Third Degree

by Claire Rayner

  ‘Actually, he’s told me – he’s thinking of giving it up and going into something else. Dermatology, maybe. It’s a very good speciality, he said, and one he thinks he could do well. You don’t have to operate so much and though Monty’s keen he should be a surgeon, Philip says he just isn’t cut out for the work.’ She giggled. ‘Isn’t that a funny thing to say? Not cut out to be a surgeon. Anyway, he’s going to think about it. Maybe he’ll go down the brain drain to America – only I got so upset when he said that that he promised he wouldn’t.’ Her face had crumpled at the mere idea. ‘I told him, Monty’ll be all right whatever you do as long as you do it well, and I’m sure you would. Well, of course he would, he’s so clever. I told him, Monty’ll come round to you being a dermatologist, if that’s what you really want. Just don’t tell him right now. Anyway, he’s already trying to change things, Philip says. No more face operations.’ She pushed at the book in George’s hands with a dismissive forefinger. ‘That’s why he wants to get rid of the books. His patients used to look at them, you see, to choose what sort of look they wanted. So if you could price them for me, I’d be really grateful.’

  It was ridiculous. Quite absurd, George told herself as Maureen went away to see what had happened to the tea, leaving her staring down at the books and the pictures of wide-eyed vapid perfection. It’s the most absurd idea I’ve ever had, and to hell with intuition. I’m getting too full of myself, having these notions and always thinking they have to be right. This has to be quite –

  Right. Absolutely and totally right, her inner mind whispered to her. You’re right, you are, you are. What other reason could there be apart from the one that just leaped into your mind? Think about how they looked. The way the fire spread. The way the damage to the tissues showed itself. What other reason could there be?

  Maureen’s assistant came over with the tea, and she took it with a vague thank you and sat there sipping it and thinking. It made a horrible logical sense. Here was a young, recently qualified doctor with the most limited of surgical skills, and an overwhelming relative determined to see him at the top of the professional tree, immediately. Not for this relative the years of sweat and struggle, of learning the craft and the art and the skills of the specialist. He had to have success for his boy right away, and thought, in the all-too-common way of lay people, that what made a man a specialist was where he did his work rather than the work he did.

  So the pushy relative sets the young doctor up in a fancy set of consulting rooms and boasts about him everywhere among his friends. ‘My nephew, the Harley Street specialist.’ It would take a strong young doctor to resist that, especially if, as was very likely, that same relative had paid all his expenses during his training years. The relative would think the six years basic training was more than enough to turn out a specialist. So would the rest of the family, most particularly the young doctor’s beloved aunt. I wonder, George asked herself, which influenced Philip most in giving in to their fantasy? His uncle’s demand for gratitude and success or his adoring aunt’s utter certainty he was the most clever and the most successful doctor there could possibly be anywhere? The latter, George told herself, watching Maureen as she bustled about her little empire, blissfully happy, and she thought of how Maureen had been when she was at home; subdued, quiet, plain, dull. And Philip loved her.

  She gave herself a mental shake. This was no time to be sentimental. Think it through. How had it worked? Monty had given young Philip the cash to be a Harley Street man. The next step would have been to get himself patients. How had he done that? With no hospital appointment to bring him renown, no track record to persuade general practitioners to refer their patients to him, how would he build himself a practice?

  No problem, she thought. Uncle Monty. She could see him as clearly as if she had actually been present; Monty sitting in the corner of a favourite pub, serenely affable as he dispensed his wisdom, revelling in his role as local guru, fountain of all knowledge, guide, philosopher and friend to all and sundry in this patch of London. She could see him talking to the sort of women who would be most interested in plastic surgery, and who could afford to pay for it, women who relied heavily on their looks and the illusion of youthfulness. Professional women. Working girls. Toms.

  Young Philip Cobbett had taken them to some private hospital, somewhere that wasn’t too fussy about to whom it rented its operating theatres and consulting rooms, to try his hand at improving those ageing faces. And botched it badly. Perhaps they’d been left with lopsided faces – that could happen to experienced plastic surgeons, let alone novices – nerve damage that left them with dragging muscles and sagging eyelids or drooping mouth corners. She watched the action inside her own head: the angry disappointed patients going back to him, raging at him, threatening to sue him for massive damages, young Philip aghast, thinking of how his uncle would react to it all, especially the publicity, but even more about the effect on his loving aunt.

  She shook her head. Maybe she was right; but even if she were, did it follow that his reaction would have been to have got rid of them as they had been got rid of? She tried to imagine Philip Cobbett creeping up to that block of flats, to that little house, breaking in, pouring inflammable fluid over the pillows of the sleeping women, setting light to it, adding more fuel to their faces, so that all the evidence of his ineptitude vanished and with it the threat of exposure. It was impossible. For a start, she couldn’t see him doing it, not frightened edgy Philip, and secondly she couldn’t see how the women could have lain still long enough to let it happen. No one just lies quietly in bed while third-degree burns of the most horrendous sort are inflicted.

  It had to be someone else who had done it. Someone who had Philip’s advice, maybe, on how to render the victims comatose, someone who had Philip to provide the prescription that did it. She tightened her eyes as she imagined it: seeing him writing the prescriptions; giving the women the drugs that – and then the images shivered and changed. He didn’t give them prescriptions, of course he didn’t. He told them he had a new treatment that involved putting a special material in their operation sites or some tale of that sort. That he would rather do it in their own homes, so that they could easily sleep off the effects of the minor tranquillizer he would use to make the treatment comfortable. She could see him telling them he was doing it to make it easier for them, to save them money; see them tucked into their beds; imagined them trusting him, lying there obediently so that he could give his injections. And knowing that no evidence of his doing so would show at post-mortem because of the widespread tissue damage there would be. Whatever he had used on them to make them lie there so still and peaceful as they burned to death, she would never know, because there was no way she could find out. Philip would have left after he’d carried out his ‘treatment’ so that the ground was clear for whoever was going to finish the job for him. Whoever he had hired for it. Because he would never risk starting the fire himself, and failing to burn all the incriminating tissue. He’d have had to employ an expert; someone who would help him keep the truth of his failure a secret, who would protect him from an avidly reported court case and massive damages – because he’d be sure to lose – by destroying not only the evidence of his original surgery, but the evidence of his involvement in the women’s deaths.

  The more she thought about it, the more seductive a theory it became. She felt a deep certainty that she’d got it right. But there was only one way to be sure she had, she told herself as she stared down sightlessly at the book on her lap. And that was to ask him. Directly.

  A wave of panic rose in her at the very idea and she remained very still, working at controlling the anxiety. How silly to be so scared. All she had to do was find some way of spending time with Philip and then embarking on one of her elaborate tales. They rarely let her down, after all; she’d find a way to get some sort of evidence out of him. Wouldn’t she?

  And perhaps also the attentions of whoever it was who had helped him murder those two women.
Why should they do it? What was in it for whoever it was? Could Philip afford to pay some vast sum to a contract murderer? Possibly, but would he? Wouldn’t that leave him in just as bad a situation as he was in already, with someone who knew things about him that would make him deeply vulnerable? No, that one won’t work, she thought. There had to be another reason for Philip being able to find someone to get rid of his embarrassing patients for him. Someone who owed Philip a debt perhaps, that he was repaying this way? Someone who knew that because each owed the other so much, each could rely on the other’s silence. That made a lot of sense, George thought, and felt her panic subside slowly. She’d have to be careful in her dealings with Philip, obviously.

  The thing was, she realized, that she was quite sure of Philip’s involvement. Was that reasonable? She ran the whole scenario over in her mind again, and the more she thought of it the more convinced she was that she had found another link in her Connections. Not the last one, but a very important one. If she could just work out who had helped Philip and why, her Connections chart would be complete.

  Across the shop Maureen called loudly, ‘How are you getting on with the books, doctor?’

  George smiled and nodded and then saw that there were several customers wandering round now. She quirked her lips. Clearly Maureen had wanted to preen about the quality of her helpers; the emphasis she had put on the word ‘doctor’ had been very clear. It was easy to see how Philip must be beguiled by his aunt; she was so transparent a creature, finding her satisfaction in such small and unimportant things that she was very endearing. It would be all too easy, George thought as she reached in her pocket for a pen, to do all sorts of things to please Maureen Ledbetter. She had all the power of the weak and the helpless; and that, George thought bleakly, as images of her mother drifted into her mind, is a very great power indeed.

  Without thinking about it much she began to scribble prices in the corners of the front pages of each of the books, ranging from five pounds to seven pounds fifty pence, and then carried the box over to Maureen who was sitting importantly by the cash desk, as her helpers wandered around the shop trying to use their creaking salesmanship to push secondhand vests and knickers on to pensioners who knew real value when they saw it and intended to pay only half the asking price anyway. Whatever it was.

  ‘Done already?’ Maureen said brightly and looked into some of the books at what George had written there. ‘Ooh, isn’t that rather expensive? I mean, around here people don’t have a great deal of spare cash.’

  ‘The sort of people who’ll go for these will spend more,’ George said with a conviction she did not feel. ‘Anyway, you’ve got to have a high price to bargain from, haven’t you? Whatever you ask for they’ll offer lower, so start high and you’ve a chance of getting a bit more. Er … I think I’ll have to be on my way now, after all. I’ve thought of something I have to do. Such a pity. I’d have loved to have stayed a little longer.’ She picked up one of the books again casually. ‘You say these came from Philip’s consulting rooms?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Maureen beamed. ‘They’re lovely rooms too. All freshly done up with lovely furniture and everything. The waiting room’s really gorgeous. You ought to see it.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ George said and then looked up at Maureen innocently. ‘I know a couple of people who might like to consult Philip. What’s his address?’

  Maureen flushed with pleasure. ‘Well, he said he was stopping operating, doing this dermatology instead.’

  ‘That’s right.’ George looked even more limpidly at her. ‘That was what I had in mind. So if you’ll just tell me the address in Harley Street and his phone number?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Maureen said eagerly and reached in her pocket. ‘I always have some cards with me.’ She had pulled out a small wallet and was scrabbling through it. Eventually she found a square of thick cream pasteboard. ‘It’s a nice card, isn’t it? Really tasteful.’

  It was not. The printing was in gold and looked very expensive. More like a brothel-keeper’s card than a doctor’s, George thought a touch waspishly.

  ‘Monty designed and had it printed, a couple of thousand of them, just to start him off. Really nice, they are.’

  ‘Yes,’ George said non-committally and smiled. ‘Well, it’s been lovely to see you. I really have to be on my way now. And Maureen, whatever happens, I do wish you well.’

  Guilt was rising in her. This woman adored her nephew and George was going to do all she could to expose him as a killer. My efforts are going to break this woman’s heart, George thought, and somehow managed to smile again, said, ‘Goodbye,’ and after a moment leaned over and kissed the rather sagging moist cheek.

  Maureen beamed and said happily, ‘Oh, you are sweet to me!’ and George almost ran out of the shop to avoid looking at her a moment longer.

  31

  For once she stopped to order her thoughts when she’d got back to her car. Her impulse had been to go straight to Harley Street and talk to Philip Cobbett; her commonsense now told her that could be risky if he was, as she suspected, at the very least an accomplice to murder. Deliberate red-hot murder, done in ice-cold blood; as the image formed she tried to pull herself back to a more sensible frame of mind. ‘You’re thinking like a melodrama queen,’ she murmured aloud as she tried to think logically.

  The intelligent thing to do would be to call on Gus to go with her as an official policeman entitled to ask questions, and also as a protector. But he was locked away with the Super at Ratcliffe Street nick, so that wasn’t an option. Mike, then. Would he go with her? The thought made her brighten and she switched on the engine and let in the clutch. She’d find the nearest available phone box and call him. Maybe he’d know of another man from Gus’s team who could help her. She couldn’t ask Rupert Dudley, the obvious person to turn to (or so Gus would say, she thought a touch sourly), so it would have to be Mike.

  It was a noisy phone box, on the corner of Cotton Street and the East India Dock Road, and she stood there with one finger stuffed into her other ear as she struggled to hear him.

  ‘I was about to put a call on your bleep,’ he said. ‘You must be psychic.’

  ‘Something like that. Listen, Mike, I have to go to –’

  He ran over her words, seeming not to hear her. ‘It’s worked, Dr B.! I’ve flushed him out!’

  She shoved her finger into her ear even harder as a massive lorry rumbled by, and bawled, ‘What? Lenny?’

  ‘Right!’ Mike was jubilant. ‘I put it about the town that his brother was in trouble. It seemed to me the best way to get Lenny interested, and I was right. It got round really fast – they don’t mess about, these fellas! It seems he’s been working in a Kemp Town fish shop as a fryer, calling himself Lenny Barking. Not very imaginative, is he? Anyway, there were plenty of the fraternity in Brighton who knew where he came from and that he was keeping himself out of view and kept quiet about him. But they took him the message about Don and that worked.’

  ‘Have you talked to him?’ George was eager.

  ‘Well, no.’ Mike allowed some regret to come into his voice. ‘He’s cleared off. To London, according to the man he worked for. Said he was going to find his brother.’ There was a little silence. ‘He got a bit agitated, seemingly.’

  ‘Where in London?’ George demanded.

  ‘He didn’t say. Just that he was going after his brother. The guy at the fish shop said he imagined he was going home.’

  ‘Except that he hasn’t got a home in London any more, has he?’ George cried bitterly. ‘Oh, Mike, I thought you were going to find him yourself! It’s one thing to get him to come out of hiding and quite another actually to get your hands on him! We have to get him to talk to the people at the nick, so that he can explain to them about Gus and the money. Now all you’ve done is made him up and rush off and disappear again. We’re no better off than we were.’

  ‘We are not!’ said Mike, sounding pugnacious. ‘I mean, we are. At least we know the man�
�s alive and well and in this country! Anything could have happened to him and we none the wiser. As it is, we know there’s a witness for Gus somewhere there in London. So –’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mike,’ George said and shifted the phone to the other side, for her ear was beginning to hurt from the pressure of her forefinger. Now she had to plug the other one.

  ‘It’s hell talking here! I can only just hear you. Listen, Mike, come back to London and –’

  ‘I’m at the station waiting for a train,’ Mike said. ‘I know fine what I should be doing.’

  ‘There I go again!’ George said. ‘Sorry, Mike, I didn’t mean to complain. Tell me what you plan to do.’

  ‘I’ll check his old neighbourhood.’ Mike sounded a little mollified, but only a little. ‘Lenny’s not the most imaginative man, as I said; he’ll go back to Barking, I’ve no doubt, and start checking whether Don is in his usual places. And I’ll go to the usual places too. Betting shops, and so forth.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find him!’ she said as warmly as she could. ‘I’m sorry I acted up, Mike. It’s just that I’m so worried about Gus.’

  Now Mike melted completely. ‘Yeah. Well, I am too. If I knew where Lenny’d be most likely to go, then I’d be there before him. As it is …’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Mike!’ She was suddenly alert and excited. ‘I know who will know.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Monty Ledbetter! He was the one who told me that Lenny was in Brighton in the first place.’

  ‘You might be right.’ He sounded dubious. ‘But had it no’ occurred to you that Ledbetter might be the man he was running away from? These local fellas who fix things for everyone else, they can throw their weight around a bit, you know. Even when the Guv was using him as a snout, I told him I didn’t completely trust that man. And the Guv said I wasna all that wrong, but he knew what he was doing. So it’s best to be careful. I’d no’ like to upset any apple carts by going off half cocked, so to speak. For all we know, Ledbetter lied to you about Don when he told you he’d gone abroad. When a man knows more than other people know, maybe it’s for the wrong reasons, if you get my meaning.’