Free Cop to Corpse by Peter Lovesey Page A

trouble.’
    ‘This is radiography, Mr. Diamond. We don’t supply crutches.’
    ‘There’s a man over there with them.’
    ‘He’ll have a good reason.’
    ‘And you think I don’t? I tried standing up and it’s obvious what’s wrong. My ankle can’t take my weight. If that doesn’t justify crutches, I don’t know what does.’ He knew as he spoke the words that he’d just undermined two of his arguments: that no X-ray was necessary and that he was essential to the manhunt.
    The staff were too busy to listen any more. He was left to see out time in the wheelchair, more at risk from soaring blood pressure than recent injuries.
    Patients were being taken in for X-ray, not at the speed Diamond would have liked. He took out his mobile to check what was happening at the murder scene in Walcot Street.
    ‘Can’t you read?’ the man with the crutches said. He pointed to the poster on the wall showing mobiles were prohibited.
    Even Diamond knew there were practical reasons for the ban. He sighed and returned the phone to his pocket.
    His thoughts turned to what was happening in Becky Addy Wood. The place where the motorcycle had been hidden ought to be taped off by now and the scene-of-crime team collecting evidence. The searchers would be combing the area in hope that the murder weapon was hidden there. What an anticlimax. Through his own failure to think ahead, a marvellous chance of an arrest had gone begging. If he’d had the wit to visualisethe killer using a bike, they might have focused the hunt and got a result.
    Instead, it was back to the tedious step-by-step search. Those lads had every right to curse him.
    He’d spent the morning reacting to events instead of anticipating the gunman’s next move. This wasn’t the sort of case where you follow up clues and piece together what happened. Three police officers had been murdered and there was no reason to believe it had stopped there. Someone needed to look ahead. He hadn’t much confidence in Jack Gull’s foresight.
    ‘Clarence Perkins,’ the voice came over the tannoy. Once it would have been Mr. Perkins, Diamond reflected. We’re all overgrown children in the modern health service.
    ‘That’s me.’ Clarence was the possessor of the crutches. They’d been resting against his wheelchair while he waited.
    A nurse came over to collect him. ‘You won’t need these inside,’ she told him. Watched particularly by Diamond, she placed the crutches along three of the steel chairs reserved for the walking wounded and wheeled Clarence around a partition and into the X-ray room.
    Diamond looked at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes of precious time had gone by. The temptation to leave was overwhelming. His wheelchair was parked at the end of the row of linked chairs. He tugged at the wheels. The brake was on. He was no expert at manoeuvring one of these things. No use trying to get it moving without help. He shifted his legs and got his good foot to the floor. Rising from the chair was going to hurt, but it was the only way. By twisting and shuffling he managed to get half of his backside clear of the seat and this enabled him to put the other foot to the floor.
    At great discomfort.
    ‘What are you trying to do?’ one of the other patients asked.
    ‘I need a leak,’ he lied.
    ‘Call the nurse. That’s what they’re here for.’
    ‘A nurse taking me for a jimmy? I don’t think so,’ he said. By force of will he heaved himself upright, taking the weight on the right leg. The left one was far too sore. He was thinking maybe his own diagnosis was wrong and he really had broken it.
    With his left hand as support, he started hopping towards the crutches, holding onto to the next chair. And the next.
    ‘I’m borrowing these,’ he said to the man who had spoken.He grabbed one of the crutches and attached the support to his upper arm. The second was more of a challenge while standing on one leg. He got it on the third attempt, slotted in his arm