Good Friday: Before Prime Suspect there was Tennison – this is her story by Lynda La Plante & Lynda La Plante

Author:Lynda La Plante & Lynda La Plante
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Bonnier Publishing Fiction
Published: 2017-08-23T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On Monday morning at the explosives lab Jane was told to finish bagging and tagging the victims’ clothes and then get to work on the items of personal property that had been recovered, checking them against victims’ statements. There was a large table covered with items of jewellery, wallets and purses, dropped by victims or torn from their clothing by the explosion. She didn’t find it as traumatic as the first time she handled the bloodstained clothing. She realised she was becoming desensitised to the situation, thanks, perhaps, to Dexter’s advice to put the worst of it out of her thoughts.

As Jane sat taking her break in the canteen she was hoping to see Dexter, but he didn’t come in. Just as she was finishing her lunch, however, Crowley approached her table.

‘We’ve had some worrying news about Mrs Millbank. She was taken down for more surgery this morning. I want you to go over there and see how she’s doing.’

‘Is it her leg?’

‘Yes, there’s been a complication. It’s gangrene, so she’ll need more taken off, which, given her age, could be touch and go.’

Jane felt awful and agreed to go straight to the hospital.

‘Keep me updated . . . Take her in some grapes . . . you know, look out for her.’

‘Yes, sir.’

*

Before going in to see Daphne, Jane waited to have a word with Michael, the charge nurse. He looked tired as he approached, but then broke into a wide smile when he caught sight of Jane. His mood became sombre again when she asked for an update on Daphne’s condition.

‘Well, she’s out of surgery. Her antibiotics have been increased, and so far, she has come through. It was another major operation to remove the infected tissue and thigh bone. All we can do now is hope for the best.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘Of course, but she won’t be very responsive. She’s heavily sedated and on a morphine drip

Jane headed towards the private section. She showed her ID and filled in her name and rank and time of visit on the visitor’s sheet before going in to see Daphne.

The blinds were still pulled down and the room felt cold and clinical. Daphne’s fragile figure was still surrounded by drips and medication. A sheeted cage had been erected over her from the waist down, and Daphne’s upper body was covered by a thick, white blanket drawn up to her chin. What little Jane could see of Daphne’s arms were covered by tubes and drips, and her tiny bird-like hands were horribly marked by dark black bruises from endless injections. As Daphne had said to Jane, ‘I feel like I’m a pincushion, dear . . .’.

Jane pulled a hard-back chair closer to the bed and sat down, hoping that Daphne would wake up so that she could hear her lovely, gutsy voice. But there was just the shallow sound of her breathing and the hiss of the ventilator. Jane sat with her for an hour, watching the nurses come in and out to check her blood pressure.

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