Second Opinion (35 page)

Hattie snorted with laughter. ‘Easy? Do me a favour! He comes across as the most arrogant bastard who ever breathed. Which is a pity really, because he’s a nice fella when you get to know him. It’s just his manner. Way he was brought up, I suppose.’

‘Yes.’ George was still abstracted. Had her idea any logic? And yet, why not? It would be absurd to think that the hospital had a monopoly of common-sense people on the staff. Couldn’t it be that … Yes, she decided, it could. She lifted her chin and looked at Hattie beseechingly.

‘Hattie darling, it’s imperative, really
imperative
I go and talk to Gus before that bunch out there have been dispersed. He’ll get rid of them if anyone can, I know, and —’

‘Well, well!’ Hattie said, lifting her brows interrogatively. ‘Do I hear the voice of an admirer? One who sees Sir Galahad in a copper’s helmet? One who —’

‘Hattie, shut up. Just listen. I really do have to talk to him. We have a tricky case on and I think I have an idea about a clue. Please, Hattie. You helped me over the Oxford case, you and your Sam. Now be an angel and help again.’

Hattie looked uncertain. She’d enjoyed her inside seat in the Oxford affair; knowing what had happened before almost anyone else in the hospital had been great fun. Could it happen again?

‘Is this about Harry Rajabani?’ she said, setting her head on one side.

‘You’ve got it in one,’ George said. ‘I really do have to talk to Gus about it.’

Hattie leaned over and looked at her, put a finger on her pulse and pursed her lips. ‘You’re sure you weren’t knocked out at all?’ she said. ‘Because if you have even the hint of a head injury —’

‘I’m not stupid, Hattie! Of course if I had I’d tell you. Believe me, no. Now let me go, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Well, I suppose I’d better. You’ll only drive me bonkers if I don’t,’ Hattie said. She sat and watched George rush out of the department so fast that she almost galloped, then turned to Adam. ‘Time you were back out there,’ she said sternly. ‘High time.’

‘Yes, Sister,’ Adam said, all demure and biddable again, and grinned at her and went, leaving Hattie thinking hard alone in her office. There was something she’d just thought of that perhaps she should tell George and her Gus. Well, maybe later. When she had time.

25
  
  

By the time George reached the main entrance again, cutting across the courtyard to the ambulance entrance and pushing her way through the curious members of staff who had found excuses to come down from wards and departments all over the hospital to see what was going on, her idea had lost its shaky outlines and become a firm and crystalline conviction. She had to tell Gus, as soon as she possibly could, that the likelihood was that the murderer of Harry Rajabani was out there in that mob. If he had to arrest and question every last one of them, well, so be it; she was quite sure she knew now what had happened to Harry, and why.

Again she used her memory, trying to see the two men side by side: Harry with his classic good looks, the wide warm mouth beneath the proud, sharply defined prow of a nose, the liquid eyes and thick curling lashes that made them seem even more lustrous; and Dr Choopani, just as patrician in profile, just as handsome in his own much older way …

Her conviction shivered for a moment at that point as she stood in the shadows at the courtyard end of the ambulance entrance and peered through the mass of bodies for some sign of Gus. Dr Choopani had to be a good thirty-five years older than Harry. He still had his hair admittedly,
but it was greyish and sparse compared with Harry’s springing close-cut curls. Then her spirits lifted and she assured herself that her hunch did make sense. Wasn’t it one of the clichés that racists trotted out all the time, the thing about not being able to tell black people apart? Maybe for some of them it was true. Their hatred of skins darker than their own made them incapable of looking on the owners of them as people like themselves with clear physical differences and appearances; with such an attitude, how could they be expected to see that Harry Rajabani and Dr Choopani were not in fact really alike at all? She stiffened her shoulders unconsciously as she stiffened her determination that she was right; Harry had been killed by one or some of these thugs now demonstrating against the new unit, confusing him with Dr Choopani. The Rag and Bottle had been crowded that night and wasn’t all that well lit at the best of times. And of course people there drank, which would profoundly affect their responses, never mind their intellect (or what passes for it, she thought waspishly). Someone had thought Harry was the man who had so successfully organized the local Afro-Caribbean community that he had raised a hundred thousand pounds for a special unit to deal with a disease black people suffered; and in their hatred of all such people they had chosen to kill the man who threatened by his actions to save black lives.

It had to be true, she told herself firmly as she began to edge forward through the craning people clotting the mouth of the ambulance entrance; it all fitted so elegantly and the sooner she managed to get Gus to see it the better. The end of the case was in sight. Well, the Rajabani part, if not the Oberlander, at any rate, and she pushed a little harder, impatient to tell Gus so. Unwillingly people made way for her, until at last she was at the front. Now she could see what was happening more clearly and her mouth dried with apprehension.

The crowd had grown even greater as passers-by joined
in and there had been reinforcements of the rent-a-mobbers, (as she now assured herself they were) bearing even more banners with racist slogans. In addition, a TV camera crew had arrived; she could see them on the opposite pavement craning to pick up with their camera the thickest part of the crowd where the chanting that filled the air seemed to be most tightly orchestrated.

But orchestrated or not, it was hard to hear what they were actually shouting and she stopped trying to, concentrating instead on looking for Gus. There was no reason why he should be here, of course, she realized. This was a job for the uniformed branch of the police, rather than CID; but for some reason he had arrived this morning and must surely still be around. No policeman, whether he had been detailed to deal with such a fracas or not, would willingly walk away and leave his colleagues to it; certainly not Gus. Anyway, she told herself then, he would never have left without checking on me in A & E and that was a thought that warmed her; even in the middle of all this she found herself grinning for a moment.

She saw Professor Hunnisett pressed against the wall at the side of the ambulance entrance and her grin widened. Clearly he felt he had to be there, but the last thing he wanted now was to be seen; his experience of trying to talk to this mob and being howled down must have terrified him, for he was almost clinging to the greasy old brickwork as he peeped out at the crowd with an expression of almost childlike alarm on his pallid face.

Matthew Herne, on the other hand, was right at the front of the hospital contingent, shouting back at the crowd for all he was worth, his face scarlet with the effort he was putting into his stentorian roars — that were impossible to hear above the din of course — and clearly in a huge rage. He went up several points in her estimation at that moment; whatever else the man was — and he could be very awkward, not to say obstructive, to deal with on many
hospital matters — he didn’t lack guts. She had to admire that in him.

The line of uniformed police that stood between the hospital contingent and the demonstrators seemed to move and shiver and then tightened again and to her huge relief she saw Gus as he ducked under a constable’s arm and appeared on the hospital side of the scene. She shrieked his name at the top of her voice.

How he heard her she couldn’t imagine, but he did, lifting his chin like a dog scenting a lead and looking around. When he spotted her his forehead snapped into a deep frown and he loped over, his face like a sky threatening thunder. He took her arm, scowling ferociously.

‘What the bleedin’ ‘ell you doin’ out ‘ere?’ he said roughly. His street accent had never been stronger and she blinked in some surprise, for he was clearly very angry indeed; this was not one of his jocular protests. ‘You get out o’ this and back to A & E — what the bastards there were thinkin’ of to let you sneak out this way —’

‘Hey, hey, back off,’ she protested. ‘Hattie said I could come and find you. I’m fine. Nothing more than a bruise and a bit of a shaking-up, so cool it, buster! I have to tell you — I know what happened to Harry.’

Still scowling, he had left one hand on her arm as though to lead her back to A & E, no matter what she did, and she shook herself free crossly.

‘Will you lay off and listen to me, Gus! I’m telling you I know what happened to Harry! They confused him with Choopani — this is all happening because Choopani raised a hundred thousand to start a special unit for sickle cell anaemia.’

‘Sickle-cell what?’ He was diverted from his anger at last.

‘It’s a form of genetic-inherited disease that affects mainly people of African origin. Needs special care and research and all sorts.’ She spoke as urgently as she could, for the shouting of the mob was unabated and indeed seemed a bit
more intense now. ‘He was the one who set out to save black lives with the unit — and that lot are racists and are dead against it, obviously. They confused Harry with Choopani and that was why they killed Harry. When they assaulted Choopani in your shop it was all part of the same thing — it’s got to be, Gus. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’

He opened his mouth to answer her but there was no time. Behind him there was a sudden shrieking that rose shrilly above the ugly noise and Gus whirled, let go of her arm, and headed for the line of uniformed backs that stood between him and the crowd. He pushed his way through, and George, caught in his wake and with not the least intention of being left behind, hung on to his coat tails.

Somewhere in the middle of the crowd fist-fighting had broken out; people were falling back to give those who were attacking each other more space, while others tried to push forward to be able to join in.

The aggression and hatred were so intense that George could almost smell them; it certainly sent her own adrenalin into overdrive. She felt the rush of fear-tinged excitement in her muscles and all through her to her fingers’ ends; and the back of her trained mind threw up a little voice which lectured her on the effects of subliminal pheromonal scents on human behaviour and their role in triggering the ‘fight/flight’ response. But she ignored that, and pushed forward herself to get closer to the centre of the action.

A tall wooden placard, bearing this time an anti-racist slogan which shrieked, ‘Death To All Fascists!’, rocked overhead, shuddered and came down, crashing on to heads below. Bellows of rage and pain went up and more people joined in the fighting. Blows were flying, and some people had sticks and other weapons (George caught the glint of knuckle dusters on one burly fist) and the sounds of flesh being hit and squeals of pain and anger increased sharply.

And this was the point at which Gus clearly became hugely angry and he bawled something at the senior uniformed officer behind George, where the line of constables was still trying to prevent any contact between the mob and the hospital. He waved his arm furiously, and the other man shouted something back and all hell broke out. The police line wavered, widened and split into its component men and at the same time, it seemed from nowhere, more policemen with riot shields and truncheons appeared and the next minutes were a complete mêlée.

George was never to know quite what happened next; she was aware of fists flailing and legs kicking and making contact with her, but she felt no pain (though later she found the bruises to prove she should have done), rather a huge exhilaration. Responding at last to her adrenalin, she hit out with her own fists balled tightly inside her thick winter gloves. It was a species of mad game and she felt no more fear than if she had indeed been playing, as well as a sense of delight and complete lack of concern for the welfare of others that the professional part of her mind protested at; but she didn’t listen to that either.

Suddenly there was a balaclavaed figure next to her. She lifted her head and looked up and the wide blue eyes that glared out at her through the black eyeholes sent a stab of the most primitive terror through her. She hesitated, then reached forward with her hand open wide to push him away, but the figure seized her hand and bent it back against her arm so that her wrist swirled with pain, pain she definitely felt this time. She yelped and pecked her head forward hard, and with the most instinctive move she could ever remember having made, bit the hand that was pushing. The balaclavaed figure let go, yelled something unintelligible and went for her again, but once more Gus was there; he grabbed the figure from behind and held on tight, though his captive struggled and went on shouting; and then, out of nowhere it seemed to George, there was
someone else beside them. A tall man, panting hard; George felt his breath hot on her cheek. He lifted his hand in which he had a large stout stick and brought it down with a sickeningly loud crack on to the balaclava in spite of the fact that Gus was holding the man by his arms. It was as neat a blow as it could be; the man in Gus’s grasp slumped and seemed knocked out, for he remained still, and the other, a quite well-dressed man of about thirty, looked almost startled at the effect of his blow.