the charge nurse said when Julie Hargreaves enquired about Winston Billington. The “dear” was kindly meant; the nurse had taken her for a relative, mishearing “DI” as “Di,” a common error. Julie went over to the uniformed embodiment of the police, a youthful constable who was sitting bored in the corner drumming with his fingertips on an upturned plastic coffee cup. “Any signs of life?” she asked him. “He groans sometimes.” “Is that good?” “I wouldn’t know.” “Why don’t you get some air for an hour? I’ll take over. Bring me some tea when you come back. Milk and no sugar.” He nodded his thanks and left. She ventured as close as she could to the bed. The little she could see of the patient’s face was gray, the eyes closed, one forcibly, turned purple and heavily swollen. His head was bandaged and he had a ventilator over his nose and mouth.
