by Laura Wilson
His mind worked feverishly as he thought over the things Stratton had said. He was going to arrest Fay. Last time was bad enough, when he thought it was just for taking the morphine, but this time…And Stratton had seen Fay in the corridor, she’d told him that herself. But the business of the abortion…He felt sick. Reynolds must have made her, forced her. That was the only explanation. He’d tricked her into it, or…Bastard! He deserved to die. Stratton talking about her as if she were a common slut made him angry. He knew she wasn’t. Dacre knew. Dacre could judge these things.
But he wasn’t Dacre any more. He wasn’t Rice. He was left alone with his old, useless self. He lifted his head and stared around him at the unpainted walls, the meagre, scarred furniture, the tin ashtray. This was all…Except: he could still save Fay. Fay loved Dacre, yes, not Strang, but Dacre couldn’t help her now, and Strang could. It would be the one good thing that Strang had done – it would redeem him. Afterwards, what happened to Strang didn’t matter…Suddenly, he laughed. How ironic, after all his hopes for Dacre, for Rice, that it would be Strang’s name in the newspapers, that he would be – briefly, at least – famous for being his original self.
Seventy-Eight
Stratton took himself off to the Gents’ where he saw, in the small mirror above the basin, that he, too, had the beginnings of a nice black eye, courtesy of the giant madman who’d attacked him. His nose looked a bit swollen, too, and he touched it gingerly, wondering if it was broken for the second time. It’s not as if I’ve got looks to ruin, he thought – and in any case, there was no Jenny to cluck over his grotesque appearance when he finally got home…That thought reminded him that he ought to telephone to Doris and ask her to look after Monica and Peter overnight, as there was no way he’d be able to get back to London.
This done, he went outside for a think and a smoke. Leaning against the back wall of the station, the sensation he’d previously had of something faint and persistent in the back of his mind suddenly sharpened – the distant wireless, properly tuned, with the volume turned up loud. Of course! He threw down his cigarette and returned to the station, where he asked the duty sergeant to place a call to West End Central. It took Stratton almost twenty minutes to explain the position to DCI Lamb, who ummed and ahhed and asked irrelevant questions, while the duty sergeant looked askance at how long the conversation was taking. Finally, Lamb agreed to do as Stratton asked. After that, he spoke to Ballard, who was quietly reproachful at not having been included, and issued some instructions. Then he asked the now pop-eyed duty sergeant to arrange him some accommodation for the night, thanked the man, and strolled back to the interview room.
‘The good news is that we’ve found you a cell, Mr Strang,’ he said, breezily. ‘There’s quite a crowd in here, but they’re giving you a room of your own, so, if you’d like to come with us, we can get you settled.’
Strang stared at him but made no move to rise from his chair.
‘Anything wrong?’ said Stratton, very solicitous.
The expression of anguish on Strang’s face was, he hoped, an accurate reflection of the turmoil in his mind.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Please.’
‘Very well.’ Stratton remained standing, looking puzzled. Strang now looked agonised, as if some vital part were being pulled from him with instruments of torture – which, Stratton supposed, it was. As he waited, it occurred to him that the contract between the conman and the conned was now reversed, only Strang did not know it.
‘You can’t arrest Fay, Inspector Stratton. She’s innocent.’
‘Oh?’ Stratton raised an incredulous eyebrow.
‘Yes! Look, I know she was seeing Dr Reynolds, but that doesn’t mean – well, any of what you said. She wouldn’t do those things.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I killed Dr Byrne.’
‘Oh, really?’ Stratton laid on the disbelief.
‘He recognised me. This…’ The man held up his right hand, palm outwards. ‘The scar.’
Stratton nodded, but still did not sit down. ‘So? A lot of people have scars.’
‘He’d spotted me that afternoon, in the Gents’. I was washing my hands, and that’s when he noticed. I thought I’d got away with it – as you say, plenty of people have scars – but he came up later on, to Casualty. It was just after that business when the woman hit me. Byrne said he wanted to talk to me, and I knew he was going to confront me with what I’d done.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, I had the morphine and the syringe. One fell on the floor during the fracas in Casualty and I managed to pick it up without being spotted.’
‘Why?’
‘On impulse. I’ve found it’s useful, taking things – you never know when they might come in.’
‘And you thought it would “come in” to kill Dr Byrne?’
‘Not at first. I went into the Gents’ and filled it up. I’d thought of doing away with myself.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was tired of being hounded, always having to look over my shoulder…It happens sometimes – I get a sense of depression, of not getting anywhere.’ The man’s tone switched suddenly from self-pitying to bitter, and he blurted out, ‘Because I’d failed. Because I’m no bloody good, Inspector. I’m rotten.’
‘No,’ said Stratton, sincerely. ‘You’re not.’
Strang blinked in surprise.
‘Everyone at the Middlesex thought you were a good doctor – until they found out you weren’t a doctor at all, that is. Besides, if you really were rotten, you wouldn’t be telling me all this, would you? You’d have let Nurse Marchant be tried, and perhaps hanged, for killing Dr Byrne. I’d have been none the wiser.’
‘No, no…’ Strang shook his head violently. ‘I killed him. Fay had nothing to do with it.’
‘Do you want to make a confession?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well.’ Stratton went to the door and requested a policeman. When he’d arrived, and was ready with pen and paper, Stratton said, ‘John Walter Strang, I am arresting you for the murder of Dr Arthur Mills Byrne, and I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. Do you understand what I am saying?’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. Could you tell us about it from the beginning, please?’
It took two hours before the statement was completed and signed – laboriously, and after some hesitation – John Walter Strang.
Afterwards, Stratton despatched the policeman for cups of tea, and, when they were alone, asked, ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’
Strang, slumped on his seat, his battered face slack with exhaustion, stared at him dully. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten,’ prompted Stratton. ‘Dr Reynolds…Nurse Leadbetter…’
Strang nodded wearily, and sat up straight with a visible physical effort, but it was as if an inner electrical light had been switched off, and in his eyes Stratton saw only emptiness. He didn’t think the man had enough mental energy, or heart, for his task, but – and you had to hand it to him – he was prepared to try.
‘Well?’
‘I hit Reynolds. I saw him on the bomb-site. I wanted to be a doctor, and I thought if he was out of the way, I could take his place. Now you can charge me.’
‘Not just yet,’ said Stratton. ‘Why Reynolds?’
‘Because of Fay.’
‘So you did know her before you met in the corridor and took the morphine? You knew her when you were Todd.’
‘No! I’d seen her, that’s all. I…wanted her.’
‘But how did you know she was involved with Reynolds?’
‘I’d seen them together…outside.’
‘When?’
‘From time to time.’
‘But why should you think that there was anything untoward in that?’
‘The way he looked at her.’
‘I see. Did you know Dr Reynolds?’
‘Not person
ally. I knew he worked in the Casualty Department.’
‘So,’ said Stratton, sceptically, ‘you killed a man you did not know because you thought that by doing so you could get both his position and his mistress?’
‘Well, I did get them, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, but it was a pretty long shot that the one – or, rather, two – would follow.’
‘Well,’ said Strang, defiantly, ‘it worked.’
‘How did you kill him?’
‘I crept up behind him and hit him. Simple as that.’
‘What with?’
‘A brick. I picked it up from the site.’
‘What was Reynolds doing there?’
‘I don’t know. I saw him.’
‘How? It was pitch dark.’
‘That’s not true. There was a moon.’
‘But not enough light to spot Reynolds from the road, surely?’
‘I recognised him.’
‘You must been very close to him, then. Didn’t he see you?’
‘No.’
‘But he must have heard you coming – scrambling over all that debris can be a noisy business. I must say, Mr Strang,’ said Stratton, in the neutral tone of one making an observation about the weather, ‘that the difference between the fluency with which you described the killing of Dr Byrne and this rigmarole is quite marked. You’ll have to do better with the details…Did he hear you coming?’
‘Well, if he did, he didn’t turn round to see who it was.’
‘Did you say anything to him before you hit him?’
‘No.’
‘How many times did you hit him?’
‘Three, I think.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Not positive, but I think that’s right.’
‘How did you know he would be there?’
‘He…’ Stratton could sense that, even with the information he’d picked up from the post-mortem, the man was flagging. ‘He’d been in the pub. I followed him.’
‘Which pub?’
‘The Cambridge Arms, on Newman Street.’
‘People from the Middlesex go in there, don’t they?’ Stratton decided to take a flyer. ‘Strange that none of them remembered seeing him that night when we asked.’
‘Perhaps they didn’t notice him. He wasn’t there for long.’
‘How long? What time did he leave?’
‘Just before closing time.’
‘And you followed him, did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You followed him to the bomb-site and killed him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Straight away? You said there was no conversation of any kind…Why do you think he chose to take that particular route? All that rubble…Pretty hazardous in the dark.’
‘Short cut, I suppose. He’d had a few.’
‘A few? You said he wasn’t in the pub for long.’
‘Well, something…’
‘Did he appear drunk?’
‘Not drunk, but—’
‘That’s hardly surprising, Mr Strang, because, according to the report, there was no alcohol in his bloodstream. I’m surprised you don’t remember, but of course rather a lot’s happened since then, hasn’t it? Enough to make anyone slip up. Besides which, Dr Byrne told us that Reynolds died sometime between…’ Stratton pulled out his notebook and flicked through it, ‘two and six in the morning. And as I’m sure you know, the pubs on that side of Oxford Street close at half past ten, so unless the pair of you were wandering around in circles on that bomb-site for the best part of four hours, your story doesn’t hold water. In fact, it’s unworthy of you.’ Stratton returned the notebook to his pocket. ‘Nice try, Mr Strang.’ He stood up to leave. ‘Oh, by the way, I don’t believe you killed Leadbetter either.’
‘But…’
‘All right. Why don’t you tell me where she was killed?’
‘The operating theatre. One of the unused ones.’
‘Which one?’
‘I…’ Defeated, Strang shook his head. ‘It’s no use, Inspector. You didn’t believe me from the first, did you? About Reynolds, I mean. Why? I don’t understand.’
‘I shouldn’t tell you this,’ said Stratton, ‘but I shall because you and I have…well, we have some things between us, don’t we? The reason I didn’t believe you was that Fay Marchant as good as told me she’d killed Reynolds, only I was too stupid to realise it at the time. She knew, you see, that Reynolds had been hit with a brick – information that was kept confidential. Hospital gossip is one thing, and I don’t doubt that everyone knew the man had been killed by blows to the head, but – although I suppose one could make a guess at the weapon – that wasn’t on Dr Byrne’s notes, because it wasn’t known for certain at the time of the post-mortem, and all that the newspapers reported was that the death had taken place in suspicious circumstances. When I asked Nurse Marchant how she knew, she said, “Dr Dacre told me.” Now, if Marchant had known that the man she knew as Dr Dacre was also Todd the mortuary attendant, that would make sense – Todd could have overheard something Byrne said – but she didn’t know that. So, Mr Strang, I’m afraid it looks as though she was prepared to drop you right in it, doesn’t it?’
Strang stared at him. The man’s face, where it wasn’t bruised, was chalk white.
‘You look shocked,’ Stratton continued. ‘You know, it occurs to me that your whole career has been based on the fact that people believe what they see – the uniform, the authority, the myth, and so on. But you believed it, too, didn’t you? You believed – just as I did, I have to admit – that, because Fay was a nurse, and, moreover, a beautiful, well-spoken girl with a gentle manner, she must be an angel. Caring, healing, selfless…she could do no wrong. You may have fooled her into believing you were a doctor, Mr Strang, but she fooled you, too.’
As he left the interview room and walked down the corridor, Stratton wondered about his exact reasons for telling the man about Fay. Although he told himself that it was six of one and half a dozen of the other, he knew that there was enough ‘getting his own back’ in there to dislike himself thoroughly for having done it, but without finding himself able to regret it.
Seventy-Nine
‘Call from Chief Superintendent Dewhurst, sir.’
‘Put him through.’ Stratton, glad to be back in his office, settled into his chair.
‘Stratton?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good news at last. The unidentified prints from the mortuary are a match for this Strang chap. We couldn’t do anything with the partials from the underside of the office desk, I’m afraid, but Strang’s prints do match the ones found on the bookshelf. Not much to go on, but nevertheless—’
‘I have a confession, sir.’ Stratton was careful to keep any hint of triumph out of his voice. ‘From Dr Dacre, formerly of the Middlesex Hospital, who turns out not to be Dr Dacre at all, but Strang. He killed Dr Byrne.’
‘Have you indeed? That’s wonderful news. Congratulations, Stratton. I look forward to hearing about it.’
At least, Stratton thought, as he replaced the receiver, Dewhurst’s good wishes were genuine, whereas DCI Lamb’s were, as usual, grudging. Frank Byrne had thanked him, too – relieved, Stratton thought, that his father’s death would not be considered suicide, although having a parent murdered surely wasn’t much of an alternative…On balance, Stratton thought he would have preferred the former, as at least one’s father would have decided when to end his life and not had it snatched from him.
Fay Marchant, in custody in Cheltenham, charged – for the time being – with obstructing the police, would be fetched tomorrow. Meantime, Lamb, despite the news of Mussolini’s death and the rest, was kicking up a fuss about how Piccadilly looked like a military slum and how half his men were deployed elsewhere while the cells were full to bursting. All of which was true – the cells were bunged up with drunk and disorderly soldiers of various nationalities who’d been celebrating prematurely, and whose inebriated roaring was i
ssuing up the stairwell, as well as the usual complement of thugs, prostitutes of both sexes, burglars and the like, all of whom seemed intent on joining the fun. The thing was, according to Lamb, Stratton was the only person available to sort them all out, which, as well as being highly irregular, was a bloody awful prospect.
Stratton and Ballard descended the stairs together, accompanied by a rousing chorus, sung to the tune of ‘What A Friend We Have In Jesus’, of:
Life is full of disappointments,
Dull and empty as a tomb,
Father’s got a strictured penis,
Mother has a fallen womb…
They found the custody sergeant, who, apparently able to ignore the racket, was silently mouthing the captions of a comic confiscated from one of the Yanks, lost in the vividly coloured world of simple violence. Arliss, sitting beside him, head tilted back to rest against the wall, had his eyes half closed. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ yelled Stratton over the din. ‘Waiting for someone to feed you grapes?’
Uncle Ted has been deported
For a homosexual crime…
‘Sorry, sir.’ Arliss’s eyes opened wide at the sight of Stratton’s battered face. ‘Quite a shiner you got there, sir, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘Thank you, Arliss. Come on, let’s get this lot sorted out. Who’s first?’
Sister Sue has just aborted,
For the forty-second time…
Despite Ballard’s strenuous efforts, and Arliss’s feeble ones, to get the occupants of the cells to shut up, the caterwauling broke out at intervals for the rest of the day, and, by the time Stratton left for the evening, the stale air, smoke, din, general aggravation and crudity had given him a blinding headache.