‘There, there,’ Helen said in her ear. ‘Now what was all that about?’ What she did not know was how long she should hold her captive, so she let her go, slowly, patting her shoulder, making calming noises, the way she used to talk to her cat. ‘Dr Littleton is not here,’ she said calmly. ‘That’s a pity, isn’t it? I was hoping to see him, too, but we can’t, can we? Why don’t you go home and phone him tomorrow?’
The aggression seeped away. The woman seemed accustomed to obedience; she produced a brilliant tremulous smile, straightened her hair and her cotton jacket and made unsteadily for the door. She wore a dress with a sweetheart neckline, appropriate for a little girl rather than a woman; she smelled of baby lotion, her arms shiny with it. Helen opened the door for her with a flourish. The receptionist sank into her own seat, gratefully.
‘Get many like that, do you?’
‘No … I didn’t know what she was going to do …’
‘Don’t worry about it; hope she doesn’t come back. Look, could you help? I’m Dr Littleton’s cousin; I’ve been away for a while and wanted to make contact. Could you give me his home address? Oh, and I’ve got to give you a message from Anna Stirland. She won’t be in today, touch of flu, but you know what she’s like, probably fine tomorrow.’
It was easy. Stepping out into the road, Helen looked right and left for the redheaded woman, grateful for her intervention which had made the difference between cooperation and the lack of it. She found that she was shaking, caught between a desire to laugh and another to run, with an underlying shame at how easy it was for a person who so prized truth, to be a liar.
She looked at her watch. Was there any point calling Bailey again? To say what? A lovely mess, this was. A gut-churning mess which was set to damage life beyond repair and there was nothing she could do to redeem it, except be braver and more reckless than she felt. A silly bitch.
Bailey made toast out of the bread with the sun-dried tomatoes, detested it and chewed it solidly, without benefit of butter, since there was none of that. At least the bread had been vacuum-packed, otherwise he might not have chosen it, reluctant as he was to touch what the doctor had touched with his own fair hands. The doctor’s bathroom was as clean as his kitchen; it was not a lack of hygiene that made his skin crawl.
‘Juniper extract, overdose fatal,’ he read. ‘Hellebore and aloes … iron dust, ivy …’ all used to effect an abortion. ‘Internal douching, strong brandy, water as hot as possible, brine vinegar …’ Abortifacients, first swallowed and then inserted via syringe as time passed and more was known. Abortionists using a Higginson’s syringe, or an enema with soapy water, stirring up the contents of the uterus with a long sound … Syringing was the commonest form of death because it was the commonest practice … it risked the inclusion of air … death by air embolism could produce a fatal airlock in the lungs and brain within minutes of the procedure. Fat embolisms may be produced by soapy particles used in solution. But most, death from air, entering the bloodstream via vulnerable dilated bloodvessels …’
And in the doctor’s bathroom cabinet, two packeted syringes. Sixty millilitres, bladder wash, womb irrigation, for the use of, like the one he had left in the park. Nice souvenirs the man kept.
He was an historian of his trade, that was all; nothing more sinister than that. There were library cards and certificates and, in the drawers of the desk, the history of a long and failed legal case. The doctor seemed to divide his interest between obstetrics and law. Not a humorous person, Bailey surmised; there was nothing in his book collection which suggested the least desire for entertainment. Bailey started in on the legal documents, wearily but intensely interested, sitting on the edge of the chair, his body tense, so that when the doorbell went, he sprang to his feet clumsily, cramp in his calves, scattering paper far and wide, then moved in ungainly fashion towards the door. He had a right to be here, he told himself: he was the doctor’s cousin, and beside the doctor, a picture of health.
Rose was feeling in a mood of more than usual insolence. Even though she thought it was nonsense, there was something about the impending state of being a married woman which had a stimulating effect, as if it meant joining the real world, giving up the conversation of a girl and entering a club of those who could justifiably moan about men from a position of established authority. The wife. As in a nagging wife, scolding wife, she-who-must-be-obeyed wife; mustn’t let it go to her head, it was only the party which mattered, but all the same, another life began here and she had no regrets about the one she was ending. What day of the week was it, now? Days of the week did not matter in this office or a courtroom; there was no routine which made the same thing happen on successive Mondays, not even a canteen with the same weekly menu. The only reason she was thinking about the days of the week was counting down. One afternoon and two working days to go, and then she and Michael would be off to Majorca, via the wedding, of course. Such a lot to do. Sneaking out of the room she shared with five others, down the corridor where she joked with the workmen who were replacing the lights, into Helen’s office where she could use the phone in peace in order to check the progress of the damned cake. Being a busy bride-to-be and making them laugh in the shared room was all very well, but there was a limit to how much they could take. Rose knew colleagues did not always like you for being so volubly happy; there were times in her own working past when she had teased a wedding candidate, mercilessly, with the crudest jokes she could find and she wasn’t sorry for it.
Standing in Helen’s room, wanting to tell Helen about the dress, watching the staff across the road in the early afternoon, she leafed through Helen’s diary. Now why had Aunty H wanted a day off? The page-a-day diary had a line through today’s date with the initials B-RO. Didn’t mean much, possibly an interesting assignation with a washing-machine man. Rose saw the supervisor of the paint people opposite sitting near the window, chewing in what Rose imagined was a furtive manner; she felt sorry for those who could not eat as they pleased and stay thin, as she could, and, in the same breath, thought of Anna. Give her a call, too. Leave her a message in case she forgot to organize the flowers.
She was surprised to get an answer. Wasn’t anyone but herself and those in the immediate vicinity at work today? Was the rest of London at home in this muggy warmth? Anna’s voice was cool but apologetic, saying wasn’t it unutterably silly and downright embarrassing to have got measles at her age? Confining her to home quarters, forbidding her the joys of weddings or flowers; sorry, sorry, sorry.
The woman over the road continued to chew and Rose tapped her fingers on the desk impatiently, mouthing commiserations, chatting a bit, being as nice as she knew how and all the time thinking, well, never mind the flowers, then, who needed them? Knowing that Anna’s measles were more important than her floral decorations in a few days’ time, but nevertheless annoyed, because it meant something else to do. She didn’t much care about bloody flowers, but other people did.
Get well soon, then. See you after Majorca. Byeee.
What did RO stand for?
Register Office? The old cow.
The two cousins of Dr Littleton met on his doorstep without much more than an initial shock of recognition. The progress of Helen’s day was making her immune to surprise and her heart had been beating so fast with fear at what she might encounter, this kind of surprise was a relief.
‘Hello.’
‘Do come in,’ he said politely. ‘Who referred you? Was it treatment you wanted, or merely a consultation?’
His smile was false; she felt suddenly and profoundly ashamed.
‘I’m glad you’re here, though I don’t know how or why,’ he continued, waving her in blithely as if he owned the place. ‘I’ve been needing some help. Doctor Titillation here has an interesting desk. Needs some deciphering.’
He sat on one side of it, she on the other, like a pupil at an interview with the headmaster.
‘I can only presume that you know something about the resident of this not-very
-nice apartment,’ Bailey went on in headmasterly tones. ‘The theory being that he used his job at a clinic to pick out disturbed or unhappy women, either pregnant or not; gained their trust; offered or foisted upon them some kind of alternative treatment and then raped them.’
‘A kind of rape.’
‘A kindred offence, then. Which all were either too ashamed or too confused to report accurately. There is another category who actively enjoyed his powerful attention, but, in the case of Shelley Pelmore and two before, there was a real risk of them blowing the whistle. So, using a method he had perfected from study … or practice of old abortion techniques, he persuaded them into cooperation with the use of a syringe created an air embolism, which killed them. It may not have been deliberate. It may have been accidental. They may have asked him to do it. Are you with me, so far?’
‘It couldn’t be accidental.’
‘Yes, it could. It could be in the course of an abortion. And, anyway, there’s no one alive to say otherwise. If you consent to sexual experiment, or to cheap makeshift abortion, are you consenting to death? And although the good doctor is prolific in his notes, including love-letters so ambiguous they may as well be in Greek, his jottings do not include confessions. Although he gloats a little about his lack of hair and his choice of fibre-free clothes, there’s nothing else to indicate either a criminal mind, or a conscience.’
‘Where does this leave Ryan?’
He looked at her quizzically, saving questions for later. A hard stare which left her uncomfortable.
‘Ah, the good doctor could be very useful there. He’s very kindly kept the particulars of several victims, if you can call them that, including Shelley. By which I mean he’s copied personal details from the records of the place where he works and brought them home. Incriminating, in a benign kind of way, since names on his list coincide with a series of women who went to the police with vague complaints which, at best specified his appearance, at worst nothing. The doctor’s list is longer, of course. Includes Lady Hormsby something, lives near you. Ever met her?’
‘I may know ladies. None with titles.’
‘He stocks good coffee, this man,’ Bailey said. ‘Which is kind of him, since he had no idea he would be offering hospitality to strangers.’
‘I’m no stranger. I’m his cousin; to get this far.’
‘So am I.’
‘But I’m the only cousin on the distaff side whom he longs to see,’ Helen said, desperate to make Bailey smile in this oppressive room. ‘He and I have corresponded for years. We were childhood friends. We played doctors and nurses. Very clever boy he was. Only the slightest tendency to rape. Had an ambition to be a plumber. He knows me well.’
‘How lucky for him. I don’t,’ Bailey said.
He left the doctor’s desk and paced the room.
‘How odd, how little one knows. I was contracted to marry a woman who looks vaguely similar to you, an hour ago. I hithered there on the dot and thithered hence, in case she arrived, but it was all in my imagination that she had ever meant what she said. So I came back to act the doctor. Do you think I look the part?’
Helen felt that if she touched him, her fingertips would freeze from cold. Bailey’s skin was pale; he looked old.
‘You look like Doctor Death.’
‘It’s only the names he collects’, Bailey said, ‘that make him deeply suspect of naughty play. A new phrase I’ve invented. Like your legal phrase, it won’t work. Although it will work, to prove Ryan had a bona fide investigation, an honourable intention in his silence, and there is another candidate for the attack on Shelley and her untimely death. We can blame everything on this doctor. Except…’
Then he laughed, but she could not laugh with him. He paced the room again, still laughing.
‘This man,’ he said, ‘needs beating up on a street corner. Like we were allowed to, once. A kick in the balls. If his balls, or his prick, would suffer.’
He seemed to find all this funny, extremely funny. He removed a large handkerchief from his pocket to absorb the tears of laughter. Fountains of water appeared on his gaunt cheek-bones, showing up the contours of his face. He looked cunning: a fox with a shiny nose; she found it repellent.
‘Where was I? Oh, yes. Only Ryan could pursue a rapist who can’t rape. Can’t rape anyone, this customer. Impotent. Ugly. Chemotherapy burns. He sued them over his cancer treatment gone wrong, but it got him nowhere. Poor bastard.’
Helen sat stunned.
‘No wonder he likes his food,’ Bailey added irrelevantly. ‘And another thing. If the good doctor comes home, I have no right to be here. No search warrant, no nothing, since there is not a scintilla of evidence that the man committed any crime, only evidence that a series of women fantasized about him, unpleasantly. That might be enough to restore official faith in Ryan, provided the doc does not get a lawyer and, quite rightly, stop us referring to illegally accessed private papers. In fact, it would be highly convenient all round if the poor blighter left the country and never came home. Where is Ryan, do you know?’
She felt as if she was giving him a blow beneath the ribs.
‘At my house. Doing the garden.’
He faced the window, unable to look at her. Picked up the strange-looking vase which was the only ornament, studied it and put it down carefully.
‘The poor emasculated doctor has no one to trust,’ he said. ‘I think I know the feeling.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘The charges of rape and attempted rape are punishable with imprisonment… other than in the most exceptional circumstances, an immediate custodial sentence should be imposed following a conviction for rape in order to mark the gravity of the offence, to emphasise the public disapproval, to serve as a warning to others and to protect women. The length of the sentence should depend on all the circumstances.’
There were no newspaper headlines about rape or even the sexual peccadillos of cabinet ministers. Parliament was not in session; the late-summer news was dominated by a new royal scandal and the abduction of two British children by their Spanish father. The last week in August had brought more rain and the trickling home of the holiday crowds. West End shops swelled with mothers and teenagers, quarrelling about the most appropriate clothes to wear for the new term at school. Members of Aslef, the union for railway workers, went on strike, and for two blessed days, the larger stations were as hushed as museums.
A doctor who had gone missing failed to return home. It was thought by his employers that he might have made a sudden and inconsiderate decision to holiday abroad with a cousin.
A man in North London referred his wife to a psychiatrist for her habit of wandering the streets on the rare occasions she consented to get out of the bath; a hitherto unknown form of agoraphobia was diagnosed.
Miss Rose Darvey prepared, with glee, to change her name. ‘I never liked it in the first place,’ she said.
Detective Sergeant Ryan was admonished by his superiors. His reinstatement was close to a foregone conclusion, pending the convening of the right kind of committee. Someone was obstructing it.
A famous English cricketer announced he was gay.
Ryan and Bailey sat in the latter’s large clean flat, watching the sunset. It had been a long lunch.
‘I suppose I’m meant to feel sorry for the bloke,’ Ryan was saying. ‘And I suppose, in some ways, I do. Fancy, overdose of chemotherapy, you said? Ouch. It’s more difficult to be terrified of a chap with such an affliction and a prick as useful as a chipolata. Why the hell didn’t he win his negligence case?’
‘Because he’d interfered in his own treatment. Thought he knew best. Misdirected a technician. Arrogant.’
‘So some of this was his own fault? Naa, you can’t say that. Getting cancer wasn’t his fault. I mean, it isn’t as if you ask, is it? Make a prayer, like, go on, God, disfigure me, why don’t you?’
‘He was brave, apparently. Stoic, philosophical, courageous in the face of pain, all that. And is admir
ed as a doctor for his holistic, sympathetic approach.’
‘Oh yeah? Loves his patients, you mean?’
‘And still, poor sod,’ said Bailey softly, ‘wanted to be a lover. Don’t we all?’
‘Steady on, guv,’ said Ryan, not wanting to get maudlin, or not yet, anyway, and then getting angry. ‘I mean, steady on. What do you want me to do? Be sorry for this fucking ghost with no balls? What did he do, then? What did he do? He had trust, sacred trust, the sort you and I get in a month of fucking Sundays, handed to him on a plate. And he used it. For what? Some kind of fucking revenge. A power trip. Made girls hate themselves, made them mad for him, made them trust him and then killed them; or made mad fools of them while he fucking experimented.’ He was speechless with rage. ‘I mean, what kind of fucking wanker does that? Gets a job like that?’
‘Your use of the word fucking in this context is hardly apposite,’ Bailey interrupted primly. ‘And he might not have had much choice about his job.’
‘The fucking hell he would! He’s a doctor,’ Ryan shouted. ‘He ain’t judged by his balls! And a fucking doctor, like any other man, should know that disease and disappointment is what you get from being alive. You’ve got no licence to spread it. And just because you’ve taken some fucking Hippocratic oath that’s going to keep you all right with the pension plan, you don’t have the right to abuse. Jesus, Bailey, you’ve gone soft in the head. Stop finding fucking excuses. There was pleasure in what he did; love wasn’t involved. He was experimenting with lives; he was full of self-pity, the worst. Can’t you see evil any more? Even when it puts its tongue into your mouth? Sod the excuses. He’s still a monster, because he knew what he was doing. There aren’t any excuses. I just wish one of his women had found a way to retaliate.’
His anger faded into a dull ache. He settled himself back into the depths of the enormous sofa, squinted round this minimalist but colourful room and thought, benignly, how he had always considered it a bit cold, although it wasn’t really, and quite comfortable, even with all that space. At least he didn’t have to walk across the carpark-sized floor for the next sustenance, which stood at his elbow. Personally, he preferred the clutter and noise of his own home, like everyone did, despite the superior quality of the whisky and, really, if he had to choose between the two, he liked Helen’s place better than this. Now there, even with his many reservations, was one hell of a woman. She had spent hours on the phone with his wife, squaring it all up, so that he could go home and explain it again, knowing he was halfway there. He felt suddenly ashamed at his own good fortune and his own role as the one who persisted in getting away with it. And Bailey’s reluctance to condemn enraged him. He would never dare ask if Bailey had ever actually believed the rape charge against himself. If he had actually done it, Bailey should have shot him. That would have been justice, instead of all this analysis and trying to understand. Ryan still wanted something.
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