Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (32 page)
The basement corridors at the mortuary end were quiet - the only noises to be heard were the generator, which seemed fainter than it had the previous night, and the distant sounds of feet and trolley wheels going to and from the temporary operating theatres.
When he knocked on the door of Byrne’s office, Higgs stuck his head out, his wizened face creased with tiredness, and, Stratton thought, some sort of distress.
‘Inspector?’ He looked alarmed. ‘Course, you was here last night. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of an accident.’
‘What sort of accident?’
‘It’s Dr Byrne. He’s . . . well, he’s dead.’
‘Dead ?’ echoed Stratton stupidly. ‘Are you sure?’ That was all he needed.
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘In here, sir. Miss Lynn found him this morning. I asked Dr Ransome to come down from Casualty.’ Evidently feeling the need for some sort of gloss on the proceedings, Higgs added, ‘It’s bloody terrible.’
Stratton removed his hat. ‘I’d better come in.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The first thing he noticed was the smell - relaxing in death, Dr Byrne’s body had voided itself. The corpse, one temple dark and bloodied, lay flat on the floor beside the desk, one sleeve rolled back to expose a pale arm. Seeing it, Stratton’s first, flippant, reaction turned to pity. However he’d felt about Byrne’s punctiliousness and cold manner, the man had, after all, been a colleague - well-valued, if not well-liked, and now he was dead, and in undignified circumstances, and that shouldn’t happen to anyone.
The elderly, white-coated doctor bending over the body straightened sharply as they entered. ‘I thought I told you that I don’t want anyone in here until Professor Haycraft’s seen this.’
‘It’s the police, Dr Ransome. Inspector Stratton.’
‘I didn’t ask you to call the police.’
‘He didn’t,’ said Stratton. ‘Dr Byrne left a message yesterday asking me to come and see him. I came last night, but the office was closed, and I assumed Dr Byrne had gone home.’
‘I see.’ The doctor held out his hand. ‘Ransome.’
‘Stratton, CID.’ After they’d shaken hands, Stratton asked, ‘What happened?’
‘Well . . .’ Ransome looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not entirely sure.’
‘What, no idea at all? Heart attack? Stroke? Apoplexy?’
‘I think it’s best to wait for the post-mortem. Then we’ll have a better idea of . . . of . . .’ The doctor tailed off, seeing that Stratton’s eyes had strayed towards the desk blotter, on which lay a syringe. Then, seeing Stratton take out his notebook, his look of apprehension changed to one of alarm. ‘Surely there’s no need—’
‘Was that here when you arrived?’
Dr Ransome nodded unhappily.
‘In that position?’
‘Yes.’
‘No,’ put in Higgs. ‘It was on the floor. I saw it when I come in. Miss Lynn come flying into the mortuary to tell me, in a terrible state - couldn’t hardly get her words out - and when I come in I put it up on the desk there - Didn’t want anyone treading on it, sir.’
‘And it was where, exactly?’ asked Stratton.
‘Just about . . .’ Higgs cast around and fixed on a spot equidistant from Byrne’s chair, which had been pushed back, and his body, ‘there.’
‘So it - or what it contained - could have had something to do with his death?’
‘Yes.’ Dr Ransome looked even more miserable. ‘It’s possible, but, as I say, we shan’t know for certain until—’
‘So you said,’ interrupted Stratton, understanding that Ransome, assuming suicide, hadn’t wanted to contact the police until the post-mortem had confirmed his suspicions. Had Byrne, he wondered, been about to confess to the murder of Reynolds, and, if so, why?
‘I don’t need reminding that suicide is illegal, Inspector,’ snapped Dr Ransome. ‘I was thinking of Dr Byrne’s widow.’
‘His wife’s dead,’ said Higgs. ‘Last year.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Cancer.’
‘That,’ said Stratton, ‘might have had something to do with it.’
Ransome gave him a baleful look. ‘We don’t know that.’
‘No, we don’t. Do you know,’ Stratton asked Higgs, ‘if he had any children?’
Higgs nodded. ‘A son. He’s in the forces.’
‘Which service?’
‘RAF, sir.’
‘Does Dr Byrne live alone?’
‘I think so.’
‘Right. How did he seem yesterday?’
Higgs looked surprised. ‘Fine, sir. Same as usual. And, sir - if I might take the liberty of saying . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Dr Byrne didn’t approve of suicide, sir. People we’ve had in here who’ve done themselves in . . . He used to say they were weak, sir. In the head.’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, recalling that Byrne had several times dismissed suicides as ‘neurotic types’ in his presence. ‘He did, didn’t he? Now, what about that?’ Stratton pointed at the contusion on Byrne’s head.
‘I imagine it happened when he fell,’ said Ransome. ‘It’s not enough to kill him by itself.’
‘Have you any idea what the syringe contained?’
‘Could have been a number of things.’
‘Such as . . . ?’
‘An opiate, perhaps. As I said,’ Dr Ransome sounded irritated, ‘the post-mortem should give a clearer indication.’
‘Did he leave any sort of note?’
‘Nothing,’ said Dr Ransome. Behind him, Higgs shook his head in silent echo.
‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’
‘As far as we know,’ said Ransome, defensively. ‘His secretary found him, so I suppose it’s possible that she might have picked up a note, if there was one.’
‘I’ll talk to her in a minute.’ As Stratton knelt down beside the body he could hear the tick of Byrne’s watch, a tiny, mechanical pulse. He peered at a dark patch on the inside of the elbow of the bare arm. ‘Is that the site of the injection?’
Ransome sighed. ‘I would think so.’
‘Any other marks like that?’
‘Not that I could see,’ said the doctor, stiffly. Stratton could see that he knew what was being asked. Addiction amongst doctors and nurses was hardly unknown - after all, they had access to drugs in a way that others didn’t.
‘Was he found in this position?’
‘I certainly haven’t moved him.’ Ransome sounded affronted. ‘Mr Higgs?’
‘He was like that when I saw him, sir, and I don’t suppose Miss Lynn would have been able to move him, even if she’d wanted to.’
‘If he did fall off the chair,’ said Stratton, getting up, ‘it’s a strange way to end up, flat on his back. I don’t see how he could have bashed his head on the way down, either.’ He peered at the corner of the desk nearest to Byrne and saw a mark on the dark wood near the edge. ‘Although . . . It looks as if he banged himself on this. We’ll have to check. Can you get a sample from this?’ he asked Higgs. ‘If there’s enough.’
Higgs looked doubtful. ‘I’ll have a go.’
‘Dr Byrne might have moved, of course,’ said Ransome.
‘Might he?’ Stratton queried.
‘It’s possible.’
‘How long has he been dead?’
‘Hard to say. There’s rigor in the jaw and neck, but the room’s quite warm . . . over three hours, I should think. Perhaps longer.’
‘So, it might have been . . .’ Stratton glanced at his wristwatch, ‘say, quarter to five?’
‘Possibly.’
Turning to Higgs, Stratton asked, ‘Were you here all night?’ ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you talk to Dr Byrne after I’d gone?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You didn’t hear him leave?’
‘No, sir. As I said, I thought he’d already left.’
‘What about this morning?’
‘The office was locked. He was due at the Southwark Coroner’s Court at ten, and I thought he must have gone straight there.’
‘Wouldn’t that be unusual? You didn’t give me any indication that he wouldn’t be here this morning.’
‘Well, it would, but . . .’ Higgs gave Stratton a look that said, quite clearly, that it wasn’t his place to ask questions.
‘Did you have a busy night?’
Higgs shook his head. ‘We didn’t have much come in, so I had a kip, but I always wake the minute someone comes down.’
‘Can’t be very comfortable, sleeping in the mortuary.’
‘It’s all right when you get used to it. We had a chap for the night duty, but he’s gone, too - last week.’
‘When you say, “too” . . . ?’
‘I mean, as well as Sam Todd. Leaving me on my tod, as you might say.’ The ghost of a smile flitted across Higgs’s face.
‘When did he go?’ asked Stratton.
‘Oooh . . .’ Higgs screwed up his face with the effort of recall. ‘Best part of five weeks, now. Called up. That’s right - I remember, because it was the day after that poor nurse was killed, he told me.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Stratton, looking round the office, saw a bunch of keys lying on the floor in the far corner. ‘What are those doing there?’ He put out a restraining hand as Higgs started forward to pick them up. ‘Do you recognise them?’
‘They’re Dr Byrne’s. He must have dropped them. Blimey, Inspector, someone ought to tell them at Southwark that Dr Byrne won’t be coming. I don’t think Miss Lynn’s in a fit state.’
‘Where is she, anyway?’
‘She’s sitting in the mortuary. I gave her a nip of brandy.’
‘I’d better go and have a word with her. You telephone Southwark. ’
‘Right you are, sir.’
When Higgs had left, Dr Ransome turned to Stratton. ‘It could have been an accident, you know.’
‘People don’t tend to give themselves hypodermic injections by accident, Dr Ransome.’
‘No, but he might have been performing an experiment of some sort, or perhaps he felt unwell and was trying to treat himself.’
‘And made a mistake with the dosage?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘So are quite a few other things.’
‘But you can’t think there’s anything suspicious?’
‘I don’t know, Dr Ransome.’
‘You must see that it wouldn’t look good for the hospital. Not after Dr Reynolds.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about that, other than not advertising the fact. Now, you said that Professor Haycraft was coming down, didn’t you?’
‘Higgs was about to go and fetch him when you arrived.’
‘In that case, I think it would be a good idea if you went and explained the situation yourself.’
‘I need to get back to my patients, Inspector. I work in Casualty, and I can assure you that we are extremely busy.’
‘I’m sure that one of your colleagues could—’
‘I haven’t seen my colleague this morning. He was late, and I came down here almost as soon as I arrived.’
‘It shouldn’t take you very long, Dr Ransome. If you wouldn’t mind telling the professor to come and have a word . . .’
‘I’ll do that. But then I must get back to work.’
‘There’s one more thing - would you mind asking Miss Lynn for her keys? I need to lock this room.’
‘But . . .’ Dr Ransome gestured towards the keys lying in the corner, then thought better of it. ‘Oh, very well.’
He left, and Stratton glanced round the office once more - Byrne’s pen was on the right hand side of his blotter, he noted. His pipe, matches and ashtray were on the left, but it would make sense to put them there if he was writing with his right hand. Screwing up his face, Stratton tried to recall the times he’d entered Byrne’s office and found him at work. Yes, he’d definitely been right-handed, so it would make sense to inject himself in the left arm . . . If he’d sent a letter to his son before topping himself, that would clear things up nicely. Ballard could get on to that. Of course, there might not be any connection with Reynolds at all, but if there wasn’t, why would Byrne have asked to speak to him urgently? Unless, of course, he’d seen some suspicious-looking corpse yesterday, but Higgs hadn’t mentioned anything, so . . . That should be easy enough to check from the man’s notes. Easier than - God help us - thawing out all the corpses for re-examination, anyway.
When Ransome had handed over the keys and hurried off upstairs, Stratton locked the office and went down the corridor to the mortuary. Miss Lynn was sitting, surrounded by sheeted bodies, sniffing into a handkerchief. Higgs was standing beside her, gingerly and ineffectually patting her on one shoulder. She looked up, pink-eyed, as Stratton entered.
‘Miss Lynn? Inspector Stratton. It must have been a terrible shock, finding Dr Byrne like that. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some questions - are you feeling up to it?’
Miss Lynn sniffed once more and nodded. ‘Perhaps you could get her a cup of tea?’ Stratton asked Higgs, who, obviously relieved to relinquish his duty as comforter to a weeping woman, assented immediately.
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