Terry gave her a sharp look and flopped down on the sofa. ‘So you’re not neglecting your duties then?’
She squeezed next to him, longing to lay her still muzzy head on his lap. But she didn’t quite dare.
He leant right back against the cushions. ‘Shani’s got nasty with me.’
Brenda closed her eyes.
‘Said you was leading me on.’
‘Little cow.’
Terry stared down at his mother-in-law’s face. ‘Don’t like your Shani much, do you?’
Brenda didn’t even bother to shake her head.
He pondered for a moment before changing the subject.
‘Seen the papers, have you?’
‘Lying here on the settee? Some chance.’
‘There’s been another murder. Some nurse.’
Brenda stretched her arms above her head and yawned.
‘They found her on the new maternity site. Post-mortem was yesterday. They say it was the same bloke what did in the plumber. That Wilson.’
Brenda threw caution to the winds, obeyed her instincts and dropped her head onto her son-in-law’s lap, her feet dangling over the armrest. Terry ran his fingers over her face. Without her make-up she looked saggy and old.
Brenda closed her eyes and enjoyed his cool stroking fingers. ‘That’s nice, Terry.’
‘Girl called Rosemary.’
Brenda yawned again, feeling herself gradually dropping back to sleep.
‘There’s lots of Rosemarys,’ she murmured.
‘She worked at some clinic.’
‘Oh.’
Terry wondered how much to tell her. The headlines had been lurid. ‘He’d cut her about. Bloke’s a madman.’
‘Mmm.’ She was almost past caring. About anything.
‘I wonder if it’s someone from the hospital.’
The statement roused her. ‘Never. We’re all normal there, Terry. Boringly normal.’
‘Brenda...’
‘Mmm?’
The idea had come to him that morning, while he had been studying the morning news. ‘They made out the bloke cut her with a scalpel.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know what? I reckon it’s Malcolm. I mean — he collects scalpel blades, doesn’t he? And he’s definitely weird.’
Brenda was shaken out of her daydream. She sat up.
‘You what?’
‘I reckon it’s Malcolm,’ Terry repeated. ‘I mean, what does he want scalpel blades for?’
‘He does marquetry.’
‘Yeah? And I’m a Dutchman.’
Brenda laughed. ‘You’re more likely to be a Dutchman than Malcolm is to be a serial killer. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Have you ever seen any marquetry he’s done?’
Brenda stalled. ‘He’s promised me a picture.’
‘But have you actually seen any of it?’
‘No.’
‘He wouldn’t need all those blades just for marquetry even if he does do it. One or two would be enough.’
‘Anyway. The plumber was strangled. I read it.’
‘Yeah, but he was cut about with a scalpel. It was in the Post.’ Terry put his face down close to hers. ‘You should stop taking him blades, Brenda.’
‘But he depends on me. No one else ever goes to see Malcolm. He hasn’t got many friends.’
‘I think we should tell the police about him.’
‘No! I can’t believe it of Malcolm. He’s really gentle.’
Terry looked sceptical. ‘How do you know such a creep anyway?’
‘We used to work together. He was a theatre porter.’
‘So why isn’t he now?’
‘He left.’
‘Why?’
Brenda wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her. Her desire for Terry had evaporated. ‘It was really sad,’ she said. ‘His mum got ill. Cancer. She had to have a colostomy. She couldn’t cope. Malcolm left to look after her. It wasn’t long after that that she died. But they wouldn’t give him his job back. Then he got more and more peculiar, lonely, I suppose.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘His mum?’ She shot him a look of pure exasperation. ‘Well, the cancer of course.’
Terry swivelled round in his seat. ‘Sure of that, are you?’
‘Yes. Of course I’m sure.’ Brenda moved away towards the other end of the sofa. ‘Look, Terry. I don’t know what you’re suggesting but there’s no harm in Malcolm. He’s a sweet, nice person. Just a bit strange. That’s all.’
• • • •
DS Caroline Fielding approached a pair of swing doors with trepidation. She hated hospitals. But most of all she loathed operating theatres. This was the fourth she had visited in as many days and she was getting hospital phobia.
She knocked on the door of Theatre Four.
It was opened ever so slightly by a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a green surgical gown and white clogs. A few dark hairs escaped from a hat that looked as if it had been made from a blue J-cloth. She looked enquiringly at Fielding as she flashed her ID card.
‘Sister Watlow? I did ring earlier.’
The nurse nodded.
Caroline Fielding had been careful to ring earlier for three reasons: as a matter of courtesy, to check availability, and to quell a holy terror that she might barge into the wrong place at the wrong time and witness an operation in progress — yet another hacked body. Alive this time. Something to add to her nightmares. Nervously she peered past the nurse’s shoulder.
Brenda Watlow sensed her concern. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Nothing going on at the moment. We’ve stopped for lunch. But if you’re coming in you’ll have to put some overshoes on. And a gown over your clothes.’ Her manner was decisive, brisk, authoritative. ‘And you’ll have to finish your questioning by two thirty at the latest,’ Brenda continued crisply. ‘We get going again then.’
Brenda helped Fielding into a large cotton gown of the same shade of green as her own and tied the tapes at the back, then she handed her a pair of white, wooden-soled clogs. Catching sight of herself in the mirrored door of a locker, Fielding realized with a shock that she looked like one of them now. She eyed herself curiously, running her hands down the shapeless garment. The disguise was complete. No longer a forty-something copper, married to another copper for more than twenty years, but part of the theatre staff. She gave a hesitant smile at herself, shook her dark hair and followed the nurse into a small, square room, painted grey, with orange chairs. A coffee table stood in the centre set with plates of sandwiches and four blue mugs of steaming tea. Three other people, also dressed in green cotton, were at various stages of lunch.
Brenda sat down and helped herself to a sandwich. She spoke to the three occupants. ‘This is DS Caroline Fielding. She is investigating that poor nurse’s death.’ Reaction rippled across the three faces. Concern, interest, but no grief, as Brenda Watlow continued with the introductions. She indicated the tall man on her left. ‘This is Mr Sutcliffe, one of our senior surgeons.’
The tall man gave an elegant nod and took a neat bite out of his sandwich before replacing it on his plate. Caroline Fielding gained a swift impression of piercing, intelligent blue eyes before her glance moved on.
‘Mr Raja, surgical registrar.’ The Indian also inclined his head.
‘And Staff Nurse Ellery.’ A slim, pale girl with a disconcerting stare who fixed wide eyes on Caroline Fielding. ‘I knew Rosemary Baring,’ she said with difficulty. ‘We trained together.’
It was a good starting point. Fielding took the last available chair to sit right next to the nurse.
‘You knew her well?’
‘I did then. I haven’t seen much of her since she left to work at the Cater Clinic.’ The nurse thought for a moment. ‘And that was a couple of years ago — at least.’
‘Why do you think she moved there?’
The staff nurse blinked rapidly. ‘I don’t know. I mean, the pay isn’t wonderful at these privat
e clinics, and you can’t join the superannuation scheme. They’re often understaffed. All the money goes on making the place look posh.’
There was resentment in the girl’s words which Fielding picked up on.
‘Have you ever worked there?’
The nurse looked sulky and glanced sideways at the theatre sister. ‘A couple of times,’ she confessed. ‘When I’m a bit short of cash I do a couple of shifts there. I didn’t bump into her though.’
The theatre sister tut-tutted. ‘Moonlighting, Staff Nurse?’ But her eyebrows were pointed and her fleshy face was touched with humour.
‘When did you last see Rosemary Baring?’ Caroline Fielding continued.
The girl thought for a moment. ‘Six months to a year ago,’ she said finally. ‘I bumped into her in Sainsbury’s.’
Fielding felt a sudden irritation. ‘Which was it — six months or a year?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What time of year was it?’
The girl looked blank.
Caroline Fielding tried a long shot. ‘I don’t suppose she said anything that might give us a clue?’
The girl gave a sad, twisted smile. ‘What?’ she challenged. ‘That she was expecting to be knocked off by some madman some time over Christmas?’
‘You think it was a madman?’
All four of the theatre staff present nodded their heads vigorously. Sutcliffe was the only one who made a verbal comment. ‘Has to be. Stands to reason. The man is barking bloody mad.’
Caroline Fielding watched the surgeon speak. The one so sane, so well balanced. And the other? Mr Sutcliffe had to be right. The other made a grotesque masquerade of the medical profession.
The Staff Nurse gave a long sigh. ‘It’s awful,’ she said. ‘I mean — you don’t expect someone you know to be murdered.’
Fielding muttered something about it being a rare occurrance. But she couldn’t blame all four staff for expressing their concern. Two murders, both bodies left around the same teaching hospital. Not such a rare occurrence here. And no one knew better than she just how little they had to go on.
She tried another angle. ‘Did any of you know Colin Wilson, the plumber, who died earlier on this month?’ This time all four managed to look uniformly blank. Sutcliffe shifted in his seat.
Caroline Fielding moved her questions across to the theatre sister. ‘Would you mind if I saw where you keep your stores?’
Brenda Watlow stared at her defensively. ‘Why?’ she asked bluntly.
Fielding didn’t want to tell her but she had the feeling she would get much further with this woman if she took her into her confidence. Partially at least. She stood up. ‘This is for your ears only, Sister,’ she said and felt quite satisfied when Brenda followed her to the door and passed through it with a brisk and capitulating, ‘Very well.’
Brenda led the way into a large windowless store cupboard, stocked from floor to ceiling with shelves full of surgical accessories. Even Fielding knew it would be impossible to keep a check on such quantities of surgeon’s gloves, scalpel blades, suturing material, surgeon’s masks, gowns and the other paraphernalia of surgery.
‘We believe the killer used a scalpel blade to make an incision on his victims after he’d killed them. The blade has been identified as being a number 22?’
‘Like this?’ Brenda Watlow put her hand out to one of the cardboard boxes, drew out something sealed in foil. Caroline Fielding looked down. There was an outline of a scalpel blade inked on the pack along with the number 22.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And then he sewed them up with some very fine suturing material. It’s been suggested that this is an unusual combination, the materials possibly originating from a theatre specializing in abdominal or plastic surgery!
Brenda Watlow was a calm woman ideally suited to her profession, able to listen to such horrors without displaying emotion. The only sign she gave that she had both heard and understood was rapid blinking and a slight tremor of the hand that reached inside a small, plastic box. ‘Like this?’ she asked.
Fielding’s gaze dropped to another foil packet in her hand. It was suturing material, 5/0 silk.
‘Just like that,’ she said quietly. ‘May I keep it?’
‘By all means.’
Fielding put it carefully in her pocket and took a good look round at the stacked equipment, almost identical to the other theatre stores she had examined. ‘This cupboard isn’t kept locked?’
Brenda Watlow shook her head. ‘There’s no need.’
‘So anyone could have access?’
‘Only theatre staff,’ Brenda said. ‘We’re the only ones who come in here.’
‘And at night?’
‘At night the theatre’s kept locked. I lock it myself if I’m last out. Otherwise Staff Nurse Ellery does the honours. It’s the responsibility of a trained member of staff and the keys are handed in at the front desk.’
Fielding took a cursory look around. ‘You’ve never noticed stores going missing?’
‘What sort of quantities are we talking about?’
Fielding frowned. ‘A couple of scalpel blades. Two packets of sutures.’
The theatre sister raised her eyebrows, and Fielding agreed with her. How could such a minute quantity be missed? Again she ran her eyes up the stacks of equipment.
‘Did you know Rosemary Baring, Shearer that was?’
Brenda frowned. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘she worked here as a student nurse. We’ve all been talking about it — naturally. But I can’t say I remember her.’
‘Could you check?’
Brenda Watlow hesitated. ‘I’m pretty sure she did, but it would have been a few years ago. Is it important?’
‘How many years ago?’
‘Five or six. Maybe more. The student nurses come and work in the theatres in their second year of training. They only stay for a few weeks before moving on. Lots of nurses have worked here. I can’t remember every single one.’
‘But you think you remember her?’
Brenda Watlow’s dark eyes flickered. ‘Yes,’ she said abruptly. ‘When I saw her picture in the paper I thought I did.’ She hesitated. ‘I thought she looked familiar.’
‘Can you remember anything about her? Anything at all?’
‘No.’ Irritation leaked into the nurse’s voice making it sharp. ‘As I said. Lots of student nurses pass through here. Look — have you finished? I’ve got work to do. Trolleys to set up.’
‘Yes. At least I’ve finished in here. But before I go I’d better just have a word with the other three members of staff, if that’s all right.’
Brenda Watlow didn’t answer but led the way back to the sitting room. The staff nurse had left. Caroline Fielding decided to speak to Mr Sutcliffe first. She had already formed an opinion about him; proud, haughty, autocratic — all the things one might expect a surgeon to be. She wondered if the man they were hunting was like this too, pompous, slightly theatrical.
She watched Mr Sutcliffe take a bite from his sandwich, drink a sip of tea from his cup. His movements were all exact and controlled. Almost stage managed. But there was an advantage to his surgical precision. He answered her questions with the exactitude she would have expected from one of his profession.
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Twenty-eight years next October the fifteenth.’
‘Always as a senior surgeon, sir?’ Instinctively, she felt the ‘sir’ was a necessary part of the interrogation.
‘Of course. My registrar years were carried out at the City Infirmary.’
‘I see. I don’t suppose you knew either Rosemary Baring or Colin Wilson?’
‘I believe not. Although —’ He hesitated, weighing something up. ‘Was Mr Wilson not a plumber?’
‘Yes.’
‘My wife and I have recently employed the services of a plumber.’ He tightened his lips. ‘But as for his name I really couldn’t tell you.’
‘And what did you have
done, sir?’
‘We had a rather large bedroom,’ Mr Sutcliffe said. ‘It was decided to fit an en suite bathroom at one end.’
‘But you can’t remember the name of the firm you employed.’
‘No.’ The implication was clear. Such domestic details were beneath a surgeon’s notice.
‘Cheque stubs, sir?’ Fielding prompted.
The surgeon looked even more haughty. ‘I don’t see what...’
‘It would help us,’ she said, ‘in our enquiries.’
The surgeon left the room, irritation in every staccato step.
Raja put his hands up. ‘And it’s no use you asking me,’ he said pleasantly with a flash of bright teeth. ‘I have only been working in this hospital for about three months.’
Caroline Fielding met his gaze with a bold one of her own. ‘And that’s just when the murders began.’ She watched the pleasantness drain out of the Indian’s face as though someone had pulled a plug.
‘Excuse me?’ he said.
Fielding smiled at him. ‘It’s all right, sir. We’re not really entertaining the idea that the killer is one of the senior surgeons in this hospital.’
Raja folded his arms and smiled. ‘Thank goodness for that.’
Mr Sutcliffe returned and read the cheque stub out to Caroline. ‘Fourteen hundred pounds,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘That was the plumber’s bill. But I’m afraid it wasn’t paid to your friend Wilson but to another firm, Campbell de Morgan.’
Caroline held her hand out and the surgeon reluctantly passed the chequebook to her. Typically it was filled in: the payee, the date, the amount — pence as well. Thirteen hundred and forty pounds, eighty-nine pence. With a balance below. No money worries for Mr Sutcliffe then. They all watched as she handed the chequebook back.
There was something in this theatre that had not been present in the others. A certain guardedness. Or was she imagining it, goaded on by the fact that Rosemary Baring had once worked here, that one of the staff nurses had actually trained with her, that the sutures and scalpel used on the surgeon’s victims were commonly used here, and lastly that the surgeon had recently employed a plumber. Not Colin Wilson, but the coincidence of the surgeon having an en suite fitted? Like the job which Colin Wilson had been lured away from. Lots of people were having their own private bathrooms fitted.
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