Blue Genes - By Val McDermid Page 0,49

most people look wary. We've all got something to feel guilty about. Helen Maitland simply looked curious. "What on earth for?" she asked mildly.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about Sarah Black-stone." This wasn't the time for bullshit.

"Sarah Blackstone?" She looked surprised. "What's that got to do with me?"

"You knew her," I said bluntly. I knew now she did; a stranger would have said something along the lines of, "Sarah Blackstone? The doctor who was murdered?"

"We worked in the same hospital," Dr. Maitland replied swiftly. I couldn't read her at all. There was some¬thing closed off in her face. I suppose doctors have to learn how to hide what they're thinking and feeling other¬wise the rest of us would run a mile every time the news was iffy.

I waited. Most people can't resist silence for long. "What business is it of yours?" she eventually added. "My client was a patient of hers," I said. "I still don't see why that should bring you to my door." Dr. Maitland's voice remained friendly, but the hand gripping the door jamb was tightening so that her knuckle bones stood out in sharp relief. I hadn't been sus¬picious of her a moment before, but now I was definitely intrigued.

"My client was under the mistaken impression that she was being treated by one Dr. Helen Maitland," I said. "Sarah Blackstone was using your name as an alias. I thought you might know why."

Her eyebrows rose, but it was surprise rather than shock I thought I read there. I had the distinct feeling I wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know. "How very strange," she said, but I still had the feeling it was my knowing that was the strange thing. I'd have expected any doctor confronted with the information that a colleague had stolen their identity to be outraged and concerned. But Helen Maitland seemed to be taking it very calmly.

"You weren't aware of it?"

"It's not something we doctors generally allow," she said dryly, her face giving nothing away.

I shrugged. "Well, if you don't know why Dr. Black-stone helped herself to your name, I'll just have to keep digging until I find someone who does."

As I spoke, the rain turned from drizzle to downpour. "Oh Lord," she sighed. "Look, you'd better come in before you catch pneumonia."

I followed her into a surprisingly light hallway. She led me past the stairs and into a dining kitchen so cluttered Richard would have felt perfectly at home. Stacks of medical journals threatened to cascade onto haphazard piles of cookery books; newspapers virtually covered a large table, themselves obscured by strata of opened mail. The worktops and open shelves spilled over with interesting jars and bottles. I spotted olive oil with chilies, with rosemary and garlic, with thyme, oregano, sage, and rosemary, olives layered in oil with what looked like basil, bottled damsons and serried rows of jams, all with neat, handwritten labels. On one shelf, in an art nouveau-style silver frame, there was a ten-by-eight color photograph of Helen Maitland with an arm draped casually over the shoulders of a pale pre-Raphaelite maiden with a mane of wavy black hair and enough dark eye makeup to pass as an extra in the Rocky Horror Show. On one wall was a corkboard covered with snapshots of cats and people. As far as I could see, there were no pic¬tures of Sarah Blackstone.

"Move one of the team and sit down," Dr. Maitland said, waving a hand at the pine chairs surrounding the table. I pulled one back and found a large tabby cat star¬ing balefully up at me. I decided not to tangle with it and tried the next chair along. A black cat looked up at me with startled yellow eyes, grumbled in its throat, and leapt elegantly to the floor like a pint of Guinness pouring itself. I sat down hastily and looked up to find Helen Maitland watching me with a knowing smile. "Tea?" "Please."

She opened a high cupboard that was stuffed with boxes. I remembered the filing cabinet drawer in the consulting room. "I've got apple and cinnamon, licorice, elderflower, peach and orange blossom, alpine strawberry ..." "Just plain tea would be fine," I interrupted. She shook her head. "Sorry. I'm caffeine-free. I can do you a decaf coffee."

"No thanks. Decaf's a bit like cutting the swearing out of a Tarantino film. There's no point bothering with what's left. I'll try the alpine strawberry."

She switched on the kettle and leaned against the worktop,