Felicity Young - Take Out

‘I’ll take the sample down now if you like,’ the receptionist said at last.

‘Um, I’d like to speak to the scientist myself, if that’s okay.’

‘Sorry, civilians aren’t allowed near the labs.’

This time she produced her police ID, casually dropping the name of the chief forensic scientist as she did so. After consultation with her supervisor and a phone call, the receptionist granted Stevie entry.

With the Get Smart tune thumping in her head, Stevie followed a security guard down a warren of corridors and clanging fire doors, until she found herself in the paint analysis department. The young man at the reception desk told her Mr Douglas would join her soon, if she wouldn’t mind just waiting for a moment.

Mark Douglas pushed his way through the double door within a couple of minutes. Stevie leapt to her feet. ‘You are still here!’

‘Where else would I be, Stephanie Hooper, working on a cray boat in the Abrolhos?’ Despite the gruff tones, the warm kiss on the cheek told her he was glad to see her. Years ago they had dated casually, but with little in common to keep the spark going, the relationship had broken up without animosity. All he’d ever wanted to talk about was his job, she remembered. As she sat on the chair with him now in the reception area, she hoped nothing had changed.

They both refused the receptionist’s offer of coffee; Stevie’s nerves didn’t need any more stimulation.

She saw Mark glance at the wall clock above the desk. ‘You have a child now I hear?’ he asked to be polite.

‘Yes, Izzy’s seven.’ In a minute’s time, if she were to ask him to repeat the name and age of her daughter, she knew he wouldn’t remember.

‘Cool.’ He paused. ‘How did you manage to wangle yourself down here? Police samples are usually left up top.’

‘This isn’t exactly a police job. I needed to see you personally about this.’ She handed him the envelope. ‘This needs to be analysed asap. I have no signature from the OIC of the case because the tests are unauthorised. I’ll pay from my own pocket. I know private sector jobs are usually put way down the priority list, but I was hoping these tests could be done quickly.’

He examined her request form. ‘For old times’ sake?’ he asked without looking up from the paperwork.

She felt herself colour. ‘Well...’

‘I’d have been offended if you hadn’t come to see me about this. I’ll do my best. You understand what the tests involve?’

By the time he looked up again, her colour had returned to normal. ‘I have a vague idea.’ She braced herself for the lecture she knew was to come.

‘The PDQ is a searchable database developed by the Canadians. It contains information on more than 13,000 makes of vehicles and 50,000 types of paint.’

Stevie stifled a yawn and made some appropriate noises of awe.

‘A car paint job is usually comprised of four layers. Four layer samples are collected worldwide, from car manufacturers, paint shops and junkyards, analysed by their chemical composition and coded into the database. These can then be used for comparison against paint samples taken from crime scenes or from suspect vehicles, providing an accurate picture of car manufacturer, make and model—I can show you how it’s done, if you like.’

Feeling herself beginning to sag, Stevie made an effort to straighten in her chair. ‘Sounds fascinating, Mark, but I mustn’t take up any more of your time.’ She stood to leave. Mark’s look of disappointment provoked a twang of guilt. Jeez, recently she’d been on enough guilt trips to open a travel agency. ‘So, the bottom line is can you tell me the exact make and model of the suspect car from this paint sample here?’

‘Provided it’s in the database. Vintage cars and custom jobs aren’t. Individual layers can be identified, though they are of course not necessarily an indication of model and make...’

Stevie cut him off. ‘And when will I have the results?’

‘Within the week.’

‘Sooner?’

‘I have to liaise with the PDQ in Canada.’ He smiled; dimples pricked both cheeks and she remembered her attraction to him all those years ago. ‘But I’ll do my best.’

He escorted her to the exit, turned as they passed through the heavy door. ‘I got married a couple of months ago. Jane’s a blood-spatter specialist in E wing.’

‘Congratulations,’ Stevie said and pecked him on the cheek. She hoped he’d be happy. He was a nice guy; he deserved it. (Image 13.1)

Image 13.1

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Something was crushing her, she couldn’t breathe. She fought for air, arms flailing, striking flesh and provoking a sharp cry of pain. ‘Jesus Christ, Stevie, be careful, you nearly cracked me in two!’

Monty! Christ , what was she doing? She sat up, pushed the hair from her face, and looked around, trying to get orientated. She was in the chair next to Monty’s bed, alongside a bunch of green curtains. She must have dozed off, head resting on the bed. With a hand against her chest, she willed her heart to stop pounding.

‘I’d give you some of this,’ Monty pointed to the morphine pump by his side. ‘But with you thumping around on top of me like that, I think I’ll need every last drop.’ To prove his point he pressed the button and administered another relieving dose.

‘I’m sorry,’ she shook her head and tried to shake the memory of the bad dream. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Better than you I’d say.’

She looked at her watch; she’d been at the hospital about two hours. One of the last things she remembered was helping the nurse assist Monty to the bathroom, supporting his elbow with one hand, the other pushing his drip, while the nurse carried the drains. The ordeal had been too much for him—and her too. She’d eased him back into bed and must have fallen asleep too.

‘Bad dream?’ he asked.

She nodded, passing him a glass of water from the bedside locker. ‘You’ve been told to drink more water,’ she reminded him.

‘Then bring me something to flavour it with.’ He sipped from the bent straw, examining it longingly. ‘Christ, I’d kill for a cigarette.’

‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Stevie took the glass from him and drained the rest of the water.

‘You were talking in your sleep,’ he said.

‘Was I?’

She said nothing more, concentrated on the noises from the passageway. A rattle, a rumble and a clink of spoons on china told her the tea trolley wasn’t far off. She was about to welcome the interruption when the sound continued past Monty’s room, receding into the background.

‘The trolley lady’s passed you by. You must have really pissed her off,’ she tried to joke.

Monty looked at her for a moment, unsmiling, then tilted his head to a rumpled newspaper on the visitor’s chair. ‘The accident was written up in Saturday’s paper.’ He collapsed back upon his pillows with a heavy sigh. ‘What a waste,’ he murmured, closing his eyes as if a wave had broken over him. ‘And here am I, old enough to be her father with years to go before my use-by date—if my surgeon is to be believed.’

Depression was a common side effect of heart surgery, and one of the reasons she had been sheltering Monty from the news. She searched his face, looking for signs of grief beyond grief. Thankfully at that moment, the morphine kicked in and he fell into a light doze. She continued to study his face, pale and drawn. Her gaze fell to the dressing down the centre of his shaved chest. As she envisioned the zipper- fdlike scar beneath, crusted with dried blood, she began to tremble uncontrollably.