Free In Cold Blood by Mark Dawson

been more successful.
    The doctor was looking at her expectantly. “You said there was something you wanted?”
    “Yes. It’s about the morphine. I’m running out. I need the prescription refilled.”
    He frowned and scrolled through her records. “Really? You should have enough left for the rest of the month.”
    “I don’t.”
    “You’ve been taking one a day?”
    “Yes,” she lied.
    “Then I don’t understand. I prescribed you two months’ worth five weeks ago.”
    “There must have been a mistake.” She shrugged. “I’ve run out.”
    She looked at him expectantly, aware of how unnerving her crystal blue eyes could be. Lévy looked back, couldn’t hold her gaze, looked down at her records, looked back at her, and then, defeated, printed out a new prescription. “This is two weeks’ worth,” he said. “One a day, no more. The last thing we want is for you to overdose. If you think you need to increase the amount, you’ll need to discuss it with me. Understand?”
    “Of course,” she said, taking the script and folding it neatly. She put it in her pocket. “Thank you.”
    “Is there anything else?”
    “Yes,” she said. “We had an appointment in the diary for next Monday. I’m going to have to postpone it.”
    “That’s fine. Just tell Mobina on the way out.” She stood up. “Good luck, Beatrix,” he said.
    Beatrix didn’t have much time for luck, but she took his hand when he offered it, smiled, because that was what he expected, and went back outside. She handed the script over at the pharmacy window and pocketed the white bottle that the chemist brought back. She went outside. It was a bright, warm morning and she stopped in the pleasant garden that faced the surgery.
    Mohammed was waiting in the car, parked on the road a hundred feet away.
    “How was it?”
    “It’s not getting any worse.”
    “So? How long does he think?”
    “Maybe a year.”
    “You will have time to do what you want to do, then.”
    “That depends on what Joyce tells me or what Pope can find out.”
    “Yes. But you will have more time with Isabella. To finish her training.”
    “I will,” she said.
    The pain in her bones flared again. She cracked open the bottle and tipped two of the little blue pills out onto her palm. She dry swallowed them, put her Oakleys on, and settled back as Mohammed put the car into gear and drove them away.

CHAPTER TEN
    JOE WOKE to the sound of the town slowly stirring. He could hear the two goats in the yard complaining, the sound of children playing in the streets nearby, and cockerels welcoming the new day. He had slept badly. The mattress was uncomfortable and even when he had been able to sleep, he had been plagued by nightmares. He knew that Joyce was right. This wasn’t a commercial deal. It was political. He had heard about the things that the Islamists did to their prisoners, the things that they did in order to get YouTube clicks and prominence on news reports.
    He sat up. Most of the crew were either asleep or lying on a mattress, no doubt having the same thoughts that he was. He got up and walked across to a spot where he could look up through the ventilation bricks. He could see a thin ribbon of blue sky, no clouds. As he watched, he saw the vapour trail of a commercial jet leave a white trace across his horribly limited view. He thought of the passengers on the plane, passing overhead, with no idea of what was happening to them a few thousand feet below.
    “Morning.”
    It was Joyce. He was sitting with his back to a dry patch of wall, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
    “Morning.”
    “Did you sleep?”
    “Not really. You?”
    “Yes,” he said. “I can sleep in most places.”
    “Even a place like this?”
    “I’ve been in worse.”
    “You seem pretty calm about everything.”
    “What’s the point in wasting energy when there’s nothing you can do? I’d rather save it.”
    “For what?”
    “There’ll be a moment when they let