SHEILA: I really can’t say, Chief Inspector.
CALLER: Well, tell her I called, will you? That I’m sorry I missed her and I’ll try again when I’m able. (Laughter.) ‘Tell her I came, and no one answered, that I kept my word,’ he said.
SHEILA: Sorry?
CALLER: A quotation, more or less, my duck. Walter de la Mare, but why should a child like you know of an old codger like him? Listen, tell Dr B. for me that she’s not to bother to call me back, I’m on the move most of the time. I have to keep the phone switched off for fear of frightening the pigeons. It’s going well, tell her, but it’s still a long haul, OK? Got all that?
SHEILA: Every word, Chief Inspector.
CALLER: You’re a great girl. See you around. (He hangs up).
Message ends.
George sat and stared at the paper and then crumpled it in her hand in a fury. Sheila could be the most maddening creature who ever breathed; insolent and yet in a way that made it impossible to complain. George had told her to be more careful with the way she delivered messages, and what she got was this. Sheila Keen, she told herself, was sailing a great deal closer to the wind than she knew.
Sheila returned with the coffee and a smug expression on her face. ‘I hope that’s all right,’ she said sweetly. ‘I don’t think I missed anything.’
‘Not a word,’ George said grimly. ‘Thank you. Tell Alan I want him now, will you? And then do get a move on with the cardiac clinic material. They’ll be complaining again if you don’t.’ And she bent her head to her own work so smartly that Sheila could not protest, and felt a little better.
When she had gone, almost slamming the door behind her, George smoothed out the message note again and re-read it. Don’t call me, he’d said. He’d call back if he could. Oh, dammit all to hell and back. Would she never get the chance to talk to him? The longer the cases went on in Dudley’s hands, the harder it would be to wrest them from him, even for Gus.
Then Alan came in and she managed to cover her irritation with a smile. ‘There’s a PM this afternoon –’ she said. ‘Death after a fall, admitted to Cloudesley Ward. I doubt it’s anything dicey but I thought you wouldn’t mind doing it.’
Alan brightened. ‘Great! It’s been a while since I did the last one. It’ll make a pleasant change from all those bloods.’
She nodded at that. ‘But don’t tell the people outside that’s how you feel about doing PMs. They think we’re ghouls as it is. OK, I’ll sign your notes when you’re ready. Enjoy yourself!’
By the time she went to lunch it was almost two o’clock. At first she wasn’t going to bother, but her belly made loud protesting grumbles so she went loping over to the dining room to grab a sandwich. She was heading for the way out with it when a voice called her from a corner table tucked away behind fronds of artificial ivy.
‘Dr B. Come and have your lunch with us!’
She peered and hesitated. She hated the idea of being far from her phone for too long; after all, Gus might find a moment to try again and she certainly didn’t want another of Sheila’s insolent messages. But then she saw who had called her, and thought again. She had her bleep in her pocket; if he called, Sheila would bleep her, of course she would.
‘Hello Mr – uh –’ she said, and the man smiled.
‘Mickey Harlow,’ he said. ‘From the Board. You can’t have forgotten me already!’ He sounded roguish.
‘No, of course I haven’t. It’s just that …’ She looked across the table. ‘Oh! Good afternoon Mr McCann.’ The man with the almost totally bald head looked up, startled, and she was pleased with herself for matching the name and the face in her memory.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said, and again George was struck by the thin high note of his voice. He was drinking coffee with an air of disdain.
‘We was just ‘aving a quiet little chinwag, like,’ Mickey Harlow said, and nodded at the third person at the table, Reggie Lester. ‘Eh, Reggie?’
The man glanced up at George and nodded. Odd, she thought, I still haven’t heard his voice.
She sat down and Harlow, who had a large plate of spaghetti in front of him, fussed over making space for her. He caught her glance at his plate and said almost defensively, ‘Got to try the sort of grub they give them ‘ere. I don’t reckon to do a job like this if I don’t do it right. What do you think of the food ‘ere, Dr B.?’
She looked at him sideways, a little irritated. ‘How did you know to address me by my initial?’ She tried to sound light but he wasn’t fooled.
‘Whoops! Overstepped the mark, ‘ave I? Sorry an’ all that. It was that Miss Archer – nice girl, Ellen Archer – she called you that, so I did. There you go. Sorry if it offends.’
He was too cheerful a creature to allow herself to nourish any offence and she smiled at his disarming grin.
‘No, I’m not offended. When did she call me that?’
‘Eh? Last month, wasn’t it?’ He appealed to the other two men. ‘At the last Board meeting? When you first talked about the St Dymphna’s idea, Reggie?’
Reggie Lester stirred his coffee, which seemed an odd thing to do, George thought, since the cup was half empty. ‘Mmm?’ he said. ‘I can’t remember.’
His voice was another surprising one, this time because it was deep and rough in tone and also because he had what the British regarded as a cultured accent. He was very unlike his colleagues, whoever he was.
‘And what is your special skill, Mr Lester?’ she said. ‘Mrs Broad’s an ex-hospital matron and Miss Hammond’s a lawyer, and’ – she looked at Harlow – ‘you’re a market trader, right?’ He laughed.
‘I’m a bit more’n that,’ Harlow said comfortably. ‘Got so many stalls and so many market sites you couldn’t count ‘em, I’ll betcha! But yeah, that’s a fair enough description.’
‘And you, Mr Lester, are the …?’
‘Turf accountant,’ he said. ‘Managing director of the biggest turf accountancy business in this part of London.’
‘Yes,’ she said, amused. It seemed such a fancy way of saying ‘bookie’. ‘And you, Mr McCann?’
‘Engineer,’ Reggie Lester said before McCann could speak. ‘Builds roads and bridges. More practical than the rest of us. Harlow and I just … deal in money.’
There was a sardonic note in his voice, George thought, and she looked at him even more closely. There was nothing she could get hold of at first, but then slowly she began to think more carefully. The way remains of fast-vanishing hair had been pulled across the bare scalp – like McCann he was nearly bald – the subdued silk tie with its wide careful knot, the matching silk handkerchief in the breast pocket, the broad gold ring on a little finger, and – he moved his hand to reach for his coffee cup and she saw his wrist – a very pricey Rolex Oyster watch. A vain man, and rich enough to indulge himself.
Mickey Harlow was chattering. ‘So, ’ow do you enjoy the new regime, Dr B.? The reforms, like?’
‘Not very much,’ she said. ‘More upheaval than reform as far as I can see.’
‘But something has to be done.’ Lester looked up at her quickly and then away again. ‘Money was being wasted all through the NHS in the most appalling fashion. We – the taxpayers – can’t afford that.’
She looked at the sheen on his suit and said dryly, ‘No, I can see that.’
‘Had to put that right,’ McCann cut in and blinked at her. His bald head seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sunlight. ‘You have to admit we had to put that right.’
‘I find money rather boring,’ she said. ‘I deal with patients and–’
‘That’s what all the doctors say,’ Lester said, and his careful accent gave him a disdainful air, ‘but someone has to pay your salary. Someone has to make sure you get your staff’s salaries paid too, hmm? What about that?’
She made a little face. ‘Listen, you shouldn’t ask doctors about the way money is spent in the NHS. I’ve worked in it for more than ten years now and it’s a great thing. Coming from the St
ates the way I do, I’ve seen what happens in a money-centred hospital service. Lots of money and damn all service. I’d hate to see that happening here –’
‘It won’t,’ McCann said. ‘Not if you co-operate with us.’
‘Co-operate?’ She frowned, irritated at the patronizing tone of his voice.
‘Don’t argue when we get good ideas.’
‘Like moving out all the pathology to St Dymphna’s?’ She was angry now. ‘How’s that supposed to help the patients here? Who does it do anything for except the money men and–’
‘Better to find out first before you jump to the conclusion it’s a bad idea, surely.’ Lester lifted his head and she saw the sharpness glinting in the surprisingly dark eyes. ‘That’s what we mean. The way you all tend to refuse even to listen to an idea is … not wise. This one may be no good, but at least listen to it.’
She looked at the man and then tried to laugh lightly. ‘I’m beginning to feel you were lying in wait for me. One Riding Hood, three wolves.’
Mickey tutted. ‘No such thing. Accident, I swear to you. It’s not on, you two, to go on at ’er like this. She done a good job at the Board meeting. Leave it at that. Eat your lunch, Dr B.’ He leaned over and patted her hand. ‘An’ I ’ope it’s better than this spaghetti what’s over-cooked and under-sauced. I’ll ’ave to ’ave a word about that, I will.’
‘I really must get back to my department,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Lots of work to do. Must make sure we get our money’s worth at Old East, mustn’t we?’
‘There now, we’ve annoyed you,’ Mickey said. ‘It wasn’t our intention, was it, chaps?’ He looked at the other two and laughed.
There was a brief silence and then Lester said, ‘Of course not. Never dreamt of it. I just wanted to refer to matters in general, you know.’
McCann looked up at her and smiled and for the first time George felt a glimmer of liking for the man. It was an almost shy smile. ‘Mustn’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I’m not one of the world’s best talkers. Read a good balance sheet though. Know what I’m doing with balance sheets.’
‘That’s why he’s here,’ Mickey said, seeming eager to show his colleagues in the best possible light. ‘That’s why we’re all here. To keep the ship afloat and leave you doctors and nurses, bless you, to take the best possible care of the patients.’ He beamed happily at her. ‘Where would we be without you all?’
‘Richer, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Forgive me. I really must be off. I have a lot to do and –’
‘As long as you aren’t angry with us.’ It was McCann again. ‘I certainly meant no offence.’
‘There, you see?’ Mickey was triumphant. ‘So sit down again.’
‘No, I really do have to go,’ But she hesitated a moment longer. ‘But don’t worry about me. I’ve too much to do to sulk. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’
And this time she did go, her pockets bulging with her now squashed sandwich and pastry bumping against her legs as she walked. She’d gone into medicine, she told herself, to look after people and to find out what made them ill and why they died, not to get hung up over money. That had been one of the reasons she had chosen to leave the US in the first place; to work here, because the NHS had seemed to her to be one of the most beautiful things she had ever heard of. And now look at what was happening to it. She was less than cheerful by the time she got back to her department, a mood that was to hang over her all afternoon, which she spent putting the finishing touches to her reports on the two cases for Dudley, complete with greatly enlarged photographs of the various fibres Jerry had identified, ready to send over to Ratcliffe Street by messenger. She had considered taking them over herself, just to see if she could find out what was going on, but decided against it. There was a very real risk that Dudley would snub her in front of everyone, refusing to let her into the incident room, or something of that sort; and that could lead to all sorts of rows and problems. And Gus wasn’t in his own office so there’d be no chance of seeing him.
She went home at six, leaving behind Alan who was happily writing up his notes: the case had been a good one, with just enough oddity about it to make it interesting, but not enough to make it anything other than a straightforward natural death from the coroner’s point of view. She ate a scratch meal of pasta, collected from an Italian deli on her way home, though there seemed less pleasure in eating when there was no one else to share a meal with, and then settled to watching television for the evening. But that depressed her too. There was little worth watching and she found herself nodding off in her corner of the sofa and that made her feel dreadfully old and staid.
On an impulse, she phoned Bridget in Buffalo, working out that it was mid-afternoon there and hoping to catch her, but the voice that answered said she was out.
George asked after Vanny. ‘Oh, she’s doing well enough,’ the little voice – the home help probably, George thought – clacked. ‘Oh, she’s doing well enough, Considering …’
‘Considering what?’ George was sharp.
‘Well, she’s not well, you know.’ The voice was cautious, clearly uncomfortable at dealing with a transatlantic call. ‘It’s kinda hard to explain on the phone.’
‘I’m her daughter,’ George said crisply. ‘And a doctor.’
‘Oh,’ There was relief in the voice. ‘Well, OK then. You understand about Alzheimer’s. Miz Connors told me. And she’s having a bad day. Wandering a lot. Keeps crying.’
George’s throat tightened. ‘May I speak with her?’
The voice was dubious. ‘Well, we can try,’ it said. ‘But I wouldn’t be too hopeful.’
Vanny came on the line. George sat in her little flat in Bermondsey and spoke as brightly and happily as she could, and Vanny sat in Buffalo three thousand miles away and just breathed heavily at her and said nothing.
‘Hi, Vanny. Are you OK?’ George heard herself say and knew it was idiotic. How could Vanny be OK, for God’s sake? ‘Is Bridget taking good care of you? You’ll tell her I called, hmm? Mom, I wish I could be there with you.’
There was a little clatter as Vanny dropped the phone at her end and George clearly heard her querulous voice: ‘Who’s that? Who’s that? Who’s that?’ repeated over and over and her eyes stung with tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ the little voice came back on the line sounding apologetic. ‘Like I said, a bad day.’
‘Yes,’ George said. ‘Yes. Well, thanks anyway. When Mrs Connors returns, tell her I called, will you? Dr Barnabas. Yes, that’s right. Her daughter.’
She cradled the phone and then wept, as she had the last time she had talked to Bridget and with the same sense of guilt and hopelessness. She was in a trap and whichever way she turned she would be in the wrong. Staying in London seemed selfish, going to Buffalo would be pointless. What else could she do but weep?
Inevitably, she slept badly, waking with a startled jerk time and again. She was so used to it by the small hours that when the phone rang and she opened her eyes she didn’t at first answer it; she thought the sound was inside her own head. But when she did at last pick up the insistent phone, her bad feelings were at last pushed to the back of her mind. She had something else to think about.
There had been another fire and someone had been burned, reported the policeman at the other end of the line. Burned in precisely the same way as Lisa Zizi had been burned and could she come at once, please.
12
The sense of déjà vu was powerful. The same feeling of being not quite in the real world when she drove to the address the policeman had given her over the phone; the same glow in the dark sky ahead of her as she left her flat behind and came closer to her destination; the same smell of burning wood and paint mixed with the familiar reek of the river.
She shivered a little as she came along Narrow Street towards the opening of the Grand Union Canal. She could see now the building that was burning: not a block of flats but one of a row of neat pretty terraced houses, built no more than half a dozen year
s ago, well bedecked with window boxes of scarlet geraniums and trailing lobelia. But the house that was burning showed its colour not in flowers but in the flames that were licking the frame of a first-floor window, and that made her shiver. There was a great deal of smoke, and the same police cars and ambulances as well as fire engines, all with their emergency lights rotating excitedly. Wouldn’t it be better if just one of them had its lights on? she thought briefly as she pulled her car over to the kerb. Or are they like children who all want to have a go?
This time, as she made her way through the staring knots of people, she wasn’t stopped by a policeman, and that helped her to feel this was a different occasion rather than a dream of the last one. She found Dudley talking to one of his men in a dark patch out of the well-lit centre of activity as they watched the firemen struggling to get close enough to the burning section of the building to deal with the flames, and to get in to seek for whoever might be in there. Other firemen were herding dressing-gowned and blanketed people out of the adjoining houses, coaxing them along to places well out of range of the shooting flames; they looked like creatures from a mad disco, George thought absurdly, their faces grimacing and lit by alternate pulses of blue from the vehicles and orange and crimson from the fire.
‘Oh, there you are,’ Dudley said as he caught sight of her. ‘Good and quick this time.’
She ignored the jibe and stared at the burning building. ‘Very much like the last one,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ he grunted. He turned to the man at his side who was, as George could now see with gratitude, Michael Urquhart. ‘Mike, go and see how it’s doing – how soon we can get in there and give it the once-over. Looks too much like the last job for it to be an accident but we can’t be sure till we get inside.’
Michael went loping over the mess of hoses and cables and water on the ground towards the building and was held back by a senior fireman who talked to him for some time before he returned to Dudley’s side.
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