Something in the Water by Trevor Baxendale Page B

sick.’
    ‘I always wondered why GPs don’t take more sick leave. After all, they spend every day meeting sick people. They must catch everything going at some point.’
    ‘Well there are plenty of them here. I’ve never seen such a pasty-faced bunch. What’s wrong with this area? TB epidemic?’
    ‘I’ll check if you like.’
    ‘Just give me his address. It can’t be far.’
    Ianto tapped up Strong’s address and read it out to Owen.
    ‘I’m on my way now. This had better be worth it.’ Owen started the Honda and pulled out of the medical centre car park, nearly hitting another woman on her way in, busy coughing into a tissue.
    Owen leant out the window. ‘You want to look where you’re going, love!’
    ‘Sorry,’ she wheezed, holding up a hand to show that she knew it had been her fault. She coughed again, a real hack, and looked down into her tissue. ‘It’s not the cough that carries you off – it’s the coffin they carry you off in,’ she said with a weak smile.
    Owen nodded and drove off. He’d seen the red phlegm in the tissue. Professionally it troubled him, though the woman had been on her way to see her GP, which was the right thing to do. But the matter preyed on his mind all the way to Robert Strong’s house.
    It was a pleasant semi-detached with a long driveway and a Ford Mondeo. Owen rang the doorbell and waited for an answer.
    Eventually a man came to the door; Owen could hear him coughing on the other side. The door opened and a long, pale face looked out. ‘Yes?’
    ‘Dr Strong?’
    ‘Yeah. Who wants to know?’
    ‘My name’s Owen Harper.’
    Strong was suddenly overtaken by a massive coughing fit, clutching the door to support himself as he doubled up.
    ‘Here, that doesn’t sound so good, mate,’ Owen said, automatically moving to help.
    ‘It’s been getting worse all morning,’ Strong told him between coughs. He sounded full of phlegm. After a few moments, he recovered and smiled wanly. ‘I had to come home from work today – never done that before in my life!’
    ‘I’m a doctor,’ Owen said. ‘Maybe I can help.’
    Strong gave a short laugh. ‘I’m a doctor too,’ he said. ‘Fat lot of good it’s done me. Come in.’
    It was a bachelor’s house, with black leather armchairs and a widescreen plasma TV, surrounded by untidy stacks of DVDs on the laminate flooring and a good-looking sound system. In the corner was a Wii console with a few games scattered around it. There was evidence of a previous life, however: a photo on the mantelpiece – Strong and a woman embracing, faces pressed together, grinning at the camera. Strong noticed Owen looking at it and said, ‘Ex-wife. Quite liked her, then.’
    ‘Creative differences?’
    ‘You could say that.’ Strong dissolved into more coughing and motioned towards a chair. ‘Take a seat,’ he croaked.
    Owen sat down. ‘No kids?’
    ‘Nah, thank God.’ Strong slumped into the opposite chair. ‘Never got round to that – creative differences, as you say. Or procreative differences. I wouldn’t have minded a couple of sprogs, but she wasn’t ready for them. Career came first, she said. First, last, and always.’
    There was bitterness there, but only very slight. Strong was enjoying being single. Or at least he would have been, Owen thought, if he hadn’t been so ill.
    ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ the man confessed. ‘I’ve never had anything like this before. Coughs and colds, yes, but this … this is something else. Reckon I’ve got flippin’ TB.’
    ‘That’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yeah – but not impossible. It is on the increase in the UK, has been for some years now.’
    ‘Only in inner-city areas – and then it’s the slums. But you’re a long way from those kinds of places here. Have you had any tests?’
    ‘Not yet. I’m waiting to see what happens.’
    Owen smiled. ‘Keep taking the tablets and come back in a week?’
    Another laugh, which turned into a