His wife was waiting for Rebus in the hospital corridor. She led him to the bedside without saying much, other than that her husband had “only a week or two, maybe less.” King was prone on the bed, an oxygen mask strapped to his gaunt, unshaven face. His eyes were dark-ringed, his chest rising and falling with what seemed painful effort. He nodded at his wife and she took it for an instruction, drawing the curtains around the bed so that King and Rebus were shielded from the other patients. The man pulled the mask down so it rested against his chin. “ID?” he demanded. Rebus dug out his warrant card and King peered at the photograph before offering an explanation. “Wouldn’t put it past Ella to rope some poor sod into pretending. She thinks the drugs must have done it.” “Done what?” Rebus was lowering himself onto a chair. “Got me imagining things.” King paused, studying his visitor. “You don’t look much younger than me.” “Thanks for that.” “But it means you’ll remember the Mods?
