Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (46 page)
‘Inspector.’ Sister Radford was once more at his side. ‘How can I help this time?’
Stratton, affecting not to notice the heavy emphasis on the last two words, gave her the photograph. ‘Could you tell me who you recognise here?’ he asked.
‘Well, Dr Byrne, of course, and that’s his secretary - I’m afraid I don’t know her name. As for the other one . . .’ Sister Radford put her head on one side and pursed her lips in concentration. ‘Hmmm . . . No. Sorry, Inspector.’
‘Why did you hesitate?’ asked Stratton.
Sister Radford looked surprised. ‘I was thinking.’
‘What were you thinking?’
‘Well, I know it’s silly, but I just thought the man had a look of Dr Dacre. Without the moustache, and the hair’s too light. It isn’t him, of course - I told you it was silly.’
‘Are you sure it’s silly?’
Sister Radford looked at Stratton as if he’d got a touch of the sun. ‘It’s impossible. What would he be doing there? It was just a fanciful idea, Inspector, and now I look again, I can see that it’s nothing like him. I’m sorry not to be more help, but surely the mortuary attendant can tell you who it is.’
‘I wasn’t able to find him,’ said Stratton, ‘so I thought I’d ask you.’ It wasn’t a very good lie, and Sister Radford received it with an old-fashioned look. ‘Where is Dr Dacre?’
‘Oh, he’s here, but surely - what I said - I mean, it’s ridiculous.’
‘Don’t worry, Sister. It’s nothing to do with that.’ Stratton sat down on a bench. ‘I’ll wait for him here, if you don’t mind.’
He lit a cigarette, and, tilting his head back, closed his eyes. That, he was pretty sure, made two of them - Sister Radford and Fay Marchant. Not that Fay had said so, but it would certainly explain her behaviour and explain, too, the nagging feeling he’d had. But, as the sister had said, it was - if not impossible - then very unlikely. Stratton opened his eyes, took out the photograph again, and studied it, trying to remember exactly what Dr Dacre had looked like.
In any case, what would he be doing pretending to be a mortuary attendant? But then again, if Fay hadn’t taken the morphine - and, on balance, Stratton thought she was probably telling the truth about that - Dacre might well have. But, testicular torsion aside (Stratton tried to ignore the way that his stomach, and everything below it, seemed to clench as if squeezed by a fist), he’d seemed . . . well, likeable. A bit of a charmer, in fact. They could be the most dangerous of the lot. If Todd or Dacre or whoever he was had killed the nurse, he might be lining up Fay as his next victim . . . Byrne must have kept those photographs hidden under the blotter - and the one at home - for a reason . . . Was that what it was?
Wait, he told himself. Don’t jump to conclusions. It was probably just coincidence - two men who looked alike.
Fay had been seeing Dacre before Byrne’s death - Dacre had said so. If the pair of them knew each other better than they were admitting, perhaps they’d been in it together. But, taking the position that Leadbetter’s death had nothing to do with either of them, where did Reynolds come into it? He’d aborted Fay’s child - his own child. Perhaps, despite what she’d said, she’d hoped that he would leave his wife and marry her, but he’d refused. Maybe the experience had affected her mind. But what did any of that have to do with Byrne?
Try as he might, Stratton couldn’t see how the pieces fitted together. Perhaps, he thought, they didn’t: far more likely that the nurse was killed by a maniac who’d got away and Reynolds was killed by a stranger in the course of a botched robbery . . . Which left Byrne.
There was no point going round in circles. If he was going to make an arse of himself, Stratton thought, he might as well do it on the evidence of his own eyes, right now. He walked to the back of the room, checking behind screens, and spotted Dacre talking to a man with a bandaged head. He stood back so that he could not be seen, and, on the pretext of waiting until the consultation was finished, studied Dacre’s face against the photograph. The hair was darker, but that was easily done, and there was no moustache, but he could see what the two women had spotted. If it had been just his impression, he’d have dismissed it immediately, but it wasn’t just him . . .
The bandaged man shuffled off in the direction of the dispensary, and Stratton saw Dacre’s face dull and seem to close down, as if some inner light bulb had been switched off. It was far-fetched, what Stratton was thinking, but it wasn’t impossible. He remembered something he’d once read about a doctor in Victorian times who’d been discovered, after death, to be a woman. And then there was that American bloke who’d pretended to be a Red Indian Chief and been in films and things . . .
Turning, Dacre saw him, and, sure enough, his face lit up. ‘All finished,’ he said. ‘Did you want me?’
‘I’m looking for one of my men, PC Watkins. Have you seen him?’
‘Not in the last hour, I don’t think. Found the dope yet? I heard you taking up that corridor.’
‘No luck, I’m afraid. But, as you said, these old buildings . . .’ Stratton grimaced and turned to leave, but Dacre laid a hand on his arm. ‘Inspector, I know it’s none of my business, but I’m sure that Nurse Marchant has nothing to do with this. It was an accident, pure and simple. Could happen to anyone.’
Stratton nodded. ‘As you say.’
Dacre beamed at him. ‘I know she’s been worried about it, Inspector. She’s a good nurse. Very conscientious.’
‘I’m sure she is.’ Stratton gave Dacre a knowing look. ‘Well, I shan’t detain you any further.’
On the way up to Professor Haycraft’s office, Stratton paused to look at the photograph once more: there was a definite similarity. Not that it proved anything, but all the same . . .
He found Professor Haycraft’s secretary, Miss Potter, in the outer office. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Inspector Stratton, CID.’
‘Ah, yes. Did you wish to speak to Professor Haycraft?’ Recalling the disengaged individual he’d met in the mortuary, Stratton said, ‘Goodness, no. It’s a minor matter. I’d like to take a look at the details for Dr Dacre.’
‘The new man?’ Miss Potter frowned. ‘Is there a problem? Are you sure you wouldn’t like to talk to the professor?’
‘It’s just something I need to check. I’d ask Dr Dacre himself, but they’re very busy down there. Rushed off their feet, by the looks of it. I’d also like to see the details for Samuel Todd - he was a mortuary assistant here until the end of June.’
‘Of course, Inspector. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll fetch them for you.’
Stratton copied down information about Dacre - James Walter Dacre, 1938, University of St Andrews, Conferred. References: Professor R. F. McDermott, Dr
L
.
K
. Synott. Address, 28 Eversholt St,
N
.
W
. He paused, tapping the end of his pencil against his teeth, then turned to Todd’s file, which gave his address as 14 Inkerman Road, Kentish Town. His last day at the Middlesex had been the twenty-third of June. If he’d been called up, thought Stratton, he wouldn’t be in Kentish Town any longer, but it might be worth checking with the landlady again, just to be on the safe side.
L
.
K
. Synott. Address, 28 Eversholt St,
N
.
W
. He paused, tapping the end of his pencil against his teeth, then turned to Todd’s file, which gave his address as 14 Inkerman Road, Kentish Town. His last day at the Middlesex had been the twenty-third of June. If he’d been called up, thought Stratton, he wouldn’t be in Kentish Town any longer, but it might be worth checking with the landlady again, just to be on the safe side.
Miss Potter, he thought, would be able to produce a copy of the Medical Register for him to look up Dacre’s name, but he didn’t want to put the cat amongst the pigeons at the hospital by appearing to doubt the credentials of its doctors. What he needed was a public library. The nearest one he could think of in the right direction was just off Leicester Square - if he walked fast, he’d just get there before it closed, and then he’d head back to the station and find out how Ballard was getting on with his enquiries.
Stratton took the large, leather-bound ledger from the library shelf and started leafing through it: Curnow, Currie, Dacie, Dacombe, Dale . . . But no Dacre. The certificates he’d seen had looked genuine enough. Stratton looked at the spine of the volume to make sure it wasn’t out of date, then checked again. As he stared at the page, willing the words, Dacre, James Walter, to appear, it dawned on him that he might have got things arse about face: what if Dacre, instead of being a doctor masquerading as a mortuary attendant, was a mortuary attendant pretending to be a doctor? Was that possible? Surely, anyone like that would be rumbled within a few minutes . . . wouldn’t they? Of course, if there really had been a Dr Dacre, and he’d died, then that would explain why his certificates existed, but his name had been taken off the register, wouldn’t it?
It would certainly explain why ‘Dacre’ was still working, and why Sam Todd didn’t appear to exist. But, if the man now working in the Middlesex Casualty Department wasn’t Dacre and he wasn’t Todd, then who the bloody hell was he?
Fifty-Five
S
tratton went back to the station, where he found Ballard leaving a note on his desk.
tratton went back to the station, where he found Ballard leaving a note on his desk.
‘What’s that?’
‘About the Mr Todd who emigrated to Australia, sir. He’s still there.’
‘Oh, well. I’ve got another job for you. Dr James Dacre. Here.’ Stratton found the relevant page in his notebook and showed it to the sergeant. ‘We need to find out about him. He graduated from university in 1938, which probably means he was born in 1912 or thereabouts. Medical degrees take a fair few years, don’t they?’
‘Yes, sir. May I ask why?’
‘Yes, of course. I should have said. Dr Dacre seems to be as much of a mystery as our Mr Todd, who, incidentally, he rather resembles, so I think he’s our best hope at this point. And he isn’t in the Medical Register - I’ve checked. I suggest that you telephone the university first - find out if they had a student called Dacre who graduated in 1938. Might speed things up a bit.’
Ballard raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll get cracking immediately.’
‘Before you do, there’s something else. Fay Marchant has admitted that Dr Reynolds did perform an abortion on her.’
‘He killed his own child?’ Ballard looked queasy. ‘My God . . . What sort of person does that?’
‘Beats me. But it does give rise to all sorts of possibilities.’ Stratton stood up. ‘I suppose I’d better go and say all this to DCI Lamb.’
‘Best of luck, sir.’
‘Thanks. I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it.’
‘The thing is, sir, there’s rather a . . . question mark, shall we say, over one of the doctors.’
‘Oh?’ Lamb frowned. ‘Which one?’
‘A chap called Dacre.’
‘What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Well, sir . . .’ Stratton gave Lamb a potted history of his findings, omitting any mention of Colonel Forbes-James. ‘Sergeant Ballard’s looking into it, sir.’
‘Good. Perhaps you’ll make some progress at last. Not very good for the hospital, though. I hope you’re being discreet.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘What about this nurse you mentioned . . . Merchant, was it?’
‘Marchant, sir. Fay Marchant.’ Might as well take the plunge, thought Stratton - he’ll have to know sometime. ‘You might recall, sir, that I mentioned the possibility of Dr Reynolds having performed an illegal operation.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said Lamb, ‘but you might recall that I told you to keep off that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, sir, but the problem is that it appears Dr Reynolds did perform such an operation, on Nurse Marchant.’
‘Promiscuous type, is she?’
Bloody typical, thought Stratton. ‘I wouldn’t say so, sir. But she had been . . . involved with Dr Reynolds.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Lamb’s face contorted in disgust. ‘Are you telling me it was his child?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Are you absolutely sure about this, Stratton? It sounds . . . Well, frankly, it sounds depraved.’
‘Yes, sir. But it appears to be the case.’
‘Do you think it has a bearing on Reynolds’s death?’
‘It might if someone found out about the operation and blackmailed him, sir.’
‘It obviously hasn’t occurred to you,’ said Lamb, acidly, ‘that blackmailers tend not to kill the people who are providing their bread and butter.’
‘No, sir, but if they’d met on the bomb-site, late at night, for Reynolds to hand over money, there might have been a disagreement which led to a fight.’
‘That’s possible, I suppose. Who told you about the operation?’
‘Nurse Marchant, sir. I did wonder if Nurse Leadbetter had something to do with it, but Marchant denies it.’
‘She’s downstairs, is she?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘I didn’t like to bring her in in the middle of her shift, sir.’
‘So you’ve left her to run away? What were you thinking of?’
‘She won’t do that, sir.’
‘How the hell do you know?’
‘Well, sir, it’s not as if we’re going to charge her with anything, is it? I don’t have anything on her as far as Leadbetter’s concerned - and it’s pretty unlikely, given that, even if she knew about it, it would simply be one girl’s word against the other’s; hardly a cause for murder, sir. Also, Marchant said that, as far as she knew, Reynolds wasn’t in the habit of performing such operations, and—’
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