So far it seemed quite possible.
By each entrance to the building there were wheelchairs ready to use, and on the downstairs corridor below main theatre a few abandoned trolleys were lined up. If she had been put on one of these, covered with a blanket and pushed along by someone wearing theatre clothing, no one would have reason to stop the person and question him.
If anyone caught her walking through here she would have to come up with an explanation. This way, dressed as other theatre staff dressed, if she was stopped and questioned she could claim that she was fetching something.
In theatre 2, the trauma theatre, an operation was ongoing. The light box displaying the warning ‘In Use’ above the double doors was lit, and guiltily she wondered if the patient in there had been rushed up from A & E, and if Nathan Bell had stayed for the rest of the night or called someone in, possibly Caroline, to relieve him.
There were eighteen theatres in the hospital: eight in the main block, five in day surgery, three in maternity, and two now redundant. The closed theatres were the old day surgery theatres that were now being used as an outpatient assessment area. There were rumours of other closed theatres, Victorian, which she had never seen, below ground level, inaccessible and closed not only to the public, but also staff. Rumour had it they were flooded some hundred years ago, and instead of restoring them, new buildings above ground level had been erected. She briefly wondered whether it was worth exploring them, checking just how inaccessible they really were, and who she would have to ask to get permission. The theatre she had lain in was modern, busy with the sounds of monitors and machinery and the hiss of oxygen. She would search the modern departments first.
Moving down the corridor she nipped quickly and quietly into each theatre, scanning ceilings and surroundings with critical eyes, but didn’t see what she was searching for. As she neared theatre 8 she heard the sound of a trolley and quickly hid. Her ears strained to hear where the trolley was going while her eyes stayed fixed on a brass plate on the corridor wall. It was a memorial to the department, and the words seemed to mock her present plight.
The light of all good deeds is eternal.
What about the darkness of evil deeds? Was that also eternal? Or was that something one had to forgive in order to get through the pearly gates? Forgive those who trespasses against you, and you’ll get a free pass to heaven.
Taking a chance, she peered down the corridor. Seeing no one, she came out of her hiding place and walked over to theatre 8. She pushed open the double doors and slipped into the anaesthetic room. It was relatively small, with just enough space and equipment for an anaesthetist to do the first part of his or her job. Locked drug cupboards and work counters were on either side of a theatre trolley and a small anaesthetic machine.
She pushed open the second pair of double doors and entered the operating theatre.
Covering one wall was a sheet of steel – a console housing dozens of switches and sockets and embedded glass-plated lights for viewing X-rays. Keeping the lights off, Alex moved over to the operating table. Enough light shone through the frosted panes from the anaesthetic room to guide her, and she was able to see the clear outline of the round overhead lamp suspended above. This was not where she had lain.
This lamp, although round, was much wider in diameter, and it held seven bulbs. A positioning handle on one side protruded like a fixed antenna. When the lights were on, if you were under the influence of drugs you could be forgiven for thinking a giant robotic insect with seven eyes was staring down at you.
Her shoulders drooped as common sense took hold. This was a foolish waste of time. How was she meant to pinpoint exactly what lights she lay under? What had she actually seen? The shape of a large round lamp, maybe smaller than the ones she had just inspected? But it could in fact be any of the ones she had just looked at. She’d been blinded by the glare.
She heard the outer double doors swing open and tensed. Standing still and silent in the near darkness, she saw the shape of someone through the frosted panes. He or she was tall and was wearing blue. A surgeon or an anaesthetist. She could tell by the bright pink headgear. A fashion statement for some, but others wore colour as they recognised the need to be easily identified as the doctor among the caps of blue worn by everyone else.
She waited to be discovered, heart beating wildly. She heard keys jangling and a cupboard door being unlocked. A moment later she heard the metal door banging shut, and then the outer doors leading back onto the corridor being pushed open again. Then silence.
Trembling with relief, she breathed easier. She needed to go home, get away from this place and its memories. Lock her door, drink her vodka and feel less afraid of dark shadows. She was not brave enough to keep searching on her own.
Chapter ten
Greg Turner undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. He smelt a whiff of sweat from his armpit and grimaced. He’d dig out a change of clothing and grab a shower in the staff room shortly. Last night he’d seen Dr Taylor’s eyes on the stain on his tie and had wanted to fold his arms. It was rare for him to feel self-conscious, but there was something about her – a freshness, her clean hair or maybe her vulnerable eyes – which made him want to keep a distance until he was washed and shaved and wearing a tie he didn’t have to hide.
He sighed. Sleeping in his office chair had not been a good idea, but it had hardly seemed worth going home after his late finish. His workload at the moment was stretching him almost to the limit, and he could have done without the trip to the hospital. It meant more paperwork, and hours he could ill afford to lose on his other cases. And his visit to Amy Abbott’s parents had left him with the wretched cries of yet another family ringing in his head.
He couldn’t make up his mind about Dr Taylor. She looked sane enough, but her story! That was insane.
The tap on his office door was expected, and Laura Best entered the room. Her blond bobbed hair, cut to jaw length, was sleek and smooth. Her white collarless shirt, tailored to fit, was crisp and clean. Immaculate as always and ready for a new day, Laura Best made a good impression.