In relation to the pathology lab, the mortuary was geographically and thermally at the polar opposite of the hospital and the chilly atmosphere urged Philippa to move hastily.
The corridor down this wing was adorned with a weird framed collection of decorated eggs which did their best to mask the peeling paint.
At these early hours, the lights had all switched off but her motion was easily detected, triggering them to turn on one at a time, as if she was on an amateur catwalk.
Then something made her stop halfway down.
There was a fire-exit at the end, though she was unable to orientate herself as to where it led in relation to the hospital building and surroundings.
She tried to take a step forward but she was overcome by fear. Her feet felt glued to the floor.
The hooded figure had reappeared and was watching her, staring from behind the glass doors, the hood shrouding all facial features in darkness.
At last, she managed to release the tension in her leg and in response, the hooded figure retreated.
She took another step towards the doors.
Another step back.
And then as if Philippa was too close for comfort, the person ran.
She charged after them.
‘Philippa?’ a voice called from behind her suddenly. ‘What are you doing?’
She halted in her tracks, realising that it was not her advancing that had caused the hooded figure to dash. ‘Gemma; did you see that?’
‘See what?’
‘There was someone standing by that fire-exit,’ Philippa explained.
‘I didn’t see anyone,’ Gemma said. ‘Who was it?’
‘I don’t know; they were wearing a hoodie and the hood was drawn over so I couldn’t see,’ she said, jogging right up to the doors. She pressed her face against the frosty glass.
‘Philippa, stand away from there; that exit will set off the fire alarm, if opened.’
She heeded Gemma’s advice.
‘Are you alright, Philippa? Seriously. If you’re not feeling well –’
‘I’m fine,’ she snapped. ‘How did you not see them? They were standing right there.’
‘I… it’s past four in the morning, we’re all tired and probably a bit delusional.’
Delusional? Arguing was only going to waste precious time. ‘Maybe you’re right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Where are you headed?’
‘Erm.’ Philippa glanced around quickly. ‘The stroke unit, just to check on a patient.’
‘I’ll catch you up shortly. Did you want another rendezvous? We don’t usually, but if you think it might help you catch your breath a little.’
‘No, I’m fine, honestly.’
‘Okay, well take care.’
Philippa made sure the SNP had disappeared into another ward then crept up to the mortuary.
The highly protected double doors were enormous and made from stainless steel. They had humongous handles and a box to the side which acted as a camera, speaker and buzzer, guarding like a fearsome sentry unit.
There were scuffs lower down where the doors had been forcibly opened by porters using coffin trolleys as battering rams.
‘Who is it?’ checked a Cockney voice through the door viewer.
‘It’s Philippa, the medical registrar.’
‘Okay…’ There was an awkward pause, before the voice returned: ‘And?’
‘I’ve come to see Mary Surrey’s body?’ said Philippa.
‘Mary Surrey… she died ages ago didn’t she?’
Time must have run a quicker course in the mortuary.
‘Yes, but – er – I need to view the body for the paperwork in the morning.’
‘Hang on.’
The next second, Philippa heard squeaky footsteps approaching the door. The hinges squealed as they gyrated against the settling rust. When both doors exposed the mystery behind, there stood a towering colourful lady with an extraordinary dyed lawn of yellows, reds and greens, much like a peacock’s tail.
‘Follow me,’ she ordered, turning on the heels of her scatty sneakers.
Philippa obeyed the mortician. She could not help but admire her alternative style, which she emphasised by domineering blue dungarees and a pair of tortoise shell glasses balanced daringly at the summit of her forehead.
There was a narrow corridor with dim wall lights which flickered in harmony with the blinding ceiling ones. With every breath, Philippa felt the bitter, embalmed air sting the back of her throat.
‘Mary Surrey… you did say Mary Surrey didn’t you, babe?’ asked the mortician between smacks of gum against her molars.
‘Yes.’ Up close and on tiptoe, Philippa counted a total of seven piercings on her nose, lip and right ear.
‘I suppose she’s still a freshie.’
Philippa grimaced at her comment.
‘Freshie? As in a new arrival,’ the mortician explained, before hurtling her gum into the bin a meter away with masterful accuracy. ‘Ah never mind,’ she added with a tint of disappointment.
The definition made the experience no less pleasant for Philippa.
‘I’m Ariel by the way. You said Philippa, didn’t you?’
The medical registrar nodded then her bleep went off for the nth time.
The mortician didn’t flinch and casually took a sip of water from her eccentric water bottle. ‘Phone’s over there if you need it,’ she directed.
How Philippa longed to be able to have a few minutes’ break to sit down and recuperate with something to drink. But she had become accustomed to the parching torture of on-call shifts.
It was the lean surgical SHO – Mr Arisan’s softly-spoken sidekick. He was asking for advice on one of his patients. Had their earlier score not been considered settled in her favour, Philippa would have advised grudgingly but as it was, she was sufficiently happy to help.
‘Give him another dose now and if his heart rate is still above one-hundred-and-ten in an hour, give him some digoxin,’ advised Philippa.
‘How much?’
‘How’s the patient’s kidney function?’
‘Normal.’
‘Then give five-hundred micrograms now and then a further two-hundred-and-fifty in six hours.’
The thought that by the time of the next dose, she should be snug in bed usually acted as the much-needed boost at this time of the shift. Tonight however, Philippa was uncertain what the end of the shift would actually bring, especially if the killer remained at large. Would she have to go through all this again on her next shift? And what would be the forfeit if she failed every test tonight?
She replaced the receiver and in the corner of her eye watched carefully as Ariel shuffled to one of six gigantic steel fridges, each a miniature version of the doors to the mortuary only with several placards strung down the front, bearing names of the fallen.
She spotted Rob Gadra’s name scrawled in marker pen. Her nose crinkled and she rushed to the bin to retch.
‘You okay there? Man, you need to call off on shift or something?’ Ariel asked.
She retched again but nothing came out. She waved the mortician away.
‘Have some water,’ she said, ‘I’ll leave it on the trolley.’
She felt too sick to reply but when she finally did, she asked Ariel for permission to use the phone again.
‘Babe, you do whatever you need to do.’
Time was running out to complete her third task.
She contacted the bleep system then put the phone down to wait for the response. She drummed her fingers on her lap and downed the water Ariel had provided.
A multi-pack of peppermint chewing gum balanced precariously over the edge of the trolley. Ariel had chewed through half the stock already.
Ariel opened the third fridge and was met by a gentle billow of smoke which she waved coolly out of her face. She dragged out the tray second from the top.
‘Footstool’s over there,’ said the mortician just as the phone rang. ‘Mary’s all yours.’
‘Hi, it’s the F1 on-call. How can I help?’
‘Justin, it’s Philippa,’ she said slowly, trying to suppress the nausea.
‘Oh hi,’ he said sounding astonished. ‘Did you mean to bleep me?’
‘Yes, can you meet me on the Chartwell Unit in five minutes please?’
‘Sure, is something wrong?’ He sounded nervous.
‘Just… meet me there. I’ll see you in five minutes.’
Philippa Haven towed the footstool across the mortuary with her foot. She put on a pair of gloves then climbed up to examine the body.
In this state, Mary Surrey was barely recognisable and Philippa was unsure what she was looking for exactly. So, as with all examinations, she started at the hands and made her way systematically to her scalp. She parted some of the dried grey hair that would fall off soon.
There were no signs of blunt trauma. That would have killed her quick…
Think Philippa, what were the clues?
The murderer had warned Philippa how Rob would be killed by drawing the chemical symbol for strychnine at Mary Surrey’s crime scene.
Was there anything left at the scene where Jonathan Wickshaw died?
She imagined herself back in Surgical Four by Bed Sixteen. In the darkness, Jonathan Wickshaw’s body was nothing but a mere shadow. The bedside cabinet, which had contained the first hidden clue, had been re-positioned to make the bed space more presentable. The oxygen tap hissed in the background with the improvised labelling…
Oxygen…
Mary Surrey was dependent on it so it would have been simple to starve her of oxygen. But even if the oxygen had been removed, she could have stayed alive for several hours and there was no way to time her death so precisely, as Shinji had pointed out.
If deprivation of oxygen had been the means by which the killer murdered Mary, they would have had to do something far more brutal…
Philippa Haven pulled back the cotton body blanket a little further, revealing the scar of a pacemaker. That would have to be removed if Mary was to be cremated.
Then she felt around the rigid jaw and peered underneath Mary’s chin.
There, around her neck, Philippa caught sight of the morbid clue she had been seeking: Mary Surrey had been strangled to death, a cold-blooded murder within the supposedly secure walls of the Princess Royal Hospital, a place where people attended to avoid death.
Unable to fend for herself, curled up in a feeble ball of skin hanging off bones, she had been an easy but hapless victim.
Philippa gripped the rails of the tray until her fingers turned white. She gritted her teeth to stop herself from gasping and attracting the unwanted attention of Ariel. She felt the hairs on her neck reach for the ceiling and her spine prickle.
‘You done over there?’
‘What’s the time?’
‘Quarter-to-five, why?’
‘Yes, I’m done,’ Philippa replied, wrapping up the body loosely and making a dash for the door.
Justin Hills: the misleadingly innocent first-year doctor, the introvert, quiet as a mouse… his role to cover all the wards would have allowed him free reign of the hospital without raising a suspicious brow from any member of staff. He would have been on the wards to corrupt Jonathan Wickshaw’s medications; switching his antibiotics for a lethal injection of potassium, perhaps.
He had been late to the rendezvous at one o’clock, because he was busy on Medical Six conducting this heinous act on Mary Surrey.
The security cameras had not caught anyone leaving the exits between the time she last saw Rob Gadra and the time of his death because Justin was already outside lurking in the cemetery. He had been heading in the direction of the portacabin.
Everything pointed to the murderer being Justin.
Shinji was right; the only way to stop him now was to catch him in the act before he took his next victim’s life. And she had just unwittingly led Justin to the Chartwell Unit – right onto Shinji’s doorstep.
Philippa Haven swore.
Shinji would be a lamb to the slaughter.
Now she had to reach him before Justin did.
Every few days... 