Making a correction on one of the reports, he then signed another, leaning back to read a third. In the distance he heard the sound of the church clock chiming and realised that an hour had passed and that the decorators would soon be leaving. Pausing, he then heard the noises of the men packing up in the corridor outside, followed by the smack of the ladder hitting the side of the wall as they left it for the night.

Concentrating, he steeled himself to think of work and not Spain, not the skull, or the lost baby. Not Leon or the man Gina had told him about. The stranger who had come visiting Leon during the last week of his life … Weary, Ben’s head nodded and he snapped himself awake impatiently. He would finish his reports and then go home, retire early and maybe find a few hours’ grace in sleep.

Coughing, he turned on his recording machine. There was silence outside, and slowly he began to enter his report:

‘Case notes on Sean McGee, aged six years and three months. Admitted to the Whitechapel Hospital four months ago, to have a malignant tumour removed. Operation performed by Ben Golding. Operation successful, no recurrence of tumour at the site or elsewhere.’

Pausing, Ben glanced at the child’s notes, then at the X-rays, holding then up to the lamplight to look more closely. The gas fire kept hissing, the corridor outside silent, the rain stilled. Satisfied, he laid the X-rays down on the desk and began to dictate.

‘The child’s overall condition is good, and he has lately regained some of his lost weight. Blood pressure and pulse normal, reflexes—’

Suddenly there was a noise outside and Ben glanced towards the door. It began as a soft banging and then altered, becoming eerie, like someone scraping their fingernails along the wall.

And then he heard footsteps, quiet but unmistakable. Bugger it, he thought. The decorators were back.

‘Who’s there?’

Silence from outside the door.

Walking into the corridor, Ben glanced around. The place was deserted. No patients, staff or decorators. No lights on anywhere, except his room – and a soft glow coming from the loggia in the distance.

‘Is there anyone there?’

Silence again.

Impatiently he walked back into his room, then sat down and started to dictate again.

‘The patient presented with—’

The sound came back. Only this time there was an accompanying noise, like two men walking and whispering. Frowning, Ben looked at his watch. It was later than he had thought, seven o’clock. No one would be in the consulting rooms now, and the nurses would be busy changing shifts. Unless … He wandered over to his secretary’s office and opened the door.

‘Sylvia, are you there?’

No answer.

Turning, Ben walked the length of the consulting room corridor, stopping at every door, opening it and looking inside. Every one was empty. No lights burning, no evidence of anyone working late. His thoughts shifted tack. Maybe the consulting rooms had been broken into? Addicts looking for drugs. It happened quite often. Curious, he moved down to the last room, opening the door and looking into the darkness.

‘Anyone there?’

No response.

But he felt something. A creeping sensation that he was being watched. Unnerved, Ben paused, his hand gripping the door handle. His breathing speeded up, sweat sheening his skin as he heard a movement behind him.

‘Who is it?’ he snapped, his voice loud to cover his anxiety. ‘Come on, who is it?’

Silence. Slowly he looked around, then pulled the door closed and began to walk back down the corridor. He longed for the familiar sounds of the hospital – a stretcher clattering along the lino, a phone ringing, the siren as an ambulance arrived at A & E. But the consulting rooms of the Whitechapel Hospital were eerily silent, locked off from the main body of activity, not even a cleaner, bucket in hand, to break the quiet.

He wondered suddenly if he should run, and then dismissed the idea, embarrassed by his own nerves. He was tired, that was all. Tired and spooked – which was hardly surprising considering what had happened in the last few days. His imagination was playing mental hopscotch with him, Ben told himself – that was all … Out of patience, he turned and made for his consulting room again, slamming the door behind him and sitting down at his desk.

He would finish his work, and go home. Have a drink and get some sleep. Everything would be clearer in the morning. He couldn’t afford to let his imagination get out of control. Taking in a breath, once more he began to dictate:

‘… Sean will undergo a further operation shortly, undertaken by myself. Megan Griffiths will be in attendance, and George Turner the anaesthetist.’

He paused, adding an afterthought for his secretary:

‘This is a message for you, Sylvia. Just in case I’m in theatre when—’

Suddenly Ben stopped talking. There were footsteps outside the consulting room door. No mistake. No imagination this time. They were real. Automatically he looked behind him, then turned back to the door, staring at it. The whispering began again, together with a muffled shuffling, the handle of the door beginning to turn.

In that instant the gas fire hissed, the noise spurting around the room as someone began to rattle the door handle. Mesmerised, Ben kept to his seat, a pulse throbbing in his neck, a feeling of dread overwhelming him. And as the door finally opened, he saw a rush of darkness and nothing more.

36

It was the aggressive, unending ringing of the telephone that finally jerked Ben out of his sleep. Leaping up, he knocked over some papers and for an instant couldn’t recall whether he was in Spain or London. Then he remembered the noises he had heard and realised he had simply fallen asleep at his desk and dreamt them.

Feeling foolish, he snatched up the phone. ‘What?’

‘Ben?’

He relaxed when he heard Abigail’s voice. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘In London. My father’s better and I wanted to come home to see you. I’m going back in a few days, but at the moment I’ve got a nurse to cover for me … Are you OK?’ she went on.

She didn’t mention the problem she was having with her face, the swelling under her skin on the left side. A swelling no one knew about but her. Too small to be seen, but not too small for her to feel.

‘I’m fine, darling. Tired—’

‘You sound it. You didn’t stay at the hospital last night, did you?’

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

‘I came back for my clinic, but I must have been more tired than I thought and dropped off.’ Outside, the hospital clock chimed ten – and he suddenly remembered the skull. ‘Are you at my house?’

‘No,’ she said, surprised. ‘I’m at my place.’

‘Don’t go to the house!’

‘But—’

‘I’ll explain later, but don’t go near my place.’

‘Is this anything to do with Leon?’ she asked, disturbed. ‘Ben, what’s going on?’

‘I can’t explain over the phone. I’ll tell you more when I see you.’ He paused, then confided something which had been bothering him. ‘I spoke to Gina. She was still at the farmhouse. She told me she’d lost Leon’s baby.’

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry—’

‘I left Madrid without telling her. Just took Leon’s notes and his laptop—’

‘You didn’t tell her?’ Abigail said, surprised. ‘You just upped and left? That’s not like you, Ben.’

‘I don’t trust her.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she lied to me. And if she lied to me once, she could lie to me about everything else. She was very interested in the skull – too interested. Gina doesn’t know I have it – she thinks it’s still in Madrid – but she seemed very keen to get hold of it.’ He thought back. ‘And she was reluctant to let me look at what Leon was working on—’

‘So you stole it?’

‘He was my brother!’

‘She was his lover,’ Abigail said softly. ‘And she was once carrying his child.’