Стелла Римингтон - The Moscow Sleepers

Senior Nurse Sarah Burns was sitting at the nurses’ station checking the day’s records. She would be going off duty in half an hour, handing over to Emily, who was in charge of the night shift. The patients had all been washed and fed – those who were still capable of eating.

People came here to die. And die is what they all did. Nobody left here cured. Some took longer to die than others but they all died sooner or later. Nurse Sarah didn’t mind this. She liked the peace. There were no emergencies, no dramas. True, she had to deal with grieving relatives, but when it came, death was expected so the grief was muted.

Evening visiting didn’t start for another half hour and the families and friends who’d come would be Emily’s responsibility. Most came regularly, some twice a day. There was only one patient who had no visitors. Sarah Burns had been a nurse in the hospice for almost ten years and thought she’d seen it all, but Lars Petersen was unique in her experience. Each morning when Sarah arrived for the day shift she half expected to find the bed in Room 112 empty, linen stripped. But Petersen clung on stubbornly, though that wasn’t what puzzled her: she had seen countless patients die and in every conceivable way. But all of them had had somebody there in their last days – a relative or a friend. Someone .

Not Lars Petersen. No family, no friends, no colleagues from the university where, according to his hospital entry form, he had been an associate professor. This total absence of visitors made it even stranger that Sarah had been asked to keep a special eye on him – to report to the man called Boyd if he said anything about himself or if he had any visitors. But he hadn’t. There had been nothing at all to report.

Sarah started thinking about supper. It was going to be a hot evening; she didn’t fancy cooking in such sweltering heat, so she thought she’d have her husband prime the grill on the deck instead. She’d put her feet up on a lounger then let him bring her a burger and a large glass of chilled wine.

As she planned her evening meal she heard the swing doors of the ward bang open. Surprised, she looked up at the monitor on the wall; her view of the doors from the nurses’ station was obscured by a bend in the corridor. She saw the image of a man with dark hair striding towards her, heard his heels clicking sharply on the tiled floor. As she stared at the screen, he rounded the corner and came up to the desk. He was tall, slightly balding, dressed rather formally in a grey tweed jacket that looked far too warm for the weather, with a button-down shirt and a striped tie.

‘Can I help you?’ Sarah asked, about to explain that he’d have half an hour to wait before visiting hours began. But there was something in the man’s eyes that made her pause.

‘I am hoping to see a patient here.’ The voice was slightly accented – it seemed Scandinavian, which was confirmed when he said, ‘Lars Petersen.’

She could barely contain her surprise. ‘Can I ask who you are?’

‘My name is Ohlson. I hope I am not too late. I have driven straight down from Montreal.’

‘No, you’re not too late. Visiting hours don’t start till six.’ She felt a little churlish; the man had travelled a couple of hours to get here. She asked more gently, ‘Are you family?’

He smiled. ‘As close to family as he has. His parents died long ago, back in Sweden. He was their only child. If there are cousins, he never spoke of them.’

‘So you’re a friend?’

The man nodded. ‘His oldest. We went to nursery school together in Sweden.’

‘Then you know that Mr Petersen is very ill?’

‘Yes. I didn’t know how ill, until I tried to contact him and couldn’t. I spoke to his department head at the university and he told me he was here. That’s why I came down.’

‘All right. Would you please put your details in the book, then come with me?’ Emerging from behind the desk, Sally led the visitor along the corridor to the end of the hall. Tapping lightly on the door of Room 112, she went in.

It was a corner room, with a view of the birch and maple trees that bordered the hospital grounds. Petersen was lying motionless in bed but he stirred as Sally came in and his eyes opened slightly. When he saw Ohlson they opened wider; Sally couldn’t tell if he recognised him or if he was just surprised to see a visitor.

‘Someone here to see you,’ she announced cheerfully.

Petersen watched as Ohlson pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. ‘Hello, Lars,’ he said and laid a hand on the bed. After a moment, Petersen’s right hand moved down the bed and touched Ohlson’s.

Sarah hovered for a moment, until Ohlson looked up at her. She could tell he wanted her to leave, and there really wasn’t any reason for her to stay. ‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ she said. ‘I’ll be at the desk. Don’t be too long, please,’ she added, then looked down at Petersen. ‘Ring the bell if you need me.’

She left the room and closed the door behind her. But she stayed just outside, making a show of consulting the small notebook she carried with her, while straining to hear the conversation going on inside the room. Through the door she could hear Ohlson’s voice, speaking in a low murmur. She couldn’t make out anything of what he was saying or even what language he was speaking – she guessed it would be Swedish. The pattern of his voice suggested he was asking questions – lots of questions. From the pauses, she thought Petersen was replying but his voice was barely audible. After a minute she went back to the nurses’ station.

Emily was there, scanning the patients’ chart book. She looked up as Sarah approached. ‘Lucky you. It’s meant to stay like this all evening.’ She nodded through the windows at the bright afternoon.

‘You’ll never believe it,’ said Sarah. ‘One-one-two’s got a visitor. He’s with him now.’

Emily, who had also been briefed on the special interest in Petersen, said, ‘You’d better let them know.’

‘Just going to,’ replied Sarah, and she went into the little office behind the desk and closed the door. She looked at her notebook again, this time for real, and dialled a local number.

When someone answered, she said, ‘Special Agent Boyd, please.’ She waited until she was put through, then said, ‘It’s Sarah Burns from the Kovacs Hospice. You asked me to phone you if our patient had any visitors. Well, he’s got one now. Sitting next to his bed and asking lots of questions.’

As he sat in his car in the visitors’ car park, appearing to read the Burlington Free Press , Special Agent Boyd was watching the cars arriving. Visiting time was about to begin, and groups of people with carrier bags and bunches of flowers were gathering at the door of the hospital, making it difficult for him to see if anyone came out. The nurse had given him a good description of the man, and Boyd was fairly sure he knew which one was his car. The car park had been almost empty when he’d arrived and it had been easy to find the only vehicle with Canadian number plates – the visitor had told the nurse he’d driven down from Montreal so it must be his. Boyd had parked in a spot where he could see both the door of the hospital and the car. Now that the car park was beginning to fill up he felt less conspicuous.

Boyd was used to surveillance work but his usual targets were drug-runners and other crooks. He had no counter-intelligence experience, but he’d been told that the man in the hospital might be a spy. That would mean that the man who had come to visit him – this Ohlson character – might be a spy too, and that would mean he’d be a lot more professional than the average criminal. Boyd was just a bit nervous; he didn’t want to screw this one up.