An Empty Death (36 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
Unlike the others, the fourth photograph had not been posed - nobody in it was looking towards the camera, but all seemed intent on something (presumably a body) below the bottom of the picture: Higgs, Byrne, Miss Lynn (seated off to the right), and another man, seen in profile, looking quite similar to the blurred image from the third photograph. Perhaps Byrne had thrust them underneath the blotter for safekeeping, but in that case, why not put them away in a drawer? Unless he wanted to hide them from someone coming in . . . But why? And why wipe the desk?
Stratton glanced at the backs of the photographs, but nothing was written there. He didn’t think that the unidentified man looked very much like Reynolds. There was the moustache, for one thing, and the hair didn’t seem dark enough. Opening the door, he went to speak to Miss Lynn, who was still sitting forlornly in the corridor, under the eye of Arliss, who was occupying himself by rotating his little fingers in his ears. When Stratton glared at him, he removed his fingers, sniffed them, and wiped them on the front of his tunic. Muttering, ‘Give me strength,’ Stratton went over to summon Miss Lynn, who reluctantly accompanied him into the office.
‘What can you tell me about these?’ asked Stratton, proffering the photographs.
‘They were for Dr Byrne’s book.’
‘A textbook?’
Miss Lynn shook her head. ‘A book about his work. For the layman. He’d been making some notes. That one,’ she pointed at the picture of Byrne and herself, ‘was taken in this office. You can see the edge of the bookcase on the right.’
‘What about the others? Who’s this?’ Stratton pointed at the blurred figure.
Miss Lynn peered at it for a moment, then said, ‘Todd. He used to work here.’ Pointing at the man shown in profile in the fourth photograph, she said, ‘That’s him as well.’ She gave Stratton a wan smile. ‘I don’t think he liked being photographed much.’
Stratton remembered Higgs saying that Todd had left the day after that poor nurse was killed. Had Todd murdered her and Byrne somehow discovered it? Was that why the photographs were hiding there? But if that were the case, why had Byrne waited so long to tell him about it (assuming that was why he’d telephoned)? And how would Todd know that Byrne knew? Had Byrne, for some reason, told him, and been killed for his pains? It didn’t make sense. Also, why hadn’t Todd fled immediately after killing Leadbetter? Ballard hadn’t mentioned anyone not turning up for interview. He made a mental note to check with the sergeant.
Miss Lynn contemplated the photographs in silence for a moment, then said, sadly, ‘He’ll never finish his book, now . . .’
‘No,’ agreed Stratton. ‘Do you have his home address?’
‘I’ll copy it for you.’ Miss Lynn opened one of the drawers and pulled out a file. ‘Would you mind,’ she asked, when she’d finished writing, ‘if I kept the photographs?’
‘I think,’ said Stratton, ‘that I ought to hang onto them for the time being, just to be on the safe side.’ Seeing the look of resigned disappointment on Miss Lynn’s face, he added, ‘But if the photographer has the negatives, perhaps you could ask him for copies.’
Miss Lynn handed over the address. ‘I think I shall,’ she said. ‘I’d like something to remember him by.’
Forty-Four
D
acre dressed himself mechanically, then stood in front of the mirror, gingerly splashing his bruised face with water and wondering if he dared go back to the hospital. After last night’s unqualified disaster, he could feel an abyss opening up beneath him, dark and dangerous. Awaking from a tangle of gruesome, confused nightmares, he had a sense of an empty life in empty time, stretching out over days, months, years, until the day came when he looked in the mirror and could not see himself at all, in any version . . . The compass of his instinct, usually so reliable, was veering wildly between taking flight or risking confrontation by returning to the Middlesex. Burying his head in his wet hands, he shook it to and fro trying to rid himself of doubt, and then, suddenly reminded of the warm dampness of Byrne’s mouth against his palm, jerked his face away with a shudder of horror and grabbed the threadbare towel that hung limply from the horse to scour himself dry.
acre dressed himself mechanically, then stood in front of the mirror, gingerly splashing his bruised face with water and wondering if he dared go back to the hospital. After last night’s unqualified disaster, he could feel an abyss opening up beneath him, dark and dangerous. Awaking from a tangle of gruesome, confused nightmares, he had a sense of an empty life in empty time, stretching out over days, months, years, until the day came when he looked in the mirror and could not see himself at all, in any version . . . The compass of his instinct, usually so reliable, was veering wildly between taking flight or risking confrontation by returning to the Middlesex. Burying his head in his wet hands, he shook it to and fro trying to rid himself of doubt, and then, suddenly reminded of the warm dampness of Byrne’s mouth against his palm, jerked his face away with a shudder of horror and grabbed the threadbare towel that hung limply from the horse to scour himself dry.
If he was going to run away, why had he not done so the previous night? He’d had the chance. He could simply have carried on walking . . . Which would have meant, of course, leaving everything behind. No. He’d done the right thing by staying - if Byrne were dead, taking flight would look highly suspicious. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath.
Fay, or at least the thought of her, had helped him last night, hadn’t she? Somehow, she’d seemed to personify his intuition, like a beacon, and it was only as Dr Dacre that he could hope to have her. Besides which, he thought, whatever - and whoever - else I may be, I am not a coward.
Already late, he took the stairs two at a time, and rushed out into the street. He could make it in ten minutes, if he hurried. Byrne could not possibly have survived. He’d checked the toxicology book, hadn’t he? Unless, of course, Higgs had had some reason to go into the office . . . He thought back to his own nights on duty in the mortuary - he’d never needed to go in the office, but all the same . . . He repeated these things to himself all the way down the Euston Road, but still his resolve faltered, and by the time he’d got to Fitzrovia he no longer felt sure.
He slowed and stood, indecisive, on the corner of Howland Street. That ARP man from last night knew his name, didn’t he? Or Dacre’s name, anyway. Supposing they issued a likeness of him and he recognised it? The light from the mobile canteen had been pretty dim, but . . .
He leapt a foot in the air as a firm hand clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Dacre?’
Spinning round, he saw Wemyss grinning at him. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to catch you off guard. What are you doing out here?’
‘Just . . . Rather late, I’m afraid. Bit of a junket last night.’ Dacre grinned apologetically. ‘Bottle party.’
Wemyss inspected his bruised temple. ‘Must have been quite a night.’
‘I got that in Casualty.’
‘Patient cut up rough, did they?’
‘Something like that.’
‘But that’s not why you’re twitching, is it? Nothing like knowing the right people. Well, you’ve missed quite a hoo-ha.’
‘Hoo-ha? Why?’
‘Well, I’m sure Ransome will fill you in on the details, but it’s Byrne. Poor chap was found dead in his office this morning.’
Dacre felt his insides turn liquid with relief, but managed to convert his queasy smile into a concerned stare quickly enough for Wemyss not to notice. ‘Byrne?’
‘You obviously haven’t killed anyone yet. He is - or rather, he was - our esteemed pathologist.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not sure. There’s talk of a drug overdose. Doesn’t sound very likely, but I suppose it’s possible. Two doctors in two months, eh? Not to mention that nurse. Talk about bad luck.’
‘What are you doing out here, anyway?’ asked Dacre.
‘Tobacconist. Place is in an uproar - most of the nurses seem to think we’re all going to be murdered, one by one - so I thought I’d just nip out.’ Wemyss patted his pocket.
‘Come on, then.’ Dacre started in the direction of the Middlesex with Wemyss alongside. In the bubble of his relief, he barely listened as Wemyss told him about the rumours that were buzzing round the hospital.
‘. . . one of our probationers got herself all worked up and started wailing about a maniac going round killing the staff. The sister had to slap her. She was in quite a bate about it, I can tell . . . You all right, old man? You look a bit . . . well, queer.’
‘Sorry. Bit of a thick head, that’s all.’
‘As long as you enjoyed yourself. Oh, and you probably don’t know this either, but somebody lobbed a bomb at Hitler.’
‘Good for them,’ said Dacre.
‘Missed, unfortunately - but at least they tried. If you ask me, the Nazis are cracking up . . . You have got a nasty one, haven’t you? Hair of the dog, that’s what you need - better see if you can pinch some brandy . . .’
Despite Sister Radford’s best efforts, the Casualty Department was in chaos. The nurses were either on edge or unashamedly enjoying the drama, and there was an air of barely suppressed hysteria. Rows of patients sat waiting, and Dr Ransome was nowhere to be seen.
‘Thank goodness!’ said Sister Radford. ‘I thought perhaps - that business yesterday - your head . . .’
‘I am feeling a bit under the weather,’ said Dacre, glad of the excuse, ‘but really, it’s nothing to worry about. Who’s first?’
Sister Radford indicated an elderly man whose ankle was monstrously wrapped in what looked like a bedspread. ‘Ulcer.’
‘Right-oh.’
‘Before you go, Dr Dacre, I should tell you . . . There was rather a tragedy last night.’
‘So I gather. The pathologist, wasn’t it? I met Dr Wemyss on the way in, and he told me.’
Sister Radford, clearly relieved at not having to explain, said, ‘It’s all rather odd. I’ve told the nurses they’re not to discuss it, but after Dr Reynolds and poor Leadbetter . . . I’m sure you can imagine.’
‘Of course.’ Dacre looked sombre. ‘I’ll try and nip it in the bud. Doesn’t do to upset the patients.’ He smiled at her. ‘At least, not more than one has to.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. I knew you’d understand. Dr Ransome . . .’ Sister Radford’s voice fell to a whisper, ‘is downstairs. Apparently, they need his fingerprints.’
‘Fingerprints?’ said Dacre, alarmed. The big policeman must have come back to see Byrne first thing this morning. Although Dacre had guessed that enquiries would have to be made in the event of the pathologist’s death, he hadn’t envisaged anything like fingerprints. He tried to remember if he’d wiped everything. In any case, he told himself, there was no reason for them to want his prints - no-one had seen him go down to the mortuary . . . had they? ‘Why on earth do they need Dr Ransome’s fingerprints?’
‘He was the one who examined Dr Byrne. It’s the police - I suppose they have to be sure.’ Sister Radford sniffed. ‘Really, it’s all nonsense. I wish they’d leave - it’s giving rise to all sorts of stupid rumours . . .’ She appeared to lose her train of thought for a moment, then said, ‘You were speaking to him yesterday, weren’t you?’
Damn, thought Dacre. He’d been spotted. Playing for time, he put on a baffled expression and said, ‘Speaking to Dr Ransome?’
‘To Dr Byrne. I saw the two of you over by the door.’
Judging that this was being said in a prompting and not an accusing tone, Dacre said, in the voice of someone who has just recalled something important, ‘You’re quite right. I was talking to him, wasn’t I?’ Seeing that Sister Radford was expecting something more, he added, in a puzzled tone, ‘Of course, I hardly knew him, but he seemed perfectly all right.’
The sister, clearly torn between deference and curiosity, looked at him enquiringly. ‘We didn’t see him up here very often,’ she said, ‘and he’d obviously come specially to see you, so I just wondered . . .’
Dacre, who had been desperately racking his brains in preparation for this, said, with sudden inspiration, ‘It was about that testicular torsion. Mr Hambling told me it had to come off, and . . . Well,’ he gave Sister Radford an up-from-under look, ‘I felt I’d made rather a hash of things so I asked Dr Byrne if he wouldn’t mind taking a look at the dead testicle - just to clarify things in my own mind, really. I’d not come across one before, you see. I know it’s rather irregular, but I didn’t want to bother Dr Ransome.’
As he’d hoped, Sister Radford found this thirst for knowledge commendable. ‘Of course, Doctor. I quite understand.’
‘He was kind enough to give me his opinion,’ said Dacre. ‘Now . . .’ he looked round the crowded room, ‘I think I’d better make a start on these patients.’
Dacre, working with feverish concentration, had finished with the ulcerated leg and was examining a woman with what he thought was probably a broken wrist when Sister Radford put her head round the screen. ‘Dr Ransome’s back. He’d like a word with you.’
‘Very well. If you could arrange for Mrs . . . Atkins’s wrist to be X-rayed, I’ll come now.’
Dr Ransome’s owlish face was a congested maroon and his small round frame seemed to vibrate with annoyance. ‘There you are,’ he said, as Dacre approached. ‘You’re late.’
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