Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (37 page)
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dacre, humbly. ‘As I explained to Sister Radford, it was just . . .’ He touched the bruise on his temple.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Ransome, irritably. ‘I know all about that. But you’re not ill.’ His beaky little nose wrinkled in disgust at the idea. ‘And of all mornings . . . You know about what’s happened, of course.’ He shook his head, then stared beadily at Dacre. ‘I hear that Dr Byrne came up to speak to you yesterday.’
Relieved that he’d already had a chance to practise his explanation on Sister Radford, Dacre repeated it to Ransome, who blinked and nodded throughout. ‘Good, good,’ he murmured, and then, ‘How did he seem to you?’
‘Well . . .’ Dacre hesitated deliberately, as if considering how to answer this. ‘The thing is, Dr Ransome, I can’t say that he seemed himself, because I’d only met him the once, but he appeared perfectly normal to me.’
‘Well, there you are,’ said Ransome with finality, as if clinching an argument. ‘Obviously some sort of ghastly mistake, and the less said about it, the better. Now, for heaven’s sake, let’s get on.’
As Dacre walked across the room, he felt a balloon of hope rise in his chest. If Dr Ransome had examined the body and thought there was nothing to investigate . . . Byrne being a fellow doctor, he’d be bound to cover it up if he thought it was self-inflicted. The big policeman obviously disagreed with him, but if the pathologist didn’t report anything sinister, then he’d have no evidence, would he? Unless that telephone number . . . Dacre patted the pocket where he’d put the scrap of paper. He must find out what it was: that could be done from a public telephone box, later. Even if it did prove to be the police station, Byrne couldn’t have said anything or the police would have been waiting to collar him, wouldn’t they? So all was well - he was Dr Dacre, and no-one knew any different. He rubbed his hands together briskly, and called out, ‘Who’s next?’
A middle-aged woman rose to her feet. She reminded Dacre of one of those novelty vegetables that get photographed for the newspapers because they bear a passing resemblance to a human face. ‘Follow me, please.’ Grinning, he led her behind the row of screens.
Forty-Five
M
iss Lynn having returned to her chair in the corridor, Stratton checked the contents of Dr Byrne’s wastepaper basket - several pipe-cleaners and a few scraps of paper, but nothing of interest. Straightening up, he slipped the photographs into his pocket to examine later. Was there any reason, he wondered, for Miss Lynn to lie about not finding a note? Surely there couldn’t have been any sort of affair between her and Byrne? The man was a widower, but all the same . . . She was too skinny, for one thing, and pale as a ghost - but maybe that was how Byrne liked them. Stratton, thinking of Jenny’s curves and soft, creamy skin, decided that it would be like having intercourse with an ironing board. And Byrne was no oil painting, either. Well, stranger things had happened . . . But somehow, he doubted it. Miss Lynn, though clearly devoted to Byrne, had given no indication that she was in love with him. And as far as anything else was concerned, her shock at finding the body had seemed entirely genuine.
iss Lynn having returned to her chair in the corridor, Stratton checked the contents of Dr Byrne’s wastepaper basket - several pipe-cleaners and a few scraps of paper, but nothing of interest. Straightening up, he slipped the photographs into his pocket to examine later. Was there any reason, he wondered, for Miss Lynn to lie about not finding a note? Surely there couldn’t have been any sort of affair between her and Byrne? The man was a widower, but all the same . . . She was too skinny, for one thing, and pale as a ghost - but maybe that was how Byrne liked them. Stratton, thinking of Jenny’s curves and soft, creamy skin, decided that it would be like having intercourse with an ironing board. And Byrne was no oil painting, either. Well, stranger things had happened . . . But somehow, he doubted it. Miss Lynn, though clearly devoted to Byrne, had given no indication that she was in love with him. And as far as anything else was concerned, her shock at finding the body had seemed entirely genuine.
Stratton returned to the mortuary to remind Ferguson and Dewhurst that he’d like all the test results as soon as possible, then went up to the dispensary where a short conversation with a bemused pharmacist and a glance at the book showed him that Dr Byrne had not obtained morphine, or, indeed, anything else. Presumably, thought Stratton, as he went back downstairs to collect Arliss, there were other ways of obtaining drugs in a hospital - some things were, after all, kept on the wards - but he did not see how Byrne could have got hold of any from such a source without drawing attention to himself.
He trudged back to West End Central, trailed by a sour-looking Arliss, and sat down at his desk to think.
Sergeant Ballard had managed to locate Dr Byrne’s son at RAF Lyneham. ‘I spoke to the Adjutant, sir. He says he’ll break the news to him and of course he’ll get compassionate leave. Home address in Hanwell, which I have. No telephone, but it’s a lot nearer than Wiltshire. Do you wish to speak to him, sir?’
‘Not just at the moment. But we do need to find out if anyone saw Byrne at home yesterday evening - neighbours and so on.’ Stratton handed over the Wimbledon address. ‘That’s the first thing. Find out how we can gain entry to his home, and then . . .’ He hesitated, realising that there wasn’t really anything else that could be done until he’d heard from Ferguson and Dewhurst.
Ballard, sensing doubt, said, ‘Do you think it wasn’t suicide, sir?’
‘I just don’t know,’ said Stratton. ‘There’s something odd going on, but I can’t put my finger on it. And if I’m wrong,’ he continued, gloomily, ‘DCI Lamb’ll have my guts for garters.’
If Ballard was surprised by this display of vulnerability, he didn’t show it. ‘You’ve been right in the past, sir. Your instinct about—’
Stratton snorted, cutting him off. ‘Instinct! Fat lot of good that is, with no facts.’
‘Perhaps the pathology report will provide some, sir.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Stratton sighed. ‘Then we might have a clue about what’s going on. Oh, and we found these tucked under Byrne’s blotter.’ He fished the photographs out of his pocket and laid them on the desk for Ballard to see. ‘For a textbook he was writing, apparently. Seems an odd place to put them.’
‘Who’s that?’ Ballard pointed at the fairish man with the moustache.
‘Todd, apparently. Used to be a mortuary assistant. That’s him there, too.’
‘I must have interviewed him,’ said Ballard. ‘After Dr Reynolds died. Don’t remember him, though.’
‘No reason why you should. You might check, though.’
Ballard took out his notebook. ‘It’s here, sir. Nothing of any significance.’
‘He left soon after Nurse Leadbetter was killed,’ said Stratton, ‘probably just coincidence.’
Stratton, left alone, began to sort through the detritus on his desk in an attempt to achieve some sort of order before reporting to DCI Lamb. Remembering his meeting with Fay Marchant in the mortuary corridor the previous evening, he tried to recall exactly what she’d said. Something about going back to the nurses’ quarters, he thought . . . That was right, she’d just come off duty. Stratton scribbled this down in his notebook, with the approximate time of their meeting. It was an odd route for her to take, unless she’d been in one of the basement operating theatres just beforehand, which was, of course, entirely possible. Then again, she’d been involved with Dr Reynolds, and, as a nurse, she’d be able to get access to something like morphine fairly easily. He hadn’t noticed her name in the dispenser’s book, but there were other ways . . . If Byrne had some medical problem and she’d persuaded him to have an injection . . . But that was ridiculous. If Byrne had suspected her of something, the last thing he’d do was let her stick a needle into his arm, so how could she have done it? Come to that, how could anyone have done it?
If Byrne had wanted to speak to him about Reynolds - and the absence of anything fishy in the mortuary’s recent records made this the most likely explanation - and it had something to do with Fay, then perhaps she’d somehow got wind of it and . . . And what? There was no reason for her to kill Reynolds. In fact, if he was going to procure an abortion for her, then she had every reason to keep him alive. But she’d said she wasn’t pregnant, hadn’t she? Perhaps Reynolds, frightened by the false alarm, had announced that he was breaking it off and she had flown into a temper and bashed him. But she’d said that the note about needing to see Reynolds urgently was written at Easter, and presumably she must have found out fairly soon afterwards that she wasn’t going to have a baby after all . . . So why would Reynolds wait over two months before breaking it off? Dithering, perhaps, trying to find the right time to tell her, or wanting, despite his anxiety, to have his cake and eat it? Could be all sorts of things. And, even if that was what had happened, Stratton couldn’t imagine, from the little he knew of Fay, that she’d be capable of killing anyone . . . Or would she? If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that you could never tell what people might do. And just because a girl had nice legs and velvet brown eyes didn’t mean that she was above suspicion. But she was a nurse, for Christ’s sake. The way things were going, that made her more likely to be a victim than a murderess. There was something bloody odd about the whole business, but try telling that to DCI Lamb . . . He stood up, straightened his tie, and forced his unwilling feet down the corridor in the direction of his superior’s office.
Stratton was still smarting from Lamb’s bollocking when he arrived home, late - his superior had insisted on raking over every tiny detail - and with the beginnings of a nasty headache.
As he opened the front door, he heard women’s voices coming from upstairs. Thinking it must be Doris or Lilian, he shouted, ‘Hello!’ There was a muted scream, then the sound of a door closing, and Jenny appeared on the stairs, looking agitated, with her finger to her lips.
‘What’s up?’
Jenny shook her head and, running downstairs, bustled him into the kitchen and closed the door. ‘Ted, I’m really sorry, but—’
Realisation dawned. ‘You’ve got that bloody woman here, haven’t you?’
‘Don’t call her that! I couldn’t help it, Ted. Doris has had her for ages, and she’s—’
‘I don’t see why anyone has to have her! She ought to be in—’
‘Don’t you start, Ted, please. She’s all alone, her husband doesn’t want anything more to do with her, he’s gone back to the army, and—’
‘Why didn’t you warn me, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Keep your voice down!’
‘Well, why didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t think to telephone from Doris’s. I didn’t want to bother you with it . . . Anyway, you’re not exactly sympathetic, are you?’
‘It’s not that, Jenny, I just don’t think she ought to be here, that’s all. Or with Doris. It’s not our responsibility. Next you’ll be telling me that she’s sleeping in the Morrison with us.’
‘Of course she isn’t. She’ll be fine upstairs.’
‘You hope. I certainly wouldn’t be if my home had been blown to pieces with me in it.’
‘Well, she was at Doris’s - she wouldn’t sleep downstairs. Insisted on staying up there. The last few weeks haven’t been so bad here, anyway - I’ve put a camp-bed under the stairs, in case she does decide she wants to come down. She hasn’t got anyone else, Ted. Look, there’s no point fighting about it. She’s here now. Just please don’t let on about being a policeman.’
‘What would be acceptable to her, then? A bus conductor? A bloody toilet attendant?’
‘Oh, stop it. I don’t know. I’m just saying, that’s all.’
‘Well, I ought to know, since I’m supposed to be somebody else.’
‘Look, Ted,’ Jenny’s voice cracked, and she looked on the verge of tears, ‘I’m not going to turn her out. Why don’t you just take your coat off and I’ll get your supper?’
They continued to argue while they ate, and then while they drank tea in the sitting room (no wireless, in case it woke Mrs Ingram), and they got ready for bed in bad-tempered silence.
When they were settled, side by side, not touching, in the Morrison, and the light was out, Stratton lay awake, fuming. He’d thought that Jenny was pretending to be asleep, but, after about ten minutes, he heard a snuffle and realised that she was crying. Stratton counted to ten in his head, then to twenty, then thirty. This wasn’t fair. None of it was his fault - the war, or Mrs Ingram, or anything else, and yet he was being made to feel as if it was. He hated Jenny being upset, and having the happy atmosphere of his home disturbed like this. Having reached eighty, with the snuffling, still muted, continuing, he reached across to her. ‘Come on, love. I’m sorry. But it is a bit much . . .’
‘Everything,’ Jenny hiccupped, ‘is a bit much.’
‘I know . . . Come here.’
‘I need to blow my nose.’ Jenny sat up, banged her head on the top of the steel cage, and started crying in earnest.
‘Come on, it’s all right . . . we’ll sort it all out somehow . . . I’m sorry . . .’
‘Oh, Ted,’ said Jenny, between sobs, ‘what are we going to do?’
Get rid of Mrs Ingram, was the first thing that came into Stratton’s mind, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he kissed the top of her head and said, ‘The first thing we’re going to do is try and get some kip. It’s bound to look better in the morning.’ Then he stroked Jenny’s back until, eventually, the tears subsided, and she fell asleep.
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