First Blood

by Claire Rayner

  ‘Is there any other kind of coffee?’ George asked, taking the hot beaker gratefully. ‘How’re things?’

  ‘Could be worse.’ Hattie looked down at her desk. ‘Another five minutes of this and I’ll have a chance to talk. Would you mind if – ?’

  ‘Not at all,’ George said, ‘scribble away,’ and leaned back in her chair and watched her bent head as she worked. They’d only talked a few times: that first occasion when they’d met in the canteen and once or twice since; but she seemed a cheerful friendly soul, and had greeted her warmly enough this evening. Would she be forthcoming? Or would she shy off and get agitated at being asked to help as George wanted her to? Well, it was a gamble she had to take.

  Hattie finished her writing, closed the book and pushed it away. ‘That’s it,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Till tomorrow. Here’s hoping nothing nasty happens in the bomb or the RTA line before I get away.’

  ‘Am I holding you up?’

  ‘Not in the least. I told you I have to wait till my chap gets here. So, how’re things with you?’

  ‘Busy.’ George sipped at her coffee, trying to look as offhand as she felt was necessary. ‘It’s a busy department anyway and what with forensic –’

  Hattie leaned forwards eagerly. ‘Do tell. You’re dealing with the Oxford business, aren’t you? Any news?’

  George laughed. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of them! Dying to get a bit of information before everyone else.’

  ‘Of course I am! I’m nothing if not normal.’

  ‘Well, what do you want to know? Perhaps the best thing’d be to tell me what you know already.’

  ‘Right!’ Hattie reached into her drawer and pulled out a small make-up bag. ‘Do you mind if I –? Thanks. Well now.’ She began to apply make-up lightly but with some skill. ‘Richard Oxford died of digitalis poisoning.’

  ‘How did that get around so far and so fast?’

  Hattie laughed and looked at her over her mascara brush. ‘Danny.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Danny.’

  ‘He’s a popular chap at present, which makes a change for him. Most people find the mortuary man a bit less than appetizing. Now everyone wants to chat him up. He’s making the most of it.’

  ‘I’ll bet he is,’ George said a little grimly. ‘So, you know it’s digitalis.’

  ‘But not how he got it. Or whether it was an accident or deliberate.’

  ‘I can’t see how it was an accident,’ George said carefully. ‘He didn’t have any sort of heart condition that would mean him using it, so it can’t be an accidental overdose. Anyway, it was too much to be an accident. He must have had thirty or so tablets.’

  ‘Thirty?’ Hattie stopped, her lipstick held in mid-air in surprise. ‘So much?’

  ‘It was somewhat of an overkill,’ George said drily. ‘But that’s the estimate.’

  ‘Suicide?’ Hattie said and George shook her head.

  ‘That’s not really on. They leave notes; there’s always some sort of … No. No one thinks that likely, not Gus, nor I, nor –’

  ‘Gus?’

  George looked a little uncomfortable. ‘The Chief Inspector in charge of the case.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hattie said non-committally. ‘A friend?’

  ‘Not really. Why?’

  ‘First names and all that. I’d have thought you’d call him Inspector or something.’

  ‘Modern, we are in the forensic world these days. First names all round.’ George made it sound flippant. ‘I call him Gus, he calls me ducks.’

  ‘So, if it’s not suicide and it’s not an accident …’ Hattie packed away her make-up and leaned forward to concentrate on George. ‘A real murder, hmm?’

  ‘What is it Conan Doyle used to say? When the improbable has been eliminated, whatever is left, however impossible, is the truth? Well, anyway, something like that. So, yes. It’s possible. It’s also possible that it was an accident or suicide, but I don’t think it’s probable.’

  ‘So, the detectives are hard at it.’

  George chuckled. ‘So’m I.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. You’re the one that finds a lot of evidence for them, of course, – doing the post-mortem and so forth.’

  ‘Not only in the mortuary. I work at the scene of the crime too, you know.’

  ‘It must be rather horrid.’

  ‘It can be. But it’s also fascinating.’

  ‘Ye-es. I wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘No. Mind you,’ George said with a studiedly casual air, ‘not all the detecting is done at the scene of the crime or at the mortuary, of course.’

  ‘Well, of course.’

  ‘Some of it can be done by people who have nothing to do with the police or the scientist.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I mean, your chap, he’s a novelist, isn’t he?’

  Hattie looked pleased. ‘You remembered? Yes, he is. Schoolmaster still, but he says once one of his books earns enough he’s giving up the inky schoolboys to get more inky himself.’

  ‘Well, he could do some of the detecting in this case.’

  ‘He could?’ Hattie looked a little startled. ‘Are you saying you want him to do something for you? Is that why you’re here?’

  George made a grimace. ‘So much for softly softly, catchee monkee techniques,’ she said. ‘Here was me thinking I was being so clever.’

  Hattie laughed. ‘You don’t have to be clever with me. If you want something, say so. What is it you’re after?’

  George bit her lip as she thought and then put down her beaker and leaned forward too, so that they were sitting almost head to head. ‘I’m puzzled,’ she said. ‘Oxford lived so high on the hog, you know? You ought to see his place, expensive isn’t in it.’

  ‘Really?’ Hattie was fascinated. ‘Go on!’

  George did and Hattie listened, enthralled, shaking her head in admiration and the sort of awed disbelief that shows a listener is having a lovely time.

  ‘And I can’t help wondering,’ George said, ‘just how much of that money came from his books. I know he does well – I mean, even I’ve read one, but do writers really make all that much? I’ve heard some of them do.’

  ‘The ones who write all the inwardly-onwardly-downwardly thrusting books,’ Hattie said. ‘That’s what Sam says.’

  George chuckled. ‘Yeah, bonkbusters, isn’t that what they call ’em? But Oxford didn’t. They’re rather good adventure stories. In fact, I thought the one I tried was quite well written.’

  Hattie nodded. ‘And well-written books don’t tend to sell as many copies as bad ones.’

  ‘You’ve hit it. So I’d love to know how many he did sell. But how to find out? That’s the problem.’

  ‘Can’t the police help?’

  George made a face again. ‘I want to score over the police,’ she said. ‘They’re too fond of getting all the information they want out of me and then trying to leave me out of it. It’s no fun at all.’

  Hattie nodded in instant comprehension. ‘A bit of the amateur stuff, hmm, to show ’em what asses they are?’

  ‘I’m not that amateur! I mean, I do the PMs –’

  ‘Sorry! I mean no insult. It’s just that doing the things the police aren’t –’

  ‘Well, yes. Anyway, there it is. Could you help? That is, could your –’

  Hattie’s face had suddenly lit up as she looked over George’s shoulder, and she said happily, ‘Ask him yourself. Sam, this is Dr Barnabas. George. She wants some help.’

  ‘Oh?’ He was a pleasant-looking man, George thought. Bulky, a little untidy, with rough salt-and-pepper hair and a shabby sports jacket over far-from-well-pressed trousers. ‘Glad to, if I can. Kids are fine, Hatt.’

  ‘Of course they are! There’s nothing they like better than spending the night at Judith’s.’ She turned to George. ‘Makes a mother feel very inadequate when her children prefer her next-door neighbour.’

  ‘So, what do you want of me?’ Sam looked at George and she war
med to him. A direct sort of person. No need for any butter on this popcorn.

  She told him as succinctly as she could and he nodded in immediate understanding. ‘Did this chap’s lifestyle match his income, that’s what you want to know. You realize he might have had assets other than his immediate earnings from his books?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But it’d be a help, wouldn’t it, to know just how big an earner he was?’

  ‘Of course. But if you want to know more about him you might have to go to Companies’ House.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘A lot of high-earning writers are companies these days. So they have to file returns at Companies’ House. It’s the law.’

  ‘Oh,’ George said, a little dashed. ‘Then finding out about his book sales won’t help?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it’ll give you some idea. I’m just pointing out you may have to look further. But I’ll gladly see what I can do. Who were his publishers?’

  George went pink. ‘I should have checked on that before I asked you.’

  ‘Well, it’d have helped, but don’t worry. I’ll look that up. He may have had more than one, it’s not all that unusual. And then I’ll see what I can do. It’s not easy; publishers tell the most awful lies about their authors’ sales. Except to the authors themselves.’ He grimaced. ‘Mine is painfully honest. I’m not selling enough to feed a sparrow yet.’

  ‘You will,’ Hattie said with great loyalty, hugging his arm. ‘It just takes a little time to get –’

  ‘I know. Established. Well, Oxford was certainly established. It’ll be fascinating to know a bit more about how he did. Leave it to me. I’ve friends in a few publishing houses and, with a bit of luck, one of ’em’ll be his. I’ll let you know. Is there a hurry for this?’

  George contemplated being polite and opted for honesty. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure. Beats trying to bash out a few useful words of my own. Hattie, the curtain’s up in just over half an hour. It’s going to be a bit of a rush …’

  ‘I’ve gone,’ George said and got to her feet. ‘Thanks, both of you.’

  ‘Wait till you see what you get,’ Hattie called over her shoulder as they led the way out of the small office. ‘Oh, before I go, I must have a word with the night girls, Sam. Just a second …’ And she darted away, leaving Sam watching her fondly if a little impatiently.

  ‘Thanks, Sam,’ George said and held out her hand to be shaken. ‘It’s good of you to be so –’

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ Sam said. ‘Don’t thank me till you know what I come up with. I’ll send it over here with Hattie.’

  ‘Please,’ George said and turned to go as Hattie came back; but Hattie was not alone.

  ‘The night people’ll see to it,’ she was saying to her companion. ‘They’ve plenty of time to get the stomach washed out.’

  ‘It’ll help a lot,’ he said. ‘They’re rushing around there like lunatics. I can’t operate till the morning, mind, but it’ll give the poor devil a better night’s rest if he’s clean before he’s admitted to the ward. Hello, George.’

  ‘Good evening,’ George said politely and Hattie threw her a quick glance and then tugged on Sam’s sleeve.

  ‘Come on, Sam,’ she said. ‘We mustn’t be late. See you, George. Bye, Mr Bellamy.’ And she positively scuttled away.

  George made to follow her, but Toby Bellamy put out his hand to stop her. ‘I haven’t seen you since, well, since we shared fish and chips. Do I owe you for that or did your friend keep his word?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have dreamed of letting him pay,’ she said with a lofty air.

  ‘More fool you.’ He sounded cheerful. ‘I’ve learned never to say no to a free lunch. It’s not true what they say. There are such things: I’ll prove it. Come and have a late one with me now. To make up for last time.’

  ‘Don’t you ever think of anything but eating?’ she snapped.

  He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Only when I’m thinking of other pleasant physical experiences. How about you?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ She turned to go and he put out one hand to stop her.

  ‘Hey, what have I done? I’m sorry I had to rush off and leave you last time we were out, but you ought to know about people being on call, for heaven’s sake! Why are you so shirty with me? Have I done something I don’t know about?’

  That stopped her and she stood still, trying to get her thoughts into order. Yes, she was suspicious of him. He’d been altogether too interested in what she had discovered about Oxford’s death, ostensibly on behalf of his friend Felicity Oxford, and that had annoyed her, made her feel used; and there was, after all, the hospital gossip. It wasn’t much fun to be pursued by someone who had a reputation round the place for being a womanizer, and it certainly had seemed to George that he fell into that category.

  And yet … She looked at him again and he smiled, and once more she experienced the little frisson she’d felt that time on ICU when they’d shared a consult. He was a very interesting man, after all; men like him attracted gossip and unjust accusations of being woman-eaters the way dogs collected fleas. Besides, maybe he knew more about Oxford and his past and his money. Maybe he knew something about Mitchell Formby and why he behaved so oddly. And maybe he knew –

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and managed a smile. ‘I’ve been a bit busy, I guess. Makes me edgy.’

  ‘That’s better! As long as it’s nothing I’ve done.’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘OK, where was I? Oh, yes. Suggesting a return to our last meeting.’

  ‘What? Swimming again?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then supper, or –’ He stopped and grinned and dug into the breast pocket of his white coat. ‘How about this?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Free tickets for the theatre. We get ’em here sometimes, and when I was in Herne’s office arguing with him about bed allocations he collected a couple for himself. I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t have some too, so I told his secretary on my way out that I was to have a pair.’

  ‘I thought they were meant for the less well-paid people on the staff when they come in?’

  ‘Well, who else is as badly paid as I am for the important work I do? Anyway, Herne took a pair, so why shouldn’t I? Oh, come on, George! It’s one of my few free evenings – Kate Sayers is on call for me for any immediate problems since she’s stuck here with a dicey kidney transplant all night – so I don’t want to waste it. There can be no arguments over these since neither of us is paying. What do you say? They’re for that new musical at the Dominion. The reviews were great.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said, thinking of how much talking she could get out of him in the interval. ‘Why not? I’ll just go and put on something a bit –’

  ‘Oh, George,’ he said. ‘And here was I thinking you weren’t like other women! More sense. You look fine as you are. Just take off your white coat and you’ll do.’

  And she laughed, and agreed.

  18

  George sat at her desk and tried to think sensibly of the day’s work. There was a good deal to sort out, after all, for the forensic work she’d promised Gus was still not finished and the demands from the hospital for routine jobs was intensifying. She’d already got Jerry going on the remainder of the containers brought from Oxford’s flat, but it would be some time before she could hope to get answers from him. Not till later this afternoon.

  Sheila had already poured her coffee and she poured another cup, hoping the rather dismal, thin stuff would sharpen her mind and stop her from being so silly, and she yearned for a cup of Hattie’s harsh Accident and Emergency department brew. But she’d have to settle for this; it had been hard enough to persuade Sheila that she should be treated like a consultant and brought a tray of coffee each morning; to start complaining about its quality would create an uproar that wasn’t even worth contemplating.

  She gazed sightlessly ov
er the rim of her cup, trying to concentrate on the best way to deal with the events of the morning. She had to call Detective Constable Urquhart to ask him to do some checking for her; that was her second line of investigating now she’d got Hattie’s Sam busy. Was there anything else she could try to help her efforts to find the answer to Oxford’s death before Gus Hathaway did?

  But it was no good. However hard she tried, her mind kept swinging back to last night and Toby Bellamy.

  It really was depressing, she told herself sadly, to discover how soggy a person she was. She’d worked all these years to build herself up in her own estimation as a strong woman, a woman of principle and intelligence and power, and what happened? The first time an even reasonably attractive man kissed her she melted and turned into a heap of overboiled cabbage. It was too dispiriting for words.

  But he’s not reasonably attractive, a part of her mind protested. The man’s seriously gorgeous. Why shouldn’t you find him worth kissing? If men are allowed to go around fancying women all over the place and acting on their feelings, why can’t you? Are you a woman or a – a – and she couldn’t think of a sufficiently insulting epithet to use.

  But that’s the point, she thought then. I deserve to be insulted. I wasn’t the one who did the kissing. It was done to me. If I’d done what I wanted and pounced, it’d have been different, but I was as bad as any silly schoolgirl. One minute there we are laughing like idiots and the next he’s coming on like King Kong with the hugs and slobbers, and you, damn your eyes, you just adored it. Admit it. You cooperated. You showed all the tender shyness of a crack Panzer Division in World War Two. If it hadn’t been for his bleep, who knows where we’d have finished up?

  In bed would have been nice, she thought wistfully. That was the trouble, of course. She was feeling deprived. In Ian’s day bed had been good; well, not perfect, but good enough to start with. She had been all set to teach him some better ways, but he’d gone and behaved so – no, Ian was not to be thought of. That was a rule. If she had to think about such matters, think of Toby Bellamy.

  She did, and once again the sensations came back to make her feel a lot better than she would have thought she could, under the circumstances. Stupid woman you are, she scolded herself. A pushover for the first pretty guy that happens along once you’ve got rid of – been got rid of – by a great blond idiot like Ian – Oh, shit!