Sharp scratch, p.12
Sharp Scratch, page 12
She needed to find Room 7. Back in the office a porter delivered the report from Payroll. She took the pale green computer printout to the privacy of the interview room and unfolded its concertina pages across the table. All the relevant names had been listed but none was credible as Rose’s lover.
At eleven she had an appointment with Lynn, the deputy medical records officer, to discuss the vacancy left by Rose. She found her sitting around a table with three other clerks. Lynn was a gabby redhead of about thirty-five who made it clear she resented her upgrade to manager.
‘I can’t stop,’ she complained, looking up from clipping papers into an awkward springy clasp. ‘I came in this morning to find records chucked all over the floor. Security isn’t interested because nothing’s missing.’
‘So what do you think happened?’ Lorraine asked, inspecting the mess made by the removal of a whole shelf of files.
‘How should I know? That shelf over there was pulled right out.’
Lorraine picked up a random folder that, according to the cardboard cover, contained the medical history of ‘Herman Woods’.
‘Lynn, I need to speak to you alone.’
A few moments later they both sat on opposite sides of Rose’s former desk. Trying to project relaxed friendliness, Lorraine said, ‘Rose wanted to speak to me about something very personal the day she died but it didn’t ever happen. Do you have any idea what it might have been?’
Lynn’s hand shot to cover her mouth. ‘Oh God. This is about her being murdered, isn’t it? She was seeing someone, wasn’t she?’
‘It’s one possibility,’ she said casually.
Lynn’s hard eyes watched her, weighing something up. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had been carrying on.’
Lorraine nodded in encouragement until Lynn spoke again.
‘She wasn’t happy at home. I think some men could tell – that, you know, she was available. Mr McClung, the engineer, was always hanging around her. She put up with his daftness but I don’t think he got anywhere.’
‘She confided in you?’
‘Well, I could tell when she was fed up. If she talked to anyone I’d say it was Miss Jardine. I suppose being a nurse, she knew best how to advise her.’
Lorraine felt a momentary pang that Rose had confided in the chief nurse rather than herself. Then she dismissed the idea that Mike had been involved. ‘You said “men”, so not just Mr McClung? Did someone called “Chris” figure at all?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Or a room she had a key to?’
‘No.’
‘Have you heard of “Williams” or “Will-something”? A name or a place?’
‘No, I can’t help you. But Doctor Strang and Rose were often at loggerheads. Is his name William? You know what they say about sparks making a fire and all that?’
‘It’s Victor.’ She paused, trying to picture Rose with the acerbic consultant, but couldn’t. ‘Anyway, let me know if you think of anything. And I’ll place the advert for the manager’s job in the journal next week.’
On her way out she took another look at the scattered files that were slowly being reassembled. ‘So which letters of the alphabet were pulled out?’ she asked the nearest filing clerk.
‘There didn’t seem to be no rhyme nor reason,’ a plump woman replied. ‘It were only from the end of the alphabet: some of the Vs and most of the Ws.’
Lorraine inspected the shelf that was too high up the wall to reach without a step. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing missing?’
‘Not a page. A few got a bit crumpled, but thank God not a single record has gone missing.’
‘Did they include “W-I”? Williams and so on?’
‘Yeah.’
Lorraine mentally reviewed any other surnames she knew from the end of the alphabet.
‘Have you got my assistant’s file? Edith Woodbridge?’
One of the filing clerks rifled through the pile on the table and handed it to her. It was a notably thin file and Lorraine didn’t open it.
‘So was that file disturbed?’
‘It were one of the ones thrown on the floor, yeah.’
It was a day when no one would leave her alone. On the way back to Personnel, a domestic assistant harangued her about missing overtime payments. Then a physio reminded her she hadn’t yet sent out the new pay scales. At last she sighted the open door to Personnel and called out to Edith, ‘Would you take a look at Mary Greenhalgh’s overtime please?’
She stopped short to see her assistant perched on the edge of her desk, her face raised coquettishly towards a man. He had his back to her and his fingers were touching Edith’s shoulder. A second glance revealed he was wearing a porter’s jacket. The dyed silver hair was the final giveaway.
‘Edith!’ she barked. ‘Get back to work.’
She jumped off her perch like a frightened bird and scurried back behind her desk.
‘Don’t you have a job to go to?’ she said, as Rikki didn’t move away.
He kept his cool, which was more than she could manage. ‘Come off it, Lorraine. Even porters get tea breaks.’
That casual use of her first name stoked her anger. ‘You were touching her,’ she insisted.
Rikki turned an unruffled grin in her direction. ‘And which law does that break?’
‘My own personal law, which says you don’t play creepy little games with work colleagues.’
‘I only ask,’ Rikki said casually, ‘because you could always check the law with that policeman standing behind you.’
She turned to look. Unseen behind her back, Diaz was all eyes, watching from the open door.
‘I am asking you to leave,’ she said to Rikki. Edith didn’t look up from where she was blushing violently behind her desk.
As soon as Rikki had gone, Diaz stepped inside. ‘Am I interrupting something?’
‘Not at all. You’ve got great timing,’ she said. ‘In fact, I need a word. In private.’
Diaz followed Lorraine as she climbed the stairs up from Personnel to a door that looked like a cleaner’s cupboard. He had to bend low beneath the lintel to reach a further cramped set of stairs that rose high above the hospital’s entrance. At the top he followed her into a shabby cube of a room that he realised was the inside of the Italianate clock tower. He was surrounded by unfaced stone, grey from the passage of time. Against one wall was a short metal ladder that ascended to the wheels and cogs of the clock mechanism.
‘Like something out of The 39 Steps,’ he said, looking around. On three of the walls the interior disc of the tower’s clock face gleamed, taller than a man. Mirror-reversed images of large Roman numerals shone through. The clock didn’t seem to be running so the air was dead still.
Lorraine sat down on a rough wooden bench. She nodded agreement but was obviously narked.
He lit a ciggie without asking if he was allowed. The flame from his lighter flared up like a fire in a cave and then the shadows returned.
‘So what was going on down there?’ he asked, exhaling slowly.
She was watching him, her head leaning back against the stone wall, appraising him so hard he could feel a current coming off her.
‘That porter’s making a nuisance of himself.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Eric Fryer. Edith appointed him last week. A mistake.’
‘Is he breaking the law?’
She winced. ‘He’s on the edge. She’s very young for her age.’
The devil in him decided to needle her. ‘And you don’t allow relationships at work?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘Relationships at work equal problems: jealousy, favouritism, fallout when it all inevitably ends. If colleagues get frisky, I say – throw a bucket of cold water over them.’
‘OK, OK.’ An amused guffaw escaped him. Then, remembering he was on duty, he rapidly assumed a scowl.
‘Actually, have you questioned him?’ she asked. ‘Eric Fryer. You should. He was here at the hospital the day Rose died, though he wasn’t even working here then. He came in to apply for the job. I noticed the date stamp on his application form. And he has a history of being a nuisance to women.’
‘I’ll look into him. You had any more thoughts about those tests?’
‘Maybe.’ She folded her arms protectively across her middle. ‘Have you interviewed Phil Cavanagh?’
‘Course.’ Actually, Brunt had questioned him but Diaz had studied the statement. Cavanagh had been at work all that day, so it wasn’t clear how he could have switched the propofol. He’d have needed an accomplice. Could it have been Lorraine herself, Rose’s best workmate?
A prickle of suspicion prompted him to ask, ‘And you’ve had a chat with him, obviously.’
‘I went to a Mass in her memory. He told me Rose had been behaving oddly. He suspects an affair. It does tie in with her wanting to talk to me in confidence. And why someone wanted to shut her up.’
‘Who was she seeing?’
‘Rose’s husband overheard her arguing on the phone, getting upset. Speaking to someone called Chris or maybe Christian. He said he’d told Brunt all about it.’
Flaming Brunt – that hadn’t figured in the statement. The DCI only heard what he wanted to hear, which, at the moment, seemed confined to anything iffy about Raj Patel.
‘I’ve checked the payroll for “Chris” or anything similar,’ she continued. ‘There’s no one at all likely. Just sixty-five-year-old Christopher Jenkins in the lab and a Chris Ross, a fourteen-year-old schoolboy on work experience. Oh, and a Christine Baker, a fifty-nine-year-old domestic who I think we can also discount. So maybe this Chris or Christian is a personal friend?’
‘Right.’ This was a lot of information she was divulging. The FBI articles said you could sometimes spot a perpetrator because they tried too hard to help the police.
‘He seems sincere,’ she said. ‘Phil, that is.’
It was Phil now, was it? ‘Well, we can’t rely on hearsay.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose you think he’s to blame because he was her husband.’
Diaz sighed. ‘It is a fact that women are far more likely to be killed by their partners than a stranger. Especially if the woman tries to finish the relationship.’
‘God, I hope you’re wrong.’ She looked completely stricken. She was probably thinking about the little lad again. Well, at least he’d got some therapy arranged for the boy. He’d have liked to tell Quick about it but reckoned he’d already shared too much.
‘Look, I get that you’re trying to help, but it’s hard evidence I need,’ he said instead, sounding overly harsh.
She shot him a stony glance. ‘Right. But I suppose you still want my soft personality testing skills?’
Jesus, he’d fallen into that one. ‘Well. Yeah.’
She folded her arms and looked away. Finally, she said, ‘Look, I’ll help you in any way I can but I can’t share the test results. I checked with my tutor. If I do, she’ll report me to the Psychological Society. Can’t you get a police psychologist or someone to do it for you?’
‘Brunt would no more pay for a psychologist than a witch doctor.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s not ethical.’
‘And what about Rose? Is it ethical to let someone get away with killing her? Come on, I know you want to help.’
‘You really do hassle people, don’t you?’
‘Help me then.’
She jerked her chin up abruptly and sighed. What she said next startled him. ‘I might help. If you give me my Filofax back.’
‘What? It’s all bagged up in the station.’
‘Can’t you get it out? Or can’t someone just lose it?’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
He gave a groan of frustration. ‘I can’t pull something like that out of the evidence room. It could destroy the whole case. You’re a key witness. I can’t let you contaminate the evidence.’
Lorraine exhaled as if the weight of the world had just sunk onto her shoulders.
‘So what’s all this about?’ he asked, making an effort to speak more gently.
She pressed her fingers to her brow. She looked up at him beseechingly. ‘Please can you give me my diary back?’
He shook his head.
She stood up. They were a similar height and for a few seconds he really looked at her, studying the contours of her face, his breathing shallow. Their gazes momentarily connected. The next moment she hurried off with a hurt expression. He hung back in the gloom, smoking another fag. He liked this weird tower room; it was good for thinking, like the silent eye at the heart of a hurricane. Emergencies and crises might be erupting only yards away, yet here the air stood still.
Well, there was only one way to sort the bugger out. He dropped the butt on the floor and stamped on it, wondering what he’d find. As soon as he had a minute, he’d go to the evidence room and take a dekko inside Miss Quick’s Filofax.
Memory Disturbances
Question 25: There are times when I have trouble remembering recent events or the things I have done.
A. Often
B. Occasionally
C. Never
High score description (option A.): Periods of memory loss more severe than usual forgetfulness, finding self in unusual places, memory blanks.
I was as high as a kite when I walked out of Brunt’s office. For twenty entertaining minutes I’d been amused by that dyspeptic old duffer hammering away with questions so far off the truth it was hilarious.
I headed for my office and reached for my keys. Then it hit me. They were too light in my hand. Back at my desk I inspected them. The heaviest keys, the couple belonging to Room 7, were missing. They were Christie’s old guestroom keys from years ago, still on their labelled ring. One of them opened the back door into the kitchen, and the other, a small iron mortice, gave access to Room 7 itself. True, I’d had a niggling sensation my keys had been light for a few days. Had they worked themselves loose? Where the hell had they got to? My memory failed me.
It was well after five before I managed to get over to Christie’s house. The old place hardly looked inviting these days: two gaunt upper storeys loomed above me, the windows blinded by dirty nets. I stepped cautiously into the yard. Twisting tree roots were shoving aside the paving stones, the outgrowths of those specimens that masked the back of the house.
At least I still had my own anonymous Yale, so I got myself inside the back door.
‘Christie!’ I stood at the bottom of the stairs, yelling. ‘Have you taken the key to Room 7?’
No answer. I checked the key hook on the kitchen wall. Room 7’s key wasn’t there either. In itself, it wasn’t a catastrophe, for like all prying landladies Mrs Wilkins had boasted of a spare set of master keys. True, I hadn’t seen them in years, but they had to be around somewhere.
I strode to the stairs again. ‘Christie!’
She might well sulk. I ran upstairs, flicking on light switches, though the bulbs in those gloomy passages were as weak as water. There was fust and mustiness everywhere. I couldn’t remember the last time it had been cleaned.
She wasn’t in her room. Well, she wasn’t a prisoner. Every now and then she wandered off and was surprised to find herself in unexpected places.
‘I’m not surprised you’ve scarpered,’ I shouted into the void. ‘After all this upset. You wouldn’t believe the fuss your antics have caused.’
I went back downstairs to look for the master keys, but I couldn’t think where they might be in any of a dozen drawers. Time was passing – it was night outside – and now I’d got a sudden itch to make the most of Christie’s being away and her whole little empire to play in. I ran my fingertips over the keys on the kitchen hooks again, then picked up the one for the basement.
Swinging the key in my hand, I descended the stairway with a burst of pleasant anticipation. I unlocked the Treatment Room and then groaning with relief, I reclined on the couch. God help me, I was tight in my deltoids, my neck was sore, I needed to forget what had happened and take a mental break. I took off my left shoe and set up the injection. Track marks need to be well hidden when you work in the field. In the glass cabinet a torn carton told me that just as I’d guessed, Christie had raided the propofol. There was still plenty left, and a lovely old cannula I wanted to try out, quite the museum piece. I slipped on the rubber tourniquet and palpated a nice springy vein. Milk of amnesia they call it. An emulsion as chalky as the antacid in those blue bottles of Milk of Magnesia, but something else entirely. A nice brisk scratch – boy, those needles were bigger in the bad old days. A jet of fire raced up my leg. One, five, ten seconds. Then I swam into that cloudy stream …
I woke gradually. Sleep still lapped at my consciousness, as warm and woozy as an isolation tank. I wondered for a while, Who am I? What is this life I’m forced to live? Then I remembered Rose and that she was gone for ever. I felt more inconvenienced than angry. Until those last few days I’d been enjoying our encounters.
I became aware of a presence moving above me. A momentary obliteration of the bare light bulb. All was well. Christie was here. She came to me, gazing down on me like an angel, her expression all tender forgiveness.
‘Come along now. Time to wake up,’ she murmured. I drifted, feeling so happy, while she tidied up the injection site and then gently tapped my hand.
Reluctantly I let her help me sit up. I slumped against the cracked leather, watching her move around me with all the grace of a trained nurse. She fetched a glass of water and we didn’t even talk about Rose’s death. It felt too painful to draw attention to the crime. Whatever those gasbag therapists say, there’s no point in talking about unpleasantness. Best forget it. Instead, I gently warned her.
‘Be careful, won’t you? The police are investigating some incidents at the hospital. So if anyone calls round here, don’t answer the door.’
She stared at me blankly as if she had no idea what I was talking about. She can be crafty like that.
