‘But what would that have to do with the death of Win Frenholm, and that other woman up at the photo-processing plant? And me?’ Jennifer asked.
Kay shrugged again. ‘Don’t ask me, ask your pet policeman.’ She eyed Jennifer assessingly. ‘Not too happy this morning, are you? Got rings like a badger around your eyes. Maybe you aren’t in bed, but you should be. Who doctors the doctors, I ask you? Me. Did you have any breakfast?’
‘No – I wasn’t hungry.’
‘Thought not. And not keen on lunch, by the look of you, either. What about your policeman, then?’
‘What do you mean, “my policeman”?’
Kay leaned back in her chair. ‘Denying everything, are you? The two of them come into town like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, one scoops up Frances, the other . . . I thought he had his eye on you, that Luke bloody Abbott. Should have heard your uncle on the subject, this morning. Sir Laurence Olivier wasn’t in it. Ungrateful whippersnapper was the least of it, according to him.’ Kay’s blue eyes were amused, but watchful.
‘He’s only cross because Luke seemed to think there was some connection between this practice and the murders. Or implied as much to David, yesterday.’
‘Oh, so that’s why he was so snappy,’ Kay said. ‘Do you know how many patients we have on the lists here? About four thousand. Aren’t fifteen thousand people in the whole town. Not that surprising if all the victims are our patients, is it?’
‘But surprising when one of the victims is me – or would have been me. It makes the connection almost inescapable. That’s why Uncle Wally is angry with Luke. He doesn’t want it to be true.’
‘But it is?’ Kay looked more worried, suddenly. ‘Do you think it is?’
‘I don’t know. What have you done about this evening’s appointments?’
‘Dr Gregson’s got Dr MacDonald up at the hospital to come along this evening.’
‘Oh. And how did Uncle Wally do, this morning?’
Kay beamed. ‘He did just fine. I sent in mostly the old regulars, and they were that glad to see him it did them more good than any prescription he could write. He wore down a little towards the end, but that’s only to be expected. He did just great.’
‘Good.’ Jennifer glanced around. ‘Someone’s coming up the path. I’ll just slip into David’s office for a minute.’
‘He’s not there.’
‘I know.’ Jennifer turned away and left Kay wondering behind the typewriter. As she closed David’s door, she heard someone’s voice asking for a repeat prescription. She leaned against the door and looked around. The office was as neat as it had been the day before. David might not have even spent the morning there, it seemed so untouched, unchanged.
Save for one thing.
She looked into the glass-fronted cabinet and felt something contract in her chest. The collection of antique instruments was once again complete. The scalpel that had been missing last night was back in place, shiny and gleaming.
But without a tip.
The missing piece was tiny – as tiny as the bit of metal she’d found in the wound. Hardly noticeable, unless one was looking for it. Jennifer stood before the cabinet for a long, long time. The patient in the outer office departed, the phone rang and Kay answered it, another patient trudged up the path and made an appointment. Still Jennifer stood there, staring at nothing, and then, finally, she turned and sat down at David’s desk. Slowly and deliberately, she picked up the phone and dialled.
By the time the police station answered, her cheeks were wet with tears and her entire body was shaking.
‘Chief Inspector Abbott, please,’ she said, in a broken voice.
Chapter Thirty
She was still sitting behind David’s desk when the door opened and Luke appeared. Kay must have gone to lunch, Jennifer thought, then glanced at the clock and realised she’d been asleep in David’s chair. ‘I came as soon as I got your message,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Your suit is all muddy,’ she said, before she could stop herself.
He glanced down, then came into the office and closed the door behind him. ‘I was down by the river,’ he said. ‘Last night’s rain has made a mess of the towpath.’
‘What were you doing on the towpath?’ She felt as if she were still half-dreaming. He looked ruffled and a bit windblown, and his tie was askew.
‘We’re dragging the river.’
‘What for?’
‘Fred Baldwin’s body. He’s gone missing, and his wife told us he stormed out of the house last night saying he was going to put an end to everything, poor bastard.’
‘Do you think it was Baldwin who attacked Frances last night?’ Jennifer said, hopefully.
‘I don’t know. They said you wanted to show me something.’ He was impatient, and suddenly Jennifer had a sense of the investigation he was heading. Behind him was a small army, people dragging rivers, people following people, clerks and computer operators clicking away at their keyboards, questions and more questions and laboratories and heaven knew what else, lines as on a map, wires reaching everywhere, roads, telephones, radio signals, people talking, writing, checking – and he was in charge. The centre of the investigation was here in the surgery, but only because he was here. Touching him was like touching the edge of a spider’s web – he and everything else came alive in an instant, ready, waiting. He was waiting now, and he was in a hurry.
She wasn’t.
‘I don’t know if it’s important . . . ’ she began, slowly, and stopped. After a moment, he came across and sat down in the patient’s chair beside the desk. She saw him make a visible effort to relax, fold his hands, wait for what she had to say. This is how you’re trained, Luke, she thought. This is what you do best. If I’d gone back and kissed you under the oak tree, would all this be different now? Better? Worse?
‘Take your time.’ His voice was soft, and she knew that he had realised, almost immediately, that it was very important indeed, to her.
Instead of speaking, because she couldn’t say it, not even one word of it, she simply turned David’s swivel chair and pointed to the middle shelf of the glass cabinet in the corner. Luke rose and went over. She watched his long, lean back and, after a moment, saw his shoulders stiffen.
He had seen it.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘An old surgical instrument called a bistoury,’ she said. ‘It’s very sharp – I cut my finger on it, yesterday morning.’
He turned. ‘And was that bit at the tip missing then?’
‘No.’ It came out in a whisper.
‘Why didn’t you mention this last night?’
‘Because . . . ’ Her voice faded, and she had to clear her throat. ‘Because last night it wasn’t there.’
He swore, under his breath. She knew, somehow, he was not swearing at her. ‘I’m sorry, Jen,’
‘Oh, so am I,’ she said, with a sob. ‘So am I.’
Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he opened the cabinet and picked up the scalpel in the white cloth, carefully grasping it by the band between blade and handle. As he turned away from the cabinet, the office door opened, and David Gregson came in.
‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ he demanded, taking in Jennifer, and Luke, and the thing in Luke’s hand.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come down to the station, Dr Gregson,’ Luke said. ‘Just a few questions.’
But David’s eyes were on Jennifer, dark with anger, filled with accusation. ‘What have you done?’ he asked, in a terrible voice.
‘You’d like it to be me, wouldn’t you?’ David Gregson said, angrily. ‘That would suit you down to the ground, the Mad Doctor going berserk when the moon is full, I suppose.’
‘Nobody said anything about a Mad Doctor,’ Luke said, in a quiet voice. ‘I just want to ask you some questions
concerning your movements last night and on previous nights, and your relationships with the dead women.’
Gregson, red with anger, became suddenly pale with apprehension. ‘What do you mean, my “relationships” with them? I had no relationships with them, other than doctor and patient.’
‘According to your receptionist, Miss Frenholm normally asked for you – but on that last occasion, she asked specifically to see Dr Eames. Why was that, do you suppose?’
‘I have no idea. Perhaps my morning list was full. Perhaps she felt a woman would be more sympathetic concerning a possible abortion.’
‘I see.’ Luke’s voice was sceptical. ‘And other than visits to the surgery, did you have any occasion to see or speak to Miss Frenholm?’
‘No.’
‘Paddy?’
Paddy opened a folder on his desk. ‘According to our information, you met Miss Frenholm on at least one occasion in the Woolsack. And left with her.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Our witness is a local constable, who was there with his wife when off-duty.’
‘It was probably my wife he saw – she’s blonde and rather beautiful.’
Paddy cleared his throat. ‘It seems the constable in question had private reasons to know Miss Frenholm on sight. According to him, he was considerably relieved when she left with you.’
‘How does he know it was me?’
‘He’s a patient of yours.’
Gregson closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Ah.’ He seemed, with this syllable, to acknowledge a kind of defeat. ‘All right, then, yes, I met her at the Woolsack – but not by arrangement. It just happened we were there at the same time.’
‘And you had a drink together.’
‘We had several drinks together, if it matters.’
‘And left together.’
Gregson sighed. ‘And left together,’ he said, in a defeated voice. ‘And stayed together for several hours more, in the back of her blasted pottery. Damned uncomfortable.’
‘This was in August.’
‘It was. Two weeks after my wife left me for a bastard baronet with a plum in his mouth and a million in the bank. If she has continued as she began, by now he should be down to about fifty pence.’ Gregson’s voice was bitter with self-disgust. ‘I was lonely, I was tight, I was randy, and Miss Frenholm was more than willing, she was bloody avid. Took me a week to recover.’
‘And did you go back for more?’
‘No, I did not. Aside from not being up to her pace, she was one of my patients. Not done, Inspector. Unlike policemen, doctors are never off-duty. You now have it in your power to have me struck off. Feel free. I took advantage of what was undoubtedly the clearest case of nymphomania I have ever encountered outside a textbook. I was depressed and miserable. I was a fool. But I am not a murderer.’
‘You could have been the father of her child.’
Gregson’s head came up. ‘I suppose I could have been, at that. Bloody hell, that would have pleased my wife. Speeded up the divorce no end. She would probably have offered to be godmother to the little bastard – once she’d stopped laughing, that is. She always maintained I couldn’t get up a sweat, much less anything else.’
It disturbed Luke to hear Gregson, normally taciturn, speak so bitterly and fully about something that was obviously a source of deep anguish to him. Subjected to sexual scorn in an unhappy marriage, then a willing but possibly unsatisfactory partner to a sexual predator who made no secret of her contempt for men – fertile ground for murder to flower? Or just an unfortunate juxtaposition of misery?
‘Tell me about these antique instruments of yours.’
Gregson shrugged. ‘I collect them. It’s a hobby. Some of them are beautifully crafted. I intended to become a thoracic surgeon, but there was no money for me to study further in a special field. I had no option but to go into general practice. The collection is mere sentiment, nothing more.’
‘This particular instrument – a bistoury?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The tip is broken off.’
‘Yes. I don’t know when it happened.’
‘Some time between yesterday lunchtime and this morning,’ Luke said, carefully, watching Gregson’s face.
‘Oh?’ was Gregson’s response. His face remained impassive. ‘And why do you think that?’
‘Because yesterday morning it was whole. Dr Eames cut her finger on it. She picked it up out of curiosity and didn’t expect it to be so sharp.’
‘I keep all my instruments sharp,’ Gregson said.
‘Why?’
‘They are proper instruments, despite their age. They deserve that respect.’ He thought for a moment. ‘She must have rinsed off the blade, then.’
‘She did.’
Gregson nodded. ‘I noticed a few tiny spots of rust forming last night, before I went out. I usually keep the blades well oiled, for at that time stainless steel was unknown, and they need protecting. I took the bistoury out and put it into my bag, intending to oil it last night when I got back. Which I did.’
‘And did you notice the tip of the blade missing at that time?’
‘Yes, I did. Those blades are very brittle – I assumed it had been chipped while in my bag. If you’ll recall, my return home was at a rather hectic time. I simply oiled it quickly before I went up to bed, and put it back. I meant to resharpen it this morning, but with Jennifer off, I didn’t have time.’ The thought of Jennifer clouded his face. ‘She thinks I am the killer, presumably, and that that is the murder weapon? The little fool.’
‘It’s hardly a conclusion that has brought her any personal pleasure,’ Luke said. ‘She was very distressed, but . . . ’
Thought it was her duty as a responsible citizen?’ Gregson asked, bitterly. ‘How admirable. And here I am being interrogated in a pointless exercise, while patients wait to be seen and treated. What a clever girl.’
‘Did you kill Win Frenholm, Dr Gregson?’
‘I did not.’
‘Did you kill Beryl Tompkins?’
‘No.’
‘Did you kill Mabel Taubman?’
‘No.’
‘What was your relationship with Mrs Taubman?’
‘I was her long-suffering GP, nothing more. She was a difficult, demanding woman. But there were no drinks, no liaisons, nothing. The same goes for Mrs Tompkins – although she was quite different from Mrs Taubman. A quiet, pleasant woman. She was the one who was long-suffering, not her GP.’
‘Would you say she was a very moral woman?’ Paddy asked, abruptly. Gregson gave him a startled look, as if he’d forgotten he was there.
‘A moral woman? What do you mean?’
‘I mean, do you think she felt strongly about right and wrong?’ Paddy said.
‘I have no idea. The subject never came up. I treated her for a persistent and extremely painful back condition, plus the usual coughs and colds, nothing more. We never ventured together into the realms of philosophy.’
‘She was a strong family woman.’
‘Oh, yes, that was true. Devoted to her husband and children, almost obsessively so. Particularly the children.’
‘So something to do with children – say a case of sexual abuse – would have struck her forcibly, caused a strong reaction?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘Thank you.’ Paddy leaned back in his chair. ‘Thank you.’
‘Did you attack Frances Murphy last night?’ Luke asked, suddenly.
‘No, I did not.’
‘You realise that you have no alibi for the relevant time, nor for the times of the other killings?’
‘I hadn’t thought about it.’
‘You were out on each of the evenings in question.’
‘Was I? I’d have to check my records.’
‘We’re
doing that now.’
‘I didn’t give you permission to do that!’
‘You didn’t have to. Your arrangement with Dr Walter Mayberry is that of a partnership, you hold records in common. He has given his permission for us to view all relevant files.’
‘My God, he must be crazy! Those are confidential files, you have no right . . . ’
‘We will read only relevant files, and we will do so under his eyes. Nothing will leave your office, nothing will be copied, except with his permission, and he will personally sign every copy made.’
‘Does he think I murdered these women, as well as Jennifer?’
‘Neither of them has accused you. We are simply investigating. This instrument will be given to our forensic people for comparison with a piece of metal found in Miss Murphy’s throat wound. If they match . . . ’ Luke paused.
‘I see.’
There was a pause. ‘Tell me, Dr Gregson,’ Luke said. ‘What is your ancestry?’
‘My what?’ David Gregson stared at him.
‘Your ancestry,’ Luke said, calmly. ‘Scots, Irish . . . what?’
‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’
‘A great deal, as it happens.’
Gregson scowled, considering this. ‘I don’t get the connection.’
‘Have you ever heard of a blood condition known as “thalassemia”?’
‘Vaguely – translates as “the sea in the blood” or something, doesn’t it? Affects Mediterranean people. Read an article . . . ’ He paused, and then his face cleared, as comprehension began to dawn. ‘You had your lab people test the foetal blood didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
Gregson almost smiled. ‘Very clever. Well, you won’t find thalassemia in me, I’m certain of that.’
Luke inclined his head. ‘Perhaps not. But we have other means at our disposal now. Have you heard of genetic fingerprinting, Dr Gregson?’
‘I know the theory, yes,’ Gregson said, reluctantly. ‘Every human being has a unique genetic pattern in his DNA, as distinct as a fingerprint, no two people alike.’
‘Not a theory any more, I’m glad to say. By scanning the DNA in foetal blood, we can now get a genetic fingerprint which, using established comparison techniques, can prove conclusively the paternity of a child. No percentages, no good guesses any more. It can be done with total certainty.’
The Wychford Murders Page 24