‘But I was sent out here specifically to talk with him,’ said Julianne, trying her best to match the officious tone of the matron. She’d dealt with this type before: punishing old dykes of a kind often found in large institutions populated by women. They being boarding schools, hospitals and female prisons.

‘I’m sure I could not care less about what you were sent out here to do, young lady. Mr Ross is under deep sedation. An induced coma, indeed. He has been very badly injured and I have very specific instructions from his surgeon and, I might add, from the police, that he is not to be disturbed. I don’t know what you hope to achieve, anyway. Do you understand what a coma is?’

Jules drew on all her reserves of patience. She’d at least made it past reception and into the office of this terrible battleaxe. The room seemed to have been decorated by the same designer with a disregard for budget as the police station at Bagot Road. The chair in which matron’s ample behind was parked, for instance, looked like about three thousand dollars’ worth of arse-planting technology.

‘Look,’ Jules said, softening her tone. ‘I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. But I’m new in this job, I’m just finding my way through, and quite frankly my boss is a rather scary South African man and, I suspect, eats puppies for breakfast. If I have to return to the office and tell him I didn’t even get past the front door, let alone see our client, I fear for my safety. And for the puppies.’

She had found in the past that playing helpless and needy often worked with these old buzzards. You had to appeal to their sense of importance. This one was no different. Jules could actually feel the older woman weakening at the pathetic plight of this blue-suited pretty young thing, out of her depth, far from home, in desperate need of indulgence by a firm-handed matronly type.

‘I accept it will be impossible to talk to him, if he’s unconscious,’ Julianne went on, adjusting her square-rimmed glasses for maximum effect. ‘But it would mean a lot if I could just lay eyes on him, Matron. Make sure he’s all in one piece.’ She hesitated. ‘He is all in one piece, isn’t he?’

Such heartfelt concern for a client seemed to strike a nerve.

‘He hasn’t lost any limbs or organs,’ the woman replied, gradually losing her battleaxe demeanour. ‘But he does have some bad burns, and quite a few stitches . . .’ She held up a meaty hand suddenly, to ward off Julianne’s distress. ‘He’s in good hands, though. Royal Darwin Hospital is a world centre of excellence for the treatment of burns and explosive trauma, and some of their best people are consulting surgeons here. Mr Ross is under their care.’