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back towards the welcoming glow of the clinic.
    Her expression didn’t soften as she marched towards reception, her eyes glued to the prim bespectacled woman behind her screen. ‘You’d better let Dr Fleming know his eight o’clock has changed her mind, Sally.’
    The receptionist picked up the phone and Moran was about to move away but, settled on her choice of words, turned back. ‘You know, apart from our job being to help these poor girls, I know for a fact the Rutherford Group makes more money from NHS referrals than it does private. You’d do well to remember that.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ retorted Sally.
    ‘I mean best not let management see you putting off potential clients like that.’
    ‘I didn’t say anything.’
    ‘You don’t have to,’ said Moran. ‘Your face would sour milk.’ She smiled to soften the blow. ‘Why upset the poor girls when there’s plenty of other folk to do that? Show a little compassion.’
    Sally depressed a button on the phone, her face like thunder.
    Moran looked towards the double doors and managed a smile. ‘And thank goodness for one poor lass able to find her own path.’

Eight
     
    ‘Pretty girl,’ said the elderly round-faced man with the thick spectacles. ‘I read in the paper she was missing.’
    Brook waited for more. It was the end of a long and frustrating day tramping around campus talking to wary students, bored lecturers and harassed tutors, all unable to offer any insights into Caitlin’s disappearance or state of mind. A picture of the Pope behind the doctor’s head caught Brook’s eye. Stiles followed his gaze.
    ‘We’d appreciate anything you can tell us, Doctor,’ said Brook. ‘In confidence, of course.’
    ‘Well, it’s a bit irregular,’ said Stiles, his voice suggesting that a little more persuasion would do the trick.
    ‘It’s important,’ said Noble, applying the final push. Both detectives knew that members of the doctor’s generation were more likely to bend protocols to accommodate the police.
    Stiles weighed the gravity of their expressions before peering over his glasses at the computer screen. ‘Very well,’ he said, clicking the mouse. ‘Caitlin came to me last year with an infection. I won’t say where,’ he added with a suggestion of a smile. ‘I prescribed an anti-fungal cream. Job done.’ He beamed back at Brook and Noble.
    ‘We’d be more interested in her recent consultations, say the last two months, detailing her condition and how it affected her,’ said Brook.
    Stiles returned his gaze to the screen. ‘The infection was her last appointment with me. That would be last October.’ He fixed Brook with a curious gaze. ‘What condition?’
    ‘Would she have seen another doctor?’ said Brook, ignoring the question.
    ‘Not without my knowledge, not on campus at least,’ said Stiles. ‘Of course, students are free to choose their campus doctor from the attending list, but she was assigned to me and if she wanted to transfer I’d have been notified. That’s the protocol. Now, as her doctor—’
    ‘Caitlin had an abortion,’ announced Noble, aware of Brook’s instant glare. ‘Just before she disappeared.’
    The doctor’s surprise seemed genuine. ‘Indeed. I wasn’t aware she was pregnant.’
    ‘Any reason why she might not consult you about it?’ asked Brook, deciding he had little choice but to play the hand dealt him by Noble.
    ‘Many reasons,’ said Stiles. ‘Discretion, embarrassment . . .’
    ‘Fear of religious disapproval,’ suggested Brook.
    Stiles smiled. ‘Yes, I am a Catholic, Inspector. Well spotted. Caitlin too. But do you really think I’d be in a position of trust at a university if I allowed my personal beliefs to influence my work?’ He glanced back at the screen. ‘I notice Ms Kinnear lived off campus. Perhaps she registered with a local practice.’
    Brook shot a fleeting look at Noble, who answered with a shake of the head. ‘And if not?’
    Stiles shrugged.