, beginning to feel frustrated.

  Ange leaned across the table. Kash could smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘He took her to his club in Mayfair; not exactly the sort of place you’d go for a chat about best practice in the operating theatre.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘She did, of course.’

  ‘But why? If Hilary and Trenchard are . . . if they were . . .’

  Ange smirked. ‘Having an affair?’

  ‘Yes, if they were there in secret, why would she tell you about it? It doesn’t exactly make her look good, does it?’

  Angela slumped back in her chair. ‘They weren’t having an affair. That’s the point.’

  Kash looked confused. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t get it.’

  ‘Hilary’s on her own. Her husband didn’t leave her much, apparently. Some bad investments, and I think he liked to gamble a bit. And she . . . well, you know what she’s like. She likes to keep up appearances. And the boys go to some posh private school, apparently. Anyway, Trenchard knows all this, and he’s being all sympathetic about her situation, saying how he’d like to help, and then he asks if she’d like to do some private work for him. Much better pay than at the Victory, obviously. As many hours as she wants.’

  Kash was having difficulty following. ‘So they’re not having an affair, and he asks her if she’d like to do some private work for him. What’s the big deal?’

  Ange shook her head. ‘For a smart boy, you can be fucking slow, sometimes, Kash. The deal was, she could have all the work she wanted, if she fucked him.’

  Kash took a moment to process this. ‘And presumably she said no, given that she’s telling you all this.’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t just say “no”. She was so fucking furious, she picked up her fork and stuck it into Trenchard’s hand as hard as she could. It’s not flattering to be thought of as a prostitute, Kash. He’s lucky she didn’t kill him.’

  12

  Kash bailed out unusually early and, by six, was making his way to the bus stops south of the Victory bridge, where a cluster of patients crowded, identifiable by the green paper prescription bags they carried. They were already spilling from the pavement onto the road. Please don’t fall in front of a bus, Kash thought, and make me do CPR for half an hour while the ambulance is stuck in traffic on the flyover. He was sure that something was going to prevent him from getting to Claire’s flat. The fact that they both had time off and he wasn’t on call was miraculous enough. He clutched a bottle of mid-priced shiraz in one hand and a bunch of white tulips in the other, feeling that his plans for the evening were embarrassingly obvious and hoping that the gods, if they happened to glance down and recognized some easy prey, would choose not to play any more tricks on him. Trenchard had already dumped another load of patient files on him once at the last minute (whatever happened to ‘all work and no play’, Mr Trenchard?), and every patient on Nightingale seemed united in a malign conspiracy to frustrate him. Drips ‘tissued’. Relatives appeared and demanded his attention. Wounds broke down. Patients had fits. And – he almost had to laugh – Richard Marshall in bed three had stood on his own urinary catheter while standing up in the bath. He couldn’t help but wince and reach for his own groin when he’d been told.

  But despite all that, incredibly, here he was. He’d been on call the night before, meaning that he’d now had no sleep for thirty-four hours, but weary though he was, he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity that had presented itself. Sleep could wait. He looked at his watch. Claire’s flat, overlooking the hospital where she had first trained in Denmark Hill, was only a half hour’s ride away. He looked at his watch. If a bus ever came, of course.

  *

  By the time Claire opened the door, the tulips were looking bruised and battered from their ordeal on the crowded bus and Claire wisely reached for the bottle of wine first.

  ‘You made it!’

  She led him by the hand up the narrow, musty stairs. ‘It’s a bit grotty round here, as you can see, but inside’s quite cosy. And there are some advantages to living above a newsagent.’

  ‘Easy to keep up with current affairs?’ Kash quipped.

  Claire laughed. ‘That, of course. But more importantly, you only have to pop downstairs if you run out of industrial-grade chardonnay.’

  Once inside the living room, which had a tiny kitchenette in the corner, Kash’s eye was immediately drawn to the battered sofa where Claire’s elfin flatmate, Tiff, was curled up barefoot. Kash couldn’t help staring at her mop of bright purple hair and array of piercings. Her toenails were painted black.

  ‘You must be Kash.’

  ‘And you must be Tiff.’

  Claire found a bottle opener in a drawer under the sink and began uncorking the wine.

  ‘A cork,’ said Tiff, arching an eyebrow. ‘Fancy.’

  Kash found himself at a loss for a rejoinder. Could it be he was such a stuffed shirt that he was thrown by dyed hair and nose-rings?

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t mind Tiff. She’s going to her room,’ said Claire, brightly, handing Kash a glass.

  Tiff uncurled from the sofa. ‘I know when I’m not wanted.’ She gave Claire a playful look. ‘But I’ll be on call. If there’s an emergency,’ she added with a wink.

  Claire threw a dishcloth after her as she disappeared down a narrow corridor and into her room. ‘Don’t mind Tiff. She may look like a demented pixie, but there’s a heart of gold beating in there somewhere.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Kash, as they sat do
wn next to each other on the sofa.

  ‘No, really,’ Claire insisted. ‘You should hear some of the locums at the Victory talk about her. They all say she’s the most dedicated and knowledgeable of all the nurses at the hospice.’

  ‘So how did you two meet?’ Kash asked.

  ‘Oh, it was one of those 999 parties.’ Claire saw the bemused look on Kash’s face. ‘They invite police, fire, and nominally doctors. But mainly nurses. Tiff got talking to me. Found out I worked at the Victory, was looking for a flatmate. We hung out. She bought me a drink or two. Later, she was dancing with a fireman, six feet eight and built like an ox, and he was all over her, getting much too close for comfort, and . . . well, she just kneed him in the balls, cool as you like. He went down like a sack of spuds, and she grabbed my hand and made a quick exit. We ended up spending the rest of the night in a café by the bus station. I said I couldn’t believe what she’d just done. I’d have been terrified. She just shrugged and said she’d had plenty of practice. That’s when she told me all about it, the year she’d lived on the streets, after she ran away from her foster home. We were still sitting there talking when the brickies and cabbies came in for their breakfasts. I’d been looking for a flat to rent and now I knew I’d found my flatmate. Two weeks later we moved in here.’

  ‘And how long ago was that?’

  ‘Almost a year ago.’

  ‘And you haven’t fallen out? I mean, it sounds like a bit of a whirlwind romance.’

  Claire gave him a look.

  ‘I didn’t mean . . . it’s just, you hadn’t known each other very long, and living on top of each other . . .’