21
The tape recorder in Iris Osborne’s hand was slippery with sweat. Hospitals were always overheated. She felt under the pillow for one of her lace-edged, freesia-scented hankies and wiped it fastidiously. Normally cool and calculating, she was unused to nerves, and the fact that she was shaking disorientated her. But she had to get this recording right, listen to it over and over again before committing herself to making that statement the police needed. She would think it over, carefully, do it in her own time, in her own way. They weren’t pressing her too much, yet. She was off the danger list but far from well. The bullet that madwoman had fired at her had missed any vital organs – the shock had done far more harm.
She must do this before Eleanor came and began fussing and lecturing
