“I’m concerned,” he said, “that Thomas has been pushing himself too hard.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s picked up an infection and he’s running a fever,” said Dr. Walid.

“He was okay at breakfast,” I said.

“Man could be dead on his feet before he’d admit to it,” said Dr. Walid. “I don’t want him disturbed for the next couple of days. He was shot through the chest, Peter, there’s tissue damage there that will never fully heal, and it will make him prone to chest infections like the one he’s got now. I’ve put him on a course of antibiotics, which I expect Molly to make sure he completes.”

Molly arrived with the good Wedgwood tea set on a lacquered wooden tray. She poured for Dr. Walid with quick dainty movements and pointedly left without pouring mine. Obviously she blamed me for Nightingale’s relapse—perhaps she knew about the beer.

Dr. Walid poured my tea and helped himself to a HobNob.

“I heard Leslie is in town for an operation,” I said.

“She’s going to be fine,” said Dr. Walid. “You just need to make sure that when she asks for your help, you’re ready to give it. How do you feel about her injuries?”

“It didn’t happen to me,” I said. “It happened to Leslie and Dr. Framline and that poor Hari Krishna sod and the others.”

“Do you feel guilty?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t do it to them and I did my best to stop it. But I feel guilty that I don’t feel guilty, if that helps.”

“Not all my patients start off dead,” said Dr. Walid. “Not in my medical practice anyway. Sometimes, no matter what you do, the outcomes can be less than optimal. It’s not whether you feel responsible, it’s whether you don’t shy away when she needs you.”

“The thought of her face scares me to death,” I said, before I could stop myself.

“Not as much as it scares her,” he said and patted my arm. “Not as much as the thought that you might reject her scares her. Make sure you are there when she needs you—that’s your responsibility in this—your part of the job, if you like.”

We were way over our daily quota of emo so I changed the subject.

“Do you know about the nest of vampires in Purley?” I asked.

“That was a nasty business.”

“Nightingale called what I felt there the tactus disvitae, antilife,” I said. “He implied that the vampires sucked ‘life’ from their environment.”

“As I understand it,” he said.

“Have you ever had a chance to section the brain of one of their victims?”

“Usually they’re in an advanced state of desiccation when we get them,” said Dr. Walid. “But one or two of them have been fresh enough to get some useful results. I think I know where you’re going with this.”

“Did the brain sections show signs of hyperthaumic degradation?”