Someone would come forward with information about this man soon. Young, good-looking chap like that had to have friends and family. The phone will be the key, she thought. Scroll through to the most-called number, and bingo. It was locked with a password, but the tech boys could open anything, given enough time.

“So, what’s the next step?” asked Jo.

“We’re monitoring him. That’s all we can do for now, apart from keeping him as comfortable as possible.”

The doctor approached the bed, where Gregor’s head was supported by the padded helmet device and a small rubber ring–shaped pillow. “This is to keep pressure off the wound. Tissue damage and so on.”

Jo said, “Can I get a look at the scan?”

The nurse turned to a computer monitor that was mounted on the wall and made a few clicks, and the scan appeared. Harper and the doctor stepped closer.

“You see this area, this sort of circular impression? That’s the site of the injury.”

Jo could just make out the place she indicated, which was about the size of a tennis ball.

“But as you can see, there’s no bleeding to the brain,” said the doctor. “I’d say he was hit with something roundish. And heavy. Maybe a large hammer or a mallet. Something with a sharp edge or corner. Big swing from behind—pow. Or, could have been more than one blow, and that’s why the skin was broken. But I’m not an expert in weapons.”

Pow, she’d said, and done the action to go with it, like an underhand shot in tennis. Jo had seen many people become desensitized to the horrific nature of their work. In the police it was more than commonplace. She felt it was important to remember that in both professions they dealt with extremes. In such a position you had to choose: try your best to keep a sense of perspective, or let the job turn you into the kind of person that looked at a man in a coma and found it interesting rather than shocking. She considered herself to have achieved a good balance, so far. She could look at Gregor Franks and feel terrible for him. Then she could put those feelings away and get on with the job.

Just then, an alarm sounded somewhere in the main ward.

“Excuse me,” said Doctor Locke, and he was gone. The nurse followed, absenting himself with such swiftness that Jo stood there with her mouth open for a few seconds, her hand on the edge of the open door. There were sounds of feet running, trolleys being wheeled across, a cry of “Clear!,” and the unmistakable loud bleep and clang of the defibrillation machine. Jo turned back to Gregor, letting the door fall shut behind her, closing the noise out. She watched his chest barely moving as he breathed. Her mobile rang into the silence.