LITMIR.BIZ

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for her in Reception. He looked tense, wound up like a tightly coiled spring, and for one moment she was tempted to apologise in case she’d kept him waiting. Then she thought better of it. This man was not her boss or her superior, she was not answerable to him and it would be as well for her to remember that fact in all her dealings with him.

      ‘Rachel.’ He turned on his heel.

      ‘You have a patient for me?’ She nodded at the sergeant on the desk, not Harry Mason this time but a younger man who likewise acknowledged her with a nod. ‘Yes,’ Nick replied curtly, ‘come this way.’ She followed him out of the reception area down two corridors to the cells at the rear of the building. The place smelt of pine disinfectant. A radio somewhere played rap music and occasional shouts and mutterings could be heard from the cells they passed.

      ‘Has this man been charged?’ asked Rachel.

      ‘No, not yet,’ Nick replied, ‘but I’m anxious to tie this case up—these arrests have come at the end of a lengthy operation involving a large number of my men.’

      ‘So...’ Rachel raised one eyebrow. ‘Inconvenient that one is sick at the eleventh hour, is that what you’re saying?’

      ‘If you want to put it that way.’ Nick’s jaw tightened.

      ‘Why is he in a cell?’

      ‘Because it seemed the best place—he collapsed and we put him on the nearest bed.’

      ‘Can you tell me anything about his behaviour before the collapse?’ she asked.

      ‘Very erratic,’ he replied, ‘bizarre almost—he was acting as if he was drunk but there was no smell of alcohol. He also seemed to have some sort of tremor which is what led me to suspect this may be a medical problem.’ As he finished speaking Nick opened the door to a cell where Rachel could see a man lying on the bed and a uniformed officer standing beside him.

      ‘Do we know his name?’ asked Rachel.

      ‘Masters,’ Nick replied.

      ‘And his first name?’ Rachel bent over the inert form of the man.

      ‘Paul.’

      ‘Paul, can you hear me?’ The man’s eyes were closed and as Rachel took his wrist she found him to have a rapid pulse. He appeared pale and his skin was cold and clammy to the touch. There was also a distinctive, sweetish smell about him.

      ‘Did he have anything on him to indicate that he may be diabetic?’ asked Rachel, checking around his neck to see if he was wearing any sort of tag and failing to find one.

      Nick glanced up at the officer who shook his head. ‘No, nothing,’ he replied, then after a moment’s pause, he said, ‘Do you think that’s what this is?’

      ‘Yes, I do.’ Rachel nodded and opened her case. ‘A pinprick test will decide it.’ Carefully, watched by Nick and the attending officer, she carried out the test then nodded. ‘As I thought,’ she said, ‘his blood sugar’s very low—he’s in a hypoglycaemic coma.’

      ‘Can you treat that?’ asked Nick.

      ‘I can give him an injection.’ Rachel opened her case and took out packets containing a syringe and ampoules of dextrose.

      Moments later she identified a vein in the man’s arm and administered the injection. Almost immediately he began to stir then he opened his eyes.

      ‘Paul,’ she said gently after a few moments, ‘are you with us again?’

      Paul Masters gazed up at her, his expression almost one of disbelief, then as he moved his head and caught sight of Nick and the officer behind him he rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘I thought I’d died and gone to heaven and this was an angel.’ He inclined his head in Rachel’s direction. ‘Then I see your ugly mugs and I know it was all a dream.’

      ‘No, Paul,’ said Rachel briskly, ‘it wasn’t a dream—it was a diabetic coma. Your blood sugar had dropped to a critical low. Don’t you wear a tag to alert anyone to the fact that you’re diabetic?’

      ‘Yeah, I do,’ the man replied rubbing his eyes with one hand, ‘but the chain broke—needs fixing.’

      ‘Well, I suggest you get it fixed.’ Rachel began clearing up her equipment and medication packaging. ‘And that you wear it at all times,’ she added. ‘So what caused your blood sugar to drop so low—have you missed a meal?’

      ‘Yeah, a couple probably—thanks to this lot.’ Paul Masters’s gaze flickered to the two police officers.

      ‘If you’d told us you were diabetic we could have taken the appropriate measures,’ Nick replied tersely.

      ‘Yeah, right,’ Paul Masters grunted. Looking hopefully up at Rachel, he said, ‘Are you going to send me to hospital?’

      ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Rachel.

      ‘But I need time to recover,’ the man began to protest.

      ‘I’m sure DCI Kowalski will give you an hour or so recovery period,’ Rachel replied, ‘but first I want to check your blood sugar again.’

      Ten minutes later Nick escorted Rachel out of the cell, leaving Paul Masters with the officer. ‘Was that really necessary?’ he asked as they reached Reception.

      ‘What?’ Rachel frowned, thinking he was questioning her treatment or diagnosis of the patient.

      ‘The period of recovery.’

      ‘Probably not.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘But it’s better to be on the safe side in these matters. I also suggest he is given something to eat.’

      ‘Would a three-course meal be sufficient?’ There was a trace of sarcasm in Nick’s voice now.

      ‘A couple of rounds of cheese sandwiches should do the trick,’ Rachel replied sweetly.

      ‘As if he hasn’t wasted enough police time as it is,’ muttered Nick.

      ‘You think he put himself into a coma deliberately?’ Rachel raised her eyebrows.

      ‘I wouldn’t put it past him. Let’s face it, he wasn’t wearing his tag and he must know he shouldn’t miss meals...’

      ‘Even so—it’s a bit drastic.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, an hour is not that long.’

      ‘In that case, you won’t mind coming and having a drink with me,’ Nick retorted swiftly.

      ‘I’m sorry?’ She stared at him.

      ‘You’ve put me in this position of having an hour to kill—I would say the least you could do is to keep me company in the meantime.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t think...’ she began, desperately trying to think of an excuse, any excuse, not to go with him. ‘I have things to do.’ It was the last thing she wanted, to establish any sort of relationship with him other than a purely professional one.

      Nick, it seemed, had other ideas. ‘Nonsense,’ he said firmly, then after a brief word to the duty sergeant he took her elbow and propelled her out of the station doors. ‘What could be more important than renewing acquaintance with an old friend?’

      Weakly Rachel allowed herself to be guided down the steps of the police station and a hundred or so yards down the street towards a sign, which swayed and creaked in the wind and stated quite clearly that the Red Lion served the finest ale in town. It was warm inside with a welcome from a crackling log fire, and briefly the chatter from the locals gathered around the bar ceased as they recognised Nick and curiously eyed Rachel up and down.

      ‘What’ll you have?’ Nick half turned to her.

      ‘A lager would be nice,’ she replied.

      ‘There’s a table over there in the corner.’ Nick nodded towards an alcove

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