The Police Doctor's Discovery

She had barely finished eating when her phone rang and, desperately trying to swallow the last mouthful, she answered it, expecting it to be her father or perhaps Jeremy, although she and Jeremy had agreed to have as little contact as possible during this trial separation period.

‘Hello?’ she said. There was a silence on the other end then the caller hung up. With a little grimace Rachel replaced the receiver, only for the phone to ring again immediately.

‘Hello?’ she said, ‘Who is this?’

‘Rachel?’

Her heart jumped. ‘Yes...?’

‘It’s Nick. Nick Kowalski.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hello.’ She’d known it was him as soon as he’d spoken her name—had recognised his voice.

‘You’re eating,’ he said abruptly. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, it’s all right,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ve just finished.’

‘I understand you are duty doctor for the station tonight.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right.’

‘I need a doctor to examine a man who has been brought in for questioning.’

‘What’s the problem?’ She hoped she sounded professional and efficient even though for some extraordinary reason her pulse was racing.

‘He seems disorientated and his movements are uncoordinated.’

‘Has he been drinking?’

‘Not as far as we know.’

‘I’ll come down now.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Oh, Nick?’ There was a slight pause.

‘Yes?’

‘Did you phone just now—a moment ago?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter—it must have been a wrong number. I’ll be with you shortly.’

She hung up and stared at the phone for a moment. Why in the world had she reacted in such a silly way to the sound of Nick’s voice? Had it been because she hadn’t imagined that he would phone her? But that was stupid—given the fact that she was area police doctor, it was quite on the cards that he might phone her. Usually she would expect it to be the duty sergeant who would do so but it certainly wasn’t outside the realms of possibility for a DCI. Hastily she took her dishes to the kitchen then ran upstairs, changed her skirt for a pair of trousers and pulled on a warm sweater before picking up her case and leaving the house. In spite of her earlier conclusions that Nick was bad news and should be avoided at all costs, she found that as she drove to police headquarters her pulse was still racing and she felt a level of excitement at the thought of working with him that she hadn’t felt for a very long time.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS quite dark by the time she reached police headquarters, another indication that autumn was almost upon them. Locking her car, Rachel climbed the steps at the front of the building and on opening the main doors found Nick waiting for her in Reception. He looked tense, wound up like a tightly coiled spring, and for one moment she was tempted to apologise in case she’d kept him waiting. Then she thought better of it. This man was not her boss or her superior, she was not answerable to him and it would be as well for her to remember that fact in all her dealings with him.

‘Rachel.’ He turned on his heel.

‘You have a patient for me?’ She nodded at the sergeant on the desk, not Harry Mason this time but a younger man who likewise acknowledged her with a nod. ‘Yes,’ Nick replied curtly, ‘come this way.’ She followed him out of the reception area down two corridors to the cells at the rear of the building. The place smelt of pine disinfectant. A radio somewhere played rap music and occasional shouts and mutterings could be heard from the cells they passed.

‘Has this man been charged?’ asked Rachel.

‘No, not yet,’ Nick replied, ‘but I’m anxious to tie this case up—these arrests have come at the end of a lengthy operation involving a large number of my men.’

‘So...’ Rachel raised one eyebrow. ‘Inconvenient that one is sick at the eleventh hour, is that what you’re saying?’

‘If you want to put it that way.’ Nick’s jaw tightened.

‘Why is he in a cell?’

‘Because it seemed the best place—he collapsed and we put him on the nearest bed.’

‘Can you tell me anything about his behaviour before the collapse?’ she asked.

‘Very erratic,’ he replied, ‘bizarre almost—he was acting as if he was drunk but there was no smell of alcohol. He also seemed to have some sort of tremor which is what led me to suspect this may be a medical problem.’ As he finished speaking Nick opened the door to a cell where Rachel could see a man lying on the bed and a uniformed officer standing beside him.

‘Do we know his name?’ asked Rachel.

‘Masters,’ Nick replied.

‘And his first name?’ Rachel bent over the inert form of the man.

‘Paul.’

‘Paul, can you hear me?’ The man’s eyes were closed and as Rachel took his wrist she found him to have a rapid pulse. He appeared pale and his skin was cold and clammy to the touch. There was also a distinctive, sweetish smell about him.

‘Did he have anything on him to indicate that he may be diabetic?’ asked Rachel, checking around his neck to see if he was wearing any sort of tag and failing to find one.

Nick glanced up at the officer who shook his head. ‘No, nothing,’ he replied, then after a moment’s pause, he said, ‘Do you think that’s what this is?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Rachel nodded and opened her case. ‘A pinprick test will decide it.’ Carefully, watched by Nick and the attending officer, she carried out the test then nodded. ‘As I thought,’ she said, ‘his blood sugar’s very low—he’s in a hypoglycaemic coma.’

‘Can you treat that?’ asked Nick.

‘I can give him an injection.’ Rachel opened her case and took out packets containing a syringe and ampoules of dextrose.

Moments later she identified a vein in the man’s arm and administered the injection. Almost immediately he began to stir then he opened his eyes.

‘Paul,’ she said gently after a few moments, ‘are you with us again?’

Paul Masters gazed up at her, his expression almost one of disbelief, then as he moved his head and caught sight of Nick and the officer behind him he rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘I thought I’d died and gone to heaven and this was an angel.’ He inclined his head in Rachel’s direction. ‘Then I see your ugly mugs and I know it was all a dream.’

‘No, Paul,’ said Rachel briskly, ‘it wasn’t a dream—it was a diabetic coma. Your blood sugar had dropped to a critical low. Don’t you wear a tag to alert anyone to the fact that you’re diabetic?’