Second Opinion

by Claire Rayner

  ‘Let’s face it, Cherry,’ she said quietly. ‘We can’t know who might be involved in this, can we? The less we talk the better. We’ll try to remember again later. Right now, let’s see if there’s anyone in the office. If there isn’t, what I need is the address of the Popodopoulos family. Can you find it?’

  ‘When was she in here?’ Cherry was business-like again.

  ‘It was in the little red notebook,’ George said and closed her own eyes to summon up a memory of the scribbled dates on the first page. ‘First of December it was, the day that baby died. So she’d have been admitted on —’

  ‘It won’t take a moment on the computer,’ Cherry said and moved along the corridor with George close behind her, making their way past the usual groups of chattering mothers, some with their babies cradled in the crooks of their arms, trying to be as unnoticed as possible.

  The office was empty. Cherry darted in and had the Chowdary file stowed safely back in its place in no time. Then as George looked over her shoulder to check, Cherry slid into the chair behind the rather battered computer on the far table, and began tapping keys.

  ‘How do you spell it?’ she asked. ‘Popo — what?’ George rattled off the letters as Cherry hit keys and then peered at her screen. ‘Just round the corner really. One five three five Lansdowne House, on the Shadwell Estate.’

  ‘Fifteen thirty-five,’ George said, committing it to memory. ‘Lansdowne House.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Cherry said. ‘Anything else you need?’

  ‘Phone number?’ George said hopefully and again Cherry punched keys and then shook her head.

  ‘Not listed. Might be in the phone book.’

  ‘I’ll go there.’ George was talking more to herself than to Cherry. ‘I’ll just go right there and not tell them I’m coming. It’s worth the risk of there being no one at home.’

  ‘You’ll probably have a hell of a climb when you get there,’ Cherry said helpfully. ‘If it’s like most of the blocks of flats around here, the lifts’ll be out of order and you’ll have to climb up. All fifteen floors.’

  To George’s intense relief, Cherry had been too pessimistic. The lifts were working, but she had to admit it would have been more agreeable perhaps to have climbed the stairs, even though the Popodopoulos family lived so high up. The lift cage stank of old tobacco, cats and human urine and the floor was littered with garbage, while the walls were covered in some remarkably obscene but totally unamusing graffiti. Even the buttons on the call panel were sticky to the touch. Her heart sank as she imagined what lay ahead of her.

  But the Popodopoulos flat was warm and welcoming and beautiful. The child who came to the door, a stunningly beautiful boy of about seven, with a head covered in rich black curls and eyes to match, grinned at her when she asked for Mrs Popodopoulos and went back inside, leaving the door open behind him, which she accepted as an invitation to come in. The narrow hallway inside was carpeted in deep crimson, the walls were hung with so many pictures it was almost impossible to see any wallpaper behind them and it led into a sizeable room that seemed to George to be stuffed with richly polished and plumply upholstered furniture, people who were almost as well upholstered and smells of food so strong they were almost like solids hitting her in the face.

  There were five women sitting at the table, all as dark as the boy who had answered the door, and all turned handsome enquiring faces to her as she came in. The boy returned to the TV set he’d been watching with another child and turned up the sound. One of the women, clearly his mother for she shared his particular brand of handsomeness, leaned over and turned the sound down again without for a moment taking her eyes off George. The boy muttered but settled down to watch quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Popodopoulos said. ‘Can I help you?’

  George went straight in as she had done with Mr Chowdary. It had worked then. Why not now?

  ‘I’m the pathologist at Old East,’ she said. ‘Dr Barnabas. I’m — I — was most upset when your baby died, Mrs Popodopoulos,’ she said. ‘I offer you my condolences.’

  The five women were all suddenly very still and silent so that the TV set seemed all at once to be loud. They said nothing and just stared down at the table.

  George caught her breath, very aware of Mrs Popodopoulos’s eyes fixed on her. She wanted to glance away to avoid that direct look of — what? Pain was too simple a word. There was depth of loss in her gaze that made the back of George’s neck crawl with pity and a sort of shared sensation of misery. But she held her gaze firm and looked at the handsome woman sitting there at her table with her hands crossed on the red plush cloth that covered it.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Popodopoulos said at last. ‘I appreciate that.’ She bowed her head with dignity and the other women relaxed. One of them put her hand on Mrs Popodopoulos’s shoulder and another started to murmur softly in a sort of comfortable croon.

  ‘I want to do more than that,’ George said, now emboldened. ‘I want to find out why your baby died.’

  ‘My son died of a cot death,’ Mrs Popodopoulos said.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Ann Powell.’

  ‘Ann Powell?’

  ‘My midwife.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ George shook her head. ‘I don’t deny that was what she was told. It was the only diagnosis I could make. It was my — it was up to me to …’ She let the words drift away and knew they understood. One of them shrank back a little, staring at her with huge dark eyes and George tried to see herself through those eyes; a woman who cut up dead babies, who pried into such dreadful matters, what sort of woman was that? She made herself look away from the staring eyes and back at Helen Popodopoulos.

  ‘I don’t like that diagnosis,’ she said. ‘It isn’t — it isn’t enough.’

  Helen stared and seemed for the first time aware that George was still standing in the doorway. She got to her feet with a surge of energy that made them all jump up and start to bustle.

  ‘I am ashamed. I have offered you no chair, no refreshments. Please take off your coat. It’s warm in here. And you’ll take some coffee, yes? And a little baklava perhaps, or …’

  Chattering busily she divested George of her coat, who was glad for it was indeed warm in this crowded room. One of the others went off to the kitchen and returned rapidly with a small cup filled with thick, very hot and very fragrant coffee and a plate of honeyed baklava pastry. George was tempted, but decided not to accept. Talking on such a matter with her mouth full would not be right. The coffee tasted good, however, and she sipped it gratefully as Helen Popodopoulos came to the sofa where she had been ensconced and sat beside her.

  ‘Well, now. You think there was something else I should know about my baby son?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ George set down her cup and saucer on the little table beside the richly upholstered sofa arm. ‘I can’t lie to you, I just can’t tell you more. I’m acting on a — I just have a suspicion that all is not as I — we have been led to believe. Mrs Popo —’

  ‘Call me Helen,’ the other woman said. She held out a hand and took George’s in it. ‘You are a good woman, doctor. I appreciate your coming here. It was a dreadful loss. I have already two sons, but this one was just as precious, just —’ She swallowed and shook her head and her eyes were glittering with tears. But she shed none.

  ‘I’m certain he was. And I pray that one day — well, who knows. But I must ask you, Mrs — Helen, do you have a photograph of your lost son? I mean, before he died?’

  Again the room shivered into stillness, only the sound of the children’s TV breaking it. They seemed totally unaware of the conversation of the adults around them and for that George was grateful.

  After a long pause Helen said, ‘My husband was very distressed. Very. A man and his sons — you understand.’

  ‘A man and his children? Of course,’ George said. She shouldn’t have made the distinction, not to a grieving woman, but she had been unable to stop herself and Helen l
ooked at her sharply and for a moment her lips curled into a smile.

  ‘Yes, well, you are not, of course, Cypriot. You don’t understand our ways. Let me just say, he could not bear the thought of a photograph once our baby was dead. To him it was a sacrilege. A picture of a dead baby.’

  George felt the plunge of her hopes as a physical thing, a hard thump in her chest and she caught her breath and closed her eyes for a moment to mark her disappointment. When she opened them again Helen was looking at her with a slightly quizzical expression on her face.

  ‘That does not mean to say there is no photograph,’ she said softly. ‘I am a Cypriot woman and we women have our own ways and our own friends.’

  She looked over her shoulder briefly at one of the other women at the table. ‘Arianna, she took one for me. I wanted it and at that time Kostakis did not mind. He did not have a camera, but Arianna did. And she is, after all, my cousin.’

  George’s mouth was dry with anticipation. ‘May I see it?’

  ‘Gladly,’ Helen said. ‘I trust you, of course, not to mention this to Kostakis, should you ever speak to him.’

  ‘Of course not,’ George said. ‘If that is what you wish.’

  ‘It is what I wish,’ Helen Popodopoulos said gravely, and nodded at the woman at the table. Arianna got to her feet and went across the room to pick up her leather handbag. She brought it back to George and took out a small envelope, stiffened with cardboard and unmarked.

  With slippery fingers George pulled the picture from its folds.

  ‘I took it almost as soon as he was born,’ Arianna said. Her voice was husky with remembered emotion. ‘I was so excited. He was such a lovely boy and so — well, you can see. But once he was dead Kostakis wanted it burned up. He did not want ever to see it again, to remember the boy who died before he lived.’ She looked over her shoulder at the three silent women at the table. ‘We could not bear that. So we keep it.’

  George turned the picture over and looked, and the dryness in her mouth increased and her throat constricted too as she concentrated. Because now she knew what had happened to those babies. Of that she was sure. She knew what had happened. Not how or why, but what.

  23

  ‘I know what happened,’ George said. ‘Not how or why, but what.’

  There was a long silence at the other end of the phone, and then Gus said carefully, ‘Was this the notion you had Christmas afternoon? The hunch?’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ she said, with a sudden lift of exhilaration. It was good to be able to tell him how she felt, and not to hide anything. ‘I just wanted to check first.’

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ he said. ‘Believe me, you could have trusted me not to — well, let it be. Just make me a promise.’

  ‘Depends what it is.’ She laughed as she said it.

  ‘Don’t play the coquette with me, ducks. It’s not your style or mine. Just promise me that in future you’ll stop playing secrets. We’re a team, ain’t we? Just tell me what’s going on, no matter what.’

  She hesitated. ‘I promise, I’ll try. Will that do?’

  He was silent again and she was alarmed. Had she upset him? Hurt his feelings? It was important to her suddenly that she should never do that. Yet at the same time, she had to hold on to herself, to her freedom to do what she had to do. She held her breath, waiting for his response. And then relaxed when he said, ‘OK, ducks. I’ll settle for that. Can’t do anything else, can I? All right, let’s get on. Out with it. You say you know what happened. What?’

  ‘The babies. The cot deaths, so called.’

  ‘Humph,’ he said. ‘You’ve got evidence?’

  She looked down at the photograph on her desk. ‘I think it’s evidence,’ she said. ‘If you took me into court and asked me to swear to it on oath, I would.’

  ‘Good enough,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to tell you now?’ She was startled. In his shoes she couldn’t have borne not being told immediately.

  ‘I’d rather look at the evidence at the same time as I hear the words,’ he said. ‘Anyway, any excuse to see you … Give me fifteen minutes.’

  The dialling tone buzzed in her ear, and slowly she recradled the phone, still looking down at the photograph. Perhaps, she thought, she ought not to look at it too often. If she did, she might blur her memory; and she closed her eyes and deliberately summoned up the image of the Popodopoulos baby lying on her dissection table in the mortuary. It took a moment or two, which alarmed her a little, but then it worked, and she could see it all clearly: the table; Danny out of the corner of her memory’s eye preparing viscera for the scales; the sound of rain on the roof. She’d forgotten till now that it had been raining that morning. She opened her eyes again, relieved. There was no doubt; she could go into court and swear it, if she had to.

  Sheila put her head round her office door to say goodnight, putting on her my-God-I’m-so-exhausted face, even managing to look drawn and white. An excellent actress, Sheila.

  ‘I’ll get those oncology slides finally sorted by tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And the regional lab said to let you know that the figures for last year’s cervical smears are on their way. They’re sorry they’re later than usual.’

  ‘Thank you, Sheila,’ George said. ‘Sorry you’re so pushed at the moment. I’m not exactly sitting around myself, mind you.’

  ‘No,’ said Sheila tartly. ‘I’m sure.’ She withdrew her head leaving George feeling thoroughly irritated and a little guilty. There was no doubt that she did lean a good deal on Sheila while she rushed around being a detective, which wasn’t really part of her job description. But after all, why shouldn’t she? It still was work, and she wasn’t taking time off the way some hospital consultants did for private practice or the improvement of a golf handicap. And then she felt guilty again, for thinking harsh thoughts about her colleagues. It wasn’t easy, she decided, having any sort of conscience when you worked in a hospital.

  By the time Gus arrived she’d made a pot of coffee and was sitting waiting at her desk, the photograph carefully stowed back in its envelope. She couldn’t resist a little bit of theatricality, she thought, and then was amused with herself. It wouldn’t be theatrical to him, dammit; he’d never seen the child with his own eyes so the photograph would mean nothing to him. She took it out of the envelope and propped it up against her phone.

  He came in in a flurry of cold air, bringing the smell of the dank December street and the river in with him. She watched with a sense of deep pleasure as he shrugged out of his old overcoat and loosened his tie before delving into the shabby plastic bag he was carrying and bringing out a square white box with a flourish.

  ‘Grodzinski’s,’ he announced with great satisfaction. ‘Best pâtisserie in the East End. You got the coffee ready? Good girl. Here’s the strudel.’

  He opened the box and put slices of pastry on to the two paper plates which he also fished out of the plastic bag. George laughed as he pushed it in front of her, together with a plastic fork to eat it with.

  ‘You must live in fear of imminent starvation,’ she said. ‘Whenever I see you you’re fetching food offerings. You filled our fridge with an amazing amount of stuff on Christmas Day. Bridget showed me. It wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘Shut up and eat up,’ he said amiably. ‘O’ course it’s necessary. A man who neglects his stomach neglects life. As Dr Johnson once said.’

  ‘I doubt he said precisely that.’ George tried a piece of the strudel as he busied himself with the coffee tray. It was delectable and she ate another forkful as he pushed her coffee in front of her.

  ‘See what I mean? Get the grub right and the rest falls into place. Now, tell me all about it. You can talk with your mouth full, I don’t mind.’

  He started on his own strudel as she finished hers and dropped the paper plate in the waste-paper basket.

  ‘No need. Now, listen. I went to see Mrs Popodopoulos this afternoon.’

  ‘Mrs Who? Should
I know?’

  ‘Huh! Some memory you’ve got. Hers was the third baby which died. The one I did the post-mortem on. I didn’t do the others, remember, because I was off sick.’

  ‘I haven’t asked.’ He was all compunction. ‘How is it?’

  ‘What? Oh.’ She looked down at her left hand. ‘It’s fine. I forgot about it, so I suppose it’s fine. Are you listening?’

  He had finished his pastry and was now looking at her with a deliberately soulful expression on his face. ‘I’d rather be sittin’ on your floor beside your sofa while your Ma and Bridget sleep,’ he said. ‘That beats talkin’.’

  ‘Shut up and listen.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m listenin’. All ears, that’s me. So, you went to see the woman whose baby died. Why?’

  She made a little face. ‘It’ll sound kinda crazy, but it was partly you taking us to the Players Theatre, and partly something that was on TV on Christmas Day.’

  ‘You were watching TV?’ he said reproachfully. ‘And here was I thinkin’ you were concentratin’ on me.’

  ‘I told you to shut up about that. Anyway, you remember. Ma woke suddenly and sang a line from that damned “Raggle-taggle Gypsies” song she’d heard at the Players and there was stuff on the programme about the children in Romanian orphanages.’

  ‘Yes.’ His attention had sharpened now; the laughter had gone from him. He was watching her face closely as she talked, and that made her feel a little flustered, but she ploughed on.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t only that. I have to say I’d been to see the Chowdarys too. She wasn’t there, but he was — Viv — and he showed me a photograph of his dead baby. It had been taken at the moment of birth, not when it had died. It was a bit messy, but I thought I saw a naevus on it — a sort of birthmark. It looks a bit like a strawberry and on that picture I thought there was one across the chest. He confirmed it. Said he’d noticed and asked about it but they’d reassured him — anyway, the thing is, there was no mention of any naevus on the PM report. And the locum they had for me, he was a reasonably efficient guy, from his reports.’