Cross and Burn by Val McDermid Page B

curtains were already drawn in the downstairs rooms. If she hadn’t known what she was coming to, Carol would have been hard pressed to identify its purpose from outside.
    A heavy Gothic door stood open into a substantial porch. The doors leading inside were modern, however, and slid open as they detected her presence. Inside was more like a hotel foyer than a hospital facility. A way, Carol thought, of communicating to people that this was a step on the road to something approaching normal life. It even smelled like a hotel rather than a hospital, a vague floral scent like supermarket pot pourri hanging in the air.
    In keeping with this image, the young woman behind the curved reception desk wore a cheap business suit that was slightly too tight across the bust. She smiled in greeting. ‘Good evening. How can I help you?’
    For a moment, Carol was nonplussed. She’d been introducing herself by rank for so long she’d almost forgotten the art of plain announcement. ‘I’m here to see Chris Devine,’ she said. ‘Sergeant Devine.’
    ‘Is Sergeant Devine expecting you?’
    Carol shook her head. ‘I’m her commanding officer,’ she said, slipping uneasily into the persona she’d abandoned months ago. ‘DCI Jordan.’ She took a slim leather wallet from her pocket. She wasn’t sure whether BMP had forgotten to tell her to return her ID or nobody had had the nerve to ask for it. Either way, she’d hung on to it. She wasn’t a sentimental woman. She could only suppose that at some level, she’d kept it because it might come in handy. She didn’t want to think about what that might mean. Right now, she was happy just to milk it. She flipped the wallet open and let the receptionist take it in.
    The woman tugged her jacket down, as if attempting a parade-ground attention. ‘Have you visited us before?’
    ‘This is my first time. Can you direct me to Chris’s room?’
    The directions were straightforward. Carol smiled her gratitude and set off towards one of the modern wings. Her normal brisk pace slowed as she neared her destination. By the end she was dawdling, pausing to look at the vibrant abstract paintings that hung on the corridor walls. Outside Chris’s door, she ran a hand through her hair and wished she’d had a large vodka. She clenched the fist of her left hand so tight she could feel her short fingernails digging into her palm. And gently rapped on the door.
    A voice that didn’t sound like Chris said, ‘Come in.’
    Carol opened the door and stepped across the threshold. She’d barely registered that the figure in one chair was Chris when the woman in the other chair jumped to her feet, a look of welcoming enquiry switching in an instant to one of hostility. ‘I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong room,’ Sinead Burton said, her voice warm and polite, her face the diametric opposite. She held a finger to her lips. ‘Can I show you the way?’ She crossed the room, practically pushing Carol out through the door. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, love,’ she called over her shoulder to Chris, who had turned her head towards them, her face a twisted pink and purple mask. Carol had tried to prepare for it, but still it shook her.
    Sinead closed the door firmly behind her and shooed Carol down the hall with her hands. As soon as they were far enough from the door not to be overheard, she started on Carol, her voice tight with suppressed anger. ‘What the hell are you doing here? I thought you had the good sense to stay away. What the hell are you playing at?’
    Carol backed away. Her previous encounters with Chris’s partner hadn’t prepared her for this. ‘I wanted to say sorry,’ she stuttered.
    ‘You wanted to say sorry?’ Sinead’s Irish accent grew more pronounced as her anger rose. ‘You don’t think it might be a wee bit late for that? My wife nearly dies instead of you and it takes you all these weeks and months to get round to saying sorry? Talk about a day late and a