Malicious Intent (29 page)

Where would we be if people with sexually acquired infections could not be guaranteed anonymity? No one would seek treatment and the effects on the community, not to mention the individuals, would be disastrous. No, I’m afraid I must respect her privacy.’

‘I agree, but we are not talking about an isolated case here.

If she were pushed from the cliff, would that make a difference?’ A phone rang on the desk but Anya ignored it. ‘It’s too coincidental that four intelligent women, all with shaved pubic hair, abandon their loved ones and kill, or almost kill, themselves. And on PM, each had an identified fiber in their lungs.’

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He sat back, seeming to digest the information. ‘Did they
all
have the herpetic infection?’

‘No, but we knew of two, now three. The others could have had latent infections that weren’t obvious at the time of death.’

A uniformed nurse leaned over the desk and muttered something rude about the ward clerk as she answered the phone.

‘Unfortunately, that’s conjecture. No matter how noble your cause, I cannot breach confidentiality.’

The nurse put down the handset and began calling along the corridor, ‘Who’s looking after bed eleven? There’s a relative on the phone.’

Anya tried another approach. ‘Irrespective of the cause of death, shouldn’t the contacts be traced? I am, after all, a physician, and I often deal with sexually acquired infections in assault victims. Is it possible for me to at least talk to your patient, with you present if you prefer, to discuss sexual contacts so we can trace possible sources of the infection? I can offer another clinical viewpoint and go through the problems with drug-resistance.

That isn’t a breach of trust. It’s clinically appropriate.’

A young woman placed a box of cornflowers and cream roses on the counter. ‘Flowers for bed twenty-three.’ She disappeared as the food trolley stopped at the station.

Hammond explained, ‘She’s refusing to give her name to anyone. The police have been informed but are so far unable to identify her. She has suffered horrific injuries from the fall, push, or whatever you call it. At the moment she’s deemed fragile from a psychiatric viewpoint.’

‘I’m used to dealing with sexual assault victims,’ Anya persisted. ‘If she’s traumatized, there’s a chance she’s suffered some kind of abuse. Don’t we owe it to her to give her the best treatment for her physical and emotional pain?’

Professor Hammond waited until the meals trolley moved on. Buzzers on the backboard were lighting up. Patients wanted nurses but no nurses were in sight. Lucky it wasn’t visiting hours as well, Anya thought, trying to block out the distractions.

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‘I think the ethics are tenuous but you make a valid point.

And, on examination, she, too, has no pubic hair. Under the circumstances, I’ve decided to test this herpetic infection against the others you mentioned.’ He seemed to be struggling with his decision. ‘But this poor woman is obviously terribly private and I have to ask you to respect that in any dealings.’

‘Of course.’ Anya could have hugged him. She could finally meet this woman. ‘Do you know anything about her background?’

‘She has certainly had at least one pregnancy. The surgical team noticed a Cesarean scar. The only other marking is a tattoo with the initials J.E. So far the police haven’t turned up anything on her ID. They’ve just put an article in the newspapers to see if anyone is missing her.’

Another nurse returned to the desk to answer the phone query, and seemed nonplussed that the caller had hung up.

Anya waited until they were alone again. ‘May I see her now?’

Hammond thought about it, clicking one of the pens in his white coat pocket.

‘She’s in the single room down the hall. Bed twenty-three.’

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Anya knocked and pushed open a large wooden door. Lying face upward was a large-framed woman with a crown of mousey brown hair.

‘Hello, my name is Dr. Anya Crichton. Professor Hammond has asked if I could have a talk with you.’

The woman stared at the ceiling.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not a psychiatrist. I actually wanted to talk about your physical condition.’

Clear liquid dripped from a burette to a cannula in the woman’s right arm. She remained silent, an occasional blink confirming she was conscious.

‘It’s all right. You’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you.’

Anya thought she saw the woman’s face muscles tighten.

A young nurse with a bouncy ponytail wafted in, carrying a box of flowers and a kidney dish containing a syringe and glass vial. ‘Looks like someone cares for you,’ she said. ‘These are absolutely gorgeous.’ She placed the box on the windowsill then filled the burette with the syringe’s contents.

‘Antibiotic time. May sting a little in your arm, but it won’t last long,’ she added, without looking directly at her patient.

She attached a bright orange sticker to the plastic tubing and glanced at the food tray on a table beside the bed.

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‘You haven’t touched your food,’ she said. ‘Do you need some help?’

The woman didn’t answer. She kept staring at something on the white speckled ceiling.

‘Come on now, your body has a lot of healing to do. If you don’t start eating soon, we’re going to have to tube feed you. Is that what you want?’

No response.

Anya watched the sorry scene. The mystery patient was helpless in the situation. Eating soggy fish and unrecognizable vegetables wouldn’t have been a priority for her either. She waited until the nurse harrumphed and took the tray away.

‘I don’t blame you for turning that lunch down. If you like, I can organize a toasted sandwich for you from the café downstairs.’

The woman flicked her eyes in Anya’s direction and frowned.

‘I remember when I was in hospital with my son,’ she went on, ‘I came out lighter than my prepregnancy weight. I’m sure the food is meant to scare people into thinning down.’

The woman closed her eyes for a few seconds. Anya didn’t know whether she’d struck a chord about being in hospital with a child, or bored the woman more than the nurse had.

Four bouquets lined the shelf on one side of the room, two more sat on the windowsill. Anya walked around admiring them and noticing the card. No message, just the hospital florist’s card on each arrangement. She wondered how anyone knew to send flowers when the woman hadn’t disclosed her identity.

Anya moved a chair to the side of the bed and sat down.

‘When you came into hospital, you had a blistering rash which the staff noticed when they put the catheter into your bladder. Those rashes are usually very painful. Even passing urine must have been agony.’

The woman closed her eyes again and held her breath.

‘The lab found that this infection is very unusual. Part of my job is to work out how you acquired it. I can also help identify the person, or people spreading the infection, so they can be 234

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treated appropriately. It might keep others from suffering the way you have.

‘Usually’ – Anya straightened the creases from the bed blanket with one hand – ‘we try to locate sexual partners you have had in the last six months.’

Moments later, a sole tear slid from the woman’s right eye onto the pillow.

Anya couldn’t begin to wonder what pain this woman had experienced, emotionally, physically and maybe even spiritually.

She reached over and gently brushed her shoulder.

‘I’m worried that someone tried to hurt you. And you’re not the only one. There have been others.’

The woman’s eyes became glassy and her breathing slowed.

‘I hurt myself,’ she whispered.

‘You must have been suffering a lot at the time. Something drove you to it.’ Anya wanted to find out more and tried to gain her confidence. ‘Someone, or maybe even a group of people you trusted did this to you.’

‘You don’t understand,’ the woman said softly. ‘I did it to myself. No one else is to blame.’

Anya wasn’t accustomed to dealing with suicidal people.

Someone who’d just been raped needed medical attention. The counselors dealt with the long-term psychological problems.

She wanted information, not to upset the woman, who was clearly emotionally fragile. She turned her attention to the flowers. ‘These are all beautiful. Do you know who sent them?’

‘You’re wasting your time. I want you to leave.’

‘All right. The least I can do is get you a sandwich from the café.’ Anya placed a straw in a glass of water on the bedside table and offered it.

‘I’d like to come back tomorrow and sit with you, if you don’t mind.’

The woman took a sip and licked her cracked lips.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ she said. ‘He didn’t want me to die. He tried to save me.’

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Who is he?’ Anya pressed. ‘Is he alone, or does he work in a group?’

The woman reached down to her side and and pressed the call button twice. The ponytailed nurse quickly arrived with some tablets.

‘Still got pain? No wonder. It’s well over four hours since the last dose.’ The uniformed nurse seemed to sense tension as she scrawled on the bedchart. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘I need to ask your patient some more questions.’ Anya had to find out where she’d been and who the man was. The police could take it from there.

‘I don’t have anything to say. Make her go,’ the woman begged.

‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back another time.’ The nurse put the tablets in a small paper vial on the bedside table.

‘As soon as these are on board, it’s time for a sponge bath.’

Anya didn’t want to leave. This was the only woman so far who’d survived, and she’d only lived by sheer fluke. Once she’d had pain relief, she would probably become drowsy and less lucid. ‘Could I please just have one more minute before you give the tablets?’

The ponytail swished. ‘I think our patient has made it very clear she wants you to leave.’

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Now wasn’t the time to make a scene. Anya decided to come back when a different shift of nurses was on duty, and not at bathing time. Frustrated, she left the room. Who the hell was
he
? She’d come so close to finding out. And why did he want to save this woman? Nothing made sense. If he’d pushed her from the cliff, why would she say he’d tried to rescue her? Had he done the same to the other women? Or was she talking about her soul being saved?

Outside the room, Anya brushed past a woman dressed in a burgundy suit, holding a young child on one hip. The woman didn’t seem to notice Anya turn and watch as she peered in through the door of room twenty-three. The visitor pressed her forehead against the door but didn’t go in.

Anya approached. ‘Can I help you?’

‘It’s her. It’s definitely her.’ The woman said without looking up. ‘It’s Briony.’

The toddler buried her face in the suit.

‘Do you know this patient?’ Anya couldn’t believe the lucky timing.

‘Mummy? Where’s Mummy?’ the little girl called as her carer turned and hurried toward the lifts.

‘Wait.’ Anya followed. ‘Please wait a moment.’

The woman stopped by the nurses’ station and stared at the floor. ‘I saw the picture in the paper and came to identify her.

Briony Lovitt. There. It’s done. Now, Georgia, we have to go.’

‘Georgia’s a pretty name,’ Anya said, stepping foward. ‘And you are absolutely beautiful. Who have you got here?’

Georgia hid her face, sneaking a peek at her inquisitor as she held up a soft green dinosaur with bright yellow spots, white gloves and hat.

‘I know who that is. It’s Dorothy, from the Wiggles, isn’t it?’

Anya beamed. ‘She’s one of my favorites.’

The little girl turned her face and revealed two soulful blue eyes. ‘Do you know my other mummy?’

‘I’m not sure. Is your mother’s name Briony?’

‘It used to be, now it’s just Julie.’ The little girl stroked her KATHRYN FOX

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carer’s hair. Buzzers lit the backboard as nurses hurried past with bedpans and wet towels.

Patient names written on the whiteboard blurred in contrast with the block letters next to number twenty-three, which read, ‘UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE.’

‘I’m Julie Everingham,’ the woman explained. ‘Do I need to sign anything before we leave to say I’ve identified Briony?’

Her eyes referred to the whiteboard. ‘You can change that now.’

Her tone was defensive, but businesslike. This was a professional woman, judging by the Bally shoes and expensive suit, probably a Carla Zampatti design. Her fingernails were neat but unpainted, and her makeup and hair, low-maintenance.

The nursing unit manager, whose uniform and hair remained pristine each shift due to a lack of patient contact, appeared. ‘Excuse me, but did you call from downstairs about our mystery patient?’

‘Yes, but if you don’t mind, I need a few minutes.’

The NUM seemed taken aback but had no choice.

‘This must be very difficult for you,’ Anya ventured. ‘I think it’s been difficult for Briony, too.’

‘She has no one to blame but herself,’ Julie said, fighting back tears. She placed Georgia on the counter and pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her black leather tote bag.

Georgia swung her legs and smiled.

Anya instinctively moved closer to protect the child from falling. ‘What’s your favorite song? I like “Do the Monkey.” ’

‘Oo oo aa aa,’ Georgia began singing softly, slapping her floral pinafore to the beat.

Since becoming a mother, Anya had learned all the popular children’s songs, games and television shows. It made the bond with her son even stronger, and gave her an instant advantage connecting to other children. The singing and dancing Wiggles quartet had become a universal hit. Anya believed they had done for kids’ appreciation of music what J. K. Rowling had achieved for children’s literacy.

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With Georgia happy, she turned again to the woman. ‘It’s very important that I speak with you, if you have the time.’

Julie agreed and lifted her daughter from the counter. Anya informed the NUM they’d be back shortly and escorted them to a relatives’ room on the same level. Once inside, Julie gave Georgia a small box of raisins and a book from her bag. The trio found a lounge chair and sat.