If âis time has come so be it.â Her face was set and hard, unsmiling, her leathered complexion timeless, strong and unyielding. The moors toughened their women.
Jonah nodded. âSo be it.â
The old man struggled to open his eyes. âYes, Doctor. Sheâs right.â He snapped the oxygen mask back over his nose and mouth. It steamed up with his breath and the wrinkled eyelids closed again wearily. His face was gaunt and grey with the struggle.
âI can give you an injection,â Jonah said. âItâll help the breathing.â He looked again at the old man. âAre you sure you wouldnât like a bed in the hospital â just to give your wife a break?â
The old man clawed the doctorâs hand and he shook his head. âNo,â he said. âIâll die if I go in there.â
Jonah bit back the obvious answer. He took from his bag a syringe and an ampoule of Aminophylline. Carefully he put a tourniquet on the skinny arm, selected a prominent blue rope vein and drove the drug in. The old manâs eyes closed.
By three in the afternoon the dogâs obvious distress was becoming more than Evelyn could bear. She stood with her cup of tea by the kitchen window, listening to the yowling.
She was suddenly so sure that Marilyn would not appear in the doorway and climb into the car as she had watched her do a thousand times that Evelyn did an unbelievable thing. She took a deep breath, unlocked the front door, marched through the pink lions rampant on Marilynâs gatepost, walked up to the front door, raised the letterbox and dropped it again, pressed the doorbell and shouted Marilynâs name. Her voice bounced around the walls.
But the dog bounded down the stairs with a fierce growl and it terrified her so she ran back to the house and rang the surgery again.
âPlease,â she spoke into the phone, âplease, is Marilyn Smith there? Something is wrong with her dog.â The words tumbled out and she replaced the receiver without giving the other end a chance to speak.
In the surgery Maureen, who had taken the call, stood and stared at the telephone, blinking behind owlish glasses. She felt cold and uneasy. Dead hands stole up her back. âIt was that person again,â she said, âasking for Sister Smith.â
âRing the police,â Sally said decisively. âRing them now.â And when her colleague didnât move she grabbed the phone. âRing the bloody police.â
Chapter 3
The slick white car with its fluorescent pink strip had been cruising near the market square, its occupants checking that inconsiderately parked cars were not blocking the narrow road and keeping an eye on a gang of youths clustered outside the video shop, when it took the call. It switched on its flashing blue light and sped up the High Street, turned right into Silk Street and arrived minutes later. The two uniformed policemen crunched up the gravel drive and in passing tried the door of the parked car. It was locked. They knocked at the front door and were rewarded by Benâs frantic barks.
They looked at one another uncertainly. âI donât fancy meeting him face to face,â said one of them.
They shouted through the letterbox, feeling slightly foolish. âHello! Anyone at home? Are you there, Miss Smith? He-ll-o! Hello, Miss Smith. Mar-i-lun!â
Only the dog responded and they quickly dropped the flap. They walked around the back of the house, trying windows while the dog followed them from room to room, alternating mad barks with hostile growls. They watched him through the window, then went back to the car and sent a message over the radio.
âNo one around, dog going mad. No sign of a break-in. Have to get in but need help with the dog.â
âMessage received ... Over.â
Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski replaced the receiver, scribbling down the details in his notebook.
He knew instinctively this was