Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (15 page)
Which brought him full circle: he didn’t believe that Fay was unscrupulous. She hadn’t returned Maddox’s cattiness, either, except for one tiny flash of claws. He wondered about her social life. She’d said her fiancé was killed at Tobruk, which was ... Stratton thought back . . . 1942. She hadn’t mentioned seeing anyone since then, but such a lovely-looking girl would hardly remain unattached for long - unless she chose to, of course. Nurses, he knew, lived communally, and there were always strict rules about being home before a certain time in the evening. However, he’d bet on the fact that there was a bathroom window or something that they could crawl through if necessary.
The whole thing needed further consideration . . . something for this evening’s stint on the allotment, he thought. He got up and went to the door to usher in the next girl.
Sixteen
B
y six o’clock Stratton, having checked the nursing rota with the matron and discovered that Fay had been telling the truth about when she was on nights and that Leadbetter had been on nights too, found himself with a good deal more to ponder than just her. Two nurses from the Casualty Department, interviewed back-to-back, had, on being pressed, timidly suggested that Reynolds was not, perhaps, as good a doctor as his colleagues had made him out to be. One had mentioned an incident in which Reynolds had apparently mistaken a diabetic coma for a drunken stupor, and the next girl (nice legs but a squashed-up face that, if it wasn’t for the absence of fur, could have belonged to a friendly Pekingese) had, reluctantly, admitted that this had indeed been the case. Stratton remembered that Arliss (who was, admittedly, no doctor, or even averagely intelligent) had done something similar the previous year, and that by the time the police doctor had been called to the cells, the chap was pretty far gone and had to be rushed into hospital.
y six o’clock Stratton, having checked the nursing rota with the matron and discovered that Fay had been telling the truth about when she was on nights and that Leadbetter had been on nights too, found himself with a good deal more to ponder than just her. Two nurses from the Casualty Department, interviewed back-to-back, had, on being pressed, timidly suggested that Reynolds was not, perhaps, as good a doctor as his colleagues had made him out to be. One had mentioned an incident in which Reynolds had apparently mistaken a diabetic coma for a drunken stupor, and the next girl (nice legs but a squashed-up face that, if it wasn’t for the absence of fur, could have belonged to a friendly Pekingese) had, reluctantly, admitted that this had indeed been the case. Stratton remembered that Arliss (who was, admittedly, no doctor, or even averagely intelligent) had done something similar the previous year, and that by the time the police doctor had been called to the cells, the chap was pretty far gone and had to be rushed into hospital.
Having done this, he decided to recall Fay and ask her about it. He found the Men’s Surgical Ward, and asked the sister if he might have a word with Nurse Marchant. She looked at him as if he’d just farted and said, ‘Another one?’ but she called Fay.
They returned to Stratton’s allotted room in silence, Fay looking worried. Once they were settled on either side of the consultant’s desk, Stratton asked, ‘Would you say Dr Reynolds was a competent physician?’
Fay flushed. ‘I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that question.’
‘Nevertheless, I’d like to hear your opinion.’
‘Well . . .’ Fay glanced towards the window, evading his eye.
‘Strictly between ourselves,’ said Stratton.
‘The thing is, we’re so busy at the moment, and anyone can . . .’
‘Make a mistake?’
‘Well, yes. Someone came in last year, when I was on Casualty. A sixteen-year-old boy. It was after a raid, and he had a cut on his foot. It wasn’t too bad - in fact, I don’t really understand why they hadn’t sorted it out at the warden’s post, because there’s always a doctor on duty. But they hadn’t, and it was a busy night with a lot of casualties. He came in with his mother, and Dr Reynolds treated him and sent him away. He was a bit . . . well, he pretty much told the pair of them that they were making a song and dance over nothing. Anyway, the boy was brought back two days later in a bad way, and he died that night. Blood poisoning. I felt so sorry for the mother.’
‘Were there any other incidents like that?’
‘That’s the one I remember, but . . . I did think, sometimes, that he could be a bit . . . well, dismissive. But anyone can be, when you’re busy, and . . . doctors are human, Inspector. I’m sure that most of them have made the odd mistake.’
‘Are you sure you’re not letting your friendship colour your views?’ asked Stratton.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Fay miserably. ‘I’m trying to be fair to him.’
‘Did you have an affair with him?’
Fay shook her head steadily, staring at the floor. Stratton still didn’t know whether to believe her or not.
When she’d gone, Ballard came in to report on his day’s findings - or rather, the lack of them. ‘We’ve located Sergeant Leadbetter’s senior officer and sent a telegram, but we haven’t turned up anything of significance, I’m afraid. Oh, and there was a message from Fingerprints, sir, about the operating theatre. Stuff all over the place, apparently, all different, smeared and messed up. They can’t make anything of it.’
Stratton, who’d been chewing the end of his pencil in order not to deplete his limited stock of cigarettes further, took it out of his mouth and tossed it down on the desk. ‘Bollocks.’
‘I’d say so, sir.’
‘Oh, well. Same place, same time, tomorrow, then. You off now?’
Ballard nodded. ‘Plans for this evening, sir.’
‘Oh, yes . . .’ Stratton was aware that Ballard had been seeing Gaines, a shapely policewoman from the Marlborough Street station, for some time, but - such things being forbidden - found it easier to pretend that he knew nothing about it. He assumed, since marriage would have automatically meant Gaines’s immediate dismissal, that there were no plans of that sort in the offing. Perhaps they’d decided to wait until the war was over before setting up home. ‘Well, I’m not going to ask any more, so you don’t have to tell.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Cheerio then.’ Stratton rose to fetch his hat. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
‘I shall, sir. Goodnight.’
After a solitary supper, Stratton went up to his allotment where he spent a pleasant, if back-breaking, couple of hours hoeing, transplanting leeks, and earthing up the early potatoes. Satisfied with his work, he wrapped some broad beans and the first of the carrots in newspaper to give to Jenny, and trudged off home. He didn’t feel any clearer in his mind about either Fay or Nurse Leadbetter, but at least he’d managed to make some discreet enquiries about the misdiagnoses and been promised further information. Tomorrow, he’d get the first results from the door-to-door enquiries, which might yield something . . .
Seventeen
T
alk about a shock! Higgs had told him about the nurse when he’d arrived for work, and, for a horrible moment, he’d thought it was his girl and someone else had got there first. Then he’d had a glance under the sheet when no-one was looking, and, even with the swelling and cyanosis, he could see immediately that it wasn’t her because of the red hair. He wondered if it was the girl who’d stared at him just after he’d first seen Fay - there couldn’t be too many redheads in the hospital, could there? All to the good, if it was - one less thing to concern him. He wondered, for a moment, why it had happened, then dismissed it from his mind.
alk about a shock! Higgs had told him about the nurse when he’d arrived for work, and, for a horrible moment, he’d thought it was his girl and someone else had got there first. Then he’d had a glance under the sheet when no-one was looking, and, even with the swelling and cyanosis, he could see immediately that it wasn’t her because of the red hair. He wondered if it was the girl who’d stared at him just after he’d first seen Fay - there couldn’t be too many redheads in the hospital, could there? All to the good, if it was - one less thing to concern him. He wondered, for a moment, why it had happened, then dismissed it from his mind.
He’d mentally prepared himself to see Inspector Stratton, and was relieved when, bidden into the room on the second floor, he was interviewed by a sergeant. He thought it was the same man who’d been on the bomb-site when he and Higgs had gone to fetch in Dr Reynolds, but he couldn’t be sure.
The questions - he’d compared notes afterwards with Higgs, to check - were of a routine nature: did he know Dr Reynolds, did he know Nurse Leadbetter, what had he been doing at the times of their deaths, had he noticed anything suspicious . . . The whole business hadn’t taken more than five minutes.
It was time, he thought, to put the next part of his plan into action, but it was almost the end of the day before he got the chance. It had been a long one: twenty-one post-mortems in rapid succession. Bomb casualties, mostly, dusty, tattered, shattered and crushed, each to be tagged with an identity disc, and each with a few small belongings which he’d bagged up and tied to the bodies of their former owners. As they cleared up, he told Higgs, ‘By the way, I’ll be leaving soon. I’ve been called up.’
‘Have you? Blimey, they took their time. To be honest, young chap like you, when you come along I was a bit surprised you wasn’t already in the forces. Thought you must have flat feet or something.’
‘I’ve been moving around, see,’ said Todd, vaguely. ‘They took a while to find me.’
Higgs grimaced. ‘Bet you wish they hadn’t bothered.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Todd. ‘We’ve all got to do our bit.’
‘You are doing your bit,’ said Higgs. ‘To be honest, I don’t know how we’re going to manage without you. Have you told Dr Byrne? Perhaps he could put in a word for you.’
‘No,’ said Todd. ‘This isn’t a reserved occupation and I don’t want to duck out of it. Besides, you’ll find someone else.’
‘Yes,’ said Higgs, gloomily, ‘and guess who’ll have to train the bugger? I never said before, but you cottoned on faster than anyone we’ve had, and I’ve been here near on twenty years.’ After a pause, he added in a gruffer voice than usual, ‘I’m going to miss you, mate.’ Paying great attention, he pinched out his cigarette and stuck what was left behind his ear. ‘Right,’ he said, brusquely, ‘back to work.’
‘I’ll catch you up.’ Todd stayed outside to finish his fag. He wanted a couple of minutes by himself. He was flattered by what Higgs had said - it was always nice to leave a job on a high note. He was just savouring it, thinking it boded well for the future, when he heard shouts from the pavement above. ‘Unwin! Unwin!’ Looking up, he saw by craning his neck the foreshortened form of the red-headed doctor, Wemyss, the wealthy one. Remembering that Unwin was the name of one of the other young doctors, he tried for a glimpse and saw a plump man with a sleek, dark head. Wemyss appeared to be giving him something - money, perhaps, or cigarettes - but Todd couldn’t hear what was being said. Then Wemyss moved away, laughing, and the other called out, ‘Cambridge Arms, then,’ before he walked off.
Neither had seen him. The area was deep, narrow, and pretty well hidden from the street unless you looked directly over the railings. The Cambridge Arms. The only pub he knew with that name was in Newman Street. He hadn’t thought it was a ‘hospital’ place, but maybe that was why Wemyss and Unwin (and possibly the third of the trio, Betterton) chose to go there. If it did turn out to be their usual watering hole, it would make things a lot easier. Assuming that the arrangement was for later on, he’d be able to find out tonight.
He’d finish clearing up in the mortuary, then go and break the news to Dr Byrne. After that, it would be time to concentrate on the next part of his plan.
Eighteen
...
a
nd the hens are still laying well. Auntie Doris is coming soon,
we
are going to the Grove to see
The Man in Grey.
Margaret Lockwood and James Mason are in it. We have not been to the pictures
for weeks, so it will be quite a treat.
a
nd the hens are still laying well. Auntie Doris is coming soon,
we
are going to the Grove to see
The Man in Grey.
Margaret Lockwood and James Mason are in it. We have not been to the pictures
for weeks, so it will be quite a treat.
Jenny put down her pen, and put her elbows on the kitchen table and her chin on her fists, considering what to write next.
We are still very busy at the ‘Rest Centre’, and . . . And come next year, you might have a brother or sister. Monica might be pleased, she supposed, and at least she was old enough to help - provided she were here, of course.
She must not think like that. There was still plenty of time for her period to arrive, and if she worried, she’d more than likely make herself late. ‘I am not pregnant,’ she told herself. ‘Everything is fine.’ In the spirit of belt-and-braces - after all, it couldn’t hurt - she put her elbows on the table again, and, clasping her hands together, closed her eyes.
She was interrupted in mid-prayer by the sound of Doris shouting ‘Coo-ee!’ through the letterbox. A moment later, her sister appeared in the kitchen, looking flushed and patting her hair back into place.
‘Jen! Mr Ingram telephoned - he’s coming to pick her up!’
‘Oh, thank God - at last! That’s wonderful. When?’
‘Two hours, he said. Dr Makepeace finally managed to get through to his unit yesterday - they’re in Southampton, supporting the Navy or something. Mrs Ingram was ever so pleased - I’m sure she’ll be fine now he’s back. We’ll have to go to the pictures another time. I was hoping you could fetch her some better clothes from the Rest Centre. You’ve seen her - skin and bone - my things would hang off her.’
Jenny sighed. ‘So would mine. I’ll see what I can do.’
Jenny managed to find a respectable-looking blouse and skirt, and a fairly decent cardigan. Later, standing in Doris’s kitchen, she held them up for inspection.
‘I hope they fit. I got the smallest ones I could.’
‘They’ll be fine. I’ll take them up to her.’
Doris had just returned to the kitchen and was in the process of making tea, when there was a knock on the door. She went into the hall, and Jenny, curious to see Mr Ingram, followed. Opening the front door they saw, standing on the step, a small, narrow-shouldered man dressed in khaki, holding a kitbag. His face was triangular, broad across the temples and tapering sharply to a pointed chin, his lips compressed, and his eyes a hard, concentrated blue. There was a constrained look to him, as if he might explode at any minute. Even the small, tight knot of his tie looked angry. Jenny stepped back, feeling a flutter of fear.
‘Hello, Mr Ingram,’ said Doris.
‘Thank you for taking Elsie in like this,’ said Mr Ingram. Evidently, he didn’t think it was necessary to make introductions. ‘I’ve come to fetch her now, so she’ll be no more trouble to you.’ He smiled suddenly, revealing neat little teeth with a sharp canine at each side. Jenny took another step back. There was definitely something menacing about him, she thought, even though he was clearly trying to be friendly.
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