‘She’s not real bright?’ Howard asked, obviously relieved at the thought.
Alistair appeared to think about it. ‘Let’s just say she’s not your ideal family doctor,’ he said at last. ‘To be honest,’ he confessed to Howard, ‘I don’t mind if she does take a while. She’s come up to the country for a stint of country medicine and she’s driving me nuts. I’ll be pleased to be shot of her for a while.’
‘That’s okay.’ Howard lay back and relaxed. A dopey female doctor posed no threat at all. ‘That’s great.’
The dopey female doctor was being anything but dopey. Left on her own at the deserted homestead, she prepared to take every advantage. Aware that she really couldn’t be more than half an hour behind Alistair without questions being raised, she worked fast.
First she headed for the airstrip-and there was the first of her questions answered. Although there was no aeroplane present, and the building obviously used as a hangar was empty, the strip had had been recently used. It must have rained a little recently-there were the first faint tinges of green shoots-but along a strip in the centre of the runway the shoots had been broken off. There was a dusty patch near the house-signs of people gathering, staying for a while in the one place?
The strip was used.
Maybe the owners came and visited. There was nothing illegal in that.
The homestead?
She looked at the house Howard had come from and decided against it. Instead she made her way to the first of the little cottages. They were obviously used for the workmen who ran this station in bustling times. Alistair had said that those times were at least three years past.
The bundle of keys in her hand was like a jigsaw. It took her five minutes of frustrated fiddling before she found the key to the first cottage, and by then she was growing nervous. The wind was whistling eerily around the buildings. She was intensely aware of being alone.
I’m a doctor, not a detective, she told herself-but she still wanted to see. And Alistair had given her the opportunity.
The key clicked into place. She walked in. And stopped.
The place was set up for human habitation. This was not somewhere that hadn’t been used for three years.
It was Spartan-two bedrooms opening from a central living room, and each bedroom holding two sets of double bunks. Each bed had a pile of folded linen and blankets at the foot-army issue grey. Nothing fancy. Serviceable.
Three beds had linen.
She stared at them, and then looked into the kitchenette.
A box of groceries lay on the bench. She walked over and checked it out. Dried milk. Biscuits. Dry pasta. Tinned meat and vegetables. Baked beans.
Sugar, coffee, tea.
There was a refrigerator, and the hum indicated it was operating. She swung the door wide.
Butter. And the freezer held bread. She checked the use-by date of the bread.
It had been bought a week ago.
She stood and stared around her. The place looked unused now, but it looked-expectant. Waiting.
Were the people in the back of the plane supposed to be coming here? Were they even now trying to make their way here?
A scratch at the door made her start. She whirled around. A tumbleweed had hurled itself at the screen door in the wind. It rolled against the flywire, was caught by another gust and was gone.
She’d never make a detective, Sarah decided. She’d turn to jelly in a minute.
She needed to concentrate. Fast. What now?
There was a folder on the table. Sarah walked forward and flipped it open with the tip of a finger.
Three passports. Australian passports.
No photographs.
She flicked each open in turn and read.
Amal Inor. Male. Aged thirty-five.
Noa Inor. Female. Aged thirty-six.
Azron Inor. Male. Aged five.
No photographs. The section for photographs was missing. These passports were waiting to be collected-by whoever was in the plane.
Mother, father and son? Amal, Noa and Azron.
Five years old?
‘Where are you?’ It was a faint whisper. She found she was staring down at the passports as if she could see their owners. All she saw was that tiny, bloody footprint.
‘Where are you?’ she whispered again, but nobody answered. If anyone was to find the answer it had to be her.
I need to find Barry, she told herself. And Alistair.
Why did she have more confidence in Alistair than she did in the local police force?
CHAPTER SEVEN
SERGEANT BARRY WATKINS was fretting. There were ten members of an élite police squad due to arrive in town in four hours and he was nervous.
He’d done everything right-hadn’t he? He’d spent half his time out at the wreck scene searching, and he still had a group of locals organised there now. Not that they’d find anything.
He’d thought it through. Something had happened in that plane, that much he could tell, but it might have happened anywhere. The pilot was a dope addict. What was the bet there’d been a fight in the back of the plane at some time? Some time past. Some time when the plane had been off his patch. There was nothing to say when the blood had been spilled.
All the same…
If there were criminals out there it’d look so much better if he found them. But spending the day scouring the stinking hot country near the wreck wasn’t his scene.
Maybe it’d be better if he was out there when the search party arrived, though, he thought. Maybe.
He thought about it and decided he was right. But it was so hot. If he was going to go he’d go down to the general store, buy himself a packet of fags and a few bottles of water. He’d pack the backpack with the medical kit so it looked like he was expecting to find someone. Yeah.
He’d just go down to the store now and then head straight out to the wreck.
Alistair settled Howard into the ward. He rang the urologist in Cairns and wrote up orders for morphine, but there was little else he could do.
‘Stones usually pass of their own accord,’ the urologist told him. ‘I’d advise you to sit on him for a couple of days before you send him on to Cairns. Keep an eye on his urine-the stones may well fragment themselves and come loose. Check for blood in the urine. Keep the pain under control. Give me a ring tomorrow and let me know what’s happening.’
Fine. And that was fine with Howard, too. Or, at least, it was better than going to Cairns. He didn’t even want to be in hospital. ‘Just give me painkillers,’ he whispered, his voice fuzzy from the drugs he’d been given. ‘I want to go home.’
‘I can’t give you morphine unless you’re in hospital, and until the stones pass nothing else will keep it under control. Can you cope with that pain on your own?’
‘No, but…’
‘Do you want to go to Cairns?’
‘No!’
‘Then settle back and accept a couple of days’ enforced rest,’ Alistair told him.
‘My car…’
‘Sarah’s bringing it in. I’ll go and check if she’s here, shall I?’
‘Yeah,’ Howard told him. ‘That’d be good.’ He closed his eyes and thought about it…for about two seconds before he stopped thinking about anything at all. After a night of agony, sleep was all Howard was going to think about for a long time.
Sarah drove down the main street of Dolphin Cove and, on impulse, drew to a stop outside the general store. Howard had bought those groceries here. How often did he buy those sort of packs? she wondered. It was a clearly defined set of items-bigger than one man would go through. If she found a helpful storekeeper he might be able to recall Howard’s spending patterns.
Maybe this wasn’t the first time this had happened. Maybe there’d been more people in the past. There was something about the cottage she’d just been in that spoke of organisation. It hinted at more than one group of people coming in and out.
There were so many questions. Shopping patterns
might well answer one of them.
If there were wounded people… Time was so short.
She could but ask.
Howard’s car wasn’t in the hospital car park. Alistair glanced at his watch and felt a sharp stab of unease. Surely she should be here by now? It had seemed like a good idea to leave Sarah at the property alone so she could have a good poke around, but now…
He gazed along the main street and gave a sigh of relief. Here was Howard’s car-a distinctive yellow Ford-coming now.
No. It wasn’t coming here. She was stopping at the general store.
Why was she stopping? She’d know Howard would be nervous. She wouldn’t know that he’d fall asleep so fast.
He glanced at his watch. He had fifteen minutes before he was due in clinic. He might just walk down and meet her.
Desperation drove people to do things they’d never dream of doing in their lives. Amal had never before stolen so much as a loaf of bread. He wouldn’t have dreamt of doing so. But he had no currency. Nothing. His family were starving and Azron was so ill…
So what else could he do?
‘If they catch you before you have the necessary papers they’ll deport you straight away,’ he’d been told. ‘They don’t care what happens to you and your families. They’ll send you straight back to the authorities. You’ll be killed.’
He would be killed. He knew that for a fact. Dr Amal Inor was deemed a state criminal.
He hadn’t always been so. Of course he hadn’t. And that he was a criminal now seemed unthinkable. A successful and caring family doctor, Amal remembered with awful clarity the night when he’d become one-the night only seven weeks ago when he’d been woken abruptly from sleep. There’d been an assassination attempt on the head of the political opposition-a learned old cleric in his seventies-and it was only too clear who’d ordered the assassination.
No matter who had ordered the killing, it had gone awry. The old man hadn’t been killed. Dreadfully wounded, he’d been dragged to Amal’s house by his terrified friends. Why? Because Amal was known to be good-hearted. It was known everywhere that he was kind. The men had been sure that Amal would never turn anyone away.
They’d been right. Amal hadn’t been able to refuse, despite knowing the dreadful cost. So Amal had treated the old man, knowing in his heart that this was the end.
The man had survived, to be spirited out of the country. And Amal had fled too. He’d had no choice. He’d gathered what he could, paid the price demanded by the black marketeers who organised people-smuggling, and when they had finally come for him-as he had known they would-his house was deserted.
Amal and his wife and son were on their way to Australia.
Australia. To horror upon horror. To this.
How long could they survive? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to try.
He’d been watching the store for an hour now. People walked in, made their purchases and walked out. There was a petrol pump out at the front. The owner came out periodically to pump petrol. He stood at the petrol pumps and he gossiped, as if he had all the time in the world.
Amal had gone behind the building to check. There was a back door. If he was fast…
Dear heaven, he’d never done anything like this in his life. What turned a man into a criminal?
Desperation. He had no choice.
Max Hogg, owner of Dolphin Cove’s general store, was fed up with standing behind the counter, and when he saw Sarah pull up out front he strolled out to meet her. He knew who she was-the whole town knew who she was and what she was here for. Max was therefore delighted to meet her.
He was even more delighted-and intrigued-by her questions. Sure he could help her. He had all the time in the world. Now, when had he last seen Howard…?
Barry didn’t have all the time in the world. He was anxious and angry and the last person he wanted to see was Sarah. As he walked down the street towards them Max kept on talking to her, as if he couldn’t even see Barry.
‘I need some bottled water,’ he interrupted, and Sarah turned and smiled at him. It was a placatory smile, but Barry didn’t see it like that.
‘I need to talk to you, Barry,’ she told him, and he shrugged.
‘Later. I’m busy. Max, can you get me the water now?’
‘Sure thing, Barry,’ Max told him with easy geniality. ‘Hey, it’s a party. Here’s Dr Benn. Hi, Alistair. Can you keep Dr Rose amused while I go and serve Barry?’
‘Of course.’ Alistair walked up the steps of the shop’s veranda to join Sarah as Max and Barry walked inside the shop together.
And then all hell broke loose.
There was Max’s voice, raised in confusion. ‘Stop! Hey, stop! You haven’t paid for that. Where do you think you’re going? Barry!’
And then Barry. ‘What the…?’
Max again. ‘He’s pinching stuff. He’s-’
And, worst of all, Barry’s voice, raised in warning-‘Stop. This is the police. Stop now or I’ll shoot. Last warning… Stop or I’ll shoot. Now!’
The sound of gunfire split the hot sleepy afternoon as nothing else could. Alistair and Sarah gazed at each other for a fraction of a horrified moment.
And ran.
The man had stopped, but not of his own volition.
Out at the back of the store, in the centre of the dusty side lane leading from the storeroom to the road, he lay sprawled face down in the dirt. A pile of groceries was flung every which way about him.
They reached him together, Alistair and Sarah, while Max stood open-mouthed in horrified amazement and Barry stared down at his gun as if he couldn’t believe it had just done what it had.
As Alistair stooped over the figure Barry seemed to haul himself together. He took a step forward. The gun was aimed again. ‘Careful,’ he snapped. ‘He might be armed.’
Alistair simply ignored him. There was a spreading bloom of crimson over the man’s upper spine. Alistair’s fingers were on the man’s neck. Searching.
Sarah was down in the dust beside him.
‘He’s alive.’ Alistair looked up at Max, fiercely urgent, knowing instinctively that Max would be more use than Barry. ‘Max, hit the emergency number. Tell Claire I want the emergency cart down here now. Then get someone to bring my truck. The keys are in the nurses’ station. Move.’
Max was a big man, but he wasn’t slow. He took one searing, gulping breath-and moved.
‘Pressure,’ Alistair said, moving his palm to the source of blood and pressing down. ‘We need to stop the flow before we turn him. Hell, it’s pumping.’
‘Use this.’ Sarah had seen the oozing blood and her T-shirt was already over her head and folded into a wad. As she brought it over the wound Alistair lifted his hand. She placed the pad over and pushed. Then, as she applied as much pressure as she could, Alistair gently felt underneath him.
‘There’s an exit wound,’ he told her. ‘It’s bleeding, too, but not pumping. I’ll pressure it from underneath. Barry, grab more wadding. Cloth-anything.’
‘He didn’t stop,’ Barry said stupidly, and Sarah closed her eyes in frustration. She was fighting blood flow here. Desperately. She wanted help-not explanations.
‘Here.’ It was Max, back again with a speed that was almost stunning. He had a handful of teatowels and Sarah opened her eyes again and looked up with real gratitude. ‘Claire’s on her way with whoever she can find,’ Max told them. ‘Has he killed him?’
‘He’ll be lucky,’ Sarah said grimly. Blood was oozing between her fingers and she pushed harder. ‘Max, help me here. I want a tighter wad. Can you fold me one?’
‘Sure.’
They worked desperately. The most urgent thing was to stop the bleeding. At least slow it. More pressure…
And then Claire arrived, breathless, carting a huge bag. This town might be on its own medically, but in an emergency the population moved faster than any city emergency team Sarah had ever seen.
‘I need an IV line,’ Alistair told Claire
, not bothering with explanations, not even bothering to look up. From the amount of blood Claire could see what most needed to be done, and explanations took a poor second in the list of their priorities. ‘Sarah, have you got that bleeding under control?’
She couldn’t press any harder. ‘I think so.’
‘Then we risk rolling him.’
A man Sarah recognised as the hospital orderly appeared then. He was carrying a stretcher, and Alistair signalled for it to be laid beside the stranger.
‘Okay,’ he told them. ‘Max, can you help us here? We roll over really, really slowly, so that Sarah’s pad’s not dislodged. Four of us rolling, keeping him rigid, keeping the pressure on his side. I want his shoulders kept in a straight line as he rolls. Sarah, keep your hand on the wound, keep pressing, and don’t stop. This way we get to see the damage to his chest and he gets to be on the stretcher. One, two… Now!’
They rolled.
Sarah’s hand moved with him so her fingers were caught under his back, still pressing.
They could see him fully now. He lay on the stretcher, staring up as Alistair worked over him.
Who was he?
He was a small man, in his late thirties or early forties, Sarah thought. Maybe Middle Eastern? He had a gentle face, she thought, though it was now haggard and unshaven-filthy-as if he hadn’t seen a wash for weeks.
His eyes were wide and pain filled.
He was conscious?
‘Keep still,’ Alistair told him, and he closed his eyes.
‘Do you understand us?’ Sarah asked, and got an almost imperceptible nod.
‘We’re doctors,’ she told him. She was still concentrating on maintaining pressure, and with her hand underneath him she wasn’t free to do anything else. Alistair had Claire pressing on the chest wound-the bullet had obviously left an entry and exit wound-and he was fixing an IV line. They needed to get fluids in fast. Saline. Plasma.
But was it any use? Sarah stared down at the chest wound and thought about where her fingers were feeling the pumping blood. Mentally she tracked the bullet’s path. Not heart. Thank God, not heart. But lung. It had to have hit lung.
The Police Doctor’s Secret Page 11
