She was reading a letter that she had found in the kitchen by the bread bin. It was from the GMC. “We should speak to Ascherson.”
“Why? It’s obviously Waterhouse.”
She stood up. “It’s never obvious, Ed. Not even when they’ve been convicted.”
Ascherson lived in quite a large house that was slightly rundown. It had a view over a golf course at the back and the road was relatively wide, but there was a faint air of neglect over the entire neighbourhood; the paint on window frames and doors was peeling, some of the gardens were overgrown. It was as if the upper middle classes had moved on elsewhere, leaving the slightly less prosperous to their fate. The Ascherson house had clearly not been painted for a long time, and there was an ugly green stain on the brickwork where a blocked gutter had been overflowing, possibly for years.
The man who answered the doorbell was small and perhaps in his sixties. He looked crushed, both because he had a slight stoop and because on his face was a look of total loss. He had an unhealthy, pallid look to his skin. The room into which they were ushered was cluttered with ornaments and photographs; all of the pictures were of Ascherson and a woman, clearly his wife. The pictures presented a haphazard photojournal of their lives together, with some clearly dating back forty years. The surfaces had not been dusted for many weeks.
“We couldn’t have children,” he said, although no question had been asked. “We only had each other.”
“We’d like to talk to you about your wife’s death, Mr. Ascherson.”
He nodded. What else, he seemed to imply, was there to discuss?
“I understand she died because of an error on the part—”
“Negligence,” he interrupted. “It was unforgivable negligence.”
Beverley started again from a different tack. “Something went wrong with a blood transfusion.”
He shook his head. “Nothing ‘went wrong,’ as you put it. The doctor gave her the wrong blood. It killed her. It was horrible. She had fits, she was in pain, moaning...” He had drifted back to her death, his eyes looking beyond his guests. “They took her to Intensive Care and stuck tubes in her, put her on a ventilator, but it didn’t matter. She died in the night.” He suddenly looked up at Beverley. “I was there.” This with pride. “I stayed with her. I was there when she died...”
He drifted away again, clutching his hands together. Peeping from beneath a frayed cuff, Beverley saw a crudely drawn tattoo.
She said, “And Dr. Sanderson was found to be at fault.”
He nodded fiercely. “That’s right. She did it. She killed my Jean.”
Beverley said softly, “Dr. Sanderson died last night.”
He looked directly at her. For a moment his face held something she couldn’t define; possibly pleasure, possibly fear, possibly even pride. Then, “How?”
“She was run down in the middle of the road. Deliberately.”
He digested this. “And you think it was me?”
“You had a motive.”
“I’m suing her. Why would I want to kill her?”
“Money isn’t always enough.”
He nodded, as if agreeing. “I haven’t got a car,” he pointed out. There was a hint of slyness, Beverley thought. She let it pass.
“Mind if we look in the garage?”
He shrugged. As they walked outside she asked, “May I ask why your wife needed a blood transfusion?”
“Ulcers. She’d had ’em for years.”
The garage was full, but of rubbish, not cars. They didn’t spend long looking. Rich asked, “Could we ask where you were last night? Between say seven-thirty and nine?”
His reply was riddled with sour melancholy. “Watching the bloody telly. What else have I got to do now?”
They sat in a bar not far from the station, he drinking bottled lager, she vodka and tonic.
“House to house in the street where the hit-and-run occurred has drawn a blank,” he told her gloomily.
She snorted. “I bet we’d find some witnesses if it had been a live sex show.”
“People don’t want to get involved. It’s understandable.”
“People are morons, Ed. They don’t deserve to be protected.”
He wasn’t as experienced as she was and wasn’t, therefore, as cynical.
She said, “So, we have three potential killers, none with an alibi.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. No alibi, nothing to disprove. You can’t prove they’re telling the truth, but you can’t prove they’re lying, either.”
He was about to argue but she asked, “What about the autopsy?”
He had made notes which he now consulted. “The pathologist’s report is pretty much as we expected — multiple fractures and extensive intra-abdominal soft-tissue injuries.”
“Anything to help ID the car?”
He perked up. “There were some paint flecks embedded in the hip wound, apparently.”
“Colour?”
“White.”
“Enough for a make?”
He shook his head. “Probably not.” When she looked disappointed he said, “Waterhouse’s car is white.”
“So are at least a quarter of a million others in this city alone. Anyway, I don’t hold out much hope that Waterhouse’s car was the one that did the deed.”
“But he’s got to be our number one—”
“I didn’t say that Waterhouse didn’t do it, merely that he didn’t use his own car. He’s stupid but not imbecilic.”
They sipped their drinks. “What now?” he asked.
“Well, tomorrow I’m going to dig a little deeper into Mrs. Ascherson’s unfortunate demise, while you’re going to talk to Mrs. Waterhouse.”
“You think she’s involved?”
“Who knows? I don’t and I want to.” She remembered something else. “Second, ask around the hospital about Strauss. Reassure me that he’s not the vindictive type. Third, I want you to do some background research on Mr. Ascherson.”
“Why?”
She thought of the crude tattoo. “Humour me,” she suggested.
There was a period of silence before Rich said softly, “And what about tonight?”
She smiled and put her hand on his. “Sorry, Ed. Not tonight.”
At the look of disappointment she whispered, “Time of the month.”
“Take me through the details.”
Miss Cowden looked a little disconcerted to have a police inspector in her office. She opened the file on her desk and said nervously, “Well, the incident occurred on the morning of Saturday the fourth of April. Mrs. Ascherson was admitted as an emergency because of a GI hemorrhage...”
“GI?”
“Gastrointestinal. She was vomiting blood.”
“Thanks.”
“Dr. Sanderson was on call...”
“How long had she been on call?”
These interruptions proved even more disconcerting for Miss Cowden. After several minutes of searching through the papers she said, “Twenty-two hours.”
“Okay.”
“The medical notes indicate that Mrs. Ascherson was ill but not in extremis. However, as per protocol, Dr. Sanderson decided to take a blood sample for a cross-match of blood. At the same time another patient, admitted that same night and with a similar condition, also needed a blood transfusion. Dr. Sanderson took the blood from both at the same time. In the course of doing that she somehow mislabelled both bottles.”
“So the blood in the tube with Mrs. Ascherson’s name came from the other patient.”
“That’s right. The lab cross-matched the blood, sent it to the ward, and it was transfused into Mrs. Ascherson. She became seriously ill very quickly. Although the transfusion was stopped, she deteriorated on the Intensive Therapy Unit and died some hours later.”
“What about the other patient?”
“Mr. Peyer was fortunate in not actually receiving his units of blood. As soon as the potential problem was
appreciated, they were sent back to the lab.”
“And what happened then?”
“As per procedure, this was reported as an Adverse Clinical Incident — graded red for highest priority — and we, the Clinical Governance and Risk Management Department, began an investigation. It soon became apparent what had happened — the laboratory checked the samples again; following that, Dr. Sanderson was suspended from duty.”
Beverley considered this. Eventually she asked, “Did you interview all the staff involved?”
“Oh yes.”
It all sounded very plausible to Beverley and, in truth, she couldn’t actually see why it shouldn’t have been just a terrible, terrible accident. “Tell me, did Dr. Sanderson admit liability?”
“She was adamant that she hadn’t made a mistake, but, of course, the evidence...”
“Could I see that report?” Miss Cowden looked as if she were about to refuse when Beverley added, “This is a murder investigation, you appreciate.”
Miss Cowden relented.
And over the next thirty minutes, as she read, Beverley became very, very intrigued.
By the time she arrived back at the station, Ed Rich looked about to explode.
“At last!” he said.
“Got something?” She sat at her desk. “What about Mrs. Waterhouse?”
“She’s out of the picture. She was at work until eight and then took the bus home. She can’t even drive. No, it’s Ascherson who’s interesting.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I thought he might be.”
“He’s not quite the respectable citizen we thought.”
Beverley had never thought he was particularly respectable but she let it pass. “What’s he done?”
“Multiple counts of child abuse.”
“He served time?”
“So did Jean Ascherson. She was up to it as well.” He pushed a file across her desk, which she picked up.
“How long ago?” she asked.
“He was sentenced to seven years, she to four. She got out two years ago, but he’s only just been released.”
She began reading the file. After a while she leaned back. “Anything on Strauss?”
“He hasn’t got a reputation for violence, but by all accounts the bust-up with Elizabeth Sanderson was pretty explosive. Big row in the canteen, apparently.”
“I still don’t see him as a killer.”
“No alibi, though.”
“Mmm...” Suddenly she fished in her pocket and produced a plastic carrier bag wrapped around something. Handing it to Rich, she said, “I nearly forgot. Get these to forensics, will you? I didn’t have an evidence bag, so don’t touch.”
“What are they?”
She was reading intently and he nearly missed what she said. “Evidence of a second murder.”
Two hours later, Beverley took a phone call, listened for perhaps ten seconds, then put down the phone. She walked out of her office, called across to Rich. “Come on, Ed.”
He had been typing at his computer console. It took him a moment to save and close the file, then he stood up, taking his coat from the rack on the wall by his desk.
“Where are we going?”
“To arrest a murderer or two.”
Ascherson looked no better, possibly worse. His skin seemed now to have the quality of parchment, something taken from a sarcophagus.
“May we come in, Mr. Ascherson? We need to talk.”
He eyed her warily from eyes that might have been faintly yellowed. Without a word he stood aside. They resumed their places of a day before.
“You’ve only recently been released from prison.”
If he was surprised by this he concealed it completely; he nodded. “How did you know?”
She indicated his arm. “The amateur tattoo.”
He covered it up as if embarrassed.
“Released early,” she went on and once more he nodded.
She took a deep breath before asking, “How long have you got?”
He didn’t hesitate. “They won’t say. It’s gone to my liver. Maybe weeks, maybe months.”
She nodded. “Not long enough to sue the hospital for the death of your wife.”
He shook his head. He looked at her intently but his expression was unmoving. There was a long pause in which the silence became thick, old, cloying. At last Beverley asked, “Whose car did you use?”
For the first time he dropped his gaze. “It was just an old banger. I bought it for cash that afternoon.”
“And where is it now?”
“We own a lock-up garage about a mile from here. It’s in there.”
She pursed her lips and said, “We’ll have to take you in. You’ll be charged with murder.”
He didn’t shrug, just smiled. “You think I care?”
She didn’t want to tell him but had to. As they were walking out to the car, he in Rich’s handcuffs, between them, she said quietly, “You were wrong, you know. Elizabeth Sanderson was innocent.”
He stopped, stunned. “What do you mean?”
“She had nothing to do with the death of your wife. Nothing at all.”
“No...”
“We’re going to arrest the guilty party now.”
It was the cruelest thing she had ever done. He didn’t want to believe her, but was terrified he would have to.
They went first to the station, where Ascherson was formally charged, then left again, this time for the hospital. They found their quarry in the canteen.
“Hello, Philip.”
He was eating a flaccid sandwich that was damp and overstuffed with ketchup, mayonnaise, and some sort of artificial meat. Just looking at it made Rich feel ill. “Have you finished with my car?”
Beverley sat down opposite him, Rich to his side. “Oh yes. We’re quite satisfied that it wasn’t the car involved in the death of Elizabeth Sanderson.”
“ ’Bout time.” He ducked his head into the sandwich, came out again with a full and ugly mouth.
Beverley leaned back in her chair, perhaps to keep her distance from the sight. “You won’t be needing it, though.”
He ceased to chew. “What do you mean?” This through semi-masticated food.
“You won’t be needing it. Not inside.”
He started chewing again but it was clear there was no longer much flavour. Only when he had swallowed did he ask, “Inside?”
She smiled and moved her head just once up and down. “That’s right. Inside. For the murder of Jean Ascherson.”
For a moment he didn’t speak, his eyes eloquent as they flicked from Beverley to Rich and back. Then, “What are you talking about?”
“You murdered Jean Ascherson.”
“No, I...”
“You murdered Jean Ascherson because she and her husband fostered you and whilst you were in their care they sexually abused you.”
“No...”
“I’ve looked at the files, Philip. You’d made accusations against them early on, but no one believed you then. By the time the authorities caught on and realised you were telling the truth, your criminal record meant that they couldn’t use you as a witness; they had enough anyway.”
“You got no proof...”
Suddenly Beverley looked around the canteen. “How did you get a job here?” she asked. “Did you lie about your record?” Before he could answer she resumed her story. “They went to prison but then, quite unexpectedly, they walked back into your life. Jean Ascherson was admitted with a hemorrhage, while you were on duty as a porter.”
He shook his head, his sandwich thankfully forgotten.
“And Dr. Sanderson took some blood for a cross-match. Dr. Sanderson who had got your wife the sack. You were the porter who took the samples to the lab, weren’t you? And while you were doing it, you had a brain wave. A single stone to kill two birds.”
He was wide-eyed now, very afraid.
“How did you do it, Philip?” She wasn’t actually interested in his answer. “I would guess t
hat you took two empty but otherwise identical blood bottles, emptied Mrs. Ascherson’s into one, Mr. Peyer’s into the other, then washed the originals out with sterile water, and poured the samples back in. Only you swapped them over.” She smiled. “Almost the perfect murder. Mrs. Ascherson dies of a transfusion reaction, Dr. Sanderson is accused of gross negligence.”
“No...”
“What did you think when Elizabeth Sanderson was knocked down? Pleased or disappointed?”
For a moment he seemed about to break, then abruptly he said, “Prove it.”
She looked at him, apparently giving this challenge due consideration for a while. Then, sweetly, she said, “I have the records that you were the porter who took the samples to the path lab. From the records, it took forty minutes for the samples to leave the ward and arrive in the laboratory. A long time, especially as it only takes ten minutes to walk it.”
“I came here, for a cup of tea.”
“Really? Tut, tut. Those samples were urgent.”
He shrugged.
She sighed, then stood up. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To the police station. To charge you with Jean Ascherson’s murder.”
He didn’t believe her and remained seated. “You can’t prove anything...”
She swooped down on him suddenly, her face a few centimetres from his. “Yes, I can, Philip. They’ve kept the blood samples, you see. It’s a medico-legal case, so they keep everything. And I’ve had the bottles dusted for prints. Do you know what I found, Philip? Your fingerprints. They were in plastic bags, so why would you have to handle them?”
It took him a moment. “I dropped them accidentally. I had to pick them up.”
“What, all of them? From both bags?”
A nod.
Her smile was broad. “Nice try, Philip, but your prints weren’t on all of them. They weren’t on the other blood samples from Mr. Peyer and Mrs. Ascherson, only on the samples taken for cross-matching.”
Before he could say anything more she said, “You know, I could almost forgive you for what you did, except that you might have killed someone who was entirely innocent. That’s unforgivable, Philip.”
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 6. Whole No. 778, June 2006 Page 12