‘We have two men, mid-twenties or thereabouts, both exhibiting a series of cuts and bruises, one complaining of shortness of breath and self-diagnosing a cracked rib.’

‘Self-diagnosis,’ squinted Harlan, shoving the glasses back up his nose to sit in the well-worn crevice near the bridge. ‘Self-diagnosis is for hypochondriacs and the weak of mind, my friend. I’ll bet that there’s nothing wrong with him.’

‘You can go see for yourself.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘But I have to warn you not to approach too closely.’ Raising one bushy eyebrow, Harlan asked, ‘And why might that be?’

Chandler knew that he should warn the doctor but he also knew that Harlan would react in one of three ways: with intrigue, horror, or by treating him like a celebrity. The jail-bound patients Harlan typically dealt with were drunks and down-at-heels sporting nothing but the most superficial of wounds. And though Gabriel and Heath’s injuries seemed to be of the same inconsequential level, their crimes certainly were not.

Before they entered the cells Chandler ushered him aside.

‘You have to promise to keep this quiet, Harlan. Once you leave here.’

The doctor’s eyes loomed large in his strong-lensed glasses.

‘I mean it, Harlan. I’m telling you this for your own security, but you must keep it secret.’

‘My lips are sealed.’

Chandler could only hope against hope that Harlan was telling the truth. Things had a habit of leaking out with Harlan Adams, especially after he’d had a drink, his Hippocratic Oath conquered by the temptation of sharing gossip. But he was the only medic the town had. It was hard to get a young doctor to come and live in the middle of nowhere.

After a few seconds of forced silence, Harlan’s brain couldn’t cope with the intrigue and charged his mouth with saying something.

‘Who’s been fighting, then? Someone we know? Miners? Locals? A domestic? There’s so little to do around here domestic violence counts as a hobby.’

With his hand on the door, Chandler stopped the rotund man, touching the damp, sleeveless shirt. ‘No, none of those. And watch yourself in here.’

The lack of amusement in Chandler’s voice succeeded in tempering the doctor’s spirits. At least momentarily.

‘Who have you got in here? They must be dangerous.’

‘They are,’ said Chandler. ‘They might be.’

Since Heath was the one complaining, he was first up. As Harlan checked him over Chandler stood close, ready to intervene. As loud and irritating as he was Harlan was good at his job. He set to work cleaning up Heath’s face with a myriad of gauze and swabs, explaining to both his patient and bodyguard that there was nothing major to worry about, a few abrasions and a cut lip, a clean-up job only, no stitches required.

Then Harlan commenced the small talk.