Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (43 page)
‘I’ve seen it in films.’ Dacre smiled, and added, ‘Oh, so you won’t talk, huh?’ in an approximation of an American accent.
Fay gave him a faint smile in return. ‘Well, something like that. I don’t particularly want to tell you this, because it doesn’t reflect very well on me, but I do want to be honest, so . . .’
Dacre opened his mouth to speak, but Fay held up a hand. ‘Please. Let me try . . . When Inspector Stratton asked me about the morphine, it was the third time he’d talked to me. He asked me to go back, you see, because . . . Well, because I was friendly with Dr Reynolds.’ Fay stopped to see how Dacre was taking this. ‘James? You look . . .’
Dacre felt as if he’d been hit. He swallowed. ‘Friendly with him?’
Fay flushed and looked down at her lap. ‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ Dacre stared at her, hardly aware of what he was saying, ‘I suppose it’s not surprising he took a fancy to you.’
‘Yes, but not right. He was married. I mean, properly.’
It flashed through Dacre’s mind that that explained Fay’s distressed look when he’d talked about knowing the difference between right and wrong. ‘We all make mistakes, Fay,’ he said, automatically. ‘I made one when I got married, and I made one last time I saw you. Nobody’s perfect. And a beautiful girl like you is bound to have more temptations put in her way than most.’
‘You’re being very kind, but . . .’ Pink-eyed now, Fay fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief, then said, ‘Excuse me,’ and left the table.
Alone and with a chance to think, Dacre found himself wanting to laugh. How ironic! Reynolds’s job and his girl! That really was stepping into a dead man’s shoes. He took another pull on his pint, then almost choked: If Reynolds had had Fay . . . The idea of it nauseated him. How could he find out? He could hardly ask her directly. It was better not to know. He’d put it out of his mind. He needed her to be fresh, as if she’d just stepped out of a box. His, and only his, and that was how she must remain. Anyway, Reynolds was dead, past, and did not matter because he was no longer a threat. However, if she confessed intimacy to him and was contrite, that would be no bad thing for the future - the moral high ground was harder to assail, and had a better view. Yes, Dacre thought, that was it: if that were the case, he would be magnanimous, and she would love him all the more for it. But he wouldn’t press her for information: he must establish himself in her mind as an understanding person, not a bully.
But supposing Inspector Stratton knew about it? The idea nearly made him choke again. That, potentially, could complicate things a great deal. Still, forewarned was forearmed. He’d have to find out.
‘All right now?’ he asked, as Fay, looking more composed, returned to the table.
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
‘No need to be.’
‘I hope you don’t think . . .’
‘. . . the worse of you?’ Dacre shook his head.
‘Because honestly, you couldn’t think worse of me than I do of myself. Having temptation put in your way is no excuse.’
‘You mustn’t think like that. It wasn’t your fault, Fay; Reynolds should have known better. That said, I doubt our friend the inspector would see it like that. You haven’t told him, have you?’
‘I had to,’ said Fay, miserably. ‘I wouldn’t have, but one of the other nurses noticed there was . . . well, something going on, and she told him about it. Then Dr Reynolds’s wife - I mean, his widow - she found a note from me in one of his pockets. He must have forgotten to throw it away . . . I felt so terrible about her knowing. I mean, it’s bad enough that he died, without that happening.’
‘How serious was it? Your friendship?’
‘Well, it was . . . quite. But we hadn’t talked about him leaving her or anything like that.’
‘Did you want him to?’
‘No! It was just having dinner, and drinks, and . . . you know the sort of thing. I liked the attention, but . . . Oh, it sounds terrible. There isn’t any way to excuse it. When he died, well, I’d broken it off by then, but I was very upset, and having to pretend I barely knew him . . . And Maddox - that’s the one who noticed the two of us together, she must have mentioned it to some of the others, and I’m terrified that Sister Bateman’ll find out, and what with that and the morphine, I’ll probably lose my job.’
Dacre put his hand over hers. ‘Fay, they’re looking for the morphine because of Dr Byrne, not Dr Reynolds. And I’m quite sure the inspector doesn’t think you had anything to do with either of their deaths, despite him knowing about your . . . friendship with Reynolds. I didn’t meant to alarm you, I just mean that policemen are paid to have suspicious minds.’
‘I met him in the mortuary corridor,’ said Fay, miserably. ‘The night before they found Dr Byrne.’
‘But—’ Dacre was so taken aback by this he almost said, ‘But I didn’t hear you,’ and hastily changed it to, ‘But what was he doing there?’
‘He said he had an appointment, so he must have been going to the mortuary. I mean, there wasn’t anywhere else he could have been going, except to the operating theatres. He asked me where I was going, and I told him - back to the nurses’ quarters. I’d just delivered something downstairs for Mr Hambling, you see, so I had to go that way. But he asked me about it again yesterday, and I don’t think he believes me.’
Dacre was thinking about the fact that Fay must have walked straight past the office just as he was pushing Byrne down onto his back - which must have been why he’d missed her footsteps, which, not being made by high heels, wouldn’t have made a telltale click-clack noise. ‘Did you hear anything? From Dr Byrne’s office, I mean.’
Fay shook her head. ‘Inspector Stratton asked me that. Not a thing.’
Reassured, Dacre squeezed Fay’s hand and said, ‘I’m sure he does believe you, you know. He’d have to be mad to think you could hurt anyone.’
‘How can you say that? You hardly know me.’
‘I know you well enough to know that.’
‘Look,’ said Fay, awkwardly, withdrawing her hand from his, ‘I’m sorry I burdened you with all this. None of it is your problem, and—’
‘Don’t, Fay, please. It may not be my problem, but I care about you. I know we’ve only met a couple of times, so we can’t be said to know each other well, but that isn’t how it feels. And I think you must feel the same way, or you wouldn’t have told me all this, would you?’
‘No. It’s quite a relief to tell someone, to be honest. Someone who’s not suspicious of me, I mean.’ The ghost of a grin flitted across Fay’s face.
‘That’s better. I’m sure none of this is as bad as you think.’
The smile faded. ‘I don’t know . . . It’s so horrible, being suspected, and . . .’
‘And . . . ?’ prompted Dacre, sensing that there was something else.
‘Oh . . .’ Fay’s eyes suddenly had a look of opacity, as if shuttered, and Dacre wondered what she’d been about to say. ‘It’s nothing,’ she continued. ‘I’m probably being silly. It makes you feel guilty, somehow, having all these policemen around.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Dacre, with feeling. ‘You feel like confessing everything you’ve ever done wrong, stealing pennies from your grandmother’s purse, or pinching your kid sister’s toy monkey . . .’
‘Have you got a kid sister?’
‘No, actually, I haven’t. Or a grandmother.’
‘I have. She’s in the ATS. My sister, I mean, not my grandmother. Though I’m sure she’d like to be.’ Fay chuckled.
‘Game, is she?’
‘Oh, yes. She organises sales of work for the Red Cross. She’s made lots of money - people don’t dare refuse.’
‘Come on,’ said Dacre, ‘drink up and I’ll walk you back. Don’t want you to get into any more trouble for sneaking in late, do we?’
‘Heavens, no,’ said Fay, ruefully. ‘That really would be a disaster.’
The walk back to the Middlesex was pleasant - a few distant bangs, but nothing to alarm them as, arm in arm, they followed the pinpoint light of Dacre’s torch down the pavements. They stopped outside the basement entry and stood facing each other.
‘May I kiss you?’ asked Dacre. ‘I promise I won’t do anything more than put my arms round you.’
Fay hesitated.
‘Please believe me, Fay,’ said Dacre. ‘We haven’t known each other long, but I care about you too much to jeopardise our friendship.’
Fay put her hands on Dacre’s shoulders and her face up to his, and let him kiss her on the mouth. Her lips were soft and slightly scented, and afterwards she stood quite still, not speaking. Her breath on his neck reminded him, for a fleeting moment, of the feel of Dr Byrne’s breath on his hand, and he drew back, repulsed.
‘What is it?’ she murmured.
‘Thought I heard someone.’
Fay listened for a moment, then said, ‘I can’t hear anything, but I’d better go in, just in case.’
‘Will the bathroom window be open?’
‘Oh, yes. We always leave it ajar.’
‘Good.’ Dacre kissed her again, this time on the cheek, and said, ‘Goodnight, Fay. Thank you for a lovely evening - and for confiding in me. Tomorrow will be a better day, I promise.’
‘You can’t promise that,’ whispered Fay. ‘You can only hope. Goodnight, James.’ She turned away, into the darkness.
Dacre walked slowly towards the Euston Road, where he decided he was tired enough to treat himself to a bus ride home. He sat in the gloom of the blacked-out vehicle, remembering Fay’s mouth on his. Stupid to think of Byrne and spoil it, when she was so lovely . . . Had he somehow known - deep in his unconscious - when he’d singled Fay out, that she was compromised by Reynolds? Had he picked up some signal from her that he wasn’t aware of? She said she’d broken it off before he died . . . perhaps that was because he was putting pressure on her to go to bed with him. That would make sense - look how she’d reacted to him in the Clarendon. Just as well Reynolds was dead, then. He wondered where she’d been on that night. The fact that she’d been so close, right in the mortuary corridor while he killed Byrne, was horrible. Surely the inspector couldn’t really suspect her?
She was innocent. She was Fay. And she made him feel real: a real person. Sometimes, ‘Dr Dacre’ seemed to him like a garment he was wearing, and at other times - as in Fay’s company tonight - Dacre became inseparable from himself, as if they had merged into a single entity. But now, here, Dacre seemed to alienate him from his real self, which seemed more pitiful and unworthy than ever. He hadn’t killed in the person of Dacre, had he? He’d killed so that he could go on being Dacre . . . And Fay’s feelings were for Dacre, not for him. And, if necessary, he’d kill again, to protect them both . . . No, to protect all three.
Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he almost jumped out of his seat, but it was only the clippie - who, both in looks and demeanour, could have been twin to the sour Regent’s Park barmaid - asking for his fare.
Fifty-One
C
olonel Forbes-James did not work at MI5’s headquarters, but ran his division, B5(b), from a flat in Dolphin Square, down the Thames from the Houses of Parliament. The following morning, Stratton went straight there, and, after crossing what was left of the garden, climbed the stairs, and was welcomed inside by a slender blonde telephonist. A different girl, he thought, from the one who’d been there four years before, but so similar in her haughty, glacial beauty that he could not be entirely certain. Forbes-James must have access to a job lot, he thought, sitting down to wait as bidden on a flimsy-looking gilt chair.
olonel Forbes-James did not work at MI5’s headquarters, but ran his division, B5(b), from a flat in Dolphin Square, down the Thames from the Houses of Parliament. The following morning, Stratton went straight there, and, after crossing what was left of the garden, climbed the stairs, and was welcomed inside by a slender blonde telephonist. A different girl, he thought, from the one who’d been there four years before, but so similar in her haughty, glacial beauty that he could not be entirely certain. Forbes-James must have access to a job lot, he thought, sitting down to wait as bidden on a flimsy-looking gilt chair.
He eyed the girl, surreptitiously, as she went to the little kitchen to fetch him a cup of tea. Her hair, upright carriage, the long, elegant legs in silk stockings and the merest whiff of expensive scent brought a painfully clear memory of Diana Calthrop, the beautiful agent with whom he’d worked in 1940. For a moment, he was tempted to stop the girl and ask Diana’s whereabouts, but decided that such a question might seem strange or even impertinent.
He closed his eyes for a moment, willing Diana to appear. Hearing the office door open, he opened them, hoping against hope . . . But it was Forbes-James who stood in the doorway.
‘Stratton - come in.’
The man before him was as dapper as Stratton remembered, and, except for the fact that his dark hair was beginning to grey at the temples, little changed. The round eyes, though still bright, looked wary. Standing back to allow him to pass, Forbes-James said, ‘You mentioned a missing person . . .’
‘That’s right, sir. I’m very grateful to you for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘Not at all. Do sit down - if you can find anywhere, that is.’
Forbes-James’s office was as chaotic as ever, with piles of paper stacked precariously on every surface, including the sofa. But - Stratton’s eyes slid, involuntarily, towards the place where the painting of the naked boy bather had hung - there was one change: it had been replaced by something that, to him at least, looked like an innocuous country landscape, dotted with some rather oddly shaped cows. It wasn’t quite as large as the painting it had succeeded, and you could still see where the other picture had hung because the wallpaper was a different shade. Stratton saw Forbes-James’s eyes flick towards him, noting the direction of his gaze, before he bent over his desk and began sifting through the heaps of documents.
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