Something in the Water by Trevor Baxendale Page A

she gave the police doesn’t exist,’ Ianto replied. ‘They don’t actually know that – they’ll have picked her up and transferred her to hospital and left it at that. But she doesn’t feature on any government database – no birth certificate, education, national insurance, employment, taxation, or criminal record. Nothing at all. To all intents and purposes she doesn’t exist. That alone is enough to warrant some investigation, but no one else has the time or, it would seem, the inclination. No one, that is, except yours truly.’
    ‘OK,’ Jack said, and there was a hint of interest in his voice now. ‘So how you gonna find her?’
    ‘Well, that’s where I had to be extremely clever as well as amazingly handsome,’ Ianto said. ‘Because there was one, teeny-weeny little computer record which did feature Saskia Harden’s name: the appointments list at the Trynsel Medical Centre.’
    The Trynsel Medical Centre was a newly built NHS facility on the outskirts of Cardiff. It was a single-storey, yellow-brick building with sliding glass doors and a receptionist who only looked up at Owen after he had stood in front of the reception desk for a full forty-five seconds. He’d counted them. In that time, Owen had checked out the open-plan waiting room, with its usual array of notices advertising flu jabs, health clinics, post-natal care and sponsored fun runs. There was a large poster devoted to stopping people smoking, and another one about mental health care. Beyond these cheery signs was the waiting room proper, seemingly full of people with bad coughs. There were mothers and children, old men, one or two younger guys, but all of them were coughing and they all had grey faces and dark circles under their eyes. One old guy was making a big show of bringing up something thick and gooey from the back of his throat into his handkerchief.
    ‘Can I help you?’ asked the receptionist eventually, raising her voice over the noise.
    ‘Yeah,’ said Owen, turning casually back to look at her. ‘I’d like to see Dr Strong, please.’
    ‘You mean you’d like to make an appointment,’ she stated primly.
    ‘No, I just want to see him. It’s not a medical matter.’ Owen gave her a brief, tight smile. ‘Well, it is a sort of medical matter I suppose. We were at uni together. He’s an old mate, and I thought I’d look him up.’
    The receptionist’s face hardened minutely into a well-rehearsed mask of indifference. ‘I’m afraid Dr Strong isn’t available today.’
    A large man had appeared behind the receptionist, middle-aged with a twinkle in his eye. He glanced up from the file he was reading at the mention of Strong’s name.
    ‘Someone looking for Bob?’
    ‘Yeah – me,’ said Owen quickly, before the receptionist could respond. He grinned and extended his hand towards the other man, introducing himself. ‘Dr Owen Harper. Hi. I was told Bob would be here.’
    ‘Well he would be, normally,’ replied the other man. He had an ID card hanging from his shirt pocket which read Dr Iuean Davis – Practice Manager. ‘In fact he was in this morning, but he’s had to go home ill.’
    ‘Typical,’ said Owen. ‘Something serious, I hope …?’
    Davis smiled. ‘Flu, I reckon. Only started this morning – nasty cough. Like most of this lot, actually.’ He nodded at the waiting room full of people hacking and spluttering into hankies.
    ‘Yeah,’ mused Owen, curious despite himself. ‘What’s up with them?’
    ‘Search me. It’s either flu or biological warfare, I can’t decide which,’ Davis chuckled. ‘Or maybe it’s just something in the water. Anyway, I doubt Bob’ll be back soon.’
    ‘OK,’ said Owen. ‘No problem. I’ll try him at home.’
    He walked out, with the sound of the receptionist coughing behind him.
    Owen climbed back into his car and contacted the Hub. ‘Ianto, I need Strong’s home address.’
    ‘Problem?’
    ‘He’s not at the surgery today – he’s off