Free Tampered by Ross Pennie

him. People did that. They humoured Hamish Wakefield, the prickly Sherlock, so he wouldn’t blow a gasket. Well, sooner or later Zol would see that Hamish was right. Hell’s bells, all Zol had to do was read the freegan article on Wikipedia.
    He completed his exercises and killed the CD player. He turned on his cellphone. The display showed one voice-mail message from an unknown caller, left ten minutes ago. Unknown callers were usually anxious patients who blocked their identities. He wasn’t on call for clinical cases this month. Someone else would have to handle it. He’d redirect them to the medical centre’s switchboard.
    The caller was elderly and not used to leaving messages. Hamish could hear that in his voice. “Dr. Wakefield . . . This is Art Greenwood, Zol Szabo’s granddad . . . well, almost his grandfather. By marriage, if that counts after a divorce. Zol said it would be okay if I called you. Would you please return my call? We’re really in trouble here and don’t know where to turn.” There was a pause while the phone rustled in the caller’s hands and the man nearly hung up without leaving his number. He came back on the line, apologized again, and recited his number.
    Fifteen minutes later, Hamish strode toward the large glass doors under the ornate wooden canopy at the entrance to Camelot Lodge. He could see an elderly gentleman sitting in a scooter by the reception desk. He had the crossword in his lap, but seemed more intent on scrutinizing arriving visitors than completing the day’s puzzle.
    “Thank you for coming so quickly, Dr. Wakefield,” Art Greenwood said after introducing himself. “Zol said you were the best.” He pointed to the coat rack in the corner of the common room. “Hang your things over there. They’ll be safe. No one around but us old birds, and fewer of us than ever.” He flipped the switch on his scooter and headed toward the elevator. “We’ll go right up to her room.”
    “She’s expecting me?”
    “Of course. Dr. Jamieson left this morning for a week’s holiday. We’ve had it with him, anyway. A pill pusher of the first order. No one’s getting better. New cases keep occurring. As you youngsters would say, the shit keeps hitting the fan.”
    Normally, Hamish couldn’t waltz in and write orders for another doctor’s patients. But these weren’t normal times, and he was now working for the health unit in an official capacity. The law provided for Zol’s boss Peter Trinnock to appoint a team to plunge into any epidemic. This situation was going to take hip waders.
    “How long has Betty been ill?” Hamish asked, rubbing sanitizer between his fingers as he strode to keep up with Art’s scooter.
    “Two or three days. Started as a gurgly tummy but Jamieson said it was a bladder infection. Treated it with antibiotics, of course. Then last evening she got hit with the runs. Told me she was up and down all night, poor thing. And she’s got the shivers. I’m terrified she’s going to get that terrible headache that often spells . . . well . . . you know . . .”
    They took the elevator to the second floor. Art led the way to Betty’s door. Hamish gave Art his pen and watch for safekeeping, then rolled up his shirt sleeves. There were no isolation gowns or gloves in sight, but he wasn’t going in there unprotected. He pulled a pair of vinyl gloves from his pants pocket and put them on before knocking on the door.
    The first thing he noticed was the pungent smell of commercial air freshener in Betty’s room. He rubbed his nose against the sleeve of his shirt, forced a smile, and introduced himself. Betty smiled back and reminded him that he’d given her several rabies shots last year, during the bat-bite scare. He took a brief history and eased back her pink and green patchwork quilt.
    Her thin, sparrow-like body was white from head to toe. Her forehead was hot, her pulse strong but rapid, her tongue glistening with moisture. No shock or dehydration. He