An Empty Death (33 page)

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Authors: Laura Wilson

BOOK: An Empty Death
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‘Now . . .’ Stratton glanced around the room and, seeing no other chair and not wanting to loom over poor Miss Lynn, leant awkwardly against the nearest slab, which - thank Christ - was bare. ‘What time did you enter Dr Byrne’s office?’
‘I think it must have been about five-and-twenty past eight. That’s my usual time.’
‘And he was lying on the floor?’
‘Yes. He was just . . .’ Miss Lynn shuddered. ‘Well, you saw him.’
‘He was flat on his back, was he?’
‘Oh, yes. I didn’t touch him.’
‘But you could see that he was dead? Not just fallen over, or knocked out?’
‘I thought he was. I see quite a lot of dead people in my job, Inspector. I know how they look.’ This was said with dignity and authority and Stratton saw no reason to disbelieve it.
‘Was there anything near him?’
‘There was a syringe on the floor . . . And his keys.’
‘Where were the keys?’
‘Beside the rug. About a foot away from his head. On the same side as the door.’
That, thought Stratton, meant that Higgs, as well as picking up the syringe, must have inadvertently kicked the keys into the corner. Or possibly Dr Ransome had, and in the commotion it wasn’t noticed. He wondered if it was possible for someone leaving the office to slide the keys back under the door. ‘Did you touch anything?’ he asked.
Miss Lynn thought for a moment, then said, ‘No. No, I’m sure I didn’t.’
‘Did you see a note?’
Miss Lynn shook her head.
‘Did you look round the room? At the desk?’
‘Briefly, I suppose. I must have done. I just remember turning round and going straight back out.’
‘And then?’
‘I went into the mortuary and told Higgs, and he went in, and then he fetched Dr Ransome.’
‘Did you re-enter the office?’
Miss Lynn shook her head. ‘I stayed in the corridor. I thought I should wait until Higgs returned, in case anyone else came in and saw Dr Byrne.’
‘Quite right. And did anyone else come?’
‘No. I didn’t see anybody.’
‘Now, I’m afraid I do have to ask this - did you have any reason to think that Dr Byrne was a habitual taker of any sort of drug?’
Miss Lynn’s eyes widened in shock. ‘There was absolutely nothing like that. Nothing at all.’
‘Do you think you would have recognised it if there had been?’ Miss Lynn looked affronted. ‘I do realise,’ Stratton continued gently, ‘that it’s very unlikely, but please think carefully.’
‘Well . . . I certainly would have known if he had been injecting himself, because there would have been marks on his arms. This isn’t a very clean job, Inspector, and one finds oneself in all sorts of unpleasant places. I’ve seen Dr Byrne roll up his sleeves, and wash his hands and arms on many occasions.’
‘Of course. But if he’d been taking something in a liquid form? Drinking it?’
‘I’m sure I would have known. I can assure you I never noticed anything untoward about Dr Byrne’s behaviour. He was absolutely dedicated to his work.’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton. Seeing that some affirmation of this was needed, he added, quite truthfully, ‘We’ll all miss him. Were you with him yesterday?’
‘Yes, all day.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘Half-past six.’
‘And you took your key home?’
‘Yes. I always do.’
‘How did Dr Byrne seem yesterday?’
‘The same as usual. We were very busy, and . . . no, there was nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘How long have you - had you - worked for Dr Byrne?’
‘Almost five years, Inspector. I believe that I knew him as well as anyone - except his late wife, of course. He wasn’t somebody who showed his feelings.’
‘Was he upset at his wife’s death?’
‘Well, of course. He loved her very much. But he never allowed it to interfere with his work. It’s probably too soon to ask, Inspector, but do you know who’s going to be performing the post-mortem?’
‘Not yet, no. One of his colleagues, I should think. From the Home Office.’
‘It’s just . . .’ Miss Lynn hesitated.
‘Yes?’ prompted Stratton.
‘Well . . .’ The secretary screwed up her face in an expression of discomfort. ‘He told me once . . . He said that he had a nightmare, sometimes, about dying suddenly and Professor Manning being asked to perform the post-mortem. I’m afraid Dr Byrne thought that the way he conducted his work was . . . well, rather slapdash.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ll see what I can do about that. Not,’ Stratton added hastily, ‘that I can promise anything.’
‘I understand. But thank you. I know that it would mean a great deal to him. I know . . . well, that he could seem rather abrupt sometimes, in his manner, but he was a kind man. When my mother died, he was so understanding . . . I’ll never forget it.’
 
Stratton reflected, as he went to the cubicle that contained the mortuary telephone and asked to be put through to West End Central, that he’d often wondered what went on inside the head of a cold fish like Byrne - clearly, as he’d begun to suspect, there was far more to him, both in terms of imagination and of empathy, than he’d ever imagined. And the business about Professor Manning was, he thought, definitely an argument against Byrne committing suicide - at least, not without leaving very specific instructions.
If it was murder, that brought the total up to three: first a doctor, then a nurse, and now the pathologist. Try as he might, he couldn’t see how they could possibly be connected other than by happening to work in the same hospital. Three different methods, and none of the victims, apparently, knew each other well in life . . . Yes, Fay Marchant had been seeing Dr Reynolds, but she wasn’t connected to the others, was she? Except that he’d seen her in the mortuary corridor on the night of Byrne’s death. But why on earth should she want to strangle Nurse Leadbetter? Even if Leadbetter had known about her and Dr Reynolds, and was proposing to tell him about it, adultery, whatever else it might be, wasn’t a crime . . . and besides, if that was so, Fay must have guessed, given the speed that rumours got about the hospital, that Leadbetter wasn’t the only one who’d noticed something untoward going on. Stratton shook his head: it ought to add up, but it didn’t - not at all.
Forty-One
‘
A
re you sure about this, Stratton?’ A ‘No. sir. But I think we should be sure. He did ask to speak to me urgently, sir.’
‘And then he apparently went home.’
‘That’s the point, sir. I don’t think he left the hospital.’
DCI Lamb sighed gustily. ‘I’ll send someone over, and we’ll telephone the Yard for Fingerprints. Try and be discreet, will you?’
Stratton suppressed an image of himself stampeding down the corridor tearing at his clothes and yelling ‘Murder!’ at the top of his voice. Aloud, he said, ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘Good. Anything else?’
‘We’ll need a pathologist, sir.’
‘Pathologist?’
‘He can hardly perform a post-mortem on himself, sir.’
‘I know that,’ snapped Lamb. ‘We’ll arrange something.’
‘I don’t know if it’s possible, sir,’ said Stratton, ‘but I understand from Dr Byrne’s secretary that he and Professor Manning didn’t exactly hit it off, so it might be more suitable . . . if there’s anyone else available . . .’
‘For God’s sake! The man’s dead, isn’t he? He’s not going to know anything about it.’
‘I know, sir, but all the same . . .’
‘You’ll get whoever’s available. We can’t ask everyone to change their plans at the whim of some wretched typist.’
 
Stratton couldn’t help imagining an interview with Lamb at some future date, should he prove to be wrong about Byrne’s death, with himself chewing on an enormous helping of humble pie. Bollocks to that, he thought, accepting a thick china cup of tepid tea from Higgs. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to.
He telephoned Ballard and asked him to contact the air force and locate Byrne’s son, then asked Miss Lynn to show him the post-mortem results from the previous few days. There was nothing of note in the way of botched abortions, infanticides or anything else, which seemed to put paid to the idea that Byrne had telephoned him about a recent suspicious death.
‘How would Dr Byrne get access to drugs or poisons?’ he asked Miss Lynn. ‘Assuming that you don’t keep anything down here.’
‘He’d have to go to the dispensary,’ said Miss Lynn. ‘For morphine, or something like that, he’d have to sign the book. But he wouldn’t have any reason,’ she gestured towards the covered bodies, ‘to request it.’
Stratton was making a note to enquire further about this when a knock on the door announced Professor Haycraft: sparse wispy hair, skewed spectacles set so far down his nose that they seemed to be pinching his nostrils closed, and an air of disengagement. Stratton was not surprised when, at the end of the explanation, Haycraft asked, with the tentative air of a bystander, ‘Is there anything you would like me to do?’
‘Well, I think we should wait for the pathologist’s report - we’re arranging for someone to come and do the post-mortem as soon as possible. Depending on that, we may or may not have to interview the staff—’
‘Again?’
‘I’m afraid so - if it proves necessary. And of course - without wishing to be brutal - you’ll need to hire another pathologist.’
Haycraft looked round at the sheeted figures as if he’d only just noticed them. ‘Oh, dear. Yes, yes, of course. Well, I’ll leave it in your capable hands. And I’m sure you can appreciate that we’d prefer this not to become, shall we say, widely known, especially if there’s no necessity to investigate, and so forth . . . Coming on top of the other matters . . . I’m sure you understand what I mean.’
‘Of course, Professor,’ said Stratton, wishing to Christ that everyone would stop treating the whole thing as if it was somehow his fault.
 
Ten minutes later, Arliss - it would be - trudged in and duly stationed himself outside Dr Byrne’s office, where, as soon as he thought Stratton’s back was turned, he appeared to fall asleep on his feet. Arliss was followed, in remarkably short order, by an extremely apprehensive-looking doctor, who looked, to Stratton, like a schoolboy just grown out of short trousers.
‘Can we help you?’ enquired Stratton.
The man cleared his long throat. ‘Ferguson, to see Dr Byrne. I was sent from Guy’s. I came as soon as I could - is he here?’
Bloody hell, thought Stratton. ‘Still in his office. I’m Detective Inspector Stratton,’ he said, offering his hand.
Ferguson took a step back. ‘I don’t understand. What’s this about?’
‘Didn’t they tell you?’
Ferguson shook his head. ‘They just said to get here as soon as possible.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Stratton, as gently as he could, ‘that Dr Byrne is dead. We need you to examine him.’
Ferguson turned pale and ran a nervous hand through his hair. ‘But . . . He can’t . . . I mean, I can’t . . . I . . . Look, Inspector, Dr Byrne taught me. He’s . . . It should be someone senior, someone more . . .’ He gave Stratton a pleading look.
‘It needs to be done immediately,’ said Stratton. ‘You’ll have Higgs to assist you.’
Higgs, who had been staring at Ferguson with undisguised horror, now looked down at his shoes. Miss Lynn clutched Stratton’s arm. ‘Inspector, you don’t want . . . I mean, I can’t . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ Stratton assured her. To Ferguson he said, ‘Can you manage without a secretary?’
Ferguson swallowed audibly and turned to Miss Lynn. ‘You worked for him?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was . . . his lectures . . . Marvellous. That’s why I decided to work in this field.’
‘Well, I think that’s most appropriate, and I’m sure Dr Byrne would agree,’ said Stratton, briskly. ‘This way, please. You’ll need to examine the body before it’s moved.’
Ferguson blinked. ‘Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.’
Arliss, who, Stratton noticed, had yellow crusts of sleep at the corners of his eyes, stood aside to let them enter Byrne’s office. Ferguson, who went in first, took one look at the prone figure of Byrne, and turned back to Stratton, his eyes imploring. ‘I . . .’
Stratton shook his head and pulled the door shut behind him.
Ferguson’s Adam’s apple convulsed. ‘I . . . Oh, God . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ said Stratton. ‘I’ll stay with you.’
‘Thank you. Well . . . Here goes, eh?’ He took a notebook out of his jacket pocket and knelt down beside the body.
Stratton gave a brief summary of the situation, and then, fearing a repetition of his conversation with Dr Ransome, only more so, and deciding that a break with etiquette was in order, said firmly, ‘There’s a syringe on the desk. If you look at his left arm, you’ll see that he seems to have injected himself - or been injected - with something. We’re going to need a full toxicology report.’

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