Second Opinion (28 page)

And lost it all when she found Cherry drooping over her desk in the cubby hole that was dignified by the label, ‘Secretary’s Office’, next door to Julia Arundel’s room. There was no sign of Julia, and only a few dispirited-looking people were sitting on the chairs that lined the narrow corridor, plainly waiting to enter the small room at the far end which was the consulting room. There was a bored-looking nurse checking files on a table at the far end, but she didn’t look up as George came into the unit.

‘Feeling low again, Cherry?’ George said, coming to stand beside the girl, who looked up at her with eyes as red rimmed as they had been the last time she’d seen her.

‘It’s Christmas,’ Cherry said. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t Christmas. We was going to the theatre on Boxing Night.
Cats
. I was looking forward to it ever so.’

‘It will get easier,’ George said and touched her shoulder. ‘Not at once, but eventually. It helps to think of other things.’

‘I try to,’ Cherry said, straightening her back. ‘It’s not easy though — not here. We’ve been so quiet — running the clinics down a bit, you see. The Board says they’ve got to make cuts on Matty, and we’re part of Matty when it comes to the budget so of course we get the dirty end of the stick.’ She was obviously quoting her boss. Her voice even became more clipped, like Julia Arundel’s. ‘It’s disgusting that so
many unhappy people are forced to wait even longer because of bad management by the finance people. They just don’t take infertility seriously enough, that’s the problem.’

‘So you haven’t as much to do as you’d like.’

Cherry nodded. ‘That’s right. Well, I’ll start knitting something maybe. That’ll help. I could do with a new sweater.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ George said. ‘You could do some thick leg-warmers to match — the ones you wear over your tights, you know, and you make the sweater big and baggy and wear it without any trousers or skirt, like a sort of troubadour of old.’

Cherry lightened considerably. ‘Yeah — yeah, that’d be great! I’ll do that. In nice strong colours, maybe.’

‘You could get some of that hand-spun wool they sell in Covent Garden market, in mixed-up colours,’ George said, watching the girl’s eyes kindle with interest. ‘I was given one like that once, long ago. It was knitted for me.’

Vanny had made it, she remembered. She still had it at the bottom of her chest of drawers. It had been a fabulous sweater.

‘Oh that’s a super idea!’ Cherry said and for the first time since George had met her she managed to smile and impulsively George bent over and hugged her.

‘You’re a great girl, Cherry,’ she said. ‘Very brave. Now, listen …’ She pulled away as Cherry, pink with gratification, straightened up. ‘I have the Chowdary file here. It ought to go back, hmm?’

‘Oh, yes please!’ Cherry said. ‘I’ve been worrying about that so much. If someone wanted it and they see it’s signed out to Harry — well — I’d hate that. I’ll put it back then, shall I?’

George handed it over. ‘Yes please. But Cherry …’ She hesitated. ‘There was something else in there — those papers you found, remember. With added things on them. They’re
nothing to do with the file so I’ve kept them. I doubt there’ll be any problems.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried about that,’ Cherry said. ‘I only put them in there because I found them underneath, know what I mean? I just thought maybe —’ She stopped. ‘There were some other bits too.’

George sharpened. ‘There were?’

‘Well, sort of. A notebook really. There wasn’t much in it. Just a few dates. Oh, and something else …’ She reached into the drawer of her desk and fiddled about and then brought out a small notebook. It had a red marbled cover, and was very dog-eared. It looked, George thought, exactly like the sort she used to have at school, when she was very young, for her spell-checks.

‘I didn’t know what to do with this. It’s hard to know if it’s important, isn’t it?’

George looked inside. The first page had, as Cherry had said, what were obviously dates. 14 Jul., 27 Oct., 1 Dec. After the last of them was a hieroglyph and she peered at it. The handwriting was far from clear, being elongated yet crabbed, and she turned the notebook closer to the light to try to read it.

‘His writing was awful,’ Cherry said fondly. ‘Just like he was practising to be the sort of doctor who writes bad prescriptions everyone laughs at, I used to tell him. Shall I look? I sort of got used to it.’

George held it out and Cherry looked. ‘Oh, that bit? I tried to read that too. It’s all sorts of initials, ‘n’t it? I think it says “W to PL re PM TH 2”. But I don’t know what it means.’

George looked at it and frowned, then lifted her chin and stared sightlessly at the far wall, on which a sad calendar hung crookedly against the grimy cream-coloured paint. ‘“W to PL re PM TH 2”‘ she said aloud. ‘“W to PL re PM TH 2” It almost says something, I know it does. It’s important, too and yet …’ she frowned and tried to focus
on the calendar, more as a way of sharpening her thinking than because she wanted to check any dates, and then it happened.

It was something that had happened only a few times in her life before but when it had, it left her overawed at the way her own mind worked, made her wonder at the sort of synaptic connections that had leapt into action to make the whole thing possible. Twice before it had happened during an examination when a conclusion she desperately needed to illustrate her answer had eluded her, and some minor wording on the page, or some object around the room when she had stared about her in desperation, had triggered her mind; whatever had caused it to happen she was always able to use the information, and it had never been wrong.

This time was like the others. The calendar sitting crookedly on the wall looked back at her announcing its information. Rows of numbers from one to thirty-one. Numbers set in neat columns of seven. Each column headed by a letter, M, T, W, Th, F, S, Su, and she looked again at the notebook, and knew at once what the letters there stood for. ‘Something to path. lab re post-mortem on Thursday the second of December,’ she said. ‘He wrote that note —’

‘What?’ said Cherry.

‘When the request came down for a post-mortem on the Popodopoulos baby, there was a typed note attached to it. It said, “This is the third infant death we’ve had in Maternity since the summer.?? Linked.” I’ve been trying to find out who wrote that note and everyone denies any knowledge of it. But I think that Harry sent it. “W” means Warning or maybe Word — either would do. Warning to path. lab re post-mortem on Thursday the second of December. Word to path. lab … It certainly fits the date. That was the morning the baby was found dead — the Popodopoulos baby.’ She was talking as much to herself as to Cherry. ‘And these dates — they fit the other deaths. The Lennon baby
died on 14 July, the Chowdary baby on 27 October, and the Popodopoulos baby on 1 December. I’m sure that was how it was. I’ll have to check, but I’m sure I remember.’

She turned to the door and then stopped and looked back at Cherry uneasily. ‘Urn. This is all - I mean, I’m not sure what happened to Harry, Cherry, but I think someone was after him. I think he’d found out something that another person wanted kept secret. And I think it ought to be kept secret still. What do you think?’

As Cherry looked back at her, her smooth brow slowly creased and her eyes sharpened. ‘You mean someone definitely murdered Harry? And might want to murder anyone else what knows?’ she breathed.

George shook her head and spoke in as bracing a tone as she could. ‘Oh, no! Nothing so dramatic. But I do think there’s been something going on here that needs investigating, and it’ll be easier to do so if no one knows that I’m checking. And I might need these notes a little longer after all. Could I keep them just a few more days? I promise to bring them back very soon.’

Cherry looked doubtful, but George wasn’t going to give in on this. She reached for the folder and again tucked it beneath her arm. ‘I’ll bring it back soon,’ she said again. ‘Meanwhile, can I trust you to say nothing to anyone outside ourselves about all this? I mean, the notebook and the notes in it and –’

‘I’ll be as silent as the grave!’ Cherry almost declaimed it, her eyes alight with fervour, apparently quite won over by George’s determination to keep the Chowdary folder. ‘Not a word will anyone get out of me.’

‘No need to be so, well, dramatic, Cherry. Just don’t talk about it.’

‘Don’t talk about what?’ Julia Arundel had appeared at the door and George turned to smile at her.

‘Oh, it’s the Christmas parry they’re doing in Paediatrics,’ she lied easily. ‘I’d like to get involved and I came by Matty
to see if 1 could get hold of some stuff to decorate a costume. To amuse the kids, you know? They hadn’t anything and they sent me through to Cherry here. Thought she might have some gear. She doesn’t, I’m sorry to say.’ She looked at Cherry and smiled even more brightly. ‘So, there it is! 1 guess I’ll have to try elsewhere. But it’s a secret, of course. 1 don’t want everyone to know or the surprise’ll be gone. I’ll tell you, though — 1 want to dress up as the Statue of Liberty.’

‘Such fun!’ Julia said, staring at her as though she were quite mad. ‘I don’t get involved with all this stuff myself, but good luck with it. Cherry, could 1 have the files from yesterday afternoon, please? 1 may be able to get the letters to the GPs dictated before lunch.’

‘Oh, yes, Dr Arundel,’ Cherry said with a demure air. She picked up her notebook and hurried out into the corridor. ‘Right away.’

She disappeared after Julia into her adjoining office, turning her head to give George a sketch of a wink as she did so, and George relaxed. There was no need to worry about Julia Arundel, but all the same the less that was known about the way her mind was working the better.

As the door closed behind the two of them she opened the Chowdary file and checked the address. Seventy-five Caspar Street, Bermondsey; not far away at all. She bit her lip as she thought and then, moving purposefully, looked at her watch and made her way back to the path. lab and her outdoor clothes at a swift lope.

The house, when she got there, told her a lot about the Chowdarys. She stood in the street looking up and down as well as at the front of number seventy-five, her hands thrust deep into her pockets. Her bleep was warm against her hand and it comforted her; they could get her back to the hospital quickly if necessary. It was only a fast jog over Tower Bridge and it was odds on she’d be able to find a cab
anyway; she pushed away the pangs of guilt about leaving the hospital without just cause when she was on duty and looked again at the house.

The whole street had obviously been gentrified to the utmost. The little working men’s cottages that had been built a hundred or more years ago had been emptied of their original tenants, tricked up with heavy oak front doors, brass knockers and carriage lamps and a great deal of pastel paint on the old window frames, and resold, probably at absurdly inflated prices. The windows themselves were filled with glowing white net curtains and expensive cars were parked outside many of the houses; she spotted three BMWs within forty yards as well as a couple of Mercedes.

Number seventy-five looked as prosperous as any of the others; even more so, perhaps, for it had bright window boxes filled with glossy-leaved plants and was clearly the habitation of people who regarded themselves as tasteful in the extreme. She rang the bell, which made an old-fashioned clamour inside the house, with some trepidation. Maybe they wouldn’t want to talk to anyone from the hospital where they had been made so unhappy …

The man who answered the door was square and stocky, with a neat moustache over narrow lips. His hair had receded to vanishing point on his crown, but his side hair was rich and thick and dark. He was wearing a cashmere sweater over a silk shirt, expensively cut slacks and leather loafers that looked very comfortable indeed. The smell that came out from the warm interior was of whisky and good cigars and expensive food and she could see beyond him to an expanse of silk wallpaper and thick carpets and pale blonde furniture.

‘Can I help you?’ His voice was low and pleasant and what she knew the British usually called cultured, which meant he sounded like a Radio Three announcer.

‘I’m probably all wrong coming here, Mr Chowdary,’ she
said. ‘You are Mr Chowdary? It’s just — I’m Dr George Barnabas. From Old East.’

He stared at her with a smooth face devoid of any expression. ‘I am Viv Chowdary. Why are you here?’

‘I —’ She caught her breath, furious with herself. She should have thought this out more carefully. Coming at all had been mad. She began to extemporize a little wildly. ‘I was thinking about your loss, and it seemed to me, well, it isn’t easy at Christmas, is it?’

He looked at her for another several seconds until she thought he was about to close the door in her face and then his look softened. ‘You are kind. Come in. I’m afraid my wife is out, visiting her mother, but I’m happy to see you. Come in.’

The room he took her into was richer and warmer even than she had suspected it would be. The carpet was thick, the sofas deep and soft, the walls lined with books, the ornaments costly. He was very hospitable, offering her drinks, almost embarrassed to give her the tonic water which was all she wanted, and then he sat down in the deep leather armchair on the far side of the fireplace where gas flames leapt convincingly in a pile of artificial logs. He cocked his head on one side. ‘So. What do you want to say?’

‘That I’m sorry your baby died.’ She wasn’t extemporizing now. She meant it. This room was so very tidy, so obviously the habitation of two adults. She could imagine how much they had wanted their baby to fill this slightly arid ambience.

‘You are most kind,’ he said with great dignity. ‘I appreciate it. I am sure my wife will too, when I speak to her of your visit.’

She sat and looked at him for a long moment, with no idea of what to say next, and when the words came out of her mouth, she was almost surprised.

‘It wouldn’t have been so bad for you if you could have had a photograph,’ she said. ‘I wish that had been possible.’

He smiled, a small secretive little curving of the rather
red lips under the narrow moustache. ‘Ah, well now. Perhaps I should not tell you this — you are a colleague of Dr Arundel?’