‘The phone only works right in the very middle,’ she repeated, pushing him backwards.

‘What’s going on?’ Dropping his phone in his pocket, Marty grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her furiously. ‘I don’t understand why you have Lulu. Are you in this with Parrish?’

He felt a sharp punch to his inner thigh. But that made no sense because Mel had barely moved her arm. Heat flashed through his body. Confused, he looked down. In her hand she held a hospital-issue scalpel. Drops of blood shone on the silver blade.

‘What did you do that for?’

Marty touched the area where she had cut him. His jeans were damp, the blood starting to seep through. He jammed his finger against the hole. Fuck, she’d aimed for the femoral artery.

‘That’s for Archie and for Sarah Hayden,’ she spat. ‘You killed them both.’

She put her palms against his chest and shoved him hard. This time, Marty wasn’t ready, his mind in shock, his leg bleeding. He sprawled backwards onto the cold stone tiles. Mel tugged the door shut, and he heard the sound of the brass key turning in the lock.

With his thumb still pressed against the artery, Marty crawled to the centre of the chapel and flicked on his phone. She’d lied. No coverage.

Christ, how badly had she cut him?

Sarah Hayden.

One of the four deaths under his care that the hospital inquiry had investigated. Eighteen months old. Pneumococcal meningitis. But the little girl didn’t have the usual symptoms. A lot of vomiting and diarrhoea but no neck stiffness. No photophobia. No seizures. Marty had diagnosed gastroenteritis and set up an IV drip to keep Sarah hydrated. He’d thought her slight drowsiness was related to dehydration. When Sarah hadn’t improved, they’d done the lumbar puncture. Despite the fast infusion of IV antibiotics and corticosteroids, she was brain dead within five hours. He’d had to deliver the news to her parents, Sally and David Hayden. Sally clinging to her husband, sobbing and sobbing; David stone-faced, unable to utter a word. And lying on the white hospital sheets, Sarah, their lifeless toddler. Sarah’s brain scans showed severe inflammation of the meninges and the subarachnoid space.

Her death had been investigated by a coroner and, later, by the hospital inquiry. They both determined that Marty had followed correct procedure. But Marty blamed himself. Meningitis was such a quick killer. Sometimes parents didn’t bring their child in fast enough, and the medical staff were up against the clock. In this case, he’d had time. If only he’d started antibiotics straight away, Sarah would have had a fighting chance.