the windows, which looked out over the small
patch of gardens at the back. There were no papers
in my out-tray, but a small mountain in the
in-tray. Patients I should see, referrals
I had to deal with, correspondence I needed
to reply to, forms to fill in, journals to read,
invitations I was going to turn down. According to my
answering-machine, I had twenty-nine
messages. I switched on my computer and found
a dozen or so e-mails there, too. I'd read
somewhere that a busy executive can get up to two
hundred e-mails a day. It was so unfair.
Couldn't they be shared out among all the people 141
sitting alone in rooms to whom nobody wanted
to send messages?
By nine, the heap of paperwork had sunk and I'd
refused invitations to conferences in three different
countries; I'd separated requests for me
to see patients into the yes, no and don't-know
piles; I'd filled up my diary with
satisfying little blocks of allotted time. There were
crumpled balls of paper all round my chair.
I could hear the sounds of the clinic coming to life:
phones ringing in other offices, doors slamming,
the murmur of conversations in the corridor. I
went down to the coffee machine, which was on the ground
floor, then bolted back to my office with my
cup slopping against my fingers.
There I pulled out the notes I'd made on
Lianne. I stared at the sentences I'd jotted
down until they blurred, became
hieroglyphics. The only name I had that could
provide any kind of illumination was the man who
ran the drop-in center where she sometimes slept
or went for a hot bath, a warm meal and clean
clothes. Will Pavic, that was it. On an
impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed his
number.
"Yes." The voice was abrupt and
impatient.
"Could I speak to Will Pavic, please?"
"Yes."
There was a pause.
"Is that Will Pavic speaking?"
"Yes." Crosser this time.
"Good morning. My name's Dr. Quinn and
I'm helping the police--was
"Sorry, I don't deal with the police.
I'm sure you'll understand that, in the
circumstances." The line went dead.
"Bastard," I muttered.
I took the apple out of my bag and ate it
slowly, everything except the stalk. Then I
dialed my own number.
"Hello!" Julie sounded much livelier than
she had when I'd last seen her.
"It's me, Kit. Something's been bugging me
all morning. Why is there a pair of knickers
in my fridge?"
"Ooops!" There was a splutter of laughter.
"I read in some magazine that if it's hot
weather, it feels glorious to put on a chilled
pair of knickers. That's all." 143
"But it's not that hot."
"That's why they're still there. I'm waiting."
So that was sorted. I phoned Will Pavic
once again.
"Yes." Same voice, same tone.
"Mr. Pavic, this is Kit Quinn, and
please would you hear what I have to say to you before
putting the phone down again."
"Ms. Quinn--was
"Doctor."
"Dr. Quinn." He managed to turn the
title into an insult. "I am a very busy
man."
"As I said--or was trying to say--I am
helping the police with their inquiries into the death of
Lianne." There was a pause. "Lianne who was
found by the canal?"
"I know who you mean. I don't know how you
expect me to help you."
"I wanted to talk to people who knew her. Who
knew what her life was like, what company she
kept, what was worrying her, whether she was the kind
of person who--was
"Certainly not. I won't have the young people here
badgered by your lot. They've got enough problems as
it is."
I took a deep breath. "What about you, then,
Mr. Pavic?"
"What about me?"
"Can I talk to you about her?"
"I've nothing to say. I scarcely knew
Lianne."
"You knew her well enough to identify the body."
"I knew what she looked like, of course."
His voice was harsh. I imagined a stern gray
man with a face like a hatchet and gimlet eyes.
"I hardly think that's the kind of discussion you
want, is it? You want to know about her mind,
right?" His voice dripped sarcasm.
I wasn't going to lose my temper. The more
patch of gardens at the back. There were no papers
in my out-tray, but a small mountain in the
in-tray. Patients I should see, referrals
I had to deal with, correspondence I needed
to reply to, forms to fill in, journals to read,
invitations I was going to turn down. According to my
answering-machine, I had twenty-nine
messages. I switched on my computer and found
a dozen or so e-mails there, too. I'd read
somewhere that a busy executive can get up to two
hundred e-mails a day. It was so unfair.
Couldn't they be shared out among all the people 141
sitting alone in rooms to whom nobody wanted
to send messages?
By nine, the heap of paperwork had sunk and I'd
refused invitations to conferences in three different
countries; I'd separated requests for me
to see patients into the yes, no and don't-know
piles; I'd filled up my diary with
satisfying little blocks of allotted time. There were
crumpled balls of paper all round my chair.
I could hear the sounds of the clinic coming to life:
phones ringing in other offices, doors slamming,
the murmur of conversations in the corridor. I
went down to the coffee machine, which was on the ground
floor, then bolted back to my office with my
cup slopping against my fingers.
There I pulled out the notes I'd made on
Lianne. I stared at the sentences I'd jotted
down until they blurred, became
hieroglyphics. The only name I had that could
provide any kind of illumination was the man who
ran the drop-in center where she sometimes slept
or went for a hot bath, a warm meal and clean
clothes. Will Pavic, that was it. On an
impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed his
number.
"Yes." The voice was abrupt and
impatient.
"Could I speak to Will Pavic, please?"
"Yes."
There was a pause.
"Is that Will Pavic speaking?"
"Yes." Crosser this time.
"Good morning. My name's Dr. Quinn and
I'm helping the police--was
"Sorry, I don't deal with the police.
I'm sure you'll understand that, in the
circumstances." The line went dead.
"Bastard," I muttered.
I took the apple out of my bag and ate it
slowly, everything except the stalk. Then I
dialed my own number.
"Hello!" Julie sounded much livelier than
she had when I'd last seen her.
"It's me, Kit. Something's been bugging me
all morning. Why is there a pair of knickers
in my fridge?"
"Ooops!" There was a splutter of laughter.
"I read in some magazine that if it's hot
weather, it feels glorious to put on a chilled
pair of knickers. That's all." 143
"But it's not that hot."
"That's why they're still there. I'm waiting."
So that was sorted. I phoned Will Pavic
once again.
"Yes." Same voice, same tone.
"Mr. Pavic, this is Kit Quinn, and
please would you hear what I have to say to you before
putting the phone down again."
"Ms. Quinn--was
"Doctor."
"Dr. Quinn." He managed to turn the
title into an insult. "I am a very busy
man."
"As I said--or was trying to say--I am
helping the police with their inquiries into the death of
Lianne." There was a pause. "Lianne who was
found by the canal?"
"I know who you mean. I don't know how you
expect me to help you."
"I wanted to talk to people who knew her. Who
knew what her life was like, what company she
kept, what was worrying her, whether she was the kind
of person who--was
"Certainly not. I won't have the young people here
badgered by your lot. They've got enough problems as
it is."
I took a deep breath. "What about you, then,
Mr. Pavic?"
"What about me?"
"Can I talk to you about her?"
"I've nothing to say. I scarcely knew
Lianne."
"You knew her well enough to identify the body."
"I knew what she looked like, of course."
His voice was harsh. I imagined a stern gray
man with a face like a hatchet and gimlet eyes.
"I hardly think that's the kind of discussion you
want, is it? You want to know about her mind,
right?" His voice dripped sarcasm.
I wasn't going to lose my temper. The more
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