The Impossible Dead by Ian Rankin Page A

the Forth Road Bridge.
    They had passed the Victoria Hospital on one of their drives around Kirkcaldy. It resembled a building site, because it was one, a shiny new edifice near to completion standing next to the old original complex. Fox showed his ID at reception and gave them Teresa Collins’s name. He was told which ward to go to and pointed in the direction of the lifts. He eventually found himself at a nurses’ station.
    ‘No visitors,’ came the reply when he asked for Teresa, so he showed his ID again.
    ‘I don’t want to disturb her if she’s awake,’ he explained.
    The nurse stared at him, wondering, perhaps, what use Teresa would be to him asleep. But eventually she said she would check. He thanked her and watched her go. Behind him, a row of half a dozen hard plastic chairs sat next to the ward’s swing doors. A young man had been sitting there, busy texting with his thumb. He was on his feet now, crossing to the dispenser on the wall opposite and treating himself to some of the antibacterial hand foam.
    ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said, rubbing his palms together.
    ‘True,’ Fox agreed.
    ‘Police?’ the young man guessed.
    ‘And you are …?’
    ‘You look like police, and I pride myself on knowing most of the CID faces around here. Edinburgh, is it? Professional Standards? Heard you were in town.’ He was doing something with his phone’s screen. When he held it out in front of him, Fox realised it doubled as a recording device.
    The sandy-haired young man in the black anorak was a reporter.
    ‘If you don’t mind me asking, were you at Teresa Collins’s flat earlier today?’
    Fox stood his ground, saying nothing.
    ‘I’ve got descriptions of three plain-clothes police officers …’ The journalist looked him up and down. ‘You’re a dead ringer for one of them. Inspector Malcolm Fox?’ As hard as he tried, something in Fox’s expression must have changed. The journalist gave a lopsided smile. ‘It was on a card left on the armchair,’ he offered by way of explanation.
    ‘How about a name for you?’ Fox asked in an undertone.
    ‘I’m Brian Jamieson.’
    ‘Local paper?’
    ‘Sometimes. Can I ask you what happened in the flat?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘But you were there?’ He waited a few moments for an answer. ‘And now you’re here …’
    Fox turned and walked in the direction the nurse had taken. She appeared around a corner.
    ‘Drowsy from the sedative,’ she informed him. Fox checked that Jamieson wasn’t in earshot, but kept his voice just audible in any case.
    ‘She’s all right, though?’
    ‘A few stitches. We’ll just keep her the one night. Psychological Services will assess her in the morning.’
    After which, Fox knew, she’d either be sent home or transferred elsewhere.
    ‘If you wait twenty minutes,’ the nurse added, ‘she may well drift off.’
    Fox glanced in Jamieson’s direction. ‘You know he’s a reporter?’
    She followed his look, then nodded.
    ‘What’s he been asking you?’
    ‘I’ve not told him anything.’
    ‘Can’t security kick him off the ward?’
    She turned her attention back to Fox. ‘He’s not being a nuisance.’
    ‘Has he asked to speak to her?’
    ‘He’s been told it’s not going to happen.’
    ‘So why is he still here?’
    The nurse’s tone grew cooler. ‘Why don’t you ask him? Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ She brushed past him and returned to her desk, where a phone was ringing. Fox stood there a further thirty seconds or so. Jamieson was back in his chair, busy texting. He looked up as Fox approached.
    ‘What are you expecting to get from her?’ Fox asked.
    ‘That’s the very question I was about to put to you, Inspector.’
    ‘Not another one!’ the nurse was complaining into the receiver. When she saw that they were watching her, she turned away, cupping a hand over the handset. Jamieson had been about to push his phone’s mic in Fox’s direction again, but he lowered his arm instead. Then