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Ross noticed and asked if his leg was okay. He’d known about the football injury and the operation that had followed.
Gary nodded but didn’t say anything.
In his car, Ross phoned the Foundation and asked them to prepare a private room, supplying the details of the patient he was admitting.
Within ten minutes, after breaking every speed limit in the neighbourhood, the ambulance pulled up outside the Ross & Sinclair Foundation; a very modern, tinted glass and steel building constructed to the highest standards. The glass was so dark it was almost impossible to see inside.
Two nurses, two doctors, and a gurney were ready, and Christine Close was wheeled into a private side room. It resembled a small country cottage living room, with beams on the ceiling and dark oak skirting, equipped with everything you would expect in your own home: a TV, DVD, hi-fi, small fridge, tables and chairs, and a cupboard. It was en suite. The only addition not found in a home was the state-of-the-art medical equipment.
While the staff made Christine Close comfortable, Ross walked through to his private office. It was also finished in dark oak, with bookcases floor to ceiling containing an extensive collection of medical texts. He had armchairs, coffee tables with copies of The Lancet in view, and a large desk with a PC. The room had an open fire, which was currently set with logs and ready to light at the strike of a match. It was also en suite.
He stood against the fireplace, leaning against the hearth with his arms open, defeated. Between them they had done everything they could to save Christine Close’s life, but it didn’t seem to have been enough.
Before he had time to even consider what course of action to take from here, the door opened and Robert Sinclair entered. He was slim like Ross, due to an excessive workout routine. He had wavy grey hair, and was currently dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and blue tie, and expensive leather shoes. Judging by his expression, he was extremely concerned by what he’d seen.
“How is she?” asked Sinclair.
“Not good,” replied Ross.
“Is she conscious?”
“No.”
“Where’s Gary?”
“He’s keeping vigil outside the room.”
Sinclair sighed. “I’ll be honest, I know it’s more your field but I don’t think she’ll recover from this. The fits are too frequent.”
“Don’t berate yourself, Robert. We’ve done the best we could.”
“It’s not enough, though, is it?”
“You know as well as I do, however we’d have treated her, it would never have been enough. And let’s be honest, she’s had the very best.”
“And I want it to stay that way. Whatever she needs in the time she has left,” said Sinclair, “she gets it, and so does Gary. I’ll pick up the tab.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gardener and Reilly were back in the incident room. Maurice Cragg had joined them; so, too, had Sergeant Williams. Patrick Edwards had completed his little task, and was also with them. Information from his team was being filtered back at a steady pace, because the ANACAPA chart was starting to take shape. Crime scene photographs were pinned to it.
“The fancy car with the private plate, R1 OSS, belonged to a doctor, sir,” said Patrick Edwards. “Iain Ross, he lives in Burley in Wharfedale.”
“What make of car was it?” asked Reilly.
“A Mercedes.”
Although he was no expert when it came to cars, he had not seen one as sporty as that little number. “What model is it?” he asked.
“An SL 400, sir,” replied Edwards. “It’s a real piece of equipment. A coupe, top of the range.”
“Okay for some,” said Gardener. “Did you go and see him?”
“Yes, but he was out. His wife was home. Apparently he was on a call here in the town. She also confirmed that he was in Bramfield in the early hours of the morning, attending to Christine Close.”
“That’s Gary’s mum, isn’t it?” Gardener asked Cragg.
“Yes, sir, she’s seriously ill, by all accounts.”
