by Laura Wilson
‘What can you tell me about these?’ asked Stratton, proffering the photographs.
‘They were for Dr Byrne’s book.’
‘A textbook?’
Miss Lynn shook her head. ‘A book about his work. For the layman. He’d been making some notes. That one,’ she pointed at the picture of Byrne and herself, ‘was taken in this office. You can see the edge of the bookcase on the right.’
‘What about the others? Who’s this?’ Stratton pointed at the blurred figure.
Miss Lynn peered at it for a moment, then said, ‘Todd. He used to work here.’ Pointing at the man shown in profile in the fourth photograph, she said, ‘That’s him as well.’ She gave Stratton a wan smile. ‘I don’t think he liked being photographed much.’
Stratton remembered Higgs saying that Todd had left the day after that poor nurse was killed. Had Todd murdered her and Byrne somehow discovered it? Was that why the photographs were hiding there? But if that were the case, why had Byrne waited so long to tell him about it (assuming that was why he’d telephoned)? And how would Todd know that Byrne knew? Had Byrne, for some reason, told him, and been killed for his pains? It didn’t make sense. Also, why hadn’t Todd fled immediately after killing Leadbetter? Ballard hadn’t mentioned anyone not turning up for interview. He made a mental note to check with the sergeant.
Miss Lynn contemplated the photographs in silence for a moment, then said, sadly, ‘He’ll never finish his book, now…’
‘No,’ agreed Stratton. ‘Do you have his home address?’
‘I’ll copy it for you.’ Miss Lynn opened one of the drawers and pulled out a file. ‘Would you mind,’ she asked, when she’d finished writing, ‘if I kept the photographs?’
‘I think,’ said Stratton, ‘that I ought to hang onto them for the time being, just to be on the safe side.’ Seeing the look of resigned disappointment on Miss Lynn’s face, he added, ‘But if the photographer has the negatives, perhaps you could ask him for copies.’
Miss Lynn handed over the address. ‘I think I shall,’ she said. ‘I’d like something to remember him by.’
Forty-Four
Dacre dressed himself mechanically, then stood in front of the mirror, gingerly splashing his bruised face with water and wondering if he dared go back to the hospital. After last night’s unqualified disaster, he could feel an abyss opening up beneath him, dark and dangerous. Awaking from a tangle of gruesome, confused nightmares, he had a sense of an empty life in empty time, stretching out over days, months, years, until the day came when he looked in the mirror and could not see himself at all, in any version…The compass of his instinct, usually so reliable, was veering wildly between taking flight or risking confrontation by returning to the Middlesex. Burying his head in his wet hands, he shook it to and fro trying to rid himself of doubt, and then, suddenly reminded of the warm dampness of Byrne’s mouth against his palm, jerked his face away with a shudder of horror and grabbed the threadbare towel that hung limply from the horse to scour himself dry.
If he was going to run away, why had he not done so the previous night? He’d had the chance. He could simply have carried on walking…Which would have meant, of course, leaving everything behind. No. He’d done the right thing by staying – if Byrne were dead, taking flight would look highly suspicious. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath.
Fay, or at least the thought of her, had helped him last night, hadn’t she? Somehow, she’d seemed to personify his intuition, like a beacon, and it was only as Dr Dacre that he could hope to have her. Besides which, he thought, whatever – and whoever – else I may be, I am not a coward.
Already late, he took the stairs two at a time, and rushed out into the street. He could make it in ten minutes, if he hurried. Byrne could not possibly have survived. He’d checked the toxicology book, hadn’t he? Unless, of course, Higgs had had some reason to go into the office…He thought back to his own nights on duty in the mortuary – he’d never needed to go in the office, but all the same…He repeated these things to himself all the way down the Euston Road, but still his resolve faltered, and by the time he’d got to Fitzrovia he no longer felt sure.
He slowed and stood, indecisive, on the corner of Howland Street. That ARP man from last night knew his name, didn’t he? Or Dacre’s name, anyway. Supposing they issued a likeness of him and he recognised it? The light from the mobile canteen had been pretty dim, but…
He leapt a foot in the air as a firm hand clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Dacre?’
Spinning round, he saw Wemyss grinning at him. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to catch you off guard. What are you doing out here?’
‘Just…Rather late, I’m afraid. Bit of a junket last night.’ Dacre grinned apologetically. ‘Bottle party.’
Wemyss inspected his bruised temple. ‘Must have been quite a night.’
‘I got that in Casualty.’
‘Patient cut up rough, did they?’
‘Something like that.’
‘But that’s not why you’re twitching, is it? Nothing like knowing the right people. Well, you’ve missed quite a hoo-ha.’
‘Hoo-ha? Why?’
‘Well, I’m sure Ransome will fill you in on the details, but it’s Byrne. Poor chap was found dead in his office this morning.’
Dacre felt his insides turn liquid with relief, but managed to convert his queasy smile into a concerned stare quickly enough for Wemyss not to notice. ‘Byrne?’
‘You obviously haven’t killed anyone yet. He is – or rather, he was – our esteemed pathologist.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not sure. There’s talk of a drug overdose. Doesn’t sound very likely, but I suppose it’s possible. Two doctors in two months, eh? Not to mention that nurse. Talk about bad luck.’
‘What are you doing out here, anyway?’ asked Dacre.
‘Tobacconist. Place is in an uproar – most of the nurses seem to think we’re all going to be murdered, one by one – so I thought I’d just nip out.’ Wemyss patted his pocket.
‘Come on, then.’ Dacre started in the direction of the Middlesex with Wemyss alongside. In the bubble of his relief, he barely listened as Wemyss told him about the rumours that were buzzing round the hospital.
‘…one of our probationers got herself all worked up and started wailing about a maniac going round killing the staff. The sister had to slap her. She was in quite a bate about it, I can tell…You all right, old man? You look a bit…well, queer.’
‘Sorry. Bit of a thick head, that’s all.’
‘As long as you enjoyed yourself. Oh, and you probably don’t know this either, but somebody lobbed a bomb at Hitler.’
‘Good for them,’ said Dacre.
‘Missed, unfortunately – but at least they tried. If you ask me, the Nazis are cracking up…You have got a nasty one, haven’t you? Hair of the dog, that’s what you need – better see if you can pinch some brandy…’
Despite Sister Radford’s best efforts, the Casualty Department was in chaos. The nurses were either on edge or unashamedly enjoying the drama, and there was an air of barely suppressed hysteria. Rows of patients sat waiting, and Dr Ransome was nowhere to be seen.
‘Thank goodness!’ said Sister Radford. ‘I thought perhaps – that business yesterday – your head…’
‘I am feeling a bit under the weather,’ said Dacre, glad of the excuse, ‘but really, it’s nothing to worry about. Who’s first?’
Sister Radford indicated an elderly man whose ankle was monstrously wrapped in what looked like a bedspread. ‘Ulcer.’
‘Right-oh.’
‘Before you go, Dr Dacre, I should tell you…There was rather a tragedy last night.’
‘So I gather. The pathologist, wasn’t it? I met Dr Wemyss on the way in, and he told me.’
Sister Radford, clearly relieved at not having to explain, said, ‘It’s all rather odd. I’ve told the nurses they’re not to discuss it, but after Dr Reynolds and poor Leadbetter…I’m sure you can imagine.
’
‘Of course.’ Dacre looked sombre. ‘I’ll try and nip it in the bud. Doesn’t do to upset the patients.’ He smiled at her. ‘At least, not more than one has to.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. I knew you’d understand. Dr Ransome…’ Sister Radford’s voice fell to a whisper, ‘is downstairs. Apparently, they need his fingerprints.’
‘Fingerprints?’ said Dacre, alarmed. The big policeman must have come back to see Byrne first thing this morning. Although Dacre had guessed that enquiries would have to be made in the event of the pathologist’s death, he hadn’t envisaged anything like fingerprints. He tried to remember if he’d wiped everything. In any case, he told himself, there was no reason for them to want his prints – no-one had seen him go down to the mortuary…had they? ‘Why on earth do they need Dr Ransome’s fingerprints?’
‘He was the one who examined Dr Byrne. It’s the police – I suppose they have to be sure.’ Sister Radford sniffed. ‘Really, it’s all nonsense. I wish they’d leave – it’s giving rise to all sorts of stupid rumours…’ She appeared to lose her train of thought for a moment, then said, ‘You were speaking to him yesterday, weren’t you?’
Damn, thought Dacre. He’d been spotted. Playing for time, he put on a baffled expression and said, ‘Speaking to Dr Ransome?’
‘To Dr Byrne. I saw the two of you over by the door.’
Judging that this was being said in a prompting and not an accusing tone, Dacre said, in the voice of someone who has just recalled something important, ‘You’re quite right. I was talking to him, wasn’t I?’ Seeing that Sister Radford was expecting something more, he added, in a puzzled tone, ‘Of course, I hardly knew him, but he seemed perfectly all right.’
The sister, clearly torn between deference and curiosity, looked at him enquiringly. ‘We didn’t see him up here very often,’ she said, ‘and he’d obviously come specially to see you, so I just wondered…’
Dacre, who had been desperately racking his brains in preparation for this, said, with sudden inspiration, ‘It was about that testicular torsion. Mr Hambling told me it had to come off, and…Well,’ he gave Sister Radford an up-from-under look, ‘I felt I’d made rather a hash of things so I asked Dr Byrne if he wouldn’t mind taking a look at the dead testicle – just to clarify things in my own mind, really. I’d not come across one before, you see. I know it’s rather irregular, but I didn’t want to bother Dr Ransome.’
As he’d hoped, Sister Radford found this thirst for knowledge commendable. ‘Of course, Doctor. I quite understand.’
‘He was kind enough to give me his opinion,’ said Dacre. ‘Now…’ he looked round the crowded room, ‘I think I’d better make a start on these patients.’
Dacre, working with feverish concentration, had finished with the ulcerated leg and was examining a woman with what he thought was probably a broken wrist when Sister Radford put her head round the screen. ‘Dr Ransome’s back. He’d like a word with you.’
‘Very well. If you could arrange for Mrs…Atkins’s wrist to be X-rayed, I’ll come now.’
Dr Ransome’s owlish face was a congested maroon and his small round frame seemed to vibrate with annoyance. ‘There you are,’ he said, as Dacre approached. ‘You’re late.’
‘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
Miss 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 o
f 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?