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Chapter 45
Thehigh-level isolation ward took up half the infectious diseases unit, although in an emergency, the remainder could be converted for category four use. The ward included the bed unit; the tightly restricted area where the patient was isolated, and a doffing area where nurses and doctors could safely remove their PPE. There were laboratories and anterooms and nurses’ stations, everything a modern hospital needed to treat highly contagious patients.
The bed unit was a square room dominated by the bed. A metal frame encased in transparent plastic made it look like the bed was inside a high-tech polytunnel. A filtration unit provided negative air pressure, ensuring airborne pathogens were contained inside. Sleeves built into the plastic sheeting allowed doctors and nurses to deliver clinical care. A smaller tented unit was attached to the end of the bed. It was used to pass through food and drinks, and anything else the patient required. Anything coming back out, including human waste, would be rendered safe in an autoclave, a high-pressure chamber that subjected everything to pressurised, saturated steam.
Although Karen Royal-Cross was perfectly healthy, the infectious diseases consultant, an Asian with a cultured Glaswegian accent called Doctor Mukherjee, was managing her as if she were contagious.
‘Even if this turns out to be nothing, at least we can practise policies and procedures,’ he said. ‘Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.’
Which meant Poe and the rest of the cops were restricted to monitoring Karen Royal-Cross via the ward’s advanced video and telecommunications system. Only doctors and nurses were allowed on to the bed unit.
Doctor Mukherjee entered the room they were using as acommand post. He popped a can of Coke and took the seat beside Poe.
‘We’ll check her urinary biomarkers for ricinine every time she urinates,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s an alkaloid in the castor bean plant. It’s why we have her drinking lots of water – the more she urinates, the more we can check.’
‘What will you do if the Botanist gets to her?’ Poe asked.
‘I don’t see how he could.’
‘Humour me.’
‘You think she’s in danger, don’t you?’
‘So far he has a one hundred per cent hit rate,’ Poe admitted. ‘We have no idea how he administers his poison, so we have no idea how to stop him.’
‘But she’s being watched twenty-four hours a day.’
‘So was Harrison Cummings.’
‘In that case, we would help her breathe. Fill her with fluids. Manage her seizures and low blood pressure.’
‘Then what?’ Poe asked.
‘Then we would watch her die,’ Mukherjee replied.
