A Dead Man in Malta (3 page)

Except for the Malti. Which you didn’t hear. And which came up only in the name of biscuits and cakes.

And there was another thing that puzzled him, too. The instructions at the port where they had docked had not been written in English. They had been in Arabic. Not in Arabic script but in an English translation of them. ‘
Stanna sweya
,’ for instance. ‘Stand to one side.’ Was this for the benefit of visiting Arabs? he had asked. They had laughed at him as if he were mad. ‘Maltese,’ he had thought they had said; ‘Malti,’ he now realized, was what they had probably said. Had Malti some relation to Arabic? Arabic roots, or something?

He had wondered this at the port and he had wondered this again in the hospital, when he had seen the signs again. On the face of it the hospital was as English as English could be. But underneath?

Chapter Two

The German, Kiesewetter, had been put in a small room next to the nurses’ office. Not in a ward.

‘There was no need of that,’ said the Maltese doctor. ‘He hadn’t, strictly speaking, been admitted. We were just putting him in for an hour or two where we could keep an eye on him. You know, to see there were no delayed symptoms. I told him we would keep him in for an hour or two and then he could go. I told him to make the most of it and have a snooze.

‘“Snooze?” he said. “What is this snooze? I will take no unauthorized medication.”

‘“No, no,” I said. “It’s not medication. It’s sleep. A short sleep.”

‘“But I do not want a sleep,” he said. “I want to see if my balloon is all right.”

‘“It’s been brought in,” I said. “The police are looking at it.”

‘“The police?” he said. “Why the police?”

‘“I expect they want to see why it came down,” I said.

‘“What is that to do with them?” he said. “Are they experts? A mechanic, yes, that I could understand.”

‘“I expect they’ve got mechanics,” I said.

‘“Ballooning mechanics?” he said. “Perhaps mechanic is not the right word. Technician, yes, that is the word. It is specialist. Yes, specialist. Specialist in balloons. I do not want ignorant oafs clambering over my balloon. People who know nothing about it. They will damage it. It costs much, a balloon.”

‘“I am sure they will take great care,” I said.

‘“It would be better if they left it alone. There are technicians back at Launch. I have my own technicians, of course. A team, yes? Specialist, all specialists. They are the ones to look at it. Not ignorant oafs, Policemen!” he said scathingly.

‘“I am sure you will very shortly be reunited with your balloon,” I said. “It will, meanwhile, be receiving expert care. What I am concerned about is that you should receive expert care, too.”

‘“But I do not need expert care,” he said. “I am all right. Cannot you understand this?”

‘“I very much hope that you are,” I said. “I would just like to make sure.”

‘“But you have seen over me. Seen over—is that right? Overseen?”

‘“Look over,” I said. “Yes, I have looked you over. But sometimes effects don’t show themselves at once. On the back, for instance.”

‘“Back? My back is all right.”

‘But I could see that this worried him.

‘“Is it?” I said. “Any stiffness, for instance?”

‘“Well, perhaps a little,” he confessed. “But, then, my back is always like that. Always stiff, yes? A little.”

‘“Sometimes the effects of a jolt to the back don’t emerge at once,” I said. “Let’s just make sure.”

‘Well, he went on huffing and puffing and complaining and in the end I said to him: “Look, Mr Kiesewetter, you’re an expert on balloons, right?”

‘“Right? Yes, that is right.”

‘“You know all about them, and on balloons I would not dream of contradicting you. But I, too, am an expert. On injuries and illnesses. If your balloon had landed heavily, you would want to check it. Well, you have landed heavily and I want to check you.”

‘Well, he saw the logic. Or perhaps it was the appeal to authority that did it. Anyway, he subsided, grumbling. But then he shot up again.

‘“Where is it?” he said.

‘“The balloon? Brought in to the quayside by Bighi.”

‘“Is there a guard on it?”

‘“I expect so.”

‘“There must be! It must be placed at once. You must instruct the police so.”

‘“I’m sure it has been done, but I’ll check it at once.”

‘He settled down, and I was just on the point of leaving when he jumped up again.

‘“Boys!” he cried. “Boys!”

‘“What?”

‘“They’re the worst. They put their hands on it!”

‘“Not if there’s a guard on it.”

‘“But is there? Is there? There will be boys. There are always boys. They come from nowhere. If there is a hole, they will put their fingers in it. They will tear it to pieces!” ‘“No, no,” I said. “I’ll take care of that.”

‘Eventually, he quietened down. But it made me think that perhaps I was right to keep him in for a bit. “Boys!” he kept muttering, as I went down the corridor.’

The doctors used the room when they were on night shift. The nurses in the office adjoining would wake them if they were needed. The nurses rarely used it themselves. If they were on night shift they were usually working and there was no lying down. There were fewer nurses on duty and they were busy all the time, mostly patrolling the wards.

On the other hand they did use the office. They returned to it after every patrol to see if something had come up in their absence which required action. If no immediate action was necessary they would seize the chance to sit down and perhaps make themselves a cup of coffee or tea. It was hard being on your feet all night.

In the daytime there were more nurses around and there were usually two or three in the office. It was easy, therefore, to keep an eye on someone in the little room next door.

At least, it should have been.

Should have been?

There was a connecting door between the rooms which was normally kept open. For most of the time the German had been there it had been closed because they had thought their chatter might disturb him. But every so often one of them had looked in.

Where was the difficulty, then?

Every time they had looked in he had snapped at them. Quite rudely. So they had left him to it for a while. When they had looked in again he seemed to have fallen asleep. In what position?

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said one of the nurses, a tall, striking girl named Melinda.

Seymour was taken aback.

‘When I looked in,’ said the tall girl, ‘he was lying on his side with his face turned away. But he was breathing. Right? I checked. That was what I was looking
for
. Right?’ What was all this about?

‘And when I looked in the next time he was lying on his back. And he was dead. And it was nothing to do with the position in which he had been lying.’

After a moment he got it. She was referring to Mrs Wynne-Gurr, whose charges had evidently stung deep.

‘That was not in my mind at all,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I was merely trying to establish the time of death.’

‘You were?’ said the tall girl suspiciously. ‘Oh, well, it would have been sometime between three thirty and four thirty.’

‘And you saw at once—?’

‘You can tell. When you’ve had a bit of experience.’

Seymour had had plenty of experience: but that was not quite the same thing. He usually saw a body when it had been dead for some time.

‘And what did you do?’

‘Tried to resuscitate. And sent for Dr Docato.’

‘And what did he do?’

‘Joined me in trying to resuscitate. But after a while we could tell that it was useless.’

‘What was his reaction?’

‘He was surprised. Puzzled, I think. You could tell he was puzzled because, well, you could see him thinking. He just stood there, going through the possibilities. Eventually he shrugged and sent for the porters.’

‘And what about you: were you puzzled?’

‘I?’ She seemed surprised.

‘Yes. What did you think?’

‘I don’t think,’ she said. ‘I’m just a nurse.’

Seymour went into the other room. There was another door and he went across and tried it.

‘It’s locked,’ said Melinda, who had followed him in. ‘It’s usually open, but we lock it when there’s someone in there trying to get a sleep.’

‘And was it locked on this occasion?’

‘Yes. Especially after the German had snapped at us.’

‘And what did you do with the key?’

‘Put it back on the board.’

She showed him. On the wall in the nurses’ office was a board hung with keys.

‘This one,’ she said.

‘And is there another one?’

‘In the porters’ office.’

‘So someone could have used that to get in?’

‘They could,’ she acknowledged. ‘But why—?’

She stopped.

‘I see,’ she said.

Seymour smiled.

‘I think nurses do think,’ he said.

The porters’ office was next to Reception. There were two porters.

‘And that’s a mistake,’ said the one who was there. ‘There ought to be three. I keep telling them that. You need someone to man the office when the others are out. And they’re usually out, because most of what we have to do is a two-man lift.’

‘What do you have to do?’

‘Carry things about. Usually bodies. And that’s another mistake, because that work ought to be done by the mortuary people.’

‘You move other people about, too,’ said Melinda, who had gone with Seymour to show him where the porters’ office was. ‘When they have to change wards. Or go to a unit.’

‘I don’t mind that,’ said the porter. ‘That is the nature of the job. But even that requires two men. You might not think it, but it does. Just to get into a wheelchair. You’ve got to take their weight, you see. And you don’t want to do that on your own, not if you want to save your back. You’ve got to think of these things, otherwise your back will go and you’ll be of no use to anybody.’

‘Stop whinging, Berto,’ said Melinda.

‘You’d whinge if you—’

‘Bollocks!’ said Melinda. ‘I’m lifting people all the time. Or moving them. Turning them over.’

‘And that’s another thing,’ said Berto. ‘These nurses! They’ve got no respect and no sense.’

‘But we do love you, Berto. You and Umberto. Berto and Umberto—they go together. A two-man whinge! And we couldn’t manage without you, could we? The hospital would seize up.’

‘I take back my remark about them having no sense.’

Seymour laughed. ‘And you’re out and about most of the time, I guess?’

‘Oh, we’re kept busy!’

‘And while you’re out the office must be unmanned and anyone could get in?’

‘They could.’

‘And help themselves to a key?’

‘Now, wait a minute! They’re not supposed to do that—’

‘Do you keep a record of your jobs?’

‘When people book us, we write that down. So’s we know.’

‘And so that you can always claim you’re doing something else when we want you to do something,’ said Melinda.

‘Melinda, I’m going to have a word with your mother—’

Melinda laughed.

‘They’re quite systematic, really,’ she said.

‘Could I see how you book jobs in?’ asked Seymour.

‘How, and when,’ said Melinda.

She didn’t miss much, thought Seymour.

He looked at their bookings for the afternoon the German had died and, yes, they had been out of their office for considerable periods.

‘Can I have a look?’ asked Melinda.

‘Are you setting out to move into Work Study or something?’ demanded Berto.

‘I’m like Dr Malia: I think things could always be improved,’ said Melinda.

‘Malia: that daft old bugger!’ said Berto.

‘So someone could have got in and taken the key,’ said Melinda, handing the log-book back to Seymour.

‘No they couldn’t,’ said Berto unexpectedly—he was another one, thought Seymour, who was sharper than at first sight. ‘Because if they had tried it, they’d have Laura up their ass!’

‘Laura?’ said Seymour.

Laura was the receptionist. She was a middle-aged lady with her hair tied up tightly in a bun and sharp shrewd eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I keep an eye on things when they’re out. And I wouldn’t let anyone in there. What business would anyone have in the porters’ office by themselves?’

‘Delivering a package?’ suggested Seymour.

‘They would deliver it to me,’ said Laura firmly.

From her position at the Reception desk she had a good view of the door into the porters’ office: and also of the general entrance into the rest of the hospital.

‘What is the policy about visitors?’ asked Seymour.

‘Most of them are sailors,’ said Laura. ‘This is a naval hospital,’ she added with pride.

‘And they can come and go pretty freely?’

‘They just have to sign in.’

She showed Seymour the book. Many of them, a little self-consciously, had given their rank. Some, however, had not given their name at all, just putting down the name of their ship.

‘I know all the ships,’ said Laura. ‘If I needed to, I could pretty soon find out who it was.’

‘Not all of them are sailors,’ said Seymour.

‘We do take some general patients as well. Most of them are local.’

‘And they sign in, too?’

‘Yes.’

She showed him.

‘Just their names,’ said Seymour.

‘I don’t need anything else. They all come from around Bighi and I know their families.’

‘What about strangers?’

‘They have to give their addresses, look!’

And there, written in a neat, firm hand, was: ‘Philippa Wynne-Gurr.’ And, just beneath it, more casually: ‘Dr Wynne-Gurr’ with the address of a hotel.

‘And son?’ inquired Seymour.

‘The boy? Had to be with his father. I wasn’t having him wandering around the wards. Nor in the units, with all that equipment!’

‘Dr Malia?’

‘Oh, him! Well, he’s always roaming around. But he signs in, like everyone else. Just as he used to. On the doctors’ pages. He used to work here, you know. He’s part of the furniture.’

‘So you could tell me who was in the hospital on the afternoon of the eighteenth?’

‘The day the German died?’

Here was another one who was pretty sharp.

‘Yes.’

She turned over the pages.

‘Can I just make a note of the names?’

‘I will write them down for you.’

Seymour could see that she was a lady who liked to have everything under her control.

‘Thank you. And this would be pretty comprehensive, would it?’

‘The name of anyone who entered the hospital that afternoon would be here, if that’s what you mean.’

Seymour looked at the book again. ‘Except that there’s no record of Mr Kiesewetter’s arrival.’

‘There is.’ She showed him. ‘Kiesewetter. To A and E.’

‘He would have been taken straight there,’ said Melinda. ‘After Laura had booked him in.’

‘And then he would have booked in again,’ said Laura triumphantly. She looked sternly at Melinda. ‘I hope.’

Melinda nodded. ‘He would.’

‘My guess is, though, that when he arrived, a lot of people arrived with him,’ said Seymour.