CHAPTER 2

Selbst nach einem Herzinfarkt ist Dorothy Winslow ständig auf der Hut. Könnte es sein, dass sich direkt unter ihrer Nase kriminelle Machenschaften abspielen?

It was about three in the morning when Dorothy woke to the sound of sobbing in the bed next to her. She turned on her bedside light and saw that Elsa was crying into her pillow. “Frau Junker,” she called, “was ist los?” “Ich habe Schmerzen! The medicine … at night, it doesn’t work so good.”

“Just a moment. Have you called the nurse?”

“Ja, ja! She came, but she says I have had the maximum amount of morphine already. I can’t have more tonight.”

Dorothy sat up carefully. She disconnected her cables to the monitor and padded down the long corridor to the staffroom, where the doctor was at a computer, writing a report. Sister Carola was half asleep, but she jumped out of her chair when Dorothy walked in.

“Frau Winslow! Was machen Sie? You should ring…” “It’s not me, it’s Frau Junker,” interrupted Dorothy. “She’s in a lot of pain at the moment and she needs something. Now! If you don’t do anything immediately, I’ll speak to Professor Lammwitz first thing tomorrow!”

The next morning, after the ward doctor had visited, Hamza pushed Dorothy in a wheelchair down to the Cardiology Department for tests. They chatted for a while about the weather, but Dorothy had something else on her mind.

“Hamza,” she asked. “My German isn’t that good. During the doctor’s visit this morning, I heard you say that Frau Junker’s painkillers needed adjusting for the night-time. What did the doctor say? Something about Sister Carola shouldn’t lose them…”

“Oh,” said Hamza. He suddenly looked embarrassed and wouldn’t meet Dorothy’s eye. “He was just joking.”

“What do you mean?”

“He meant that Sister Carola should make sure you and Frau Junker actually received your painkillers instead of losing them. It was just a silly joke.”

“Hamza,” said Dorothy. “I didn’t ask for any painkillers last night.”

Hamza stopped pushing the wheelchair. He looked puzzled. “Oh, I thought you had.” He hesitated for a moment. “By the way, you did see Sister Carola giving Frau Junker an infusion in the evening, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

He looked relieved. “Good, that’s all right, then. Frau Junker must have just been unlucky with her dose.”

Dorothy looked at Hamza carefully. “There’s something worrying you, isn’t there? What is it?”

He looked around as if to be completely sure that nobody was listening to their conversation. “It can happen that sometimes in hospitals certain drugs, especially painkillers, go missing,” he said quietly. “That’s why I wanted to know if you’d seen Frau Junker getting an infusion. But you did, so that’s OK.”

“What happens if management thinks this is hap pening?”

“Anything to do with drugs and they call in the police straightaway. They bring sniffer dogs and search all our lockers. It’s very bad. But anyway, no need for you to worry about any of this. Tell me about your time in Damascus. You were a diplomat, is that right?”

Dorothy’s test results were good and she was detached from the monitor next to her bed. That

afternoon, Armin visited her again, this time, with a Scrabble set and enough food to feed the entire hospital. Together with Elsa, they played two very noisy rounds of Scrabble, one in German and another in English, until Sister Carola came to tell Armin that he had to leave. That night, the painkillers seemed to work for Elsa. She slept soundly, but Dorothy lay awake for a long time, pondering what Hamza had told her.

After breakfast, Elsa was taken for an examination. Dorothy was doing a crossword puzzle when Hamza came to check her blood pressure and she could see straightaway that something was wrong.

“Tell me,” she said.

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out two small glass bottles and a piece of paper.

“I don’t know what to do. I found these in my locker this morning — two empty morphine ampoules. The letter says that if I don’t follow instructions, somebody will plant more in my locker or my flat — and then tip off the police. I’ll be deported back to Afghanistan within a week! And they threaten to hurt my family back in Kabul if I go to the management with this letter.”

“What do they want from you?”

“They want me to steal one or two morphine ampoules a week for them. They’ll tell me later where to leave them.”

Dorothy looked at the message, printed all in capitals. As a blackmail attempt, it all seemed very amateurish, but Hamza was an easy victim. Somebody so vulnerable and terrified of being deported could easily be exploited.

There was a knock at the door and Armin and Lucy entered the room, their arms full of fruit, flowers and magazines.

“Don’t do anything yet,” said Dorothy hastily to Hamza. “Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

The story continues on the next page.