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in pretty
good shape for a man approaching his sixties. An age when many of us are considering retirement.’
    ‘Not me,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve still got to deliver another William Warwick before I can get down to my next novel, which could take me a couple of years. So I need to live
until at least seventy. Is that understood, Dr Richards?’
    ‘Three score years and ten. No more than the Maker’s contract. I don’t think that should be a problem,’ he added, ‘as long as you’re still exercising.’
He checked his patient’s file. ‘When I last saw you, Sir Harry, you were running three miles, twice a week, and walking five miles, three times a week. Is that still the
case?’
    ‘Yes, but I have to confess I’ve stopped timing myself.’
    ‘Are you still keeping to that routine between your two-hour writing sessions?’
    ‘Every morning, five days a week.’
    ‘Excellent. In fact, that’s more than many of my younger patients could manage. Just a couple more questions. I take it you still don’t smoke?’
    ‘Never.’
    ‘And how much do you drink on an average day?’
    ‘A glass of wine at dinner, but not at lunch. It would send me to sleep in the afternoon.’
    ‘Then, frankly, seventy should be a doddle, as long as you don’t get run over by a bus.’
    ‘Not much risk of that, since our local bus only visits the village twice a day, despite Emma regularly writing to the council to complain.’
    The doctor smiled. ‘That sounds like our chairman.’ Dr Richards closed the file, rose from behind his desk and accompanied Harry out of the consultation room.
    ‘How’s Lady Clifton?’ he asked as they walked down the corridor.
    Emma hated the courtesy title of ‘lady’ because she felt she hadn’t earned it, and insisted everyone at the hospital still call her Mrs Clifton or ‘chairman’.
‘You tell me,’ said Harry.
    ‘I’m not her doctor,’ said Richards, ‘but I can tell you she’s the best chairman we’ve ever had, and I’m not sure who’ll be brave enough to
replace her when she stands down in a year’s time.’
    Harry smiled. Whenever he visited the Bristol Royal Infirmary, he could sense the respect and affection the staff felt for Emma.
    ‘If we win hospital of the year a second time,’ Dr Richards added, ‘she’ll certainly have played her part.’
    As they continued down the corridor, Harry passed two nurses who were taking a tea break. He noticed that one of them had a black eye and a swollen cheek which, despite heavy make-up, she
hadn’t been able to disguise. Dr Richards led Harry into a small cubicle that was empty apart from a bed and a couple of chairs.
    ‘Take your jacket off. A nurse will be with you shortly.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Harry. ‘I look forward to seeing you again in a year’s time.’
    ‘Once we’ve got all the tests back from the labs, I’ll drop you a line with the results. Not that I imagine they’ll be much different from last year.’
    Harry slipped off his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair, took off his shoes and climbed on to the bed. He lay down, closed his eyes and began to think about the next chapter of
William Warwick and the Three Card Trick
. How could the suspect possibly have been in two places at once? Either he was in bed with his wife or he was driving up to Manchester. Which was
it? The doctor had left the door open and Harry’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard someone saying ‘Dr Hands’. Where had he heard that name before?
    ‘Will you report him to Matron?’ the voice asked.
    ‘Not if I want to keep my job,’ said a second voice.
    ‘So old wandering hands gets away with it again.’
    ‘As long as it’s just his word against mine, he has nothing to fear.’
    ‘What did he get up to this time?’
    Harry sat up, took a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and listened carefully to the conversation that was taking place in the corridor.
    ‘I was in the laundry room on the third floor