Splinter in the Blood: A Novel

Chapter 1

A woman stands in the middle of Detective Chief Inspector Greg Carver’s sitting room. She is holding a 1911 Colt pistol in her hand. To all appearances, she is calm; there are things she needs to do. She pivots on the ball of her foot, turning full circle, taking in every detail of the scene. Nothing has been disturbed. An empty whisky bottle lies on its side on the floor. Greg Carver is slumped in an easy chair, one leg bent at the knee, the other straight out. Looking down at him she feels anger and contempt, but also regret. His eyes are open, blood oozes from a bullet wound in his chest. She shifts the weight of the gun in her gloved hand, flips the catch to safety. The place reeks of alcohol, gun smoke, and blood, and her stomach hitches, but she snuffs hard, purging her nostrils of the stench.

She carries the gun through to the kitchen; his laptop is propped open, his files spread out across the table. The floor, ankle deep in balled-up paper, looks like the aftermath of a massive hailstorm. On a chair beside the table is a cardboard filing box. She drops two of the files into it, gingerly wraps the gun in clean paper, and carefully lowers it on top of them.

Under the litter of papers on the kitchen table, she finds a framed photograph, lain facedown. DCI Carver’s wife, Emma, on their honeymoon, seated on a stony outcrop near a waterfall. Emma is blond and slender. She is wearing skinny jeans with wedge sandals, a blue peasant top. Her hair, silky and long, is combed in a center parting. She is smiling. The woman carries the picture through to Carver’s sitting room, wipes it for prints, and places it on the top of the cupboard, where it always sits.

In the bedroom, A3-size wall charts Blu Tacked to the walls. On one, smiling photos of five female victims alongside handwritten notes:

Tali Tredwin—DOD: 3rd January. Age 27, 5ʹ 4ʺ, brown hair, brown eyes. Divorced, 2 children. Back & shoulders tattooed—blue ink. Severe ink bleed, speckling. Maori symbols & eyes—all closed. Berberis thorn.

Evie Dodd—DOD: 10th March. Age 25, 5ʹ 5ʺ, black hair, hazel eyes. Married, 3 children. Torso, neck, arms, legs, feet/soles, hands, palms, all tattooed—blue ink. Stylized plants, magical sigils & eyes—closed/half open/open. Ink bleed. Berberis thorn.

Hayley Evans—DOD: 6th June. Age 28, 5ʹ 3ʺ, brown hair, brown eyes. In civil partnership, 1 child. Torso, neck, arms, legs, feet/soles, hands, palms, all tattooed. Stylized plants, thorns, magical sigils & eyes—closed/half open/open. Blue ink. Less ink bleed. Pyracantha thorn.

Jo Raincliffe—DOD: 2nd September. Age 35, 5ʹ 6ʺ, brown hair, brown eyes. Married, 2 children. Torso, neck, arms, legs, feet/soles, hands, palms, all tattooed—blue ink. Stylized plants, thorns, sigils, etc. No ink bleed. Pyracantha thorn.

Kara Grogan—DOD: 22nd December. Age 20, 5ʹ 10ʺ, blond hair, blue eyes. Torso, neck, arms, legs, feet/soles, hands, palms, all tattooed—black ink. No bleed. Stylized plants, thorns, magical sigils & eyes—a lot of eyes. Pyracantha thorn.

She peels the charts away from the wall, folds them, carrying them back to the kitchen, where she scoops up the rest of the papers—balled-up notes and all—and stuffs them inside the file box, jamming the lid onto it.

She wipes down the door handles, light switches, his chair. Hefting the box, she makes her way out of the house, treading carefully on the fire escape steps at the rear of the building and down the driveway. It has recently been cleared of snow, but her shoe marks are visible in the fresh fall. It’s very dark, and the curtains are drawn up and down the street; she doesn’t think she’s been seen.

Minutes later, she returns ungloved, without the box, and climbs the steps to the front of the house, wipes the bell push, then presses it. She doesn’t wait—but takes a key fob from her back pocket and uses one of the two keys on it to open the front door. Inside Carver’s flat, she retraces her steps, touching surfaces she has just wiped down. Finishing her journey at Carver’s chair, she sees the drained bottle again and something niggles at the edges of her consciousness, like an itch she can’t quite reach. But she doesn’t have time for this—what’s done is done.

She crouches in front of him, gripping the armrests and staring into his face.

She gasps, springing to her feet.

Panting, her heart hammering, she watches him for a few seconds. You imagined it.

She lowers herself, holding her breath, her eyes fixed on his. Greg Carver’s eyes are light hazel, flecked with gold. Sometimes those gold flecks seem to shimmer, but not now. Now they are dull, dead. She leans in closer, watching, barely breathing—and sees again a flicker of movement in one eyelid. Her shoulders slump and she swears softly.

Chapter 2

Day 1

The woman held Greg Carver’s front door open for the paramedics. They took the steps slowly on snow now trodden to slush and ice. Her own footwear impressions leading from the fire escape at the side of the house and down the drive had been quickly covered by the steady fall of snow. A police helicopter clattering overhead shut off its NightSun beam and moved off in an abrupt maneuver, most likely recalled as the snow whirled and thickened. Lights flashed on emergency vehicles, arc lamps lit up the driveway of Carver’s house, and crime scene tape was strung fifteen meters either side as an outer cordon to keep gawkers at bay. She followed the medics to the waiting ambulance and spoke a few words, watching until Carver was lifted inside.

A Scientific Support van was parked inside the cordon. Two CSIs and the crime scene manager stood at the rear, suited up, ready to move in when they were given the okay.

The woman took a breath before heading over to them. It’s all yours, she said.

Is it true? the CSM asked.

It’s Carver, she said.

Jesus, Ruth. He touched her elbow.

Detective Sergeant Ruth Lake edged away. Eyes everywhere, she murmured. She’d seen two local journalists outside the tape already.

Where are they taking him? he asked.

The Royal. Her throat closed and she couldn’t say any more.

Anything I can do?

Just be thorough.

Goes without saying.

Lake tilted her head, a gesture of apology.

I touched the doors—handles and locks— She frowned as if trying to recall. Light switches and the chair—in the sitting room at the front of the flat. He was—that’s where I . . .

He nodded. Understood. We’ll need your footwear.

She scratched her eyebrow. I’ll get it to you.

"How’d you get in?"

It was wide open, she said, avoiding a direct lie. But her hand closed involuntarily around the key fob in her coat pocket, and she looked away.

He ducked his head, forcing eye contact. If there’s evidence in there, we’ll find it, Ruth.

She blinked, twice. I know.

Trained by the best, he said.

She couldn’t manage a smile.

A car turned into the street and a beefy man got out, fastening his overcoat and striding through the crowd of onlookers as if they were invisible. Detective Superintendent Jim Wilshire wasn’t media-friendly police.

Taken by surprise, the two journalists at the tape turned a little too late to get a decent shot, and he ducked under and was fifteen feet away by the time they regained their equilibrium.

Superintendent, one of them called out. Sir—is it the Thorn Killer?

Ruth Lake exchanged a look with the CSM. I’ll catch up with you later, she said.

The CSIs headed inside, and she straightened her back, waiting for the superintendent.

Detective Sergeant Lake, Wilshire said.

Sir.

Join me. He walked to the far side of the outer cordon where there were fewer people. There, he unfolded a huge black umbrella, more to shield them from the crowd, she suspected, than as protection from the weather.

She stepped under its canopy.

Greg Carver? His voice was lighter than you would expect in a big man.

She nodded.

Who’s the first officer attending?

She looked guilelessly into his face. I am.

You got here fast.

Actually, I found him.

He frowned. This was, what—thirty minutes ago?

Thereabouts.

He checked his watch. She knew it was ten past midnight.

Odd time of night to be making a social call, Sergeant. His tone was speculative, inviting explanation rather than demanding it.

He wanted to talk about the case.

"Odd time and place for a meeting," he said, sharper, now.

She nodded, felt her eyebrow twitch, but didn’t comment.

He watched her for a few more seconds, and she forced herself to breathe slowly and stay calm.

Behind her, the road lit up and she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, followed by the creak of tires on fresh snow. She glanced over her shoulder as a large vehicle braked to a halt. Mersey View—a local cable TV company. Wilshire hated those people more than all the others.

Sir? she said.

He looked past her at the broadcast crew scrambling out of the van.

All right, I’ll let it pass—for now, he said. But you heard the press when I got here. They’re already asking if this is the work of the Thorn Killer. So you need to brief me.

She took a breath, exhaled, put herself in the right mind-set to give her boss the details he needed to hear.

He was sitting in an armchair in his front room, she said. He’s been shot in the chest at close range. She cleared her throat. It looks like a small-caliber bullet.

You know this because . . . ?

I was a CSI, she said. I’ve seen a few shootings. And . . . there wasn’t much blood.

But she’d smelled it well enough. The coppery stink rose in her nostrils again.

Wilshire said, Are you all right?

Fine, she said. Just—

He nodded, then shifted position slightly, and she realized he was blocking the cable TV crew’s view. It’s understandable. But you need to hold it together. It’s your scene till the OIC gets here.

I said I’m fine.

He drew his brows down, and she knew she’d sounded snappish. To hell with him. "Who is the officer in charge? Wilshire’s nostrils flared, and she added, If you don’t mind me asking, sir."

DCI Jansen, he said, his tone stiff. He’ll be here in twenty. He’ll want to know if you compromised the scene in any way.

Her heart stopped for a moment, then began again, a slow, thick thud in her chest. I’m a trained CSI, she said.

Even so, in the heat of the moment . . .

I was careful, she said, truthfully.

Did he say anything?

Carver? she said stupidly.

"Yes, Carver. Did he say anything?"

I thought he was dead. She felt a horrifying bubble of laughter surge up in her chest and gripped the keys in her pocket so hard she felt the cut edge break the skin of her palm.

That doesn’t answer my question.

She bit her lip.

Sergeant Lake?

Ruth swallowed the humiliating urge to laugh and shook her head, focusing on a patch of pure white snow that reflected the light of the emergency vehicles stuttering red and blue, seeing Carver’s eyes staring back at her, the flicker of the lights recalling the slight tremble of his eyelid, the moment she realized he was still breathing.

She started to shake.

"Sergeant," Wilshire hissed, moving in so close that she had to take a step back.

She looked into his face and the shaking stopped.

Look, the ambulance is about to leave. Go with him if you want—these media clowns will be on at you until they get a comment. More press had begun to pile in—national outside broadcast crews, already in town reporting on Kara Grogan, swelled the numbers of local journalists. They set up their own arc lamps and called from the edge of the cordon, agitating for an update on the situation.

I need to work, she said.

You can’t work the scene, and you can’t work the case—you know that.

More use on the j-job, she said, then clamped her jaw shut to stop her teeth chattering.

Where’s your car?

Lake jerked her chin toward her Renault Clio, parked opposite Carver’s house inside the police cordon, with Carver’s files and the gun still in the boot. She should have moved it after she’d called emergency services; right now, it was officially part of the scene.

Come on. Wilshire took her by the elbow. We’ll talk in there.

What? The files. The gun. No! She pulled free of him.

"Lower your voice, Sergeant," Wilshire hissed.

Sorry, sir. I—I mean I should stay.

You’re showing signs of shock, her boss said. We need to get you out of this storm.

He meant the snowstorm, but she thought he had never said a truer word.

Get in your car, I’ll wave you out after the ambulance—unless you want me to get someone to drive you home?

Relief washed through her. No—I can drive. Thanks. She fumbled her car keys from her coat pocket and got behind the wheel, staring straight ahead as uniformed police moved the media vans out of the way to let the ambulance through. The ambulance’s emergency lights and the press cameras strobed on her eyeballs, half blinding her, but she gripped the wheel till it creaked with the tension and gritted her teeth and kept the wheels turning until she was out of the street.

Chapter 3

Sounds buzz and zip through Carver’s ears like radio interference; alien sounds like telemetry from a distant planet.

He is lying on his back. Which doesn’t make sense: he should be sitting up in his chair, drinking—that’s what he was doing, isn’t it? Yes, he remembers with a burst of triumph, as if remembering will make sense of this crazy confusion of light and noise. He was drinking. Whisky—a lot of it.

Then the world tilts and swoops, and he loses all sense of up or down. He feels the rush of air beneath him, hears a roar of jet engines, and feels a panicky flutter in his chest. I shouldn’t be here, I’ve got a case to investigate. Lights whiz by overhead, like runway lights on an airstrip—another nonsense—runway lights aren’t overhead. Above, or below, either way, he shouldn’t be seeing this; he would have to be outside the plane to see what he’s seeing.

Jeez, Carver, you’re drunk. But he feels the dull throb of a headache beginning, so maybe he passed out and this is the morning after.

A shadow moves in front of the lights: human, but strangely formless.

This is freaky, he thinks, and suddenly he’s standing in St. James’s cemetery. The sheer sandstone walls of the sunken cemetery loom sixteen yards high either side of him, across a wide, flat space—remnants of the old quarry that provided sandstone to build much of Liverpool in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. On the westerly side, the escarpment rears up to Liverpool Cathedral. A biting wind screams from the Mersey River, a mile away, gaining momentum as it crests the hill and plunges down into the old quarry bed.

DS Lake is looking at the body of a young woman lain out on a table tomb, hard against the cemetery’s sheer sandstone walls.

This is freaky, she says, echoing his own words. But she’s looking at the first of the Thorn Killer’s victims, and that was a year ago, so really, he is echoing her. And wasn’t he somewhere else a minute ago—with jet engines roaring and lights racing overhead?

The victim is fully clothed, but with enough bare flesh showing to see what had been done to her. The patterns have been etched into her skin: eyes, half closed, hiding something. Hiding? Now where did that come from? Tali—Tali Tredwin, her name was. They didn’t know it then, but it seems important to remember it, now.

Someone is calling: Greg. Greg Carver?

At first, he thinks it’s Ruth.

Fuck’s sake, keep it down, he wants to tell her. Can’t you see I’ve got a headache?

But he’s plunged into darkness, and Ruth is gone. A blinding flash, and pain sears behind his eyeballs like a knife.

Someone says, Pupils equal and reactive to light.

Carver doesn’t recognize the voice. He tries to speak.

Positive RAPD, left eye, the voice says. Can we get a portable CT in here?

Carver thinks he should answer, but still he can’t speak.

The shadows pass like ghosts above him. At least the jet engine has shut up. This is wrong. He was in his flat, drinking. Someone else was there. A woman. He remembers having sex. In the flat? No, somewhere else, but it feels familiar. He’s yelling at the woman. A gun. Was I holding a gun? That blinding flash again, then more shadows. Someone is moving around his flat. Now—or then? Time is messed up. And anyway, you weren’t in your flat—not with the woman.

Then where? Suddenly, he understands: being there/not being there; ghosts; jet engines; and airstrip lights that float above—this is the logic of dreams. He just needs to wake up.

Instantaneously, he’s back in his flat, and the presence in the room feels tangible, a shadow, a dark something just out of his line of vision. He wants to turn his head, but he’s paralyzed; the fear is crushing, like a physical weight on his chest. Night terror, he thinks. He’s had them before—usually after his drinking binges. If he can just move—a finger, an eyebrow—he’ll wake, and the nightmare will end.

The shadow swoops in, stares into his face. Ruth. Relief floods through him.

He wants to say, Ruth, I’m off my face drunk, and this is a bastard horrible dream. Wake me the hell up.

But he blinks, and she’s gone.

Sounds, movement. His eyes won’t focus; he still can’t move, but the frightening presence is gone, and the crushing pressure on his chest is lifted—he can breathe again. Blue lights strobe beyond the curtains of his sitting room, and he thinks of a rave he once went to with Emma. He hears the clatter of a helicopter’s rotor blades.

Then darkness again.

Chapter 4

Across the Mersey River, a twenty-minute drive from Greg Carver’s apartment, in a 1930s house on a quiet lane, the Thorn Killer watches BBC News 24 on TV. Paramedics carry their patient on a trolley down the steep front steps of his home; the drone of a police helicopter drowns out the voice of the reporter as it hovers, its beam focused on the scene, and for a few seconds DCI Carver is drenched in light. He looks dead.

The killer stands impulsively and paces the room. Months of planning followed by three weeks of backbreaking toil, fingers calloused and sore, hands cramped and aching, eyes burning under the glare of the lamps. Three weeks’ work on Kara’s skin art, preparing her, making her ready—for this?

Carver, as good as dead. And even if he survives, what possible use could he be?

An irritated glance at the TV reveals Ruth Lake following the paramedics down the steps of Carver’s house. The camera zooms in on her, huddled in an overcoat. She breaks away to talk to a CSI, although her gaze is fixed on Carver as they slide the trolley into the ambulance. Her face is empty of emotion. The killer stops midstep and turns to face the screen, wondering, not for the first time, what she’s thinking. Snow gathers like confetti in the cascade of Sergeant Lake’s hair; it looks dark under the arc lamps, but the killer knows those curls are a light brown; in the right light, the highlights appear auburn.

The imposing person of Superintendent Wilshire appears suddenly, already on the other side of the police tape, his back to the camera, and a couple of journos scramble for a comment.

Oops—missed that one, boys.

Superintendent, one of the newsmen yells. Sir—is it the Thorn Killer?

Detective Sergeant Lake says a few words to the CSI and turns to meet her boss. She draws herself to her full height, shoulders back, chin up.

Now, there’s a woman steeling herself for something. The killer’s suppressed rage retreats a little, tempered by curiosity about this sphinx of a woman.

The detective is lost from view for a moment, hidden under Wilshire’s protective umbrella. How symbolic.

A cable TV van slides to a stop on the far side of the cordon, and a fraction of a second later, the news team cuts to a more revealing perspective. The recording has been nicely spliced with the original footage, but the lighting is different. The execs at the hand-to-mouth cable TV station that got that angle must be rubbing their hands at the money coming in from news teams, eager to get the stricken face of DCI Carver’s right-hand woman on their screens. Except it’s impossible to read any emotion at all on that pale, pretty face.

From this angle, the crowd is visible and the killer switches attention away from Ruth and her superintendent, focusing instead on the rubberneckers, seeing curiosity, excitement in their faces. Everyone loves a good murder.

The superintendent says something and DS Lake replies, confusion written in the furrow of her brow. He speaks again and her shoulders go rigid for a second. So tense. Then she lifts her head and the whites of her eyes catch flashes from the emergency vehicles’ light bars. Could Ruth Lake actually care about Carver?

Is she shaking? She is—she’s losing it. The killer moves in closer: this just got interesting.

A sharp word from Superintendent Wilshire brings the sergeant to herself again, but her control seems tenuous. She nods toward her car (it is her car—the viewer knows this, and a lot more besides about Ruth Lake). Wilshire takes her arm, and she jerks free. She can’t be heard, but it doesn’t take a lip-reader to see that DS Lake is saying, No. She leans back, body angled away from the direction the superintendent wants her to take—classic signs of refusal, literally digging her heels into the snow. She really doesn’t want to leave. And then suddenly she does, and she’s moving fast, dragging her car key out of her pocket so fast that it practically turns inside out.

Well, now that’s . . . odd.

A rewind, pause, replay reveals a little more. The viewer reads alarm, and then relief in Sergeant Lake’s face. This isn’t just odd, it’s fascinating.

Playing the sequence one more time, the viewer leans forward, looking for the instant that alarm turns to relief.

The camera zooms in on Ruth’s face as she follows the ambulance past the tape. Her jaw is clenched tight enough to break a molar.

"Sergeant Lake, what have you been up to?"

Chapter 5

Forty minutes later, having safely stashed the files and the gun, DS Lake headed over to the hospital. A marked police car was parked in one of the emergency bays; the driver stood under the awning, out of the steadily falling snow, taking crafty puffs on a vape. He tucked the e-cig out of sight when he saw her.

You brought Emma Carver here? she said.

Half an hour ago, Sarge.

And you’re hanging around because . . . ?

It’s quiet, and I thought . . .

You know what you should do when it’s quiet? An answer didn’t leap readily to the constable’s lips and she said, "Bimble about; be seen, deter crime with your highly visible presence. Help someone out of a snowdrift. The glow of righteousness will keep you warm—and it’s better for your health." She cocked her head to let him know that she’d seen him sucking on his e-cig.

She walked through the staff entrance and the doors slid shut behind her. She stamped her feet on the rubber matting and shook herself to shed some of the snow that had gathered on her shoulders and hair. A nurse hurried out of one of the cubicles opposite the nursing station; she glanced at Ruth, beckoned to someone out of her view, but carried on.

Greg Carver? Ruth called.

The nurse slowed, and at the same moment, a security guard appeared. Are you family? the nurse asked.

Police. She showed her warrant card.

He’s in no state to answer questions, the nurse said, walking on. And I haven’t got time—

Emma arrived half an hour ago—Greg’s wife. I was wondering how she’s—

The nurse frowned.

You see, Ruth went on, Greg is a friend, and— That word, friend, almost undid her. A spasm twisted her mouth, and she took a breath, letting it go slowly.

The nurse stopped, considering her for a moment. Let me see that warrant card again.

Ruth handed it over. The nurse checked it and, with a nod to the security guy, gave it back.

We’ve had reporters trying to get in, she explained. Mrs. Carver’s in the waiting area—through the doors on the right.

Before I talk to her, Ruth said, detaining the nurse for just a few moments longer, is there anything I should know?

He had a few problems in the ambulance coming over, the nurse said, keeping her voice low. But he’s stable, for now.

For now? What does that mean?

It means his BP dropped dangerously low for a short time, but we got it under control, and now he’s being assessed.

Not much of an answer, but Ruth understood that medics had their protocols, just as police did, and she didn’t push for more.

Emma was seated alone. When her eyes finally focused on Ruth, she leaped to her feet and seized her by the hands. They were desperately cold. Her skin usually had a peaches-and-cream complexion Ruth envied, but tonight it was paper white and seemed stretched too tight over the bones of her face.

They said he was shot? It came out as a question, as if it was too implausible to be real.

Ruth nodded.

And what they’re saying on the news—is that true? she asked. Is it the Thorn Killer, Ruth?

I don’t know, Ruth said, keeping her answers short to avoid building lies she couldn’t keep track of.

Had Greg made a breakthrough? He’d tell you, wouldn’t he? They said you found him—did he say anything?

He wasn’t . . . She looked into Emma’s blue eyes and saw Carver’s staring back at her, unblinking. He couldn’t . . . Shit. He wasn’t conscious, she said finally, as the closest to the truth that she could manage.

Her mobile phone buzzed in her pocket, and she checked the screen. John Hughes, the crime scene manager. She excused herself, walking through to the emergency treatment area to take the call in private.

You need to take that outside, Sergeant. The nurse had returned with a box of nitrile gloves.

Ruth apologized and stepped into the freezing night before moving the slider to answer. The sky had cleared, leaving eight inches of new snow on top of the ice-crusted remnants of the last fall. It softened the contours of the taxis and emergency vehicles parked on the forecourt and reflected the ghost-white glow of the streetlight LEDs.

How is he? Hughes said, without preamble. Have you heard?

I’m at the hospital now. He’s still being assessed, she said. How about you—did you find anything? Hughes getting in touch so soon meant one of two things—they had found something, or they didn’t think there was anything to find. She held her breath.

A small amount of blood spatter on the chair. No signs of struggle, a whisky spill on the floor—could be he passed out, didn’t hear the shooter come in.

Footwear marks, fingermarks?

The paramedics trampled all over the scene, he said. But we did get a small size footwear impression on the rug in the bedroom—could be a woman’s shoe.

Crap. Leaving her shoeprints in his living room was one thing, but in his bedroom . . . Wilshire was right—she must be in shock, missing something as simple as that. But she would hand over a different pair of shoes for comparison, so it wasn’t a major problem.

It looks like surfaces, light switches, and door handles have been wiped down, he said. The only fingermarks we’ve found are yours.

She sighed, hoping it didn’t sound too theatrical.

And a void on the carpet of the bedroom—looks like a heavy square object has been sitting there for a while—a box most likely. It looks like Blu Tack has recently been removed from the walls in there, so maybe he used the bedroom as his unofficial war room?

Maybe.

"Come on, Ruth, don’t be so tight-lipped. If anyone would know, it’d be you."

He didn’t invite me into his bedroom, but I’d say it was a fair bet he worked on the case at home.

Jansen’s the OIC, isn’t he?

Yeah.

Well, you’d better let him know.

I don’t see why.

"Jesus, Ruth—you’re not thinking straight! Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Carver did keep a private dossier: whatever you’ve got on the murders—"

—could now be in the Thorn Killer’s hands, she finished for him. And if that’s the case, the whole investigation is screwed. Hughes was right, she wasn’t thinking straight. Couldn’t get that image out of her head: Greg Carver in his chair, blood oozing from the bullet wound in his chest, his eyes fixed on her while she cleared up the evidence.

So, are you going to tell Jansen, or shall I? Hughes said. Only, it might be better coming from you.

I’ll do it, she said. Just give me an hour to find out what’s happening with Greg.

All right, he said. And Ruth?

Yeah?

When you’ve done that, go home and get some sleep.

As Ruth returned to the waiting room, a doctor in scrubs came through a side door and called for Mrs. Carver. Emma gazed round in panic, seeking out Ruth. The two women reached the doctor at the same time, and for a moment the medic looked confused, and a little embarrassed.

DS Lake—I’m a friend and colleague of Greg’s, Ruth explained.

Best we talk in private, the doctor said, holding the door.

Emma seized Ruth’s hand.

Sergeant Lake can come, if you want her to, the doctor said.

He showed them through to a private room with armchairs around a low table, a box of tissues within easy reach. The nurse Ruth had spoken to earlier hovered next to the door.

Is he all right? Emma said. Can I see him?

We’ve performed a CT scan, the doctor said. The bullet is lodged about here—he pointed to the center of his own chest—"between the aorta, which is the major artery, and the spinal cord. We need to give Greg antibiotics to lower his chances of infection. Does he have any allergies?"

No, Emma said.

The doctor turned to the nurse. Tell them they can make a start.

"A start? Emma said. Haven’t you operated on him, yet?"

It’s a complicated picture, he said, his tone calm and firm. He’s had a blood transfusion, and his vital signs are stable, so we don’t have to rush in. But your husband also has some swelling of the brain.

I don’t understand, Emma said, her voice shrill with anxiety. You said he was shot in the chest.

He was, the doctor said. The head injury isn’t obvious, but it’s something we routinely check for in cases like this. It may or may not be related to the shooting. He looked at Ruth. He was found sitting up in a chair?

Yes, she said. I found him.

Is it possible he fell and hit his head after he was shot, managed to crawl to the chair?

Ruth thought about it. There was no blood spatter, no blood anywhere in the room, except for on the armchair. She shook her head. Unlikely.

"Well, brain swelling can happen quite a while after the trauma. Has he been involved in a fight, or a car accident recently?"

Emma turned helplessly to Ruth.

Greg and Emma are separated, just now, she explained. He and I work closely, and I’m sure he would have mentioned something like that. But when he rang to ask me to call round this evening, he sounded, uh—she glanced at Emma—"intoxicated. So I suppose he might have fallen before the shooting."

Okay, so the injury is probably very recent—which is good, because it means we’re treating the injury fast.

You seem more concerned about the brain swelling than the bullet lodged near his spine, Ruth said.

Greg has significant buildup of fluid, and that’s causing pressure on his brain, the doctor said, tapping the top of his own head lightly. Reducing the intracranial pressure is our first priority. So a neurosurgeon will insert tubes into his brain cavities to drain the extra fluid off. That should do the trick.

And if it doesn’t? Emma said.

There are other, more radical, options. A team of specialists at the Aintree Neurosciences Centre is ready to operate.

But that’s miles away, Emma wailed. Why can’t you do it here?

It’s his best chance, Mrs. Carver, the doctor said gently. They have the best resources in the northwest for injuries like this.

She gave a juddering sigh.

We’ll airlift him, which is quicker, and safer, because there’s less risk of any jarring on the journey. But before I give the word, I need to ask you something, and it’s important you’re honest with me.

Emma blinked. Of course.

He looked into her face, as if watching carefully for her reaction. "Greg’s blood alcohol is dangerously high. Now, we can still operate, but