Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2)

by Felix Bruckner

  I removed my jumper, placed it on the bench behind me, grasped my ball and advanced smoothly to the line. To my dismay, I found that when I tried to deliver the ball, it remained stubbornly stuck to my fingers. Finally, it fell limply a foot in front of me, and rolled gently down the right-hand gutter, missing all the pins and disappearing into the works at the far end. A robotic arm raised the pins, and deposited them again in their previous positions in readiness for my next attempt. I was able to release the second ball more easily, but it bounced once more into the ditch, and rolled (slightly faster this time) to the far end, again without making contact. The robotic arm repositioned the pins, there was a rumbling sound, my two balls reappeared through an aperture at my end, and I was able to start the next game. I had scored zero.

  Olly was even worse than I: a keen cricketer, he had to be restrained from bowling over-arm. Like me, he had found difficulty in letting go; and when he finally managed this, the ball flew into the air, landing with a bang in Ginny's lane. Only now did I realize why Olly and I had been placed in the centre lanes of our group!

  Steve Bolton and Russ Potter were experienced and well-matched. Steve had finesse – a smooth almost lazy action straight down the middle; Russ was not quite so accurate, but he was more athletic and highly competitive; over the course of the afternoon, they matched each other ball for ball; Teddy and Ginny had both bowled before, but Teddy – on the day – was marginally superior, marginally higher-scoring.

  In my first three games I made no score at all; then my action seemed to improve: I knocked down four pins in my fourth. I felt exhilarated! After this triumph I took a break, sat on my bench, and observed the rest of the group: Olly still couldn't hit a single pin; Ginny and Teddy were faring reasonably well, scoring sixes and sevens; Steve, cool and serene, and Russ, red in the face from exertion, were managing maximum Tens and even an occasional “strike”. I resumed my game.

  We had booked twelve games each. After six, we adjourned for refreshments from the snack counter, paid for by our captains: a choice of chicken or ham-and-tomato sandwiches on disposable paper plates, and Coca-Cola from plastic cups. Though I had had quite a substantial lunch before we left St Peter's, I was surprised how hungry I felt now. Whilst we wolfed down our snacks, seated together at a table behind the bowling area and casually watching some of the other participants, we chatted merrily.

  “Happy to see you have both broken your ducks ...” commented Russ laconically, nodding towards Olly and me.

  “Yes, well done,” in chorus from the other three.

  I was inordinately pleased, and Olly blushed modestly.

  “Instead of having two anaesthetists on your team, why couldn't you at least get Daniel Ellington?” Teddy asked Russ. “He's a surgeon of sorts, and he's off duty now, isn't he?”

  “He's on the circuit at Silverstone today – still just practising though ...” Ginny spoke up, surprising us with her intervention. “Dan and I both assist on the gynae lists,” she added hastily. “We often chat ... That's how I know ...”

  “I've never met him in the flesh,” mused Steve. “But of course you can't help noticing the Maserati, and I've heard quite a lot about him from the nursing staff ... When's he actually going to start racing this car ... which does look quite impressive, I have to say ...”

  “He's a rum-un, that Dan Ellington?” Potter's Aussie accent ratcheted up a notch. “Tells us he trains and practices all his spare time, needs plenty of rest. But he sleeps in the room next to mine in the annexe, and I hear him moving about all hours, sometimes coming in at two am ... What's he up to, I wonder?”

  Inevitably the conversation moved on to the subject of the murders and “the Hitchin Strangler” as the papers were now calling him. There had been speculation that it was a member of the hospital staff.

  “I guess we're all suspects ...” ventured Steve Bolton.

  “What about Ellington? He'd be top of my list.” persisted Potter.

  “Surely not!” I was astonished at the vitriol in the surgeon's voice, and even more to hear Ginny Lund defending him so vehemently. “He's much too nice,” she finished lamely.

  There was a long silence, while each of us tried to assimilate this latest piece of the jigsaw.

  “Time to get back to the match ...” Russ Potter, his usual benign self again, rose from his seat, and moved towards the bowling area. The rest of us followed with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

  The surgeons' team won narrowly, by two hundred and thirty to two hundred and twenty-five points, largely because of my poor performance: I had managed only twenty-two against Olly's thirty.

  9

  Monday, 20th September: Daniel Ellington looms over me; his hair stands on end, and there is an evil leer on his face. “Unfortunately you are in the wrong place at the wrong time, Edwin Scott.” Slowly he unwinds the flame-coloured scarf from around his neck. He comes closer, and I can smell his foul breath. I am unable to move, frozen with fear. Abruptly the scarf loops over my head; he is behind me, and the piece of silk feels soft and cool; then it is tightening around my throat. I can't loosen it, I can't breathe. Everything goes dark ...

  The spacious office seems familiar. Why, it's the office of the medical superintendent. What am I doing here? After the blackness of the previous scene, the light is dazzling, and makes me blink. At first I think I am alone. Then I notice a figure on the other side of the desk, observing me closely. It is a police sergeant in uniform, with a neatly trimmed moustache and a sinister expression. He seems familiar. On the desk lie a pair of shiny hand-cuffs.

  “Tell me once again all you know about the drugs missing from pharmacy ...”

  The silence lengthens. I feel increasingly uncomfortable, the sensation bordering on dread, shading into panic. My mind has gone completely blank.

  “I have never even been in the pharmacy!” I blurt out finally.

  “So this is all you can tell me, Dr Scott. It's not very much, is it? Probably not even true. Well I may have to come back to see you again, to clarify some points.”

  A menacing grin spreads slowly over his countenance, and he nods significantly toward the handcuffs ... as I awake from my dream in a room bathed in cold moon-light..

  10

  Wednesday, 22nd September: The whole hospital was in uproar. Theresa Milton had returned from a solitary outing to the Odeon Cinema. She was about to enter the sisters' home shortly after eleven o'clock, when she was attacked from behind. She had been unable to see the attacker, but had smelt perfumed hair-oil or after-shave. A thin band was tightened around her neck, but she fought like a tiger, and was able to grasp it with both hands to prevent it from throttling her.

  “I screamed and screamed, until some residents of the home appeared, and the attacker fled. I'm lucky to be alive ...”

  This was the statement she ultimately gave the police.

  Unfortunately the sister and two staff nurses, who had appeared within minutes on the scene, had not seen the assailant, and there was no sign of a ligature – he must have taken it away with him. The victim was escorted to casualty, where she was examined by Dr Henson, the casualty officer. He found a linear mark around the front of her neck, with some early bruising surrounding this, consistent with attempted ligature strangulation; the patient was conscious, tearful, hysterical; however her medical condition was stable. The casualty sister had called the police.

  11

  Friday, 24th September: I had been summoned to the medical superintendent's office in the administrative building. Mr Alfred Talbot, the medical superintendent, was a part-time orthopaedic surgeon, a big bland man, competent both clinically and administratively; however, it was Diane, his secretary, sharp, serious, severely beautiful, untouchable, who kept the entire hospital ticking over efficiently. Now things were going wrong, and I could sense Diane, in her small office next door straining her mental sinews, trying to rectify matters by sheer exercise of her formidable will. I was reminded of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elde
r brother, solving the nation's problems, sitting motionless in his domain in the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall.

  Seated at Mr Talbot's desk was Detective Chief Inspector Butter, his double chin quivering gently, the usual affable smile on his lips; next to him sat a burly young man, a hostile expression on his face, an open notebook on his lap. We had met before, and I knew that Detective Sergeant Gary Stebbings had no great liking for me. Stebbings had remained in London to tie up some loose ends from a previous Scotland Yard case that was in its final stages. Meanwhile Butter had been seconded to North Hertfordshire to take charge of this increasingly complex and expanding investigation, which by now was receiving considerable media attention.

  “Once again the deaths seem to be following you, Dr Scott,” Stebbings gave me a dark look. “What is it that attracts them so?”

  “Come, come, Gary,” Butter interposed emolliently. “We know he was entirely innocent in the Slasher murders, and he gave us some useful assistance in tidying up that case, didn't he? Now we just want to know where you were on the night of Wednesday, 22nd September, Dr Scott, that's two days ago, and if anyone can confirm your movements ...”

  On that evening, I had been called to an emergency medical admission on Ward Four. I had arrived on the ward at ten-fifteen, dealt with the case, and stayed for cocoa and scrambled eggs on toast with Staff-Nurse Knight until midnight. I had retired to bed, unaware of the excitement in casualty.

  I gave them the details, observing the signs of pleasure on Butter's countenance and the disappointment on Stebbings': for once I had a solid alibi. I was careful not to mention my night out with Tess Milton, ten days before; I had no wish to incriminate myself on that score.

  12

  Sunday, 26th September: Steve Bolton had brought Dr Thomas Cottar in at nine forty-five this morning to see several patients who had been causing me concern. The sickest and most recent admissions were always concentrated around sister's office, so that they could be more easily supervised by the senior nursing staff. When one was discharged, the convalescents were moved towards the far end of the ward, leaving free the prime spaces for new patients. This was the essence of the “race-track” in the organisation of nursing care, still highly effective in the second half of the twentieth century, though introduced by Florence Nightingale at the time of the Crimean War. Thus all the cases I had to show Dr Cottar were grouped together. As he was here, he decided to see all the new admissions, in some cases merely nodding to them cheerfully from the end of the bed when I had given my mini-presentation.

  “Hm, very good, carry on ...”

  After a brisk, efficient examination of the last patient, the consultant treated me to an encouraging smile:

  “Diagnosis, investigation, management – all fine. You seem to have covered all the angles here. Well done, my boy ...”

  He and Steve departed together at ten-thirty, without a backward glance, absorbed in social chit-chat.

  After a leisurely lunch in the doctors' dining room – rather fatty lamb chops, mashed potatoes and cabbage, followed by rhubarb and custard, and milky coffee – I joined our paediatric senior house officer, Teddy Blayne, and Russ Potter, the surgical registrar, in the doctors' sitting room. Teddy was expecting his family. He sat, listening to a cricketing monologue from Russ, while cleaning out the bowl of his pipe with a blade of his Swiss Army pocket-knife; he filled it methodically with tobacco from a tin, tamped it, and finally lit it with a large tarnished-silver lighter, sucking vigorously the while, until it was satisfyingly alight and drawing, then belching out clouds of smoke.

  Car doors banged in the car park outside, and I could hear voices – soothing mellifluous female tones, interrupted by a child's excited shrieks. Teddy stood up, and, leaving his pipe to its own devices in the ashtray, left the room, to return almost immediately carrying a toddler on his arm, and holding a young lady by the hand.

  “This is my wife Peggy and my daughter Sally-Anne who's two ... Darling, these are my friends – Russ and Edwin ...”

  There were “Hellos” all round.

  Peggy was tall willowy and very pretty, with long auburn hair and freckles; yet her slacks and baggy fawn cardigan gave her a maternal, slightly dowdy air. She appraised us all through serious hazel eyes, and, after a long pause, awarded us a winning smile. We had passed muster – we were suitable friends for her husband. Little Sally-Anne bubbled and squealed with laughter. Suddenly she dashed across the room; she threw herself into my arms, and I found her seated on my lap, with her arms around my neck.

  “She seems to have taken a fancy to you,” commented Teddy laconically, his pipe once more gripped between his teeth. “Do you like your funny old Uncle Edwin, Sally-Anne?”

  Further hoots of laughter, interspersed with semi-intelligible words:

  “Funny ... eek ... unca ... ooh-hoo ... Eddie!”

  Her smooth soft cheek brushed mine, and a little wet spittle dribbled on to my collar. After a while, she settled down comfortably, and there was a lull as she gazed around the room with large porcelain blue eyes.

  “How d'ya like Hitchin, Peggy?” asked Russ, and the general conversation resumed ...

  “It's a lovely place to live, er Russell. I shall be sorry to leave ... But hold on, I've brought some home-made jam for your tea ...”

  She rummaged around in a commodious handbag.

  “Ooh, great ...”

  We spread the damson jam over our toast; I remembered the jam on my holiday in Alassio with Jill at the Hotel Roma, and my eyes went misty ...

  “I hear that Edwin's friend has got my job, when I leave at the end of October ...”

  “Are you all right, Edwin?”

  A patch of warmth was spreading over the top of my thighs. I realised with shock that Sally-Anne was not yet fully potty-trained. As I crimsoned with embarrassment, I became aware of a figure standing over me. Olly Kumar wore a shy smile and dazzling white shorts and plimsoles; over his white shirt the cream cable-stitch cricket jumper was edged with a thick scarlet border around the V of its neck, the hem and the ends of the sleeves. Under his arm, he carried a tennis racquet in its press.

  “You haven't forgotten our foursome, Edwin?” he intoned softly. “Give you a chance to gain your revenge ...”

  Part Five

  October 1960

  1

  Tuesday, 5th October: I had told Stanley Pollett (who already knew of Jill's death) about Paula's poor joke on her arrival at St Peter's for her interview for the paediatric senior house officer post; I had explained my connection with Paula, her marriage to Jamie Smythe (and hence the wedding ring), and her impending divorce.

  “I will see that my staff nurses, Miss Peach and Miss Stoppard, are put right,” he had declared emphatically. “That should stop the rumours ...”

  The next time I saw Belinda in the ward, she had been full of remorse, treating me with sympathy, even compassion.

  “You poor boy. I'm so sorry ... I must have seemed heartless, but I honestly didn't know ...”

  She had gazed at me through deep violet eyes from under her long lashes, her chest heaving with emotion.

  “You must be so lonely, Edwin. What you need is human contact ... Why don't you take me out to the pictures one evening?”

  “But what about your fiancé?”

  “Oh, he won't mind ...”

  Eventually I had promised I'd think about it.

  “Tim's on nights ...”

  I had parked the car in a side street around the corner. The Odeon Cinema was gloomy and rather shabby – it had clearly seen better days. They were playing Expresso Bongo, featuring Cliff Richard in his first serious acting role, in the part of an aspiring young pop star.

  The foyer was empty and there was no queue at the ticket counter – we were late! We entered in darkness; the film had already started and the credits were playing. We made our way to an empty row near the back of the theatre. My eyes glued to the screen, I settled down in my seat, while the opening sequence began t
o roll. A waft of tobacco smoke drifted over us from the rows behind.

  To my surprise, I found Belinda's head resting on my shoulder. Was this really going to be just a platonic night out? After a while I felt her hand on my thigh, soft and warm; a little later, she lifted my hand, and was kissing my palm – slowly and rhythmically. Still holding my hand, she now placed it deliberately on her breast, and I felt its weight and its shape, as she rubbed herself against me. I was becoming aroused – Can this really be happening? I wondered. The screen was obscured by her head, as she twisted round and leaned across me.

  “I really fancy you, Edwin Scott,” she whispered in my ear.

  “But what about ...”

  I felt my scarf constricting my throat, as she pulled it tighter and tighter.

  “I say, Belinda,” I murmured.

  “Sorry ...”

  The scarf was loosened, and she was kissing my neck; I felt a soft bite, and momentarily I was reminded of Tess. The vampires of Hertfordshire, I thought to myself.

  Then she was moaning and smothering my face with kisses, keeping my hand on her breast, and moving hers stealthily up my thigh. Through the pounding in my ears, I heard a rustling and whispering behind us. Then, sotto voce:

  “What's Staff-Nurse Peach doing to that poor Dr Scott?”

  We jumped apart. By now, my eyes had adjusted to the dark. Three junior nurses sat, smoking, in the row behind us. Though embarrassed, I was secretly relieved. We gazed straight ahead. In spite of the bouncing breasts on screen, I found the film rather boring. I had evidently missed a crucial part of the plot, while Belinda's head had blotted out the screen ...