Harper checked herself. She allowed herself one deep breath and pushed the surfacing feelings back in the box, where they belonged.

When she reached the sweeping semicircle of desk, she flashed her warrant card at the uniformed woman behind it, and noted that the woman’s name badge read: Anthea Mallison, Midwife.

“Yes?”

It was the same sharp “Yes” that had shot from the static at the door.

“I’m here about Lauren Tranter,” said Harper.

“Bay three, bed C,” said Anthea. The “Yes” had gone up at the end, a demand for information. “Bed C” went down, with a strong sense of conclusion. Anthea Mallison, Midwife was done here. Her eyes had barely left the screen.

Over at Bay three, a man in a grey shirt was leaving. He fixed his eyes on the ward exit doors and headed straight towards them, radiating busy. Harper stood in his way.

“Excuse me,” said the man, meaning get out of my way. He wore an ID on a lanyard. Harper caught the word psychiatrist as he stepped sideways to go around her.

She stepped sideways with him as if in a dance, blocking him, holding up her warrant card. “Hello, I’m DS Harper. I won’t keep you. And you are?”

Irritated, by the look of you, thought Harper. And tired. Very, very tired.

“Dr Gill. I’m the duty psychiatrist. And I’m afraid I’ve just had an emergency call, so I really must leave, I’m sorry.”

There was a time, probably only ten or so years ago, when DS Harper’s delicate stature and artfully messed-up blond ponytail caused people to utter that line about police officers getting younger every day. The comments trailed off as the years passed, and now they didn’t seem to happen anymore, ever. She was thinking about what it might mean for her, that not only had people stopped saying she looked young for her profession but that this doctor—this fully qualified, adult doctor standing in front of her now, looked about twelve.

Dr Gill tried to side-step her once again, but she went with him. He sighed in frustration.

Harper spoke quickly. “This won’t take long,” she assured him, “no need to worry. A patient, Mrs Tranter, called 999 this morning. Is there anything you can tell me about that?”

“Yes,” said Dr Gill, apparently pleased to be able to provide a speedy answer, “it was a medical emergency, not a police matter. I had hoped someone would contact you about it.”

“They did, but I wasn’t quite clear about the circumstances.”

“Well, that’s standard, you wouldn’t be. It’s confidential. All I can tell you is that the patient in question, when she called you, was experiencing problems relating to a temporary impairment of her mental health.”

“So, nothing to do with an intruder?”

A flicker of incredulity crossed the face of Dr Gill, before the curtain of professionalism dropped down. Very tired indeed.

“In my field, officer, patients often see things that are not there. And a lot of the time they call the police about it, believing what they see to be real. I’m surprised you haven’t come across it before.”