The drive to St Dymphna's didn't help my nerves. Huge snowflakes drifted against my windscreen as though they had a personal vendetta against drivers mad enough to be out on such a night. The snow clumped at the sides of my windscreen, making me feel as if I were driving through a tunnel and, worst of all, the snow had covered the white road-markings. I felt disorientated as though I were driving in an alien land. As if I were the only driver left in an alien land. For not a single car passed me.
By the time I arrived at the hospital gates I felt comforted and not disconcerted by the night ahead. Murderess or not on the premises, it was preferable to driving in such conditions; the hospital would be warm and dry and there was less chance of being murdered than there was of going into a skid and ending up in a ditch.
Sister was on duty on Harper. She smiled in relief as I arrived. ‘It's a foul night, isn't it? I'm so glad you could get here.’ She made it sound as if I were a guest at a party. Then, smiling again, she said in her whispery voice. ‘We're short again tomorrow night, will you be able to do another night? We are desperate – please?’ ‘Yes, I'll do it,’ I said.
Margaret Tonbridge walked into the office then, the shoulders of her raincoat spattered with fast-melting snow. On her head she wore a navy blue knitted beret.
‘Sorry I'm late,’ she said. ‘Mother's not too well. She couldn't get comfortable. I managed to sort her out in the end.’
‘Don't worry,’ said Sister Barnes. ‘All that matters is you're here. Let's hope your mother's better soon.’
The report was brief and to the point.
‘It's all in the care plans. Two falls today. Both seen by the doctor, no obvious injuries but keep a close eye on them. Otherwise it's fairly quiet, no poorly ones. The new patient, Edith Hunsbury, is inclined to wander. We found her outside today looking for her garden. Just make sure you lock the doors.’
Margaret gave me a knowing look and I winked at her. Were we likely to leave the doors unlocked?
When Sister had gone we checked the windows and locked the doors and then began the drinks round. All was calm. Margaret's experience with her mother made her an excellent nurse. Efficient without being bossy, she made the work seem easy. She lifted well and by ten most of the patients were sound asleep. Apart from Edith Hunsbury.
‘I should be out in my garden. All my plants will die. All that work. It's not right keeping me a prisoner here.’
I made the mistake of telling her it was snowing.
Her voice rose in an anxious whine of despair. ‘You stupid woman. Of course it's not snowing. You're a liar. Let me out of here and I'll do it myself.’
Her thin arms threw back the bedclothes, followed by equally thin legs. It was Margaret who came to the rescue. I hadn't heard her walk to the bedside but she was there by my side holding a plastic watering can used for indoor plants.
‘Now then, Edith, I'll water your plants. Shall I do the roses first?’
Edith laid back on the bed, ‘Well, thank you, dear. I'm glad someone's got some sense here. Yes, dear, do the roses first and then the pansies and the lilies. I can go to sleep now, can't I?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Margaret. ‘I'll report back when I've finished.’
There was no need. We had returned to her bed within minutes to reassure her that her roses were fine, but she was asleep.
Margaret smiled down at her. ‘I wish my mother was as easily satisfied,’ she whispered.
Later when we'd had tea and Margaret had begun sewing some sort of floral square, I said, ‘Is that for your mother?’
‘It's a new bag for her Zimmer frame. She keeps her bits and pieces in it. Glasses, tissues, mints, that sort of thing. I make pockets for most of her clothes, saves me hunting for things she'd lost. Look,’ she said, standing up to take her cloak from the hook on the door, ‘I've even put a pocket in my own cloak. It's useful for putting scissors and pens in, so I don't forget to bring them from home.’
There was silence for a while as Margaret concentrated on her sewing.
‘I met your mother today,’ I said. ‘Did she tell you?’
I'd hoped that she might have been surprised or at least thrown off guard; she wasn't. ‘She did say a redhead had come from the church. I thought it might be you, although I didn't know you were a churchgoer.’
‘I'm not. I'm a private detective.’
The needle paused mid-stitch but Margaret's expression remained impassive, apart, that is, from a fleeting suggestion of a smile.
Chapter Fifteen
Margaret continued to sew, bending her head over her work so that I couldn't see her face.
‘Why are you working here?’ she asked, keeping her eyes focused on the needle. ‘What are you hoping to find out?’
‘I'm hoping to find out who murdered Jacky and …’ I paused, for dramatic effect, ‘and Ada Hellidon.’
This time Margaret did look up, her eyes reflecting the look you see in sheep just before they're sheared. A look of puzzled apprehension mixed with excitement. ‘But she fell, I read it in the papers. Surely that's death by natural causes?’
‘Did she fall or was she pushed? Or she could have been drugged.’
‘Who on earth would want to kill poor old Ada? That's ridiculous.’
‘Oh, you knew her then,’ I said. ‘I didn't realise that.’
Margaret paused to rethread her needle. ‘My mother knew her, they went to the same school. Longborough's not a large place. Those born and bred here are bound to know each other.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I agreed. ‘So she was your mother's friend, not yours.’
‘She certainly wasn't a friend of mine and she wasn't exactly a friend of my mother's either. They knew each other, that's all.’
‘But you didn't like her?’ I asked.
Margaret turned her sewing and checked the seams before answering. ‘I didn't really know her. I might have met her in the town occasionally and she'd always have some gossip or other to tell me. But, as I've said, I didn't really know her.’
‘And you never visited her house?’
‘No. Why on earth should I?’
‘No reason,’ I said. ‘No reason at all.’
Margaret folded her now completed sewing carefully and placed it in front of her on the desk. ‘I'll check the patients, shall I?’
‘Please.’
Her footsteps on the wooden ward floors only made the slightest sound and she returned in a few minutes.
‘It's all peaceful,’ she announced as she came back into the office. She sat down and took a newspaper from her bag. ‘I don't have time to read much in the day. I get more peace at work. Do you want to ask me any more questions? Or can I just read for a bit?’
Was that meant to make me feel guilty, I wondered? ‘I'll leave you in peace for a while,’ I said. ‘I'll go over to Melba and have a chat there.’
‘Have a good snoop, you mean.’ She spoke in that laughing sort of way people use when they're trying to cover up a bitchy comment.
‘That's right. A good snoop.’ I smiled weakly, knowing that I'd probably gone too far, then rang the ward to tell them I was coming.
‘Kettle's on,’ said Claudette. ‘Want some toast?’
‘Love some.’
I was just unlocking the door when Margaret called out from the office. ‘Borrow my cloak if you like, it'll be warmer than your jacket. You'll need a brolly.’
I'd forgotten about the snow. The ward temperature was always about 75°F, always perpetual summer. Margaret came out then, with the cloak and brolly.
‘Thanks.’
She flashed me a tight smile. ‘Be careful.’
The freshness of the air was quite invigorating at first, but then I began to feel the cold seeping up from my feet to my legs and as I crossed the grass, the snow splashed at my ankles and I began to shiver. The trees and bushes had that white, silent eeriness that falling snow seems to dredge over them, as though snow itself had the power to create silence. A silence t
hat was only broken by the wet splash of my feet on the grass. I held Margaret's cloak tight around me with my free hand and with the umbrella lowered to protect my face I walked on, only looking up occasionally to avoid colliding with the trees.
Linda opened the ward door. ‘It's enough to freeze a pawnbroker's balls, isn't it?’
‘Brass monkey weather,’ I agreed, as I shook my cloak and brolly in the porch.
‘Put your cloak on the radiator,’ suggested Linda.
I draped the cloak over the radiator and placed the umbrella in the corner and watched for a moment as the water began to run in tiny rivulets on to the floor. For some reason it reminded me of blood; slow, trickling blood …
‘Don't worry about that,’ said Linda. ‘It's only a drop.’
In the office Claudette had a tray of tea and toast ready. ‘How is it on Harper?’ she asked as she poured out the tea. Her hands were the colour of minced beef and when she saw that I'd noticed she tried to hide them.
Linda, perhaps sensing the awkwardness of the moment, began to chat, about the patients, about her ‘lazy git' at home, about how she was going to run away before Christmas because she couldn't face another year of her mother-in-law.
‘Guess what we have every year for Boxing Day dinner? Go on, guess.’
We tried turkey, pork, beef. In the end we gave up.
‘Spam!’ she said. ‘Bloody spam salad and apple pie. And every year she says the same thing, “Lovely pastry this is. The first slice is the best.” Can you believe it? And every year I say never again. And the kids don't stop giggling because they think they're barmy. Which of course they are. This year I'm doing a runner. I'm definitely doing a runner.’
Linda managed to make her moans so funny I was sure that when she was depressed, no one even noticed. Could she be a murderess, I wondered? Do killers have a sense of humour? I was prejudiced enough to believe they did not. Linda was also too well-adjusted to commit murder. Or was that just another prejudice? Is maladjustment necessary for the ultimate act of violence? For premeditated murder I thought it was. And I had no doubt that both Jacky's and Ada's murders had been planned very carefully indeed.
‘And holidays, that's another thing,’ Linda was saying, but I stopped listening and concentrated on Claudette. She had taken a small fruit knife from her bag, removed its leather cover and was painstakingly peeling an apple. Round and round in a circle moved the knife in one continuous motion. It was clearly important that the peel should remain in one piece. When she'd finished she pushed the circle of red peel to one side of the plate and began to section the apple. She did this as carefully as a surgeon performing micro-surgery. Finally she ate the pieces of apple, nibbling delicately, savouring its taste as though it were the world's finest truffle.
Could a killer be that fastidious, I wondered? Even though Jacky hadn't bled much, there had always been the chance that she might. Even planned murder contains a certain random element; the victim might have chosen a different route, might have turned and fought, someone might have disturbed them. Could Claudette have coped with that …
‘Kate – more tea?’ Linda asked, lifting the pot above my mug. ‘You've been away with the fairies.’
‘Sorry. I was thinking about murder. I'm a private detective. I'm investigating Jacky's death.’ I blurted it out before my better judgment persuaded me otherwise.
Silence then. Linda paused with the teapot still raised, then lowered it slowly to the table. ‘But you're a nurse!’ she said. ‘Do nursing in your spare time, do you?’
‘I do both,’ I replied.
Claudette swallowed her last piece of apple and stared at me. But not before I had noticed both their startled expressions. Their faces had shown surprise, yes, but also fear and suspicion.
‘I'd be very grateful if you could tell me in detail about the night Jacky was murdered.’
‘We told the police everything,’ said Linda wearily. ‘You don't think we did it, do you? No one liked her very much but that doesn't mean we'd stab her in the back, does it?’
‘No, of course not. But I think a member of staff did kill Jacky.’ Claudette stood up then. ‘I've got to wash my hands,’ she said. ‘And then I'll check the patients.’
When she'd gone Linda rounded on me angrily. ‘She's not bloody Lady Macbeth, you know. She might be fussy but she's had a lot of problems in her life. All that washing she does, just stops her thinking and worrying; it's only like turning to drink, isn't it?’
I agreed that it was. ‘Calm down, Linda,’ I said. ‘I don't think Claudette is a killer. Germ killer maybe, the scourge of bacteria but nothing more sinister. But I do think you're both lying about what happened that night. I think you are covering up for someone, in all innocence of course. The information I want needn't go any further.’
‘Huh! Not till the police start following your tracks. Then it will all come out.’
‘What will come out, Linda?’ I asked softly.
‘The truth,’ she answered miserably.
At that moment Claudette returned; she had obviously heard some of the conversation. She looked at Linda briefly and shrugged. ‘We'll have to tell in the end, won't we?’ she said as she sat down and inspected the hands that she'd just washed. I got the distinct impression she wanted to wash them again but she was resisting the urge.
‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘What happened when you came on duty?’
Linda spoke first, slowly and reluctantly. ‘Jacky had turned up early on Harper Ward, before me. She seemed the same as usual. The ward was quiet, we had three empty beds and no one all that ill. But as usual we were late settling everyone down, it was after eleven thirty by the time we turned the lights off—’ she broke off. ‘Is this the sort of thing you want to know?’
I nodded. ‘You're being really helpful, thanks. Just go back over that night as it happened.’
Linda glanced at Claudette as if to say, ‘I'll have to tell the truth,’ and Claudette smiled in resignation, and after removing her white paper cap and placing her hair clips in a row she stretched herself back on the office chair.
Linda and I sat upright, wary, and I think we both felt surprised Claudette should have suddenly managed to appear so relaxed.
‘Tell me why it was “usual” for you to finish late?’ I asked Linda.
She smiled. ‘If you'd ever worked with Jacky you'd understand. Luckily we get changed from ward to ward every so often. So we didn't always work together but when we did she faffed around, talking to her favourites. They were the posher patients or the religious ones. Sometimes she'd stop and say a prayer with them. It annoyed me because some of the others were desperate for sleep. Anyway, I remember it was warm early on that night, but by the time we'd finished it was quite cool. The heating wasn't on, so we closed all the windows and doors. Even the French windows in the day room were still open. We had tea in the office, I had some toast but Jacky didn't want anything. We chatted for a bit; well, I talked and she listened, and then, about quarter past twelve, Jacky told me she was going over to Melba for more incontinence pads. We had a few left, but she said she'd rather we were well stocked. She rang you, didn't she, Claudette, to say she was coming over?’
Claudette nodded. ‘Yes. She came over. But she didn't stay long, about five minutes. She collected the pads and said on the way back she would see if Dr Duston was in his room. She told me not to bother to ring Linda because she wouldn't be long. So I didn't.’
‘How long did you wait before you began to get worried?’ I asked Linda.
Linda crossed her legs and looked down at her feet. ‘Ages. Some of the patients were calling out and I tidied the ward and started to get things ready for the morning. Then I sat and read for a while. And then …’
‘And then?’
‘Well, I noticed how late it was and I had begun to feel tired and wanted to go to my break, so I rang Claudette to ask if Jacky was still there. When I heard she'd gone to see Robert Duston – I thought …’
‘What did you think?’
‘If you must know, I thought, sanctimonious little cow. He's supposed to be gay but he could be bi, couldn't he? And so I waited a bit longer. She'd been gone for more than two hours. I rang Claudette again and she asked if I could ring Mick O'Dowd so he'd look for Jacky. Margaret was still on her break and you were busy with a patient vomiting everywhere, weren't you?’
Claudette nodded, frowning. ‘I feel guilty now I wasn't more worried about Jacky but I was so busy, I suppose I just put the patients first.’
It wasn't hard to imagine that night, Claudette wearing gloves, mopping up after the patient, changing the sheets, the nightie, offering a mouthwash or a drink. Jacky being late would be the last thing on her mind. And of course there would be the washing of hands afterwards.
‘There's one thing I really don't understand,’ I said. ‘Why on earth didn't you just fetch Margaret from her break?’
The awkward silence that followed seemed to fill the small office, made it seem claustrophobic. Linda shifted uneasily on her chair and I sensed both women were trying to keep in their minds, even now, not Jacky, but the minutiae of ward life as if by hanging on to ward routines they could forget that Jacky had gone missing.
‘I suppose you'd find out sooner or later,’ said Claudette, finally breaking the silence. ‘Margaret wasn't on the ward. She pops home in the break to check on her mother. Always has done. We don't get paid for our two-hour break but it's a sort of gentleman's agreement we don't leave the ward for it. If we had a fall or some sort of emergency, like a fire, it wouldn't be fair on the one who was left. Margaret had gone home about twenty to one. When Linda phoned she wasn't back but I knew she wouldn't be long. Just occasionally she was late, when her mother played up. We just pretend she'd on the ward, you see. She has a really miserable life and she needs this job, for her sanity as much as the money. But we couldn't tell the police that, could we?’
‘And Mick? Did he find the body?’
It was Linda who answered this time. ‘Yes. He came running on to the ward. I couldn't believe it. These things happen in the papers, don't they, but you don't expect it in real life. I just left the ward, it wasn't that far and the ward was quiet, so I followed Mick and he ran to fetch Claudette and the Margaret followed up the rear …’
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