Beware This Boy by Maureen Jennings

young woman came hurrying out. “Beg pardon,” she muttered as she stepped out of his path. She wasn’t wearing a nurse’s cloak but rather a drab mackintosh and felt cloche hat pulled down low. He had an impression of immense distress and he wondered what her reason was for being in the hospital.
Mind your own business, Tyler
, he said to himself.
You should be used to sorrow by now.
    A harried-seeming probationer directed him to the second floor surgical ward, although she tried to impress on him that visiting hours weren’t until the afternoon. “Except in extreme cases,” she added quietly.
    “This is such a case, I’m afraid,” said Tyler.
    She didn’t evince any curiosity. Perhaps all the visitors said that.
    The ward held thirty or so beds, all close together. Other than one nurse carrying out a bedpan, it was empty of staff. A few patients were sitting beside their beds but most were lying under the covers. Those who could watched him curiously as he approached the nurses’ station in the centre of the floor. The nurse’s name plate identified her as A. Ruebotham, RN .
    “Yes? Can I help you?” Her tone was cool and polite, the implication clear.
Didn’t he know visiting hours weren’t until this afternoon?
    He had his identity card at the ready as he introduced himself. She examined the card carefully, satisfied herself he was genuine, and got to her feet.
    “Come this way, Inspector. We’ve put both young women at the end of the ward for a little privacy.” She led the way, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. Everything about her struck Tyler as crisp: her white uniform and starched cap, her voice, even the way she walked. The kind of nurse you were always glad to have looking after you. Always certain in an uncertain world.
    As they went past one elderly patient, the woman called out, “Sister, Sister.”
    “Excuse me for a moment, Inspector,” said the nurse and she went over to the patient. They had a whispered conversation, which Tyler could tell had to do with him. The nurse straightened up, patted the woman’s arm, and returned. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
    “She wondered if you were a doctor.”
    “She didn’t seem to be happy at the prospect.”
    “She thinks redheads tend to be too excitable,” said Miss Ruebotham with a little smile.
    “She’s right about that,” replied Tyler.
    The nurse halted in front of a screened-off bed. “This is Miss Audrey Sandilands. I’m afraid she has not regained consciousness. Her condition is critical.”
    She moved aside the screen. Tyler took one look. It was obvious that Audrey, sustained by tubes, would not now, if ever, be able to answer his questions. He shook his head at the nurse and she replaced the screen.
    “The other young woman is over here,” she said. “Her condition is serious but she is expected to survive.”
    She rolled away the screen at the adjoining bed. Tyler stood stock still. He couldn’t help himself.
    The girl was as pale as her sheets. Deep bruises circled her eyes and there was an ugly cut along her jaw. One arm was hidden underneath a protective frame; the other lay on top of the cover, the hand heavily bandaged.
    When he’d last seen her, she had been tanned and blooming with youth and health. She was one of the Land Girls who had been involved in his last case in Whitchurch.

    Donny had plopped himself down at the living room table. Brian sat down across from him.
    “Have a fag.” Donny shook out a cigarette and shoved the package across the table.
    Brian ignored it. “What’s your proposition?”
    Donny took his time, apparently savouring the taste. “Simple really. Dead bloody simple. I don’t turn you in and in return you do some work for me.”
    “Like what?”
    “As I recall you were in the electrics business before the army got you over the barrel with your cheeks spread. I’d like you to make me a couple of timers.”
    “For what?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “Of course it