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smoothing her blue uniform over well-covered haunches. Clumsy acrylics of ships decorated the walls, each sponsored by a local company. An over-pressed air-conditioning unit hummed hoarsely.
    The ward had eight beds, seven of them empty. In one corner, beside a window overlooking the smokers’ courtyard, lay Peter Galliano. At least he would appreciate the view, reasoned Spike – Peter was a sixty-a-day man, after all.
    ‘Well, come on,’ the nurse cajoled.
    Spike picked up a plastic chair from an empty bay. ‘How is he today?’ he asked, putting off the moment when he would have to look at Galliano’s face.
    ‘There’s been no deterioration.’
    ‘What do the doctors say?’
    ‘He’s been under for ten days. With a head trauma of this severity, I think we’d like to see him wake up quite soon.’
    The whirr of Galliano’s iron lung seemed to confirm this discouraging prognosis. The nurse tucked the sheets beneath his gowned body, running her hands down the heavy backs of his thighs. ‘I was watching you the other day,’ she said, bending in a way that Spike might have found provocative, had he been interested in picking up any signs. ‘You should talk to him, you know. Not just sit there in silence. No one’s sure yet how much they can understand.’
    She drew out one of Peter’s strong arms and checked the cannula affixed to the back of his hand. Written on the band was ‘GALLIANO, PETER HORATIO; GHA 97739; 23-MAY-1959’. Spike smiled. He’d forgotten about Peter’s middle name: Somerset and Horatio, they were quite the pair.
    ‘Handover’s at 8 p.m.,’ the nurse said. ‘You can stay till then.’
    He nodded as she left, then scanned the empty bays, wondering who’d lain there recently, if anyone mourned them now. Finally he forced himself to look round. Beneath a heavily bandaged brow, Galliano’s left eye was still grotesquely swollen, the bruise around it a yellowy-brown. The stubble merging into his goatee suggested the nursing staff had decided that a full beard would require less work. Spike noted with a little pleasure that the double chin had reduced. It’s an ill wind, as Galliano might have joked.
    ‘Hello, Peter.’ Spike’s voice sounded foolish. He glanced round, seeing the lights flicker then go out in the corridor behind. When he turned back, he focused on Galliano’s good eye, its dark and rather beautiful lashes splayed below a trembling lid. ‘I’ve been working on your cases, Peter . . .’ He pressed on, telling him about the meeting he’d lined up with the CEO of Neptune Marine. He was about to mention the visit from the Grainger widow when he stopped. ‘Listen, Peter,’ he said, leaning in. ‘I think it may be my fault you’re in here.’ He turned again, hearing a rapid squeak of rubber on linoleum. A long shadow spread across the doorway; he waited for the nurse to appear, but the shadow withdrew. Galliano’s chest rose and fell in a slow mechanical rhythm. In the twilight, the rows of empty white beds took on an eerie hue.
    Suddenly the footsteps returned, hurried and loud, as though someone were sprinting past the door, trying not to be seen. ‘ Hola ?’ Spike called out, but no one replied. ‘Hang on a sec, Pete,’ he said, realising this was the first time he’d spoken naturally.
    The nurses’ station was empty. Handover already? What was it she’d said earlier? ‘He’s a popular man today.’ Who else could have been visiting? Peter’s sister had three young children, so she tended to come in the mornings while they were at school. The nurse wouldn’t have been on shift then anyway. A clatter came from ahead as Spike moved down the corridor. Just around the corner was an amenity room – locked – and a patients’ bathroom. He eased down the handle of the Gents and went inside.
    The dying halogen bulb created an uncomfortable strobe on the ceiling. The door to the shower room hung open, cloudy water pooling on the coarse green plastic, smooth