‘If they can do without him now, why did they ever ask him in the first place?’ Toby muttered into George’s ear. ‘Stupid old sod’s probably sprawling at home drunk again and forgot he was due here at all.’
‘Does he drink that much then?’ George whispered as the comedian held up his hands for attention and the noise died down. ‘Enough to lose his memory?’
Toby shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I was just guessing.’ He turned his attention to the stage and George, glancing at his profile in the light from it, was puzzled. He’d said that Oxford was at home drunk with such conviction she’d been startled. When they’d talked in the pub that evening after the meeting on her first day at Old East, he’d been very entertaining about all the people in the Board Room but had said nothing about Richard Oxford. She had assumed then he knew nothing more about him than she did herself, but just now he had sounded as though he knew the man intimately. She should have asked him after Oxford came to see her. She hadn’t because first she wasn’t sufficiently interested in the man to talk about him, and second because she had in a strange way been embarrassed by him. Silly really, she thought, and tried to pay attention to the comedian instead of thinking about Oxford.
Her attention flagged rapidly, though most of the audience seemed to find him hilarious beyond measure, for they laughed and applauded a good deal. She began to watch the spectators instead, as she had promised herself she would. They were much more interesting.
She looked at the woman beside the Dean, glittering a little as light caught her profusion of silver and gold jewellery and thought, I know her face from somewhere. I wonder who she is? Then she was distracted by movements at the side of the stage, which she could see just beyond their profiles. The side curtains were twitching and someone came out and went quickly up the side of the audience to disappear through the big door at the back, followed by another little flutter of the curtain as someone else peeped out and stepped back. Still looking out for Oxford, she guessed, and then as the laughter rose again to greet one of the comedian’s blue jokes, couldn’t help it. Not thinking about Oxford was impossible. ‘Do you suppose he’s ill?’ she whispered to Toby.
‘What?’ Toby seemed vague and blinked at her. ‘This bloke? He’s not very funny but I don’t think you could blame it on any sort of pathology –’
‘Idiot! I mean Oxford. Does he have any health problems? Heart or something? He’s got a rather puffy look. I thought when I talked to him that –’
Toby looked away. ‘Couldn’t say,’ he said and began to applaud as the comedian told one more sexy joke and bowed his way off stage so that he could come back and be applauded even more loudly. ‘I know nothing about the man.’
‘Oh, I thought perhaps you did. You sounded so certain about him being drunk.’
‘Well, it’s a reasonable guess,’ Toby said vaguely and shook his head in disgust. ‘This so-called comic really is the worst ever, isn’t he? Here’s hoping the next act’s a bit better. What is it?’ He took the programme from her lap and began to read it.
The pop singer appeared and talked at some length and almost totally incomprehensibly about her ‘noo’ single, a pronunciation which sounded interestingly exotic in the middle of a speech made in an impeccable cockney accent, while a great deal of amplifying and noise-making machinery was set up behind her. Then she launched herself into a very loud rendition of said single, which George found painful to listen to, unlike the back rows of the audience who shouted approvingly to accompany her. Beside her Toby sat and stared, seeming not to be listening; a remarkable feat, George thought drily, considering how the place was shaking. Not until the singer had finished her first song and was bowing to the applause which, though it was abandoned and enthusiastic, came as a relief, could she speak to him again.
‘I get the feeling there’s a considerable drama going on,’ she said. ‘Someone went out a while ago from backstage and just came back and then someone else came out to talk to the Dean and he’s gone off. I wonder what’s happening?’
‘Maybe he’s going to take over the show,’ Toby said. ‘Will you put your hands together for our next act, ladies and gentlemen, Our own, your own, your very own, the one and only Professor Charles Dieter FRCP and half the rest of the alphabet, who will now enthral you with his account of the structure and function of the Bundle of Hiss in healthy hearts as examined in vivo, the wonder of the century, the performance of the age! Roll up. Roll up!’
‘Well, if you’re just going to be silly,’ George said. ‘I won’t bother to mention anything else I happen to notice.’
‘I think I know why you’re a pathologist,’ Toby said as the singer on stage started on a high-pitched and apparently heart-rending ballad which at least had the virtue of being only half as loud as its predecessor.
George said, ‘Oh?’ blankly and someone in front of them looked over her shoulder and Toby hissed at her, enjoining silence. But when the applause came at last at the end of the song she nudged him and said, ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why am I a pathologist?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You said you knew why.’
‘Oh. Yes. Because you’re so damned nosy. You have to know everything that’s going on, right? Me, I watch the show, for what it’s worth, but you, you watch what’s going on on the sidelines. Interested in the happenings behind the scenes, more than in what you can see on the stage.’
The singer started again, this time accompanied by the hospital choir, with Sheila standing bang in the middle and mouthing her words very clearly as she beamed with the brightest of gazes at the audience, and George sat staring unseeingly at the pop singer in the tight black leather skirt that barely covered her buttocks and felt a little frisson of pleasure. This man was more than just good to look at and physically interesting. He actually was perceptive, despite his unpleasant remarks yesterday. He had of course assessed her with total accuracy. She had always been more interested in what was hidden than what was visible. Her mother had despaired of her when, as a five-year-old, she had cried at the death of her pet rabbit, not because the creature had turned up its paws, but because she wasn’t permitted to cut it up and look at its insides. She’d always been like this over everything, more interested in snooping into restaurant kitchens than in the food they put in front of her, more fascinated by the machinery of a vehicle than the way it performed. And he’d realized that. She felt warm; and needed to say so.
‘You’re a clever bastard,’ she said, as soon as the singing stopped and the pop singer went off stage to loud cheers, leaving the choir to shout its composite head off with great energy for the next three numbers. ‘You notice more than you want people to think you do.’
He laughed, looking at her sideways. ‘Got you bang to rights, did I, guv’nor? Thought so. But it’s not that difficult. There’re really only two reasons why people go into your speciality.’
‘Indeed?’ She was defensive. ‘Is that so? Do tell me.’
‘Because they’re women.’
‘Because – Are you just being a shit again?’ Some of the pleasure in him diminished. ‘Using cheap digs and –’
‘Not at all! I’m just being observant and practical. Women like the speciality if they have kids. It’s one of the few that never gets you out of bed in the middle of the night, and works office hours. Like dermatology. That’s the other cushy option. So, women go for it –’
‘You’re wrong on one count for a start,’ she said, suppressing her memory of what she’d told Kate Sayers yesterday about the paucity of night calls in her speciality. ‘It does get you out of bed at any time. Murders need a forensic pathologist on the spot and murders show up outside office hours. I was called out in the wee small hours in Inverness dozens of times. It hasn’t happened here yet, but I’ve no doubt it will.’
The audience was moving, standing up to go for drinks and cigarettes as the interval took over, and he stood up too as she led the way out of their
row. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said. ‘That you’re forensic. Was your predecessor?’
‘Yes. The posts here always have been combined. Because of being near the river, I was told. Lots of funny deaths. Well, if not lots exactly, certainly more than average.’
‘I can’t remember working in a hospital where the pathologist was also the police one.’
‘There! An interesting experience for you.’
‘No need to be patronizing! After all, why should I know? You never told me.’
‘Why should I? You never asked me. So I never said.’
‘Murders.’ He stood still for a while as other people, laughing and chattering happily about the singer and rather rudely about the choir, eddied around them, and she looked up to see him staring at her with an appraising look.
‘Does that bother you? Some people find it a complete turn-off’
‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘Not a turn-off at all. You’re good company, George, and I could get very attached to you, stink of formaldehyde or not. It’s just that I didn’t know –’
‘Does it make a difference, knowing that I’m a part of the legal structure and the police state?’ she said lightly.
He thought about that with apparent seriousness. ‘I never thought of the job that way,’ he said. ‘Police state …’
‘Oh, of course not, klutz! I was making a bad joke. But I do have to work with the police if there’s a murder. I thought there’d be a few more down here than we had in Scotland, but in fact we’ve had none yet. A few suicides and suspicious deaths that turned out to be accidents or natural causes, you know? But a real murder – nothing of that sort yet. You never know, though.’
There was a little flurry of people as someone came pushing towards them through the crowd, and it parted, a little unwillingly, to let Professor Dieter through. He was frowning but his expression smoothed as he saw George. ‘Oh, there you are, my dear. A quiet word if you don’t mind.’ He detached her from Toby, throwing him a vague dismissive nod as he pulled George out into the corridor. ‘Dr Barnabas, I’m sorry to have to drag you away, but we feel – well, some of us feel – that really it might be as well if before we involved any – Well, the thing of it is that we were worried about Mr Oxford. So unlike him to let people down, you see. He did the dress rehearsal yesterday, assured us all we’d see him this evening and when he didn’t arrive – well, we sent someone to find him. His wife was most insistent we should. She was most concerned. And he’s come back and – and the man’s dead, I’m afraid. Lying in bed, looks perfectly all right but quite dead, according to Bell – he’s the chap we sent. Experienced porter, you know. I don’t suppose he’s wrong. I’m on my way over there and I’d value your company if you wouldn’t mind. Before we call in the police, don’t you see? Which of course will have to be done.’
He had started to move away, and she caught his sleeve. ‘I’ll just – hold on a moment,’ she said and went back to Toby, who was watching out of the corner of his eye, clearly consumed with curiosity.
‘I’ll have to go. Emergency,’ she said quickly. ‘Sorry and all that. See you tomorrow, I dare say.’ She was pulling on her coat, which had been on the back of her seat, and he began to help her into it.
‘Accident? One of the murders you’ve been missing, then?’
She stopped at that and looked up at him. ‘Murder? I haven’t the least idea till I get there. But you never know.’
5
There were blue lights flashing ahead of them as the car turned into the narrow street, and Professor Dieter spoke for the first time since they’d got into the car. ‘Shit!’ he said loudly.
George peered at him in the dimness, amazed. ‘What?’ she said blankly.
He threw a sharp sideways glance at her and grimaced slightly. ‘Sorry about that. Forgot myself.’
‘That’s OK. It was just …’ She looked ahead as he manoeuvred the car towards the blue light and the figures she could now see in the shadows around the vehicles, and said, ‘I thought you said you wanted to see Mr Oxford without calling the police? I mean, why should they be called? Is there anything at all to make you think –’
‘I’m as much in the dark as you are,’ he said, switching off the engine. ‘I didn’t call them. I understood from Bell that there was nothing at all unexpected, apart from the fact that the man was dead in his bed, and he came straight back to us, so why these people are here I can’t imagine.’
He was out of the car now and she followed him along the street as he pushed his way through the little knot of people with the sublime assurance of one who is used to having others always make way for him. It was enough to make them fall back until he got to the double arched doorway that led into the block where the Oxford flat was. There a tall and extremely young-looking policeman stood and barred his way. Dieter looked up at him sharply and snapped, ‘Please make way.’
‘No, sir,’ the policeman said. ‘No one to enter here. Sorry, sir. Are you a resident?’
‘No, I’m Professor Dieter from the hospital. The Royal Eastern. I’ve come to see what has happened to my – to the man who – to Richard Oxford.’
‘Sorry, sir. Can’t come in here. Not right now. The Soco’s up there and –’
‘Soco?’ Dieter said.
George leaned forward and spoke in his ear. ‘Scene-of-Crime Officer.’ She looked over his shoulder to the policeman, and said more loudly. ‘I’m Dr Barnabas. Forensic pathologist. Here you are.’ She held out the identity card with which she’d been equipped when she’d started her job at Old East. (‘Just to make sure you don’t have any problems getting where you’ve got to be, doctor,’ the coroner’s officer had told her; and because it was a cold night and she had her heavy overcoat with her, she was able to use it, since it lived in the pocket.) She felt a small glow of satisfaction as the policeman looked at it, then at her, and gave it back to her with a slightly stern nod.
‘That’s all right, miss – doctor,’ he said. ‘You go ahead,’ and as she passed him moved back into position to exclude Professor Dieter.
George looked back over her shoulder at his outraged expression and took pity. ‘He’s with me,’ she said. ‘Assisting.’ And after a moment the policeman nodded and stood aside.
They climbed the stairs in silence, though she could feel Dieter’s anger almost as a tangible thing, and schooled her face. It would be too easy to laugh at the way the man was reacting to the wounding of his amour propre, if he needed to be so aware of his status, who was she to make life difficult for him?
The flat was on the first floor. They stopped as they reached it and she looked round. There was money here, no question. The lobby was as thickly carpeted and picture-hung as a private drawing room, and equipped with elegant furniture: a small sofa that stood with its back to the wall between two of the large number-bearing doors that led into adjoining flats, and on the other side a pair of handsome matching armchairs flanking a long table on which stood a vase of fussily arranged flowers. The flat door to the right of the flowers was wide open and a policeman stood just outside in the hallway. The one next door to Oxford’s remained closed, but the other two on the opposite side were ajar, and the occupiers were peering out in some alarm; and as George and Dieter arrived a man in a dark suit beneath a black raincoat was coaxing them to go back inside.
‘Nothing to see here, now,’ he said. ‘No more fuss at all. Sorry you’ve been troubled. Goodnight – do lock up carefully.’ And reluctantly the neighbours closed the doors, leaving the man in the raincoat to turn back towards the door of the Oxford flat. He frowned sharply when he saw George and said with a marked lack of warmth, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Pathologist,’ George said briskly. ‘Dr Barnabas.’ And again held up her card.
The man frowned even more and looked at her card and then at her. ‘Ah, Dr Royle’s successor, are you? Who called you, doctor? No need to have done that. Soco would agree, he’s just finishing off. It’s clear enough, no call fo
r you; or you, sir.’ He looked enquiringly at Dieter.
‘This is Professor Dieter from the hospital,’ George said. ‘He’s with me. No need for me, you say? And who are you to tell me that?’
‘Detective Sergeant Dudley, doctor. From Ratcliffe Street nick.’
‘I see. And you’ve already decided there’s nothing here to investigate?’
‘Oh, not at all, doctor.’ He opened his eyes widely at her in mock innocence. ‘Of course there’s something to sort out. Two things in fact. One is what the poor sod in there died of. And the second is who the chap was that set off the burglar alarm which was what brought our chaps out.’
‘Burglar alarm?’ Charles Dieter said. ‘There was one in this flat? Did someone hear it?’
‘Not that sort, sir. It’s the sort that’s connected directly to the nick. A lot of the people in these flats have the system. A bell’s no use in a block of flats, is it? Time you’ve gone round ’em all to find which flat’s started the bell going, your villain’s gone. And you’ve upset all your neighbours for no purpose. So, they have this sort and someone triggered it tonight by unlocking the front door without deactivating the alarm in the usual way.’
He turned to George. ‘Not that we think he did any harm. The Soco reckons he had a key to get in, and came in as normal as you like. But he didn’t know how to switch off the alarm, so it went off down the nick. Soco says whoever it was looked in the living room and the kitchen, then pushed open the bedroom door, walked in and stood by the bed and looked, didn’t touch nothing and went away and locked the door behind him. Or her. But there’s no way he or she did anything to the bloke in there. No sign of any trouble, for a start. He’s just nicely dead. And no time for anyone to have done anything anyway. Soon’s that alarm showed the patrol car was on its way here. They couldn’t have missed the chap leaving by more’n a second at the most.’
First Blood Page 6