‘Yes, that seems reasonable.’ Ferguson spoke as if this had been Stratton’s supposition and not his own.
‘What about the bump on the head?’ asked Stratton.
‘It looks as if it happened when he fell. There’s a match with the blood on the desk.’
‘But he ended up on his back . . . ?’
‘That is strange, but it’s not impossible.’
‘Could the bang on the head have been prior to the injection?’
‘Impossible to say, but there was some blood flow, and clearly plenty of time for the bruise to develop, so I’d say it happened several hours before death.’
‘Would it have been enough to knock him out?’
‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Enough for concussion, certainly. It was quite a blow.’
Stratton thanked Dr Ferguson, replaced the telephone on the hook, then started compiling a list of questions. He’d just written Fay Marchant, and added three question marks and a reminder to himself to re-check the dispensary’s records for her name, when Sergeant Ballard appeared, bearing two cups of tea.
‘Any joy, sir?’
‘Thanks. Not really.’ Stratton pushed his notebook in Ballard’s direction. ‘Have a dekko.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Ballard scanned the page. ‘Hardly conclusive, is it?’
Stratton shook his head. ‘Nothing concrete. Just that Byrne tried to speak to me the afternoon before he died, and everyone seems to agree that he wasn’t even depressed, never mind suicidal, and that he - or somebody - wiped the prints from his desk and his keys. There might be something in what you said about that mortuary assistant - it’s as good a place to start as any, so we’d better see if we can find him.’
‘Called up, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Stratton reclaimed his notebook and leafed through the pages. ‘About five weeks ago, according to the other assistant, Higgs. Wonder why they left it so late? He wasn’t in a reserved occupation.’
‘Mucked up the records, I shouldn’t wonder. Happens a good deal, apparently.’
‘I suppose it must do. And of course we don’t know which service.’
‘No, but he’ll still be doing basic training, won’t he? Shouldn’t be too hard to find. I’ll get onto it right away, sir.’
‘Good. I’d better have a word with DCI Lamb,’ Stratton rolled his eyes, ‘and then I’ll get down to the hospital and start asking questions about mislaid morphine.’
Later, Stratton traipsed back to the Middlesex with Lamb’s parting shot - ‘Do try not to turn this into more of a fiasco than it is already’ - ringing in his ears.
Forty-Seven
S
tratton went downstairs first, to examine the bookcase in Byrne’s office. He didn’t really expect to find anything, and, sure enough, it was entirely unremarkable. He then went upstairs to confront the bespectacled lady from the hospital’s Administrative Department. When Stratton announced himself, she approached him with all the enthusiasm of a trout confronted by an unbaited hook. On hearing that Byrne’s death might not, after all, have been suicide, she raised so many objections to his interviewing any of the staff that Stratton marched off to find the senior registrar with the posh voice, leaving her opening and closing her mouth, looking even more fish-like than before.
Having wiped the controlled sneer off the senior registrar’s face by informing him that he was conducting yet another murder enquiry, Stratton secured a room in which to conduct interviews. He asked the man to tell Professor Haycraft, and, leaving him making whinnying noises and fingering what Stratton would have bet a week’s wages was a public school tie, he went to check the dispensary records, where he found Fay’s signature for three phials of morphine on the relevant date - which, if nothing else, proved she hadn’t pinched the stuff - and then marched off to the Men’s Surgical Ward.
He found Sister Bateman at the bedside of a chubby, effeminate-looking man who, though clearly middle-aged, had suspiciously butter-coloured hair. It was visiting time, and she was engaging in an animated conversation with a plump and peroxided woman who, judging by the likeness, must have been the man’s mother. In fact, Stratton thought, the pair of them could have taken it in turns to be mother, so great was the resemblance. He cleared his throat, causing Sister Bateman’s head to swivel in his direction.
‘Yes? Can I help? Oh . . .’ she said, in weary recognition. ‘It’s you.’
‘I’m afraid so, Sister. Might I have a quick word?’
‘If you must,’ she said, ungraciously.
Sister Bateman excused herself from the plump woman, who was still gesticulating wildly, and led Stratton to her desk at the end of the ward. ‘I hope this won’t take long,’ she said. ‘I’ve two nurses off - chickenpox, of all things - and another one’s packed her traps and run off home, so we’re rather hard pressed.’
‘I understand,’ said Stratton. ‘This won’t take long. You’ve heard about Dr Byrne, I take it?’
‘Dreadful business.’ said Sister Bateman. ‘News spreads very quickly in hospitals, as I’m sure you can imagine.’ She glared suspiciously round the ward in case any of the nurses were gossiping.
‘What have you heard?’ asked Stratton.
‘That he took his own life, poor man,’ said Sister Bateman in a low voice. ‘Was that what happened?’
‘We’re not entirely sure,’ said Stratton, cautiously. ‘That’s why I’m here. It’s about morphine. Have you missed any?’
Sister Bateman raised her eyebrows. ‘Was that how?’
‘I’m afraid so. Is there any unaccounted for?’
Sister Bateman shook her head. ‘We’re always very careful about drugs, Inspector. There is a procedure, you know.’
‘I realise that, but if you could just cast your mind back . . .’
Sister Bateman seemed to sag slightly, and Stratton saw that, beneath the starchy carapace, there was a very tired woman. For a second, he was tempted to put his arm round her, but common sense told him that this would be both inappropriate and unappreciated (except of course, by the nearby patients and nurses, all of whom, in their different ways, were going through an elaborate pantomime of not listening to their conversation).
‘One of the nurses did have an accident. She was fetching some supplies, and she dropped three phials of morphine. I reprimanded her, of course. We can’t afford to waste valuable supplies through carelessness.’ The memory of this brought the starch back, and, straightening her spine, she glared at Stratton as if pre-empting a flippant suggestion about teaching the nurses to juggle with the stuff. ‘Nurses are not supposed to run in the corridors.’
‘When was this?’ he asked.
‘Two days ago.’
‘What happened to the phials?’
‘Lost, I’m afraid. They went down the gap between the floorboards and the wall. The wretched girl wasn’t looking where she was going, and . . .’ Sister Bateman spread her hands. ‘Gone.’
‘Where did this happen?’
‘In the corridor outside. It’s probably better if you ask Nurse Marchant. She was the one who dropped them.’
Stratton didn’t think he’d betrayed himself by so much as a flicker, but Sister Bateman shot him a shrewd look and said, ‘You asked to see her before, didn’t you? About poor Dr Reynolds. You wanted to interview her again.’
Stratton gave her his blandest smile. ‘That’s right. A minor matter.’
Sister Bateman looked as if she didn’t entirely believe this, but she didn’t challenge it. ‘I’ll fetch her for you, shall I?’
‘If you would,’ said Stratton. ‘It’s probably of no importance, but I ought to check.’
She reappeared after a couple of minutes, Fay Marchant in tow. Fay, pale-faced, stared at the floor while the sister told Stratton that she’d leave them to it. He and Fay stood in silence until she’d bustled out of earshot. Fay, he thought, looked tense - more angular, somehow, than she had before - and as he escorted her into the corridor to show him where the phials had been dropped, she seemed to move stiffly, with less grace than he remembered.
She looked around uncertainly. ‘It was somewhere down here, I think.’ She turned left and moved forward a few steps, Stratton trailing behind.
‘How did it happen?’
‘Carelessness, really. I was rushing, and I bumped into someone, and the tray just flew out of my hand. It landed over there somewhere, ’ Fay pointed to a spot a few feet away, ‘and the things rolled across the floor.’
Stratton noticed that her pale complexion was reddening, and blotches of pink had appeared on her neck. ‘Then what happened?’ he asked.
‘We looked around for the things, and I picked up the tray and the syringe, but I couldn’t see the phials. We found one, but it was broken, and he—I mean,’ continued Fay, looking very uncomfortable, ‘the person I bumped into, said they must have fallen down the crack over there.’
‘Who did you collide with?’ asked Stratton, who had remembered Sister Bateman’s comments about nurses running in corridors and had an idea that Fay hadn’t told her about bumping into anyone. ‘Was it a doctor, by any chance?’
‘Yes, one of the doctors. He was very nice about it, even though it was my fault.’
Stratton wondered why she hadn’t volunteered a name - he was pretty sure she knew who it was. Leaving this aside for the moment, he said, ‘And he helped you look for the phials, did he?’
‘Yes. He was the one who realised where they must have gone.’
Stratton went to inspect the point she’d indicated, and, crouching down, peered into the gap between the floor and the skirting board, Fay hovering behind him. He couldn’t see anything down there, but, he concluded, it would be easy enough to remove the board for a proper look.
‘Can you see them?’ asked Fay.
‘No.’
‘I couldn’t, either. But they must be down there - as he said, there’s nowhere else they could have gone.’
Stratton stood up and turned to face Fay, who stepped back, looking worried. ‘I didn’t take them,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Stratton. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything. The doctor said that to you, did he? About the phials falling down there?’
‘Well . . . yes.’
‘Which doctor was it?’
‘Oh.’ Fay’s colour intensified. ‘Dr Dacre. From Casualty.’
‘Dacre,’ repeated Stratton. Too much to hope that it was Dr Byrne, of course.
‘He’s new,’ said Fay. ‘He replaced Dr Reynolds.’ Her voice was quite steady, but her discomfort was obvious. Stratton wasn’t clear whether this was a result of having dropped the stuff in the first place, or the fact that Dacre was Reynolds’s replacement, or their own meeting in the mortuary corridor, or a compound of all of these.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Did you tell him what was in the phials?’
‘Well, yes.’ Fay looked bewildered. ‘I wanted to find them. I was worried about getting into trouble with Sister.’
‘I understand. Now,’ he said, gently, ‘I’m going to fetch a porter and get this board up, because we do need to account for anything that’s missing. But before I do, where were you going the night before last, when we bumped into each other?’
‘I told you,’ said Fay. ‘Back to the nurses’ quarters. I’d just come off duty.’
‘Rather an odd route to take, wasn’t it?’
‘I had to take something down to one of the basement theatres,’ said Fay. ‘A patient’s notes, for one of the house surgeons. Sister Bateman asked me to take them.’ She glanced around, as if hoping for corroboration. ‘I didn’t see Mr Hambling - that’s the surgeon - but you can ask Sister.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Stratton. ‘Did you hear any noise coming from the mortuary office when you walked past?’
‘No. The door was shut.’
‘Fair enough. But, just before you go . . . is there anything else you’d like to tell me, about any of this?’
Fay stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed, then shook her head. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ she said miserably. ‘None of it.’
Stratton, though strongly tempted to do just what he’d told Fay about getting the floorboard up, was perfectly aware that Lamb - quite rightly, in this case - would have him on toast if he did any such thing, and went back to Savile Row to see about a warrant.
‘Search the hospital?’ Lamb, who having given up on the patience-wearing-thin routine and adopted an air of one bearing up bravely under bad news, now raised his voice an incredulous semitone. ‘Take up floorboards? Have you any idea how much disruption that will cause?’
‘Of course, sir, but I don’t see any other way.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, Inspector,’ Lamb said, acidly, ‘we’ve got quite enough on our hands with the flying bombs, without you demolishing things as well.’
‘Unless you have any advice about how it might be managed, sir . . .’ said Stratton, knowing full well that Lamb didn’t. ‘I thought,’ he added, humbly, ‘that if you could put in a word, sir, it might speed things up a bit. For the warrant, sir.’