Her heart rate shot up, blood whooshing in her ears, belly lurching as if she might start retching again. Ferguson had died and she was about to be arrested for his murder. Or Ferguson had recovered and reported what she’d done. Attempted murder.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the cop. ‘Are you Dr Kaczmarek?’

Paula just nodded, not sure she could trust her voice to come out plausibly.

‘You treated Mr—uh …’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Mr Ferguson?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did. Yes.’ Too many yeses. ‘Did Mr Ferguson … ?’

‘He died.’ Then the cop winced, realising there were two little kids behind him in the waiting area, and he lowered his voice. ‘The gentleman passed away en route to the hospital.’

Not a gentleman. And now dead. Because she’d killed him.

‘That’s why I’m here,’ added the cop.

Paula was suddenly light-headed, grabbing onto the upper counter so she wouldn’t fall.

The policeman reached out to steady her. ‘You right there, doctor? Must’ve been full-on today. Oh, but I guess you handle stuff like that all the time. Part of the job.’

‘Oh well, yes, but no, it’s …’ Paula mumbled.

The police officer indicated that he’d like to move away from the desk, out of Jemma’s earshot, for a private exchange. This was it. They wanted to take Paula in for questioning, conduct a full investigation.

‘The thing is, Dr Kaczmarek,’ explained the cop, ‘the docs at the hospital thought we could avoid having to do an autopsy on this gentleman, if you’d feel happy to do the death certificate.’

‘Oh.’

‘I mean, based on your medical records and what you saw when he had his—you know …’

‘His cardiac episode.’

‘Right. Exactly. If you reckon that’s appropriate, it’d save everyone a lot of unnecessary trouble.’

This officer was not here to arrest her or even to question her. She was being asked to sign the death certificate for the man she’d just murdered.

As her breathing and heart rate steadied, Paula was able to take a clear-eyed look at the person inside the police uniform. The guy was young, maybe not long out of the academy, self-conscious, awkward. He was trying to hide his nerves about handling this duty on his own, but at the same time she could see he was relishing the authority and importance of the job, occupying the uniform with a slightly pompous stiffness, like a boy playing police dress-ups.

Based on Mark Lang’s files, Ferguson’s health status and the episode in her surgery, Paula could justifiably write the man’s death certificate and it wasn’t uncommon for police to make this request of a doctor. In the past, Paula had signed death certificates in similar situations, even if this situation was—well, not entirely similar.