George Barnabas - 04 - Fourth Attempt (3 page)

‘Tell me about it!’ George said. She put the copy of the note back into her pocket. ‘Well, that all makes sense now. I couldn’t understand why the poor wretch should leave a message like that, just because of a pregnancy, in this day and age. Now I do. Poor kid. And what a way to do it!’

‘I didn’t know it could be done,’ Hattie said. ‘I thought the reflexes would make it impossible to drown yourself in just a bath.’

‘You’d be amazed at what a really determined suicide can do,’ George said. ‘And she made sure she made a job of it. She took some diazepam to sedate herself and then inhaled a really big quantity in the first breath she took under water. She was unconscious in a matter of seconds and by then she was lying on the floor of the bath and it was full so …’

‘So they’re both dead.’

‘Both?’ George was disconcerted for a moment.

‘Frean and her baby.’

‘Oh, yes … Bloody religion!’ George said with sudden violence.

‘You can’t blame all religion for the fundamentalists,’ Hattie said and George lifted her chin in disagreement.

‘You don’t get fundamentalists without it.’

‘No? Then what about political ones?’ Hattie said mildly.

George stared at her and then bit her lip. ‘Sorry, Hatt. I didn’t mean to offend you. Though I have to say I never knew you were religious. We never talked about it, did we?’

‘Oh, I’m not.’ Hattie was her usual cheerful self. ‘I’m as
much a pagan as the rest of the people here. I just — well, I like to argue. Almost as much as you do.’

‘She’s my best friend and I just
hate
her.’ George got to her feet. ‘OK, thanks for the information. I’ll pass it on to the coroner’s office, together with my PM findings and then they can have the inquest. And once there’s evidence we’ve had just the one suicide at Old East, people’ll shut their goddamn mouths about the other two.’

‘Maybe,’ said Hattie diplomatically. She stretched as she got to her feet. ‘Listen, I’d better get back outside and see what’s what. Life’s a bit easier here now with those two new nurse practitioners on triage, but I have to keep an eye out all the same. See you later?’

‘Uh-huh.’ George was at the door. ‘At the presentation for old Hunnisett, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Where else?’ Hattie brightened then. ‘Maybe we’ll pick up a bit of news about who’s to be our new Medical Director.’

‘I hope so. It’ll give people something else to gossip about for a change,’ George said. ‘Especially Sheila Keen. I’ll gag that woman if it’s the last thing I do.’

‘Phooey,’ Hattie said good naturedly. ‘You know she’s not all that much worse than the rest of us. Just better at digging out the facts and spreading ’em around, that’s all.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ George said grimly. ‘I’ll tell you this much: if I can’t stop her tongue over this poor Frean girl, I swear she’ll be the next suicide for people to talk about. I’ll drive her to it, see if I don’t.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Hattie managed a fair imitation of George’s American accent. ‘I’ll believe that when it happens. See you at the meeting then. Now get out of here!’

George got.

The Board Room was in festive mode, which George always found rather depressing. The fact that the imposing furniture had been pushed into different positions to clear the centre of the space, and that trays of sad-looking vol-au-vents and sausages and curly sandwiches had been dotted about, didn’t make it any less lowering, with its heavy dark-panelled walls and looming deeply varnished portraits of long-dead benefactors and faded red Turkey carpet. The room was one of the relics of the days when Old East had been a famous voluntary hospital supported by public contributions and staffed by lofty doctors in frock coats and subservient nurses in a great deal of starch. Now, as a National Health Acute Trust, Old East had sprouted a shabby array of portakabins put in to be temporary but becoming ever more permanent as the increase in work swiftly outstripped the money available to run the place properly, and concrete extensions which sat sullenly in all their stained grey hideousness against the red brick of the original foundation in a way that made both of them look even uglier and more dilapidated than they were. If that were possible.

But in the years since George had come to work at Old East she, like the rest of the staff, had become inured to the surroundings. It would have been agreeable to work in a wonderland of modern chrome and tile with broad well-windowed
rooms and corridors, but since they didn’t, they learned not to see the way the place really looked. They settled instead for the fascination of the work that went on inside these unprepossessing premises and an absorbing interest in the people who did it, both of which were very vibrant indeed.

Looking around the room now George could see that two of the research fellows, Frances Llewellyn and Michael Klein, had already arrived and was amused. The Royal Eastern Clinical Research Institute had been set up just a year ago by the now departing Professor Hunnisett, and he had been very successful in attracting both money to run it and good people to work in it. There was no way the research fellows already
in situ
were going to risk losing their plum places at the Institute’s table. If Hunnisett was going, the identity of his successor would be a matter of huge importance to all of them. George watched as they clustered round the rather pompous figure of the old man and was glad she wasn’t into research. Being Old East’s pathologist as well as Forensic Home Office Pathologist for the patch of London served by Old East was quite enough for her to deal with. Anyway, her patrons, if she had such things, were not here, but among the police and the civil service, and she rarely had to see any of the latter. What she saw of the former suited her very well.

However, she would not let herself be distracted by thoughts of the police, or more accurately thoughts of one particular policeman: Superintendent Gus Hathaway. There were several things that needed thinking about regarding him. But not now.

Another of the people standing beside Professor Hunnisett caught her eye, smiled and raised one hand. She smiled back. She’d already met him. He’d come over to her table in the canteen one lunchtime a few months ago, very soon after being appointed, to introduce himself as the new research fellow in Neurology.

‘I don’t know yet just how much I might want to ask the path. lab to do,’ he said. ‘I do a lot of my own tasks, of course, but you never know. So I thought I’d better ingratiate myself with you as much as possible to be on the safe side.’

She had laughed at so direct an approach and invited him to join her, which he had, eagerly, and she had found him amusing company.

‘My name, heaven help me, is Zoltan Zacharias,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know it sounds like something out of an eighteenth-century Gothic novel but I can’t help it. People call me Zack.’

‘Good to know you, Zack,’ she had said. ‘They call me George, on account of it’s my name, just like yours is Zoltan. I wouldn’t let them call me Barney just because they couldn’t cope with George.’

‘Then I guess I just don’t have your courage,’ he said. She had tilted her head at the hint of an American accent she had heard in his voice. He didn’t wait to be asked. ‘Canadian. Why George?’

‘Because my mother was a feminist,’ she said shortly. ‘And my grandfather wasn’t. He left all his money to any child of hers named after him. She had me and called me after him. Why Canadian?’

He blinked. ‘How do you mean, why?’

‘All the Canadians I ever met came there from somewhere else. Like Americans dodging the draft and Europeans dodging — well, Europe. The ones who are born there all go to work in the States.’

He laughed. ‘That’s a gross exaggeration. You’ve clearly met all the wrong Canadians. But you’re right in one way. I’m — I was — an immigrant. Too young to know it at the time, mind you. I went there in ’56.’

She nodded, understanding at once. ‘The Hungarian uprising? I thought Zoltan was a Hungarian name. And I didn’t mean to be rude about Canadians. It’s a great country, and —’

‘Yeah. Some of your best friends, right?’

‘No, really. I was just being a smartass, I suppose. Hell,
what right do I have to be rude about Canada when I come from Buffalo? So, what are you planning to do here?’

‘Research.’ He grinned widely and it suited him. She liked the way he looked: he had thick hair that was the sort of dusty brown that must have been straw-blond in his infancy, and narrow green eyes that almost disappeared when he smiled. The cheekbones and the jawline were pronounced enough to be almost a caricature of the Slav stereotype, but were overlain with enough chubbiness to show that he enjoyed the pleasures of the table. He wasn’t fat but he clearly could be, one day, if he didn’t watch it. Altogether an attractive personality, she told herself. And I like his voice. It’s very dark toffee and luscious with it.

‘I know. You already told me that. What sort of research?’

‘I’m interested in motor-neurone disease. And stuff like it.’

She grimaced. ‘Nasty. So little anyone can do. And it’s so damned fast, isn’t it?’

‘Sometimes. Some patients manage to live a long time, however. Like Stephen Hawking.’

‘Ah, yes. The exception that proves the rule, hmm?’

‘No. The exception that proves research makes sense. If one man can live so long with such symptoms, why can’t another? And is it possible to delay the onset of symptoms once the disease process starts? And can the effects of the nerve damage be reversed? And —’

‘Sounds like you’ve set yourself a major research programme,’ she said, trying not to smile.

He shook his head at her. ‘Don’t you laugh at me! Sure, it’s a big project, but big projects are the sort most likely to win through. My dad used to say “Aim for the sky and you’ll hit the top of the tree. Aim for the top of the tree and you’ll never get off the ground.”’

She had been struck by that and hadn’t been ashamed to say so, and they had settled to a long talk about the possibilities of the work he was doing with an ease that had made her feel she’d known him for a long time and not just for an
hour or two. But he made it extra easy by doing most of the talking. She knew as much about neurology as she had to, and perhaps a little more, but it didn’t match his expertise so she listened, fascinated, as he outlined some of his plans.

Since then, they had shared tables in the canteen on several occasions. He always seemed to choose the same time to go to lunch as she did; after a while she had begun to make a point of going at a set time, to make it easier for him, even lingering at the end of the line-up for food until he arrived, if she got there before him. Over the months they’d developed a comfortable bantering friendship that she valued more and more. Especially when she was annoyed with Gus, which seemed to happen rather more often lately.

But now, she reminded herself, was not the time to think about Gus. She concentrated on watching Zack come towards her across the Board Room, and felt a frisson of pleasure. This evening’s clambake would be, she had told herself as she tidied herself to come to it, a real buttock-clenching bore, but now she felt much more cheerful about it, even glad she was here; and also glad, at a deeper level, that she’d put on her deep red silk dress this morning, with the matching tights and shoes. It was a racy outfit that looked good on her; and though that shouldn’t matter, for after all she wasn’t meeting Gus, somehow it pleased her. And hadn’t she promised herself not to think about Gus? Dammit.

‘Hi,’ he said and smiled until his eyes disappeared. Smiling back was a real pleasure.

‘Hi,’ she replied.

‘This feels like a funeral rather than a celebration.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Look at those locusts, will you? If they lick his ass any harder they’ll wear their tongues to points.’

‘Hey, come on!’ she said. ‘You were up there with the thick of ’em when I came in. Pots and kettles, isn’t it?’

‘Ah, hell,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d notice. Care for some white wine? It’s actually chilled tonight, or it was when
I got here. It’s probably pretty warm by now, but it’s not too bad. The old boy’s really pushed the boat out.’

He was right. The drink he brought her from the long table in the far corner was cold and tasted good. She relaxed as she drank and happily let him fetch her another, sopping it up with a handful of potato crisps taken from one of the tables. Even they were better than they usually were at these events. Zack’s right, she thought. Old Hunnisett really is making an effort. I wonder who will get his job? And will it make a lot of difference to us at Old East? How much will it matter to the researchers? It was somehow important to her that Zack should be safe in his little niche in the offices and little labs of the Institute, which had been carved out of the old medical school building for them; it was none of her concern, of course, but it would be a pity to lose the edge Old East got from having its own research set-up. And she smiled at Zack as she took her drink from him and blinked a little owlishly round the room over the rim of the glass. Yes, it would be a pity.

Hattie moved into her line of sight and she lifted her chin at her cheerfully. After a moment’s hesitation Hattie came over to join them. ‘I saw you a while back,’ she said. ‘When I got here. But I didn’t want to intrude.’ She looked with limpid eyes at George and dared her to say a word.

‘It’s no intrusion!’ Zack said. ‘Good to talk to you at any time, Hattie.’ He grinned at her too and as she grinned back George felt a stab of-what? Irritation was too strong a word, and yet…

‘Why should you be intruding?’ she said lightly. ‘This is the old man’s farewell bash, not a private party.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Hattie said, peering up at them with bright eyes. ‘You both looked so absorbed in what you were talking about.’

‘Probably,’ Zack said. ‘I’ve been told I’m at risk of turning into a real nerdish bore because work is all I ever talk about. Right, George?’ This time he grinned at George, which made
her feel better. They hadn’t even mentioned his work tonight, hadn’t talked about anything much, but it pleased her that he should speak so; it felt like a defence. Then she drew her brows together for a brief moment. Why on earth should she feel she needed any defence against Hattie, her old friend? This wine must be going to my head, she thought. I’m thinking rubbish.