John Matthews - Past Imperfect

But despite the inconsistencies, time would be the deciding factor. And there simply was not enough of it for Duclos to have committed the crime. Even at excessive speeds, he might have had ten or fifteen spare minutes at most. The minimum estimate covering both attacks was forty minutes. Given the background of his debates with Poullain over Machanaud, even mentioning the inconsistencies would be seen by Poullain as obstructive and pointless unless something new came up about Duclos' timing. Dominic wished now he hadn't made the trip; he felt deflated. He had set out in hope of deflecting Poullain's one track case against Machanaud, and instead would be returning with information which would help to further seal his fate.

Chapeau poured the lighter fluid generously on the cotton sheet, then bundled it into the corner with some other sheets and thick towels.

He listened for a second to sounds outside on the corridor: nothing audible. It was important that nobody saw him come out of the small store room. Once the sheets were lit, there was no turning back, he would have to exit immediately. The small room would fill with smoke in seconds.

He lit the sheet and stepped back hastily as the flames leapt. He watched for only a second to ensure the sheets beneath had caught — then exited. The corridor was empty, and he headed past room 4A towards where the corridor angled off at an L, at the end of which was the fire alarm. A few paces past 4A he heard footsteps close to the top of the stairs. He'd been lucky; two seconds more and he'd have been trapped inside the store room. But it was important also that he wasn't seen rushing away from the store room, and he picked up pace — only just making it behind the angle of the L before they reached the top of the stairs.

The corridor ahead was twenty-five yards long with two doors at its end, three on its right flank and one on the left past a window. The fire alarm was close to the end, just before the two final doors.

Suddenly, the middle of the three doors on his right opened. A doctor stepped out.

Merde! From the sound of their footsteps, the people who had come up the stairs were also heading in his direction, just about to turn into the corridor. But there were no cries of alarm, obviously the smoke hadn't yet started seeping through the door.

Noticing Chapeau hesitate and look around as if he was lost for a moment, the doctor asked, 'Looking for someone?'

'Dr Durrand,’ Chapeau answered, hastily recalling a name he'd seen on the resident doctors list by the reception. Chapeau fought to control his agitation, appear calm.

'You won't find him up here, I don't think. First floor, optimology.'

The two people, an elderly couple heading for a door at the end, passed them. His porter's uniform shouldn't raise suspicions; it was an almost exact match. Optimology? His mind spun, panning frantically for options. His eyes fixed on the number of the furthest door. 'I've just come from optimology, and they said I might find him in 6C.'

'What's the patient's name?'

'They didn't say.'

The doctor shrugged. 'There's nobody in 6C right now. New patient isn't coming in till tonight, and the old patient was moved back to the general ward yesterday.'

'Okay. I'll try there.' Chapeau headed back the way he'd come. Pacing, calming his breath. He silently cursed: crucial seconds had been lost, and the doctor might later remember him. Behind him, at the end of the corridor, the couple had already disappeared. Calming. The sound of the doctor's footsteps receded beyond his own rapid, shallow breaths. But ahead now, at the angle of the L, he could see the first trails of smoke drifting across, misty grey suffused with stark sunlight from the window. And he begged that the doctor didn't turn around suddenly and see it. He listened intently to the sounds of the doctor’s fading footsteps between his own, a faint shuffle, a door opening… slowly closing. All too slowly.

Chapeau let out a long breath as it finally shut, then ran the last few steps towards the smoke. A nurse had come out from the general ward at the far end, looking equally startled as she noticed the smoke. Chapeau lifted one arm in acknowledgement and ran back towards the alarm. Halfway along, he heard the plaintive cry of 'Fire!..' from the nurse.

He took the small brass hammer on a chain at the side of the alarm and swung it sharply, smashing the glass and releasing the alarm button.

The bell was deafening, echoing from the stark walls and floor. Chapeau ran back swiftly towards the smoke and room 4A. He heard a door open behind him, some muttering, a sudden startled voice — but he didn't look back. As he turned the L and came back into the main corridor, five or six people had come out of their rooms.

'Is it another fire drill?' someone asked.

Faint babble of replies, more startled voices rising above, the final realization — as the build up of smoke became evident — that this was the real thing. Sudden mobilization, more people starting to spill out of the rooms, most of them from the large general ward at the end. Some were now heading for the stairs and the five or six quickly grew to over twenty. Panic, confusion.

Chapeau suddenly felt more secure among the milling crowd; hardly anyone was paying him any attention. He took the syringe from his pocket. The needle was already attached, and he slipped off the plastic protection cap. Room 4A was only a few yards to one side. He tucked the syringe neatly up inside his sleeve, and reached out for the door.

A quick intake of breath, but he felt confident. His adrenaline was racing because of the fire and activity around, not nerves. The scenario was perfect. It would all be over within a minute.

It didn't strike him as odd that he'd seen nobody run from 4A until he opened the door wide. No nurse or doctor, nobody in attendance. A split second elation that he'd been lucky and chosen a totally un-guarded moment before realizing — as he looked through the glass screen — that there was no boy either.

'Shit… Shiiit!' He stood transfixed, staring at the empty space. Around him, pandemonium was building. He was the only person on the second floor not in motion. A steady stream was now heading for the stairs, and a medic with a fire extinguisher was spraying the inside of the store room while a porter rushed for another extinguisher.

It took a moment for Chapeau to break himself out of his trance and ask someone passing where the boy had gone. He'd stopped three nurses before finding someone who knew. 'He was taken into the operating theatre over an hour ago.'

'Thanks.' Chapeau merged with the throng heading down the stairs. The porter had joined the medic with a second fire extinguisher. They would probably have the fire out within a few minutes.

In the first floor operating theatre, the alarm bell rang ominously in the background. The Chief Surgeon, Dr Trichot, asked one of the nurses to find out what was wrong.

She came back in after a moment. 'Fire on the second floor, apparently.'

'Is it confined to there?'

'I don't know, I didn't ask.'

Trichot nodded for his assisting nurse to dab his forehead, and silently cursed. 'Let's assume that there's no immediate danger, or at least someone will come running in when there is, and continue. Please! '

The assisting nurse took the scalpel from him as he held it out tersely. She thrust a self-retaining retractor into the same hand.

The boy, Christian Rosselot, had been on the operating table over thirty minutes now, but they'd lost vital time getting X-rays and angiograms and preparing for anaesthetic. In that time, the temporal skull section by the boy's ear had bulged alarmingly with an active clot.

But two nights ago he'd operated on the boy for a similar clot in the parietal lobe, snatched him within minutes from the jaws of death — and he was determined not to be defeated now. Fire or no fire. The clanging bell was enfuriating, grating at his nerves. It couldn't have come at a worse time. He needed all his concentration at this point. Implements were placed in his hand and taken back without him looking up, the last an electric burr drill. Its high pitched drone lowered as Trichot cut into the bone of the skull.