Shootings were always reported to the police, even if accidental. This one didn’t look accidental, but Bullet Case – Benny O’Connor – claimed it was. That was all he would say on the matter. That it was an accident, over and over again.
Now here the police were, crack of dawn, bending her bloody ear. All because Susan had been duped by someone who wanted to get at Benny. So instead of enjoying a cup of tea Nurse Foster was listening to DCI Hunter giving her all kinds of grief over the hospital letting in strangers to see gunshot victims.
‘But he insists he’s not a victim,’ she told Hunter, who was staring at her in an unfriendly fashion while DI Sandra Duggan stood alongside him, taking notes.
‘So he says,’ said Hunter. It annoyed him that, despite threats concerning the dire consequences of impeding police investigations, Benny wouldn’t say another word.
‘Maybe you should have left someone here to keep an eye on him, if it was going to be a problem,’ said Julia, neatly shifting the blame. She was desperate for a fag and wished Hunter and Duggan would sod off.
Hunter gave her a pained look. ‘We’re stretched to our limits. No one’s available.’
‘That’s not my problem.’
‘Can you describe the man who claimed to be his brother?’ asked DI Duggan.
‘No, I can’t. My shift has only just started. The staff nurse on duty was Susan Challis.’
‘Her contact details?’ asked Hunter.
‘I’ll get them for you,’ said Julia eagerly, grateful to offload Hunter on to the moron who’d caused the problem in the first place. Maybe then she could have her tea and a smoke, and get on with the day’s work undisturbed.
‘We’re going to miss you,’ said Precious, as Layla picked up her bag at ten a.m., ready to be collected by Tone. ‘Shit, I’m going to miss you. I really am.’
Layla could see that Precious meant it. She opened her arms.
‘Come here and give me a hug,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Precious hugged her, hard. ‘Right,’ she said, smiling. ‘Remember: that old Layla who wanted to be invisible, she’s gone. This is the new you. Got that?’
Layla nodded. She glanced at the dressing-table mirror. The apparition staring back at her bore no resemblance to the old Layla. She was wearing a black power suit with big shoulder pads and a neat little flick-out skirt on the jacket, to emphasize the dip of her waist. A white shirt under it, clinging to the curves of her breasts. Her hair was big, a dark cloud around her artfully made-up face. Her tights were black and sheer. Her shoes were black courts, with vertiginously high heels. You had to walk differently in heels like that, with a feline sway.