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“Someone shot out a window and DS Archer’s back was cut by flying glass,” Gabriella told her.
“Right.” Dr. Singh adjusted her glasses. “Off with your jacket and shirt then.”
Gabriella helped James remove his jacket.
She stared at the back of his white shirt, which had blood from two cuts on his upper back.
Dr. Singh tut tutted when they got the shirt off. “It’s not too bad, but they will need stitches.”
“It feels fine,” James said. “It doesn’t even hurt much.”
“Good thing your back was turned,” Dr. Singh said. “The glass would have cut up your face in a nasty way.”
“It wasn’t luck,” Gabriella said. “He grabbed me, pulled me in, and protected me with his body.”
“Well.” Dr Singh shot James an approving look. “Looks like he’s a keeper.”
She stitched him up with tiny, even stitches. Three on one cut, two on the other. “All done. Come back in a week to get them out, or go to your GP. Or even the police doctor can do it, if you have access.”
They left her in the room writing up notes on a chart, and found Hartridge hanging around outside.
“All right?” he asked.
James gave a nod. “Did you speak to the jeweler?”
“No. He’s finally awake, but he’s rambling on in another language.” Hartridge lifted his hands. “We can’t make sense of what he’s saying.”
Gabriella sighed. “He’s probably going on about his pieces again. He’s very worried about his work being stolen. I tried to assure him you’ve taken them in for safekeeping, and that seemed to calm him down in the ambulance.”
“Do you mind seeing if we can get a name out of him?” James asked. “And maybe some information about someone he was corresponding with who might be missing?”
Gabriella nodded and followed Hartridge to a different room to the one the jeweler had been taken to before. They must have treated him and moved him into a ward.
The other officer who’d gotten out of the car with Hartridge earlier was still in the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the jeweler intently.
The man was lying in bed, muttering to himself.
“DS Archer.” The detective turned as they came in, and straightened up. “All right, are you?”
“A few stitches,” James said. “DI Layman, this is Miss Farnsworth. She works as a traffic warden and she speaks Italian. She was with me when the shop was burgled and she helped the paramedics with our victim.”
“Miss Farnsworth.” DI Layman studied her, as if trying to work out where she fit in.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Gabriella said.
“You again!” The man in the bed suddenly focused on her. “What is happening here? Where are my pieces?”
“You were hit over the head, sir. You’re in hospital, and these policemen here have secured your pieces. They are safe.” Gary had told her that sometimes people with head injuries kept going back to the same issue.
“You are sure?” he asked, looking from her to the three men.
“I am sure.” She moved to the bed. “What is your name, please. These policemen need to know.”
“Alessandro Garelli.” He looked up at her. “And you are?”
“Gabriella Farnsworth,” Gabriella told him. “Can you tell us what happened at your shop, or are you in too much pain?”
He blinked. “Why are we speaking in Italian?” he asked. “I speak perfectly good English.”
