“Female, twenty-four, five-foot-eight, one-hundred and six pounds. Officially dead at 19:17 last night at Preston Royal Hospital, sir.”
Sam Rawlston stared at the back of the large leather chair after he had finished his report and waited.
“Cause of death?” a man’s voice asked.
“Severe head trauma sustained in an RTA. But she was in a coma for six months before they finally pulled the plug on her last night, sir. The file says she was conscious and cognisant at the scene of the accident, but lapsed into a coma a few minutes later.”
“Perfect.” The chair revolved, and Ben Watkins leaned forward and took the file from Rawlston’s hand. Ben was in his early fifties, with fair hair that was beginning to recede. And like Rawlston, he spoke with an American accent. “Any problems getting permission from the deceased’s relatives?”
“No, sir,” Rawlston replied with a slight smile as he remembered the scene in the ICU only a few hours before. “Connors excelled herself, sir. She was more than her usual best. She preyed on the parents fears that their daughter would be cut up, and used that fear to put them off giving their consent to any transplants. Instead she persuaded them into believing that leaving their precious daughter with us would be a much better way. She fed them that story about studying the effects of stress on the brain following severe trauma, and how that would help to save the lives of other people who have similar injuries as the one that killed their daughter. It didn’t take long to get them to agree after that.”
“And they understood and accepted the delay this would cause to any funeral arrangements for their daughter?” Ben asked without looking up from the file he had already spread over his neat and tidy desk.
“Yes, sir. I think they were almost relieved. Connors got a month out of them.”
Ben looked up and stared at Rawlston for a moment. Rawlston stood easy, his hands clasped in front of him in a relaxed pose. “Where is Julia?” Ben asked him.
“She’s with the body, sir. She said she wanted to make sure that there wasn’t any foul-ups.”
“What’s their ETA?”
“09:00.”
“Have her report to me as soon as she gets in. That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben Watkins watched as Rawlston spun on his heel and left. Once the door was shut, he sat back in his chair and slowly read Jayne Middleton’s file.
Born in the maternity wing of Royal Oldham Hospital in December in 1974, Jayne had spent most of her early life in Oldham before moving to Liverpool. She had graduated in English at Liverpool University only a year ago, and was hoping to do a Masters Degree at Lancaster. She had been on her way back from there when she had had her fatal accident.
Among her many other talents, Jayne could also speak French and Italian. She had travelled around most of Europe according to her Passport, and she was a very frequent visitor to a local sports club of which she was a member. She had obviously led a very active life. The photos in the file showed an attractive young woman with long brown hair, brown eyes, and a vivacious smile. Ben was surprised that she was unattached with no children when she had died.
Yes, Jayne Middleton would make a perfect subject for a field test. She was just what Matthew Hall had been waiting for, and she fitted MedTec’s requirements to a tee. Now he would find out if his faith in Matthew had been justified. A month was all they had, but he hoped it would be long enough. It should be long enough. And for his own sake as well as for Matthew’s, it had better be.