An Empty Death (29 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
‘Don’t you come near me, or I’ll have the law on you!’
Dacre, who had landed flat on the floor, was struggling, head spinning, to sit up as the mother - ‘You’re a bloody bitch, that’s what you are!’ - swinging her capacious handbag in a scything motion, charged forwards, bloodying the nose of an ancient orderly who fell on top of a small table, splintering one of its legs and sending an ashtray tumbling across the floor, spewing fag ends. In an impressive show of strength, Sister Radford, pausing only to instruct the nearest nurse to tidy up immediately, took hold of the woman - who was considerably larger and beefier than anyone else in the place, male or female - by her upper arms, and shook her.
The waiting patients ducked as the handbag flew across the room, bursting open on contact with a bench and scattering its contents in a wide arc. As one of the items was a small bar of chocolate, every child in the place, and several of the adults, miraculously recovered their vitality and made a lunge for it. Mrs Parker kicked Sister Radford in the shins until she released her grip and waded into the brawl, bellowing, while her idiot daughter wailed and clutched her belly.
‘Take that, you thieving little bleeder!’ Mrs Parker took a swipe at a little boy who’d managed to cram most of the chocolate into his mouth, making him howl.
‘How dare you!’ The child’s mother stepped forward, shaking her fist under Mrs Parker’s nose. ‘Calling my son a bleeder when your daughter’s no better than a—’
At this point the boy, who, unnoticed by anyone but Dacre, had become suddenly and ominously silent, hiccupped once and then vomited copiously. Everyone in the vicinity, including several nurses who had rushed in to try and break up the mêlée, jumped backwards to avoid the splatter of undigested food.
‘Disgusting!’ yowled Mrs Parker. She made a beeline for her daughter, who was now shrieking at ear-splitting volume, and, clasping her by the wrist, began dragging her towards the door. ‘Come on, Iris! We’re not staying here to be insulted by a filthy lot of liars!’
A posse of nurses, plus two of the more vigorous porters, charged after her, pursued by a hobbling Sister Radford. At this point, Dacre, who had sat up and was about to go and render what assistance he could, noticed a syringe lying under the nearest bench. All eyes, including those of the puking child and its bespattered mother, were fixed on the scrum in the doorway. The only person near him was the old orderly, who was rocking backwards and forwards on his knees, wiping his streaming nose on the sleeve of his tunic and intoning ‘Bloody ’ell, bloody ’ell, bloody ’ell,’ as if it were a form of prayer.
The syringe looked empty. Dacre reached out an arm and pocketed it, jabbing himself sharply as he did so. ‘Ah, Christ!’ Fortunately, the cacophony of yells and curses was loud enough for this to go unnoticed and Dacre heaved himself upright and began moving, as slowly as he dared, towards the struggling mass of bodies in the doorway. Fortunately, by the time he got there, Nurse Dunning had got Mrs Parker firmly round the waist and was bundling her, with the aid of the two porters, down the corridor. The rest of the nurses, urged on by Sister Radford, were wrestling the shrieking girl onto a trolley for despatch to Maternity.
Once the racket had receded and order was being restored, Dacre, on Sister Radford’s instructions, sat down beside her desk so that she could take a look at him. The sister, though panting slightly and still limping, had, Dacre noted, somehow managed to come through the whole thing without a hair out of place. ‘That’s going to be a nasty bruise,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Dacre. I don’t know what you must think . . . Some people are no better than pigs.’
‘Well,’ Dacre grinned at her, ‘I hope I never meet a pig with a right hook like that. Anyone would think I was responsible for the girl’s condition.’
Sister Radford’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Of course they wouldn’t! That girl ought to be in a reformatory.’
‘Bit late for that now.’
‘Yes, well . . . It’s absolutely disgraceful, and as for the mother . . . Now, if you don’t mind staying put for just a moment, I’ll go and fetch some witch hazel.’
‘Shouldn’t you be sitting down?’ asked Dacre. ‘That was quite a kicking she gave you. Would you like me to have a look?’
‘Heavens, no.’ Sister Radford brushed the suggestion away with a little laugh. ‘Just a bruise or two. Nothing to worry about.’
She departed, and Dacre, looking round the room, saw, with a shock that felt like a colossal blow to the midriff, that Dr Byrne was framed in the doorway, staring straight at him.
Thirty-Two
D
CI Lamb made Stratton wait for several minutes, standing in front of his desk, while he read something on a piece of paper in front of him. Or rather, while he sat bolt upright and stared downwards with such a lack of animation that Stratton had the enjoyable fantasy of leaning forward to touch him and watching him crumple over, revealing, in the manner of a detective story, an oriental dagger stuck between his shoulder blades.
CI Lamb made Stratton wait for several minutes, standing in front of his desk, while he read something on a piece of paper in front of him. Or rather, while he sat bolt upright and stared downwards with such a lack of animation that Stratton had the enjoyable fantasy of leaning forward to touch him and watching him crumple over, revealing, in the manner of a detective story, an oriental dagger stuck between his shoulder blades.
It was half past five, and Stratton had been in court most of the afternoon, giving evidence in the hooch case. They’d got a conviction, but he very much doubted that his superior had called him in for congratulations.
Finally, Lamb looked up, and Stratton saw, from his peeved and twitchy expression that he was a) very much alive, b) more like George Formby even than before, and c) just itching to give someone a thorough bollocking.
‘Slack!’ he barked.
Stratton, involuntarily, looked around him, although he knew there was no-one else in the room. ‘Sir?’
‘You, man! It’s not good enough. It’s been over a month now, and no progress on the cases at the Middlesex.’
‘We’re doing our best, sir. We’ve got a weapon, and—’
‘You’ve got a brick. And you don’t have the first bloody idea who killed either of them.’
‘Yes, sir, but—’
He got no further. Lamb began his tirade, accompanied by the forefinger jabbing out its usual staccato rhythm on the wooden desktop, leaving Stratton in no doubt that both enquiries were a shambles and a shower and a lot more besides. ‘For God’s sake,’ he finished, ‘Dr Reynolds was a professional man! Not some . . . some hooligan. We need a result, and fast. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir. But I’m afraid it’s rather more complicated than . . . well, than with a hooligan. There might have been some medical malpractice, sir. Illegal operations.’
Lamb looked outraged. ‘The man was a qualified physician, not some old woman in a back street.’
‘Yes, but it happens, sir. It’s not unknown.’
Lamb made an irritated gesture, as if shooing away a troublesome fly. ‘Keep off all that. Doesn’t look good, and it’s not necessary to blacken the man’s reputation. He’s got a family. Just solve the case and do it quickly. And get cracking on the nurse, too.’
Stratton left Lamb’s office and trudged back to his own, reflecting that the best thing for his career would be to collar some not-very-bright villain with a record for robbery and violence and beat a confession out of him for both cases. And he might as well: the enquiries he’d made to nursing homes about Dr Reynolds had drawn a blank, and he obviously wasn’t going to be able to proceed any further down that avenue without Lamb dropping a ton of bricks on him. He was just about to pick up the phone to follow up some information about the forged petrol coupons when he heard the loud report of someone breaking wind behind him.
‘Good evening, vicar,’ said Stratton, with heavy sarcasm. Turning in his chair, he saw Arliss standing in the doorway. The room was rapidly filling with a pungent odour, like a breeze across a cabbage field. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s you. Perhaps you could think of a different way of announcing yourself next time.’
‘It’s not my fault,’ said Arliss, truculently. ‘It’s all these bloody vegetables the missus keeps feeding me.’
‘Well,’ said Stratton, ‘tell her to lay off before you asphyxiate us all. What is it, anyway?’
‘Message from Dr Byrne, sir. At the hospital. Wants a word.’
‘What, now?’
‘As soon as possible was what he said.’
‘When did you get the message?’
‘This afternoon, sir. While you were out. Then you were with the guv’nor,’ said Arliss, piously. ‘Not my place to interrupt.’
‘Oh, fair enough. Now,’ said Stratton, seizing his hat and fanning the air with it, ‘why don’t you bugger off while I can still breathe?’
A telephone call to the hospital mortuary yielded no reply, and Stratton, supposing that Dr Byrne was otherwise occupied, decided, as it was urgent, that he’d better pay the man a visit.
Thirty-Three
F
or a long moment, Dacre stared back. Byrne did not step forward or speak, but, lifting one hand with monstrous slowness, crooked his forefinger in a beckoning motion.
or a long moment, Dacre stared back. Byrne did not step forward or speak, but, lifting one hand with monstrous slowness, crooked his forefinger in a beckoning motion.
Feeling a sudden and violent throbbing from his bruised head that definitely hadn’t been there before and a lurch of nausea that made him fear that he was about to spew for the second time that day, Dacre raised his eyebrows at Byrne and, willing himself not to tremble, pointed a finger at his own chest in a questioning manner. Byrne nodded emphatically. With elaborate casualness, Dacre got up, made a show of shaking the creases out of his trousers and dusting himself down, and ambled across to the door.
‘I want to see you,’ said Byrne.
‘Now?’ Dacre was aiming for a tone of puzzled enquiry, but it came out as more of a croak. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘As you can see, we’re rather busy at the moment . . .’ Gesturing towards his eye, he added, ‘Bit of an altercation, I’m afraid.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Byrne. ‘My office. Ten minutes.’ He tapped the face of his wristwatch. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Very well.’ There was no point in arguing. Dacre certainly didn’t want his credentials questioned in a public place, and - at this point, at least - Dr Byrne had the upper hand. As he watched Dr Byrne march off down the corridor, he reflected that he could perfectly well use the injury he’d received as an excuse to leave on the dot of six. In a way, the idiot girl and her mother were a blessing in disguise; the staff would be talking about that for days, and nobody was likely to remember seeing his brief conversation with Dr Byrne. Neither Dr Ransome nor Sister Radford - the only two people likely to question the pathologist’s unexpected presence in Casualty - were anywhere in sight.
Dacre resumed his seat. Perhaps the sister had gone to fetch him a cup of tea as well as the witch hazel . . . He could certainly do with one, but, more urgently than that, he needed to be alone to consider his course of action. He’d stick to his original plan - attack as the best form of defence - but if that failed, he’d need something else. Christ, think . . . He’d got the morphine and the syringe, hadn’t he? He slid a hand into his inside pocket: neither phial was broken, thank God. Could he? And, even if he could, how? He couldn’t force the stuff down the man’s throat or tie him up, and in any case, Higgs was bound to be somewhere about the place, and then . . .
Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. It wouldn’t come to that. He’d be able to talk his way out of it. He’d always managed before, hadn’t he? Or, if he didn’t, at least he’d be able to give himself long enough to get clear of the place. Bloody Byrne. Just when everything was going so well, that bastard had to come and screw it all up for him.
‘Here we are, Dr Dacre.’ Sister Radford poured some witch hazel onto a piece of cotton wool. ‘If you’ll just look up . . .’ Dacre tried not to wince as she dabbed his face. ‘That should do the trick. Nurse Dunning’s bringing you a cup of tea - unless you’d like something a bit stronger?’
‘No, really. I’m fine. To be honest, sister, I think I just need some peace and quiet. I’m off now, anyway, so unless there’s anything else . . . Why don’t you have the tea? I’m sure you could do with a cup.’
Alone in the Gents’, Dacre locked himself into one of the cubicles and sat down, fingering the little phials in his pocket. Five minutes. He sank his head into his hands. The pendulum of his feelings swung from anger to despair - perhaps he should just use the wretched stuff on himself and have done with it? - and abruptly back again. Carefully, he filled the syringe and sat staring at it for several minutes. He bloody well wasn’t going to give up now and slink away from the life he’d created - from Fay - like a beaten dog. He returned the syringe to his pocket, shook his aching head so violently that for a second he felt dizzy enough to black out, and, letting himself out of the cubicle, stood for a moment beneath the single, shaded light bulb. Come on, come on . . .
You can do this. You will do this. There it was: the sudden, fierce rush of excitement - what he now knew to be adrenalin - that squared his shoulders and straightened his back. If Dr fucking Byrne wanted to play at being his . . . what was it called? Nemesis, that was it. Well, then, he’d get his comeuppance, all right.
He left the Gents’ and strode off in the direction of the basement stairs.
Thirty-Four
S
ave for the faint humming of a generator, the basement of the Middlesex was eerily silent. Being late July, it was still light outside, but down here, in the windowless corridor, it could have been midnight. The corridors were creepy enough, lit as they were with faintly glowing bulbs spaced far apart and caged in wire. Together with the sickly green paint on the walls, they gave the place a horribly subterranean feeling.
ave for the faint humming of a generator, the basement of the Middlesex was eerily silent. Being late July, it was still light outside, but down here, in the windowless corridor, it could have been midnight. The corridors were creepy enough, lit as they were with faintly glowing bulbs spaced far apart and caged in wire. Together with the sickly green paint on the walls, they gave the place a horribly subterranean feeling.
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