you understand?’
‘I suppose.’ He turned from her, muttering under resentful breath.
She picked up the words, ‘menopausal bitch.’ ‘If you said what I think you said, I could have you up for a disciplinary before you could say
Women’s Ward
. Get me?’
‘So it’s OK for you plods to be racist and sexist but—’
‘I assure you, Mr Penn, in Kent Constabulary, as in every other police area in the country, racism and sexism are stamped on with all the force of official policy. As for ageism, that’s not a matter to be proud of either. Now, do you ring me or not?’
A quick phone call to the hospital’s personnel department elicited the fact that Tuesday was Mr Roland-Thomas’ day for the private hospital in Canterbury, so she took herself off there, still pondering about Penn’s moodiness. He must be hell towork for. My God, what if that was why Mark had pulled her out of her previous work and put her on this, because her colleagues could no longer stomach her occasionally acerbic tongue? But at least it came into its own as she tackled the receptionists guarding Mr Roland-Thomas, his hyphen and his consultant colleagues. Of course all his patients were paying, she smiled dangerously, and entitled to his full attention and their full consultation. Of course they were entitled to be seen promptly. But this was a matter of life and death. Literally. Though she suspected that they might not understand the full force of the words. At least, coupled with her chief superintendent ID, it got her a few minutes of the great man’s time. The receptionist shrank behind the desk and pressed appropriate buttons.
To her surprise, the doctor came to the reception area in person, escorting her back to the office and offering her water from a cooler in the corridor just outside. He let her into his room, seating her opposite him in a way that reminded her of Mark. And the two weren’t dissimilar. Both in their fifties, well-preserved and well-turned out: they could have swapped tailors. Probably Roland-Thomas would have coveted Mark’s full head of still-dark hair: he’d lost most of a gingerish crop. He could certainly have emulated Mark’s regular workouts – there was a distinct sag about his midriff.
‘Are you saying, Chief Superintendent, that you can’t read my elegant fist?’ he asked, a smile she could onlydescribe as jocular spreading his features, as he peered over mandatory half-moon spectacles. She could price those exactly. They were the twins of her last pair, ones her father had sat on last month: chic, elegant, expensive. And insured.
She tapped her notepad in emphasis. ‘I’m not saying that at all. After all, I have a verbatim transcript I can refer to at any time. No, it’s not your gynaecological expertise I need. It’s not the medical technicalities, but your impressions of your patient as a human being, not as a patient. Could you cast your mind back—’
To her fury, she started a flush, one of her deepest ones. As she unbuttoned her jacket, she saw him register it. Let him. It was probably only one amongst a dozen he’d seen that day. To her surprise, however, he jotted on a pad not unlike her own. Touché?
‘—to the first moment you saw her? As if you were telling a man in the street? Patient confidentiality apart, of course.’
‘Not the injuries?’
‘In a few minutes, if we may.’
‘I saw a lady of middle years who’d gone to a great deal of trouble with her appearance that even her dreadful injuries couldn’t conceal. She reminded me of my mother, Chief Superintendent, dolled up, as my father used to say, to the nines.’ He slid into a Welsh accent, then back again. ‘Of course, I never saw her dressed. I was more concerned, too, with stemming bleeding from traumatised tissue.’
‘Of course. You noted all the internal injuries. This was – and I dare say I’ve seen nearly as many PMs as you have – a very vicious attack.’ Many of them with bodies
‘I suppose.’ He turned from her, muttering under resentful breath.
She picked up the words, ‘menopausal bitch.’ ‘If you said what I think you said, I could have you up for a disciplinary before you could say
Women’s Ward
. Get me?’
‘So it’s OK for you plods to be racist and sexist but—’
‘I assure you, Mr Penn, in Kent Constabulary, as in every other police area in the country, racism and sexism are stamped on with all the force of official policy. As for ageism, that’s not a matter to be proud of either. Now, do you ring me or not?’
A quick phone call to the hospital’s personnel department elicited the fact that Tuesday was Mr Roland-Thomas’ day for the private hospital in Canterbury, so she took herself off there, still pondering about Penn’s moodiness. He must be hell towork for. My God, what if that was why Mark had pulled her out of her previous work and put her on this, because her colleagues could no longer stomach her occasionally acerbic tongue? But at least it came into its own as she tackled the receptionists guarding Mr Roland-Thomas, his hyphen and his consultant colleagues. Of course all his patients were paying, she smiled dangerously, and entitled to his full attention and their full consultation. Of course they were entitled to be seen promptly. But this was a matter of life and death. Literally. Though she suspected that they might not understand the full force of the words. At least, coupled with her chief superintendent ID, it got her a few minutes of the great man’s time. The receptionist shrank behind the desk and pressed appropriate buttons.
To her surprise, the doctor came to the reception area in person, escorting her back to the office and offering her water from a cooler in the corridor just outside. He let her into his room, seating her opposite him in a way that reminded her of Mark. And the two weren’t dissimilar. Both in their fifties, well-preserved and well-turned out: they could have swapped tailors. Probably Roland-Thomas would have coveted Mark’s full head of still-dark hair: he’d lost most of a gingerish crop. He could certainly have emulated Mark’s regular workouts – there was a distinct sag about his midriff.
‘Are you saying, Chief Superintendent, that you can’t read my elegant fist?’ he asked, a smile she could onlydescribe as jocular spreading his features, as he peered over mandatory half-moon spectacles. She could price those exactly. They were the twins of her last pair, ones her father had sat on last month: chic, elegant, expensive. And insured.
She tapped her notepad in emphasis. ‘I’m not saying that at all. After all, I have a verbatim transcript I can refer to at any time. No, it’s not your gynaecological expertise I need. It’s not the medical technicalities, but your impressions of your patient as a human being, not as a patient. Could you cast your mind back—’
To her fury, she started a flush, one of her deepest ones. As she unbuttoned her jacket, she saw him register it. Let him. It was probably only one amongst a dozen he’d seen that day. To her surprise, however, he jotted on a pad not unlike her own. Touché?
‘—to the first moment you saw her? As if you were telling a man in the street? Patient confidentiality apart, of course.’
‘Not the injuries?’
‘In a few minutes, if we may.’
‘I saw a lady of middle years who’d gone to a great deal of trouble with her appearance that even her dreadful injuries couldn’t conceal. She reminded me of my mother, Chief Superintendent, dolled up, as my father used to say, to the nines.’ He slid into a Welsh accent, then back again. ‘Of course, I never saw her dressed. I was more concerned, too, with stemming bleeding from traumatised tissue.’
‘Of course. You noted all the internal injuries. This was – and I dare say I’ve seen nearly as many PMs as you have – a very vicious attack.’ Many of them with bodies
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