‘It’s this fucking hand.’ He waved his right hand, which was wrapped in a tea towel, with a small patch of blood soaking through. ‘I’ve been trying to make missy here understand that I need to see a doctor and I always see a male doctor.’

Jemma threw Paula a tiny smile—This guy is such a fuckwit—but Paula could also see that the poor young woman’s eyes were swimming with tears.

‘Ah. Right.’ Paula nodded, surprised by how calm she was managing to sound. ‘Well, both our male doctors are unavailable this afternoon, but I have some time right now if that would suit you.’

Part of her wanted Ferguson to stomp away, but another part of her was curious.

‘You could go down to the hospital emergency department,’ Paula added, ‘but there’s no guarantee you’ll score a male doctor there either.’

The man gave a little snort.

‘Look, Mr—is it Ferguson? Hang on … are you Brody’s dad?’

‘Uh, yes,’ he replied, a bit confused.

‘I’m Dr Kaczmarek. I’ve seen your son a few times.’

Paula was careful not to mention seeing Brody two days ago, in case Rochelle hadn’t told her husband. In case that caused him to wonder if his wife had revealed anything.

In fact, Ian Ferguson looked blankly at her—he didn’t know or care much about his son’s doctor. His being here right now was simply a coincidence. It could be a useful coincidence, though: an opportunity for Paula to check out this man and assess the danger.

Ferguson hesitated for a moment but eventually he muttered, ‘Well, might as well get this hand sorted out.’

Paula indicated that he should follow her to the consulting room. She heard his heavy footsteps up the corridor behind her and suddenly her chest tightened. She was back in her living room, half crouched, breathless, hearing Matt’s shoes on the floorboards. Then a lurch in her belly, and she was in the moment when Matt paused by the bodies of his children and looked her in the eye.

Inside the consulting room, with Ian Ferguson sitting at the treatment table, up close, Paula was conscious of the bulk of the man. He was a head taller than her, hefty, with a wide barrel of a torso, his fair skin ruddy and sun-damaged, eyes so pale they were almost colourless in that massive head, like an enormous, sallow, weatherworn bull. He was carrying too much weight and there were hints of old injuries in the way he moved, but the power was still there in him, in those colossal shoulders and huge mottled hands.

Ferguson unwrapped the tea towel and placed his right hand on the surgical sheet to show Paula his injury. The gash down the outside of his thumb wasn’t deep and had already stopped bleeding.

‘How did you do this?’ Paula asked.