Thicker Than Water

I opened my eyes and pulled back my hand, stopping the drumbeat dead. My fingertip tingled and throbbed as though I’d touched a hot plate and a blister was starting to form.

‘He’s looking better than he was,’ said a voice from behind me. A woman’s voice: the nurse. A moment later I heard her footsteps coming towards me.

I managed not to turn.

‘Yeah?’ I answered. ‘How do you mean?’

She walked past me, brisk and businesslike, carrying a grey plastic bowl, half full of water, which she set down on the table next to Kenny’s bed.

She had a towel and a flannel hung over one arm, and she laid them out too with practised, economical movements. From her pocket she took a bottle of liquid soap. She was a short brunette, broad at shoulder and hip and as formidable as her voice. She was probably about my age, but she wore it better. Most people do.

‘His blood pressure is up a bit,’ she said. ‘Sixty over forty. And his eyes are moving in his sleep - I saw that when I came in before. That’s a very good sign.

’

There had to be some reason why she was talking to me like an old friend instead of asking to see my credentials or screaming for the cop on the door, and I’d figure it out sooner or later. For now I was content to gather whatever rosebuds were on offer.

‘What do you make of the wounds?’ I asked.

She straightened and looked round at me, looking a bit bemused. ‘What do I make of them?’

I nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘Well, you’re the expert.’

Okay. The penny dropped at that point. She couldn’t think I was a consultant on his rounds, so she must be mistaking me for one of Coldwood’s boys, stopping by to scrape up a bit more forensic evidence.

It says a lot for the public perception of the Met that a guy who rolls in out of the night in a long coat with two days’ worth of stubble on his chin is taken to be one of London’s finest rather than a wino looking for a berth.

‘Yeah,’ I agreed, straight-faced. ‘I am. But you know how it is with experts: multum in parvo.’

The nurse blinked.

‘Multi what?’

‘Means “deep but narrow”, which defines me perfectly. ‘I’m -’ well I’d better not be Castor this time out, in case that name ended up on a charge sheet some time soon ‘- Basquiat. Rudy Basquiat. Detective Sergeant. Who are you?’

She gave me an old-fashioned look and tapped the badge she wore on her ample chest. She was Petra Ryall, charge nurse. Right. I bet when she lowered her head and charged she’d be something to see."

"‘Petra,’ I said.