‘Anywhere where we can sit down and compile a list,’ said Sloan, aware of a tiredness already seeping into his body. Sleep had come late and lightly to him the night before. ‘Back to the station, I think.’ Crosby brightened. ‘The canteen might be open now.’ It was. Cradling his hands round a large mug of coffee, Sloan started to think aloud. ‘We need to take a look at the hospital records at Calleford, Crosby, and see if one Josephine Eleanor Short was ever nursed by the dead girl when she was a patient there. That, if you can remember, was where Lucy Lansdown trained.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ Crosby had opted for tea. He kept one hand on the handle of the mug and with the other pulled out his notebook. Swopping the mug into his other hand, he retrieved a pencil from a pocket and made a note. ‘And whose say-so are they going to do that on, might I ask?’ He sniffed. ‘Not mine, I’ll bet.’ ‘A court order, I expect, or a dispensation from God which comes to much the same thing.
