Second Opinion

by Claire Rayner

  George turned her back, knowing from experience when to stop arguing with him, and looked at Constant, who was clearly itching to get away. ‘It’s not much, Harold,’ she said. ‘It’s the Popodopoulos baby — I’m still not happy about that one. I don’t think I can sign the certificate, you know. Will you tell Dr Porteous and —’

  ‘Oh that’s all right,’ Harold’s face had cleared. ‘That’s gone through.’

  ‘What?’ She frowned. ‘But I haven’t signed! I sent up the preliminary report and —’

  ‘That’s right. Cot death, yes? And Dr Porteous went ahead and settled it all with the parents. They wanted the funeral right away, it’s the way they do things in their church, apparently. They wanted to get it over and done with and Dr Porteous, being such a caring man’ — Harold almost smirked — ‘he agreed. So there’s no problem. Can I go now? I really must get back.’

  ‘But goddamn it all, I haven’t signed —’ George began but Harold shook his head.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, Dr Barnabas, you know that. It’s up to the coroner to decide, ‘n’t it? And on the basis of your preliminary report he agreed the funeral could go ahead. You haven’t discovered something new, have you?’ He looked at her sharply. ‘That’d make a difference, of course, if you had. It’d be a right mess if we had to stop the funeral, of course, but if you say there is something new …’

  ‘No,’ she said a little unwillingly. ‘There’s nothing to add to what I’ve already told him. It’s just that I’m not comfortable …’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Harold was clearly relieved as he turned to go. ‘If that’s all, no problems. Better be off. Thanks for all this stuff so quickly, Dr Barnabas, it’s a great help.’ And he was gone, pounding back along the corridor and panting his way up the stairs to the way out like a self-satisfied hippo.

  ‘And you said nothin’ interesting had happened,’ Gus said reproachfully. ‘What’s all this then?’

  ‘Like I said, nothing,’ she muttered irritably, turning to go into her dressing room. ‘No affair of yours, that’s for sure. ‘Bye, Gus. See you around.’ And she went in and closed the door firmly behind her. Bad enough the coroner had in effect dismissed her; no way was she going to give Gus the chance to do the same.

  But when she came out, freshly scented with quantities of shower gel and body cream and her hair still curling damply from its quick shampoo — because she couldn’t bear the possibility that despite her precautions her hair might still smell of anything it shouldn’t — and went back to her office, there he was, sitting on the edge of her desk and shamelessly reading his way through a pile of her papers.

  She snatched them from him and went round to sit down. ‘Haven’t you got a job to go to?’ she snapped, glaring at him.

  ‘It’s really great,’ he said admiringly. ‘The way you learn. Another year or two around me and you’ll be talkin’ proper English, just like what I do. Yes, I have got a job to go to. I’ve gone to it. What’s this about a baby you wouldn’t sign a certificate for that the coroner’s shoved through as a natural death?’

  ‘It’s none of your —’ she began, but he stopped her firmly.

  ‘Listen, Dr B., I’m not going for that. You taught me good over the Oxford case, you taught me good and proper to pay attention to your notions. I said Oxford was a natural death and you said it wasn’t. I was wrong, you were right. Now you say this cot death’s suspicious and the coroner doesn’t —’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not the same, Gus, honestly. Last time was — well, that was then. This is — it was a baby in Maternity, found dead. The only thing that bothered me was that someone had stuck a note on the PM request form pointing out this was the third such death there in five months. I didn’t know about the other two on account of being off sick, and when I tried to find out who’d written the note, I drew a blank. No one seems to know. I haven’t asked everyone, though, and I dare say someone’ll tell me, and it’ll all turn out to be nothing. That was all, really.’

  She stopped and thought a while, then continued a little unwillingly. ‘Except for the fact that this diagnosis of cot death is one I can’t handle. I mean, it’s not a diagnosis at all. It’s just a description of what happened, and it gives you no information on why it happened. And you know me, I can’t stand mysteries …’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ he said with some feeling. ‘Like I said, I remember last time. Look, doll, put it on the line. Is this a dicey one or not? If it is, I’ll have to look into it, though I hate these cases. You have to investigate the parents, and they suffer hell over it, poor devils.’

  She looked at him sharply and then smiled. He was a good old soul, after all was said and done, she thought, using his own sort of language inside her head. He means kindly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said candidly. ‘I’m possibly just making dramas where none exist, but there it is — the business niggles at me.’

  ‘Then listen to your niggles,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘What can you do about them?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t repeat the PM to see if there’s anything I missed, though to be really honest, I don’t think I did. It was my first case since getting back, so I was — well, that bit more aware of what I was doing, you know? I’m always careful, but this one I, like, walked on eggs. Even if I did manage another PM on the body — which I can’t get, seeing the funeral’s been given the go-ahead — I doubt I’d find anything.’

  ‘So this is an academic conversation?’ he said. ‘Just talk for the sake of it?’

  ‘I could dig out the notes of the other two, I suppose,’ George said, ignoring the little dig.

  ‘The ones the note mentioned?’ His voice sharpened. ‘The mysterious note?’

  ‘Yup. Those.’

  ‘Hmm! Will that be easy?’

  ‘Don’t know till I try.’

  ‘Will you try?’

  ‘I’m not sure …’ She knew she was prevaricating and so did he.

  ‘Come off it. You’re going to. And when you have, let me know what you’ve found out, right?’

  ‘Only if it’s significant,’ she said and he shook his head in exasperation.

  ‘Why? Aren’t we a team, for Gawd’s sake?’

  ‘When it suits you we are. If you prefer to keep me out then you do. Take that matter of the woman who’d been tied up in all those pairs of stockings back in the spring. And the man with the ankle bracelets, and the —’

  ‘They were different,’ he said loftily. ‘No medical input needed with them. But if you find there was hanky panky about the way those babies died, why, then —’

  ‘Why, then I’ll consider what I want to do about it.’ She got to her feet. ‘I have work to do, Gus. How’s about you?’

  ‘“I like potato chips, moonlight and motor trips, how’s about you?”‘ he sang but he got to his feet. ‘Yeah, I ought to get back. Check all the paperwork on this RTA. I shouldn’t ha’ been involved at all, really — it’s not one for CID, but traffic branch got their knickers in a twist over some insurance fuss, so there you go. And there’s me with my own work piling up, as the —’

  ‘— man in the livery stables said,’ she chorused with him. ‘Yeah, I know. Time you changed that gag for a new one, Gus, say one from around 1950. It’s getting as high as the livery stable man’s work. Goodbye.’ She went to the door and held it open.

  ‘I’m goin’, I’m goin’. Listen, about tonight …’

  ‘What about tonight?’ She waited, her head on one side as, somewhat uncharacteristically, he hesitated.

  ‘We’ve done up the Leman Street place all posh — looks a bit like a shopgirl’s dream, to tell you the truth — but the grub’s as good as ever, and we could have a nice tuck-in tonight of halibut and maybe this time you’d try some of our jellied eels. They’re the best in London and —’

  ‘Nothing in this world or the next will ever get me to eat jellied eels,’ George said fervently and he grinned.

  ‘O
K, then. Plain old fish and chips it is. You’ve got basic good taste, girl, even if you’re a bit unadventurous in the cuisine department. Never mind, I’ll make a good foodie of you yet. Pick you up at around seven-thirty, then? We’ll have a noggin at the Crown and Anchor and then go and tuck in. Lovely.’

  ‘I haven’t said I’ll go yet!’ she protested and this time he laughed aloud.

  ‘Oh yes you have, ducks,’ he said. He flicked his forefinger at his forehead to tip an imaginary hat and went, leaving her more pleased than irritated — and that of course was irritating in itself.

  5

  ‘The Plaice To Be’ in Leman Street was bursting at the seams with people when they got there. It was a raw night with the reek of the river thick and acrid in their nostrils, quite overwhelming the usual diesel stink of the traffic, and she’d been glad of the snug half-hour they’d spent at the Crown and Anchor to start the evening. She had ordered gin and tonic — an English drink she’d learned to prefer to the New York Martinis that had once been her choice — and he had sunk a couple of half-pints of best bitter while they had talked easily and a little lazily of the world news as seen on the TV at the end of the bar, arguing amiably over the rival merits of CNN and the British service, while the chill of the day seeped out of her bones and she began to feel a deep sense of wellbeing. Now, as they reached the brightly lit front of the fish-and-chip shop and restaurant that was the pride of Gus’s fleet she felt even more warmed, and that made her feel warm towards him, too.

  ‘It looks great, Gus,’ she said as they pushed open the door and went in. And indeed it did. The large plate windows were engraved thickly in the old public-house fashion, but only around the edges; passers-by could still see in easily to the great bank of glittering chrome fryers and the bustling staff in their natty blue-and-white outfits with anchors and mermaids embroidered over the left breast. Beyond them in the interior were the tables with their blue-and-white gingham cloths and striped blue-and-white china, and the vast fish tank at the back in which gaudily coloured tropical fish swam in aristocratic splendour, clearly unworried by the fate of their humbler cousins who, encased in the crispest of batters, were being slapped down on the tables before hungry eaters. It all looked extremely inviting, and she was happy to tell him so. ‘You ought to be really proud of it.’

  ‘I am,’ Gus said and beamed as one of the waitresses spotted him and darted over to fuss them to a table bang in the middle of the restaurant. ‘Wotcha, Kitty. Like the new uniforms, do you?’

  ‘Dead fancy, Guv,’ the girl said. ‘Bit snug, mind you,’ and she wriggled a little as she pulled the tight skirt down over her neat round bottom.

  Gus leered. ‘I’m not daft, girl. I make sure they’re so tight so’s you won’t eat me outa business. And it makes a nice view for the customers, don’t it?’

  “N’t ‘e a right MCP, Dr B.?’ the girl said, but without any rancour. ‘You ought to teach ‘im better ways.’

  ‘I’ve tried,’ George said and sat down. ‘I thought you were at the Watney Street shop, Kitty?’

  ‘I was. But ‘e’s bin and gone and made me manager ‘ere.’ She jerked her head at Gus. ‘Shown a bit o’ sense, eh? Well, what’ll it be, Guv? The ‘alibut’s a treat and Dave said as how he’s got a lovely piece o’ turbot if anyone special comes in. You’re special, I s’pose, so if that’s your fancy —’

  ‘Keep the turbot to sell to the bookies. They’ve got the big money for it. We’ll have the ‘alibut, eh, Dr B.? Will that suit you?’

  ‘Cor, what a tight wad!’ Kitty said and leaned over to rearrange the already perfectly set knives and forks and to swish at the spotless tablecloth with her napkin. ‘Tell ‘im you want the turbot, Dr B.’

  ‘I think I will,’ George said.

  The girl grinned at her as Gus threw his eyes up in mock consternation and then said, ‘And an order of jellied eels, too. The really big ones from Tubby’s. Give some to Dr B. —’

  ‘I won’t eat them,’ George said, grimacing.

  ‘— and a plate o’ prawns in case I can’t tempt her. Oh, and a bottle of the Sancerre.’

  Kitty went and Gus watched her appreciatively. George shook her head at him in only partially mocking despair. ‘You really are an unreconstructed —’ she began but he held up both hands in surrender.

  ‘I’m everythin’ you ever said or thought a man could be, ducky, so let’s not waste our time listin’ my faults. All right, then. Do you like the way the place looks?’

  ‘I told you I did.’

  ‘Then I’ll do it exactly the same way next time.’

  She raised her brows. ‘Next time? Are you making all of them glitzy like this?’

  ‘Not all of ‘em. The ones over at Bethnal Green — down Cambridge Heath Road and the other one down by Roman Road — I’ll leave them alone. The locals like ‘em the way they are. But I might open a new one over at Bow. There’s a nice little property there, just past Mile End station in Bow Road, that’d make me a good bit o’ profit, I reckon. There’s a doner kebab place over the road, but that’s about it in the way of competition.’

  ‘How many places have you got now, Gus?’

  He looked away and if she hadn’t known him better she’d have thought him rather shy, suddenly.

  ‘Um — nine,’ he said.

  ‘Nine? That was some business your father left you.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t leave ‘em all to me!’ Gus said, losing his diffidence. ‘He had six. It was me what started the others.’

  She set her head to one side and looked at him with genuine curiosity. ‘I never could quite work it out. Why are you still a policeman? These shops must be worth a lot of money.’

  ‘If a villain got me tomorrow, I’d cut up for the best part of a million,’ he said, and grinned widely, his pride transparent and glittering.

  ‘Why not settle for that? Why work your butt off for what can’t be a lot of money, when you could be concentrating on being a sucessful tycoon? You’re obviously good at it if you’ve added another three shops to what you were left — how long ago was it?’

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘Yeah. Four years. So why are you —’

  ‘Oh, Dr B., do stop talkin’ a lot of tosh!’ he said. ‘I might as well ask you why you’re workin’ as a forensic bloody pathologist down here in Shadwell when with your looks and your style you could get yourself some fancy rooms up in Harley Street, set up as a specialist and make more money than you’ve ever seen, and get half the headaches.’

  ‘But there aren’t any Harley Street pathologists,’ she said. ‘At least not my sort.’

  ‘You’re dodgin’ the point. Purposely, probably, knowin’ you. You could be another sort of specialist, couldn’t you? If you wanted to? The sort that makes money. But that is the point. You don’t want to. You love the job you do, don’t you?’

  She thought for a moment and then said, ‘I suppose so. It’s complicated, of course, and dealing with some of the new NHS rules, especially about money, is like walking over a wet ploughed field in high-heeled shoes, but I suppose it’s what I want to do.’

  ‘So there you are. I’m the same. I love the job. For me it’s the Force or nothing. When the old boy kicked the bucket I thought I’d just sell up what he left and have the cash, but he’d been as crazy about his fish and chips as I am about bein’ a copper, so I couldn’t do it to him, poor old bugger. He’d ha’ come back to haunt me if I had, anyway. So I just run it all in tandem. It’s not that tough. Not when you’ve got girls as good as Kitty.’ And he leered at the waitress who had arrived with the jellied eels and prawns.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s as maybe,’ she said amiably. ‘Listen, Dr B. you try some of these eels. See? I’ve took ‘em out o’ the jelly and set ‘em on lettuce, like, so they looks nicer. Give it a go. A drop of vinegar on ‘em, and you’ll see. They’ve a taste you’ll be sorry you used to miss out on.’

  ‘Oh, forget it, Kitty,’ Gus said as he reached for the vinegar a
nd liberally doused his own large bowlful of eels, nestling in a heap of pallid transparent jelly from which George averted her eyes. ‘She’s not up to takin’ chances, this one. I’ve been tryin’ for ages. Waste of breath.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ Kitty said. ‘You bin shoutin’ at her, I dare say. She’ll try ‘em for me. There you are, Dr B.’ She set the plate in front of her and George looked at it, thinking the small pieces of silvery fish looked very similar to pickled herring, which she adored. Maybe they wouldn’t be so bad after all — and it’d be nice to give in to Kitty after having refused Gus’s blandishments for so long.

  She picked up her fork and without stopping to worry about it speared a piece of fish and put it in her mouth, afraid she’d want to spit it out, but determined to show Gus how wrong he was about her. And to her surprise found the taste delectable. She winked at Kitty and ate another piece with genuine relish.

  ‘Watch out for bones,’ Kitty said. ‘They’re bleedin’ sharp. You can spit ‘em out — it’s all right. Everyone does. Enjoy the rest. I’ll go an’ get the ‘alibut and, yeah, your turbot.’ And she laughed at Gus and went.

  The rest of their meal went by contentedly as Gus protested at her willingness to please Kitty by trying the eels after refusing him and they both enjoyed their fried fish and the chips, which arrived in a great pile of whispering crispness. By the time they’d reached the bread-and-butter pudding (which Gus insisted on ordering even though George knew she couldn’t manage another mouthful and then ate half a bowlful) they were as contented with each other as if they had been friends for years, instead of only sometimes edgy colleagues for barely — she stopped to work it out — eleven months.

  Almost to her own surprise, she said as much. ‘I feel as though I’ve been here in Shadwell a hell of a long time,’ she said. ‘But it’s not even a year yet.’