Blue Genes - By Val McDermid Page 0,48

for Dr. Maitland," I mumbled.

The receptionist looked surprised. "Oh, that's nice.

Who are they from?"

I shrugged. "I just deliver them. Can I leave them with you?"

"That's fine, I'll see she gets them."

A couple of hours later, a tall, rangy woman emerged from the outpatients department with a long loping stride. Given that she was in her mid- to late forties and she'd presumably done a hard day's work, she moved with remarkable energy. I hated her. She was wearing black straight-leg jeans and cowboy boots, a blue-and-white-striped shirt under a black blazer, and a trench coat thrown casually over her shoulders to protect her from the soft Yorkshire drizzle. In one hand, she carried a pilot's case. In the other, as if it were something that might explode, the basket of flowers. If this was Dr. Helen Maitland, I had no doubt she wasn't the woman Alexis and Chris had seen. There was no way anyone could have confused her with the photograph in the paper by acci¬dent. This woman had fine features in an oval face, noth¬ing like the strong, definite square face Alexis had shown me. Her hair was totally different too. Where Sarah Blackstone had a heavy mop of dark hair in a jagged fringe, this woman had dark blond curls rampaging over the top of her head, while the sides and back were cropped short. I started my engine. Lucky I'd been park¬ing in a "consultants only" lot, really. Otherwise I might have missed her.

She stopped beside an old MGB roadster in British racing green and balanced the flowers on the roof while she unlocked the car. The case was tossed in, followed by the mac, then she carefully put the flowers in the passen¬ger foot well. She folded her long legs under the wheel and the engine started with a throaty growl. The pre¬sumed Dr. Maitland reversed out of her parking space and shot forward toward the exit with the aplomb of a woman who would know exactly what to do if her car started fishtailing on the greasy tarmac. More cautiously, I followed. We wove through the narrow alleys between the tall Victorian brick buildings of the old part of the hospital and emerged on the main road just below the university. She turned into the early evening traffic and together we slogged up the hill, through Hyde Park and out toward Headingley. Just as we approached the girls' grammar school, she indicated a right turn. From where I was, it was hard to see where she was going, but as she turned, I saw her destination was a narrow cobbled lane almost invisible from the main road.

I positioned myself to follow her, watching as she shot up the hill with a puff of exhaust. At the top, she turned right. Me, I was stuck on the main drag, the prisoner of traffic that wouldn't pause to let me through. A good thirty seconds passed before I could find a gap, long enough for her to have varnished without trace. Quoting extensively if repetitiously from the first few scenes of Four Weddings and a Funeral, I drove in her wake.

As I turned right at the top of the lane, I saw her put the key in the lock. She was standing in front of a tall, narrow Edwardian stone villa, the car tucked into a park¬ing space that had been carved out of half of the front garden. I carried on past the house, turning the next available corner and squeezing into a parking space. A quick call to the local library to check their electoral reg¬ister confirmed that Helen Maitland lived there. I always make sure these days after the time that the florist trick failed because the target was a hay fever sufferer who passed the flowers on to her secretary.

I gave Dr. Maitland ten minutes to feed the cat and put the kettle on, then I rang the bell set in stone to the right of a front door gleaming with gloss paint the same shade of green as the car. The eyes that looked questioningly into mine when the door opened were green too, though a softer shade, like autumn leaves on the turn. "Dr. Mait¬land? I'm sorry to trouble you," I started.

"I'm sorry, I don't... ?" Her eyebrows twitched toward each other like caterpillars in a mating dance.

"My name is Brannigan, Kate Brannigan. I'm a private investigator. I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes."

That's the point where