A Bleeding of Innocents

by Jo Bannister

  The question was whether she would talk about it or whether loyalty to the dead woman would inhibit her. They’d been colleagues, perhaps friends: even if Petrie thought Board had been less than deft on this occasion, could he persuade her to say so? All her instincts would be to insist she had seen nothing.

  Try as he might Donovan could think of no subtle way of asking, ‘By the way, did your boss kill my boss last Wednesday?’ While he was pondering it he showed her the photograph of Jack Carney. But the Staff Nurse didn’t recognize it, and didn’t expect to. ‘She didn’t bring her private life to work.’

  ‘Did she have a man friend?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Sergeant.’

  It was cards on the table time. Petrie wouldn’t like what he had to say but he thought she’d answer if he put it to her straight whereas pussy-footing round would only get her cross. Donovan wasn’t the first six-footer to hope he could avoid getting Staff Nurse Petrie cross. So he said, ‘You were assisting when Mrs Board operated on Inspector Clarke last week?’ He wasn’t sure it was the correct phraseology but the nurse nodded, once, briskly. ‘He was a bit of a mess, wasn’t he?’

  Again she nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But there was still a chance for him? I mean, he’d hung on from when he was hit by the car, he must have had a chance.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Petrie. ‘If they’re alive when they come into theatre they’ve always got a chance. We don’t let them get past us without a struggle.’

  ‘Staff Nurse, you’ve seen a lot of surgery, a lot of patients – most who lived, some who died. What did you think about Alan Clarke? Did you think he was going to make it?’

  She hadn’t been sure before but the way he talked about the dead man confirmed her suspicion. This was Clarke’s sergeant, the young man who’d been hit by the same car. It made her tolerant of questions that would otherwise have caught the sharp edge of her tongue.

  ‘I hoped he was going to make it,’ she said. ‘We worked hard on him for eighty minutes, and when we closed him up and sent him to ICU I thought he probably would. He was certainly in a better state than when he came in. But you don’t get any guarantees, Sergeant. You do your best, and some of them surprise you by recovering and some of them surprise you by dying.

  ‘With all the hype you can be forgiven for thinking otherwise, but surgery is a craft rather than a science. There are too many variables. You could do a better job by spending more time inside, stopping all the bleeding, locating every sherd of bone, every trace of damage. But the patient’s in shock, his heart’s weakening, and he needs you out of there. So you compromise. You do the best you can in the time you think you have available. If you spend too long doing nifty needle-work you can lose him on the table. But if you cobble him up too quickly he can bleed internally after you’ve parted with him and maybe there’ll be time to get him back and maybe there won’t.

  ‘Sometimes you guess wrong. That isn’t negligence, it’s the nature of the thing. Surgeons are only human, they can’t always work as fast as patients bleed. They have to take short-cuts; usually it pays off but sometimes it doesn’t.’ She gave him a steely smile. ‘An autopsy’s a wonderful thing, you know. You can find out all sorts when there’s no longer any urgency.’

  Donovan nodded. ‘Like a police review.’ He spoke softly. ‘Where some chinless wonder who’s made his name streamlining the Photofit procedure looks over his glasses at you and says, “But Sergeant, you must have realized it was an imitation firearm – the real Mk IIa has the gunsmith’s stamp on the other side of the barrel.”‘

  They were on the same wavelength. Petrie’s bosom lifted on a bleak sigh. ‘Don’t you just love an armchair critic.’

  It was the only opening he was going to get and Donovan took it. ‘So tell me, Staff Nurse – one poor bloody foot-soldier to another: did Alan Clarke die because his injuries were too bad, because his luck ran out, because somebody working under pressure made one judgement when with more time to think about it she’d have made another? Or did he die because his surgeon didn’t try hard enough to save him?’

  For a moment he thought she was going to slap him. His bruises saved him: by the time she’d weighed up how to land a blow between them the urge had passed. But her gaze was frosty and ice cracked in her voice. ‘Young man, I know Mr Clarke was your superior, your colleague, and your friend, and his death was a shock to you. But I’d like you to remember that for four years I enjoyed the same relationship with Mrs Board. I don’t think you’d stand for someone accusing Mr Clarke of incompetence now he’s unable to defend himself, and I won’t have you slandering Maggie Board. She was a fine surgeon. To the best of my knowledge she never did a bad day’s work. No one suffered neglect at her hands. No one ever had less than the best work she could do for him.’

  It made for a curious stand-off, the tall thin young man and the dumpy middle-aged nurse. There were chairs and a table in the room but both of them were standing, emphasizing the physical differences. Donovan looked down, his face wrung by the urgent personal and professional need to know the truth, and Petrie’s eyes blazed up at him with anger and, so far as he could tell, absolute honesty.

  And it was because he believed her – found her a credible witness, accepted that what she said was what she believed – that he pressed her. ‘There’s no doubt in your mind? You couldn’t have – I don’t know, seen what you expected to see? It suited somebody for Alan Clarke to die here. If he had a way of making sure – some kind of hold over Mrs Board – he’d have used it. And if that’s what happened the same guy killed her.’

  As her anger wore off Petrie was able to consider the suggestion more calmly. The fire died from her eyes and for a moment she was pensive, making herself relive that one operation among so many others, distinguished only by the lateness of the hour and the fact that the patient was a local CID officer.

  After a minute she shook her head. ‘No, Sergeant, you’re wrong. She did all she could for Inspector Clarke. She didn’t make any mistakes. She didn’t make any questionable decisions. I’m not a surgeon but I’ve seen a lot of operations and I know the difference between a good one and a bad one. Everything that could be done for Mr Clarke was done, he was just too weak to benefit from it. I’m sorry we couldn’t save him. But the only one responsible for his death was the man who ran him down. Find him. Charge him.’

  As she was leaving she turned in the doorway and Donovan saw a pain in her eyes that mirrored his own. She said quietly, ‘And then find the bastard who robbed me of my friend.’

  Donovan waited for the anaesthetist but only because he’d said he would. He believed Staff Nurse Petrie had seen what she said she’d seen. The only chance now was that Dr White, with his different training, his different angle, might have seen something which Petrie had not.

  White was an amiable young man with curly fair hair and a nose that could only have got that way on the rugby field. He took a chair and waited amiably to learn how he could help.

  In the light of what he’d heard from Petrie Donovan found it harder to repeat what half an hour ago had seemed a reasonable question. He expected Mrs Board’s anaesthetist to react as vigorously as her nurse, and indeed when he got to the point he saw the amiability leach out of the doctor’s face and resentment stiffen his muscles.

  But Donovan was tired of playing the villain of the piece. Three people had died, the murderer or murderers were still at large, it was impossible to rule out further attacks, and the man most likely to be behind it all was still merrily running his empire from his office over the canal. If anyone had a right to be angry it was Donovan.

  So he didn’t wait for Dr White to protest but let his own irritation flood over. ‘Don’t tell me it couldn’t happen. It could happen. It would be very easily done. It would be easily covered up, too: a handful of friends working together in a closed room, who’s going to volunteer the information that one of them cocked up? Maybe it goes on all the time, I don’t know – you cover
up my bungled hysterectomy, I’ll turn a blind eye to your botched heart valve and we’ll all pretend the instruments never got dropped on the floor. It doesn’t happen? It didn’t happen last Wednesday morning? Convince me, Doctor. Convince me that Mrs Board didn’t let Alan Clarke bleed his life out on your operating table, and the rest of you didn’t stand by and watch her do it because of the times she’d covered for you.’

  Like Staff Nurse Petrie, White realized who Donovan was and made allowances accordingly. He drew a deep breath and kept his voice mild. ‘You’re right, it could happen. Maybe it’s a wonder it doesn’t. Or maybe it’s a reflection of the standards in operating theatres.’ He glanced down at his unappealing working clothes. ‘What do you think people do this job for? The glamour? The money? The hours? Sergeant, I can only think of one less attractive job in the whole field of public service and that’s yours.

  ‘There are only two reasons why people work in hospitals. Everyone in Castle General could make more money more easily in private medicine, and most of them could walk out of here straight into a better job. The two reasons for staying are (a) the experience – no one in the private sector will see as many operations on as many different conditions as someone in a general hospital – and (b) the fact that you can do more good for more people here than anywhere else.

  ‘I’m not saying that makes us a bunch of halo-headed philanthropists incapable of a tawdry act. What I am saying is that the chances of finding on the same surgical team three or more people prepared to put personal interests ahead of their duty to the patient are microscopic. I’ve never known anything like what you describe. I can’t imagine it happening. It sure as hell didn’t happen on Wednesday morning when we had Inspector Clarke on the table. Now, is that any help to you?’

  By the time he had talked to Petrie Donovan had been pretty sure he was on a fool’s errand. Now he knew. He nodded. ‘In a way. I can’t afford to go chasing wild geese, you know, I’ve enough to do without that. If Mrs Board wasn’t killed because she was Alan Clarke’s surgeon then it looks like we have a serial killer on the loose and we need to find him before somebody else from this hospital gets shot.’

  Dr White was already regretting his lecture – not the contents, perhaps the delivery. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose we’re all a bit tense over this. Of course you have to find who’s responsible. If I knew anything more I’d tell you. But you are wrong about Maggie Board. It’ll sound pious but she genuinely was dedicated to the relief of human suffering. She wasn’t the easiest woman to work with because of it. She wouldn’t tolerate anything but the highest standards.

  ‘You work with some surgeons and, unless it’s actual life-and-death stuff at the time, it can be a bit of a chimps’tea-party. I don’t mean we’re careless, just that the mood’s not that solemn. Maggie wouldn’t have it. Even for routine work she insisted on total concentration. She used to say, Never forget you’re dealing with the rest of this man’s life. Ninety per cent success isn’t good enough if it leaves him with ten per cent more sickness, disability, or pain than necessary. Accidents happen easily enough: if you invite them by letting your attention wander they’re not accidents, they’re negligence.’

  ‘Why was she such a perfectionist, do you know?’

  White shrugged. ‘I suppose because she was a woman. Even now it’s hard for a woman surgeon to be taken seriously. When Maggie was training she’d have to have been twice as good as any man in the department. If anyone else made a mistake it was “That damn fool White” or “Why won’t Cummings wear his glasses?” If Maggie did it was “Always said the job was too much for a woman.” In that situation either she had to accept the limits other people put on her or she had to make damn few mistakes. Being a perfectionist was a form of self-preservation.’

  His mind not altogether on Mrs Board, Donovan said, ‘I hope she knew how much her colleagues respected her.’

  ‘I think she did, Sergeant.’ White smiled gently. ‘Hard as she was to work with, people queued for the privilege. You can’t take that as anything but a compliment.’

  ‘You weren’t the only anaesthetist she worked with, then, or Petrie the only nurse?’

  ‘Oh, no. You work different shifts, different theatres; somebody goes down with flu and throws the whole rota. At the same time, you do tend to make up regular teams. Maggie, Petrie, and I were one.’

  ‘For how long?’ The question sounded casual.

  ‘Oh, er—’ He did calculations that involved the use of his fingers. ‘Four years now.’

  As far as Donovan could judge, Maggie Board was in the clear. But before he left the hospital he asked to see the chief administrator again. Mr Hawley, not knowing him, thought it was mere politeness, to say thanks before he went. When he realized he was being questioned his attitude changed. He stood erect and his chin drew in like a tortoise retracting its head.

  ‘How long have you been here, Mr Hawley?’

  The administrator didn’t need to use his fingers. Donovan thought he could have said to the nearest week. ‘A little over eight years.’

  ‘So you were here at the time of the mass extinctions.’

  Hawley stared at him and his grey moustache gave a quiver of disfavour. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  In the circumstances it wasn’t the most tasteful remark ever made. Still Donovan was struck by the way one era had given way to another four years ago. ‘Like the dinosaurs,’ he explained. ‘One minute – geologically speaking – you see them, the next you don’t. It must have been a bit like that here when Kerry Carson left to do geriatrics, Staff Nurse Petrie took her place, Dr White joined the team, and presumably the last anaesthetist left. That’s not normal, is it? What was going on?’

  Hawley’s moustache bristled with outrage. ‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Sergeant Donovan. Going on? Nothing was going on. We had some staff changes. It happens all the time. This is a big hospital.’

  ‘But that’s one small surgical team and the only member of it to survive the purge was Maggie Board. And now she and Kerry Page are dead, both murdered by the same sort of weapon inside two days. You’re not telling me that’s par for the course?’

  ‘What I will tell you, Sergeant,’ the administrator said stiffly, ‘is that I resent your attitude. We’ve had a tragedy here. A double tragedy, if you like – though Mrs Page was no longer on staff there are plenty of us who remember her. From where I stand it’s obvious what’s going on: there’s a madman roaming Castlemere with a shot-gun and a grudge against medical staff. Why, instead of finding that person and putting him where he can do no further damage, you’re asking me about staff changes here four years ago I cannot imagine.’

  Donovan’s eyes were scornful. ‘Oh, come on. Four years ago a girl who’d wanted to be a theatre nurse since she was in pigtails suddenly decided to jack it in. At the same time a vacancy arose for another anaesthetist. Something happened, didn’t it? Something happened, and because of it Maggie Board the perfectionist wouldn’t have them on her team again. What was it? And how was Kerry able to get a good job a couple of months later that wouldn’t have been offered her unless there’d been a cover-up?’

  Hawley’s voice had gone bleak, grey as the little grey moustache jutting over his lip. He was a spare man of about fifty with thinning grey hair clipped ruthlessly to a bullet-shaped head. He wore a grey suit that would have run a mile from a puking child. Of course, he was not a doctor.

  ‘You’re fantasizing, Sergeant. I appreciate that you have to explore the possibilities, and this matter is urgent enough to justify any approach which might yield results. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. If Mrs Board had been let down by her colleagues, do you imagine she’d have permitted a cover-up? Even if I or anyone else had been prepared to sanction one?

  ‘No, Sergeant. Dr Saunders, who was Mrs Board’s regular anaesthetist before Dr White, left Castle General because of an attractive offer from the Feyd Clinic, and Staff Nurse Carson transferred to geriatrics because theatr
e work turned out to be more stressful than she expected. That’s all. I’m sorry it’s so mundane. The truth often is.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Donovan. ‘And sometimes it’s so bloody incredible nobody’ll believe it till it’s too late. Who’s this Dr Saunders? Maybe I should have a word with the only surviving member of the team before our madman mistakes him for a nurse and blows his head off too.’

  Chapter Four

  Liz put the phone down and looked up at Donovan, who was standing sullenly beside the door, leaning his shoulder against the wall, cradling his plaster with his good arm. She said evenly, ‘How long have you been in Castlemere, Sergeant?’

  His eyes were guarded. ‘Five years.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘And is there anyone left of rank or substance in the town whom you have yet to offend? I don’t want to interfere with any ambitions you have in that regard.’

  He indicated the phone. ‘Hawley?’ He’d come in midway through the call, tried to leave, and been firmly waved inside.

  Liz breathed heavily. ‘Yes, that was Mr Hawley. I think he’d like your body for medical research. Soon.’

  ‘He’s hiding something,’ said Donovan.

  ‘He said you were under that impression. He said that if I thought there was a hospital connection he’d cooperate in any way he could. He offered to show me his records for the period when Mrs Board and Kerry Carson worked together with this anaesthetist – Saunders? For a man who’s hiding something it was a good impression of someone with a clear conscience.’

  ‘Cunning bastard,’ growled Donovan.

  Liz sighed. ‘There are two types that look like an innocent man, Donovan. One is indeed a cunning bastard. The other is an innocent man.’

  Donovan levered himself off the wall. ‘Look, this isn’t about my nasty suspicious mind, or a hospital administrator who was damn reluctant to answer a couple of questions until he’d had time to think about it. It’s about Kerry Page and Maggie Board being murdered in the same way in the same week. That’s either a cosmic coincidence or it’s because of something they have in common. That time four years ago when they worked together, and then all at once the anaesthetist was off in one direction and the nurse in another, seemed a good place to look. Now, as a line of enquiry, what is wrong with that?’