On the map, Shinji had marked the locations of each murder with an ‘x’: Surgical Four, Medical Six and portacabin three aka fifty-five. However, he had also circled Medical Six and beside the ward, written the word: symbol.
‘Symbol?’ Philippa muttered aloud.
Her phone had two percent battery remaining.
The doctor flicked through the saved images that she had taken on Surgical Four and arrived at the one with the accidental flash.
The paracetamol had not yet begun to kick in, or perhaps it was the unfolding mystery before her that was causing her head to pulsate so viciously.
She found the symbol drawn in security ink, as the detective had explained. Then she looked down at the map.
Hold on a minute…
Philippa flipped the map upside down.
She held her breath.
The shape of Medical Six on the map was identical to the cryptic symbol on the wall. The letter x marked the spot where Mary Surrey’s side room was located; the killer had shown Philippa precisely where the next victim would be.
Shinji Nyarko had discovered another clue to make sure Philippa would have the tools necessary to find and put an end to this barbaric murderer’s pursuits.
“I am going to stop this killer if it’s the very last thing I do in my existence…” he had said to her.
It was now her duty to fulfil his wish.
Philippa continued to revisit the photos she had taken, scrolling across, pausing, then scrolling again, identifying nothing of use in Surgical Four Bed Sixteen. Next was the cubicle where Mary Surrey had been strangled. The still images looked eerier when aware of the strangulation that had taken place inside.
She blocked out the thought of the frail elderly lady’s suffering at the hands of the killer. Had her incapacitated mind been able to understand what was happening? Had she tried to call for help? Dementia did not stop people from being frightened of death.
The bed was newly-made, as Shinji had pointed out and appeared untouched with her corpse already en route to the mortuary. The window – God knows why she even took a photo of it – had a rotting sill and a morbid view of the cemetery, where Justin had lurked, only for her to find out the benign reason why.
Justin Hills had been a key suspect, top of her list in fact but the insulin used to kill Eric Pails was rapid-acting thus would have been administered close to the point of his cardiac arrest. Justin had been treating Shinji Nyarko around the predicted time of injection so that ruled him out of contention.
The killer could have arguably given the lethal insulin dose long before, but the team’s attempts would have been completely futile and no matter how ruthless this murderer was, Philippa got the sense there was more satisfaction gained from watching her fail to take the slim chance of saving each life.
Philippa Haven involuntarily double-tapped the screen. The image focused in on the window. She spotted her own reflection, holding the camera up like a girl taking a mirror-selfie only without the glamorous pose, pretty clothes and iconic background. She recognised the end of the bed and the whiteboard where the strange symbol in the bottom right corner turned out to be that of strychnine.
But had there not been another drawing?
In the bottom left corner?
Yes… there had been something else: a drawing of two cuboids, one on top of the other adjacent to a tree.
She realised now; it was a sketch of the portacabins outside, where Rob Gadra the next victim had been killed. Another missed clue that may have changed the course of the killer’s path, that may have made a difference to Rob’s –
The door opened suddenly.
Suki had returned.
‘Hi, is it ridiculous for me to ask you how you are?’
‘Not at all, Dr Philippa. I’ll be fine.’ Though her eyes told a very different story.
‘Suki, I’m going to prescribe a set of medications – all injections but not like the flu jab which goes into muscle; these ones go shallower but should hopefully stop any further seizures that might happen and keep Shinji comfortable.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll get the palliative care team involved first thing in the morning. I’ll call them before my shift ends so they can review him sooner.’
‘Who are they exactly?’
‘Forgive me; it’s my first shift in this hospital so I have no names for you but they are an excellent team who will ensure Shinji is not in any pain or distress. They will also be able to provide you with any support you may need. This is their bread and butter.’
Suki began to cry once more.
Philippa handed her some tissues from the bedside table. ‘I’ll give you some space, but if you need anything let Effy know and she can always contact me.’
Still in floods of tears, Suki merely nodded.
Philippa returned to the scene of the attempted murder outside. The opportunity to take photos of where Eric Pails was resuscitated had not been available until now but it no longer mattered; Shinji Nyarko could not examine them with her.
She dreaded returning to the outdoors. With her legs bare, Philippa really felt the frost sink its icy mandibles into them and the bullying winds slapped her damp ears.
When she arrived, the nearby lamppost flickered weakly. At least it had stopped raining. Unlike the man-made stillness whenever deaths occurred inside the hospital, the footprints and muddy trenches from the weight of tiring limbs, resembling a chocolate sculpture, maintained a more permanent proof of the recent frenetic events.
Philippa studied the area but everything, including all the sharps and wrappers from opened syringes had been cleared or blown away.
Was there anything in security ink on the wall? She dug out her phone and reverted to camera mode.
She took a step back and focused the lens.
One percent battery…
The wall looked familiar – too familiar.
And then she realised why.
The photograph she had found in the portacabin was of these exact surroundings. She was trembling.
The clues were coming together and with more clues came the chance to spot patterns and as a doctor, she was trained to pattern-recognise.
She held up the photograph.
Indeed, it equalled the surroundings before her.
Philippa scrambled for her notes and crouched down to use her thigh as a writing surface. She utilised the last free space and drew a table.
Four headings came next: Patient, Location, Method, Woman’s belongings. Next, she filled in the clues that had been established.
Jonathan Wickshaw, S4 B16, Potassium, Scarf
Mary Surrey, M6 B2, Hypoxia, Red lipstick
Rob Gadra, Portacabin 3, Strychnine, Shoes
Eric Pails, Outside, Insulin…
The missing value was clear. Perhaps she had missed it, being late on the scene.
Was there anything else? She pictured the patient with his trousers pulled down revealing needle track marks along his thighs, Manuel on his knees doing CPR.
She had no choice but to head to Intensive Care and find the absent clue.
One hour before the final test.
Her phone background dimmed, flickered then turned off. She held the power button, but to no avail.
The Intensive Care department was situated on the second floor close to the pathology laboratory. As the automatic doors parted, they revealed a form of organised chaos, for this was where the critically-ill patients were managed with nursing ratios at an optimum of one-to-one.
The beds here were flanked by various monitors. Each patient, illuminated by a single ceiling light directly above was defined by their collection of tubes: nasogastric tubes, airway tubes, urinary catheters and multi-port cannulas in sizes much larger than those available on standard hospital wards. The Intensive Care Unit was a very different branch of healthcare.
‘Philippa?’ Luigi greeted her with a cordial handshake.
‘Hi Luigi. Thanks for earlier.’
‘No problem. Your SHO is pretty decent right?’
‘He is.’
‘What have you come here for?’
‘To check on Eric Pails, if that’s okay – not that I don’t trust you on here, it’s just to see how he’s faring.’
The anaesthetic consultant nodded meaningfully. ‘He’s doing okay but his CT brain scan shows a nasty degree of hypoxic injury as I would have expected. He’s in Bed Six, just over there on your left.’ Then he sighed and patted his bald head. ‘What happened to Rob tonight, I still can’t comprehend…’
She swallowed hard. ‘How were his parents?’
‘I’m worried about them. His mother seemed particularly fragile. Rob was an excellent registrar and would have made an equally excellent consultant.’
‘I met him for the first time tonight, as I mentioned earlier but he seemed a great guy and one I won’t forget.’
Luigi agreed then said, ‘I’ll leave you to whatever you need to do.’
Philippa walked over to the lean dishevelled patient tucked innocently under the covers. His lungs heaved up and down under full control of the bulky ventilator machine that the nurse was manning, a beast with more buttons than imaginable and a screen, flashing abbreviations that were mindboggling.
‘Hi, I’m Philippa the medical registrar. I was just wondering, were there any belongings that came up with Eric, by any chance?’
‘Only the rag he was wearing, which is now in the bin.’
Odd, thought Philippa. She waited until the nurse was not looking, then quickly examined the patient. How did a homeless man have enough money to cover his entire body with tattoos?
‘Are you okay?’ the nurse asked suddenly.
‘Yes, I’m fine thanks. Are you sure nothing else came with the patient?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did he have any other belongings?’
‘Not from outside but I think the nurses are bringing some from his bedside.’
Of course; Eric had been an inpatient still… ‘Which ward was he on, do you know?’
‘I think they said Medical Two?’
Philippa Haven was running out of time. She hurried to the ward ignoring the bleeps on the way. From here on, A&E would have to bleep twice for anything.
According to the whiteboard, Eric Pails had been in Bed Eighteen before his evasion of hospital staff. The nurses were out on their morning observations round and the breakfast trolley was being replenished. This usually signalled that the end was nigh but Philippa knew there was more drama yet: one more test…
She walked into the bay where some of the other patients remained fast asleep. The sight filled her with envy. The drawn blinds limited the light of the sluggish sun outside.
Bed Eighteen was vacant but the nurse in the Intensive Care Unit had been right; his belongings were here and seemed untouched.
Philippa dragged the curtains round the bed to avoid questioning glances from the nurses here.
A few cigarettes spilled out from an open box on top of the cabinet. Leaning against the lightwood furniture was a moth-ravaged sleeping bag that had been utilised many times and forced back unconventionally into its carrier bag. Thick rope stopped it from bursting out like a jack-in-a-box.
The air around the bedside was laced with cannabis. The odour of a person in desperate need of a shower clung to every corner.
And then her eyes landed upon a hoodie; black with a zip, folded perfectly on the chair.
That couldn’t be right…
She rubbed her eyes and climbed over the bed to inspect it.
It looked pristine.
This could not have belonged to Eric Pails; the killer must have placed it here.
She shook it a couple of time and when she did, the missing item belonging to a young female fell out from one of the pockets.
Every few days... 