An Empty Death

by Laura Wilson

  ‘Heavens, no.’ Sister Radford brushed the suggestion away with a little laugh. ‘Just a bruise or two. Nothing to worry about.’

  She departed, and Dacre, looking round the room, saw, with a shock that felt like a colossal blow to the midriff, that Dr Byrne was framed in the doorway, staring straight at him.

  Thirty-Two

  DCI Lamb made Stratton wait for several minutes, standing in front of his desk, while he read something on a piece of paper in front of him. Or rather, while he sat bolt upright and stared downwards with such a lack of animation that Stratton had the enjoyable fantasy of leaning forward to touch him and watching him crumple over, revealing, in the manner of a detective story, an oriental dagger stuck between his shoulder blades.

  It was half past five, and Stratton had been in court most of the afternoon, giving evidence in the hooch case. They’d got a conviction, but he very much doubted that his superior had called him in for congratulations.

  Finally, Lamb looked up, and Stratton saw, from his peeved and twitchy expression that he was a) very much alive, b) more like George Formby even than before, and c) just itching to give someone a thorough bollocking.

  ‘Slack!’ he barked.

  Stratton, involuntarily, looked around him, although he knew there was no-one else in the room. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You, man! It’s not good enough. It’s been over a month now, and no progress on the cases at the Middlesex.’

  ‘We’re doing our best, sir. We’ve got a weapon, and—’

  ‘You’ve got a brick. And you don’t have the first bloody idea who killed either of them.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but—’

  He got no further. Lamb began his tirade, accompanied by the forefinger jabbing out its usual staccato rhythm on the wooden desktop, leaving Stratton in no doubt that both enquiries were a shambles and a shower and a lot more besides. ‘For God’s sake,’ he finished, ‘Dr Reynolds was a professional man! Not some…some hooligan. We need a result, and fast. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I’m afraid it’s rather more complicated than…well, than with a hooligan. There might have been some medical malpractice, sir. Illegal operations.’

  Lamb looked outraged. ‘The man was a qualified physician, not some old woman in a back street.’

  ‘Yes, but it happens, sir. It’s not unknown.’

  Lamb made an irritated gesture, as if shooing away a troublesome fly. ‘Keep off all that. Doesn’t look good, and it’s not necessary to blacken the man’s reputation. He’s got a family. Just solve the case and do it quickly. And get cracking on the nurse, too.’

  Stratton left Lamb’s office and trudged back to his own, reflecting that the best thing for his career would be to collar some not-very-bright villain with a record for robbery and violence and beat a confession out of him for both cases. And he might as well: the enquiries he’d made to nursing homes about Dr Reynolds had drawn a blank, and he obviously wasn’t going to be able to proceed any further down that avenue without Lamb dropping a ton of bricks on him. He was just about to pick up the phone to follow up some information about the forged petrol coupons when he heard the loud report of someone breaking wind behind him.

  ‘Good evening, vicar,’ said Stratton, with heavy sarcasm. Turning in his chair, he saw Arliss standing in the doorway. The room was rapidly filling with a pungent odour, like a breeze across a cabbage field. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s you. Perhaps you could think of a different way of announcing yourself next time.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ said Arliss, truculently. ‘It’s all these bloody vegetables the missus keeps feeding me.’

  ‘Well,’ said Stratton, ‘tell her to lay off before you asphyxiate us all. What is it, anyway?’

  ‘Message from Dr Byrne, sir. At the hospital. Wants a word.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘As soon as possible was what he said.’

  ‘When did you get the message?’

  ‘This afternoon, sir. While you were out. Then you were with the guv’nor,’ said Arliss, piously. ‘Not my place to interrupt.’

  ‘Oh, fair enough. Now,’ said Stratton, seizing his hat and fanning the air with it, ‘why don’t you bugger off while I can still breathe?’

  A telephone call to the hospital mortuary yielded no reply, and Stratton, supposing that Dr Byrne was otherwise occupied, decided, as it was urgent, that he’d better pay the man a visit.

  Thirty-Three

  For a long moment, Dacre stared back. Byrne did not step forward or speak, but, lifting one hand with monstrous slowness, crooked his forefinger in a beckoning motion.

  Feeling a sudden and violent throbbing from his bruised head that definitely hadn’t been there before and a lurch of nausea that made him fear that he was about to spew for the second time that day, Dacre raised his eyebrows at Byrne and, willing himself not to tremble, pointed a finger at his own chest in a questioning manner. Byrne nodded emphatically. With elaborate casualness, Dacre got up, made a show of shaking the creases out of his trousers and dusting himself down, and ambled across to the door.

  ‘I want to see you,’ said Byrne.

  ‘Now?’ Dacre was aiming for a tone of puzzled enquiry, but it came out as more of a croak. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘As you can see, we’re rather busy at the moment…’ Gesturing towards his eye, he added, ‘Bit of an altercation, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Byrne. ‘My office. Ten minutes.’ He tapped the face of his wristwatch. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Very well.’ There was no point in arguing. Dacre certainly didn’t want his credentials questioned in a public place, and – at this point, at least – Dr Byrne had the upper hand. As he watched Dr Byrne march off down the corridor, he reflected that he could perfectly well use the injury he’d received as an excuse to leave on the dot of six. In a way, the idiot girl and her mother were a blessing in disguise; the staff would be talking about that for days, and nobody was likely to remember seeing his brief conversation with Dr Byrne. Neither Dr Ransome nor Sister Radford – the only two people likely to question the pathologist’s unexpected presence in Casualty – were anywhere in sight.

  Dacre resumed his seat. Perhaps the sister had gone to fetch him a cup of tea as well as the witch hazel…He could certainly do with one, but, more urgently than that, he needed to be alone to consider his course of action. He’d stick to his original plan – attack as the best form of defence – but if that failed, he’d need something else. Christ, think…He’d got the morphine and the syringe, hadn’t he? He slid a hand into his inside pocket: neither phial was broken, thank God. Could he? And, even if he could, how? He couldn’t force the stuff down the man’s throat or tie him up, and in any case, Higgs was bound to be somewhere about the place, and then…

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. It wouldn’t come to that. He’d be able to talk his way out of it. He’d always managed before, hadn’t he? Or, if he didn’t, at least he’d be able to give himself long enough to get clear of the place. Bloody Byrne. Just when everything was going so well, that bastard had to come and screw it all up for him.

  ‘Here we are, Dr Dacre.’ Sister Radford poured some witch hazel onto a piece of cotton wool. ‘If you’ll just look up…’ Dacre tried not to wince as she dabbed his face. ‘That should do the trick. Nurse Dunning’s bringing you a cup of tea – unless you’d like something a bit stronger?’

  ‘No, really. I’m fine. To be honest, sister, I think I just need some peace and quiet. I’m off now, anyway, so unless there’s anything else…Why don’t you have the tea? I’m sure you could do with a cup.’

  Alone in the Gents’, Dacre locked himself into one of the cubicles and sat down, fingering the little phials in his pocket. Five minutes. He sank his head into his hands. The pendulum of his feelings swung from anger to despair – perhaps he should just use the wretched stuff on himself and have done with it? – and abruptly back again. Carefully, he filled the syringe and sat staring at it for several minutes. H
e bloody well wasn’t going to give up now and slink away from the life he’d created – from Fay – like a beaten dog. He returned the syringe to his pocket, shook his aching head so violently that for a second he felt dizzy enough to black out, and, letting himself out of the cubicle, stood for a moment beneath the single, shaded light bulb. Come on, come on…

  You can do this. You will do this. There it was: the sudden, fierce rush of excitement – what he now knew to be adrenalin – that squared his shoulders and straightened his back. If Dr fucking Byrne wanted to play at being his…what was it called? Nemesis, that was it. Well, then, he’d get his comeuppance, all right.

  He left the Gents’ and strode off in the direction of the basement stairs.

  Thirty-Four

  Save for the faint humming of a generator, the basement of the Middlesex was eerily silent. Being late July, it was still light outside, but down here, in the windowless corridor, it could have been midnight. The corridors were creepy enough, lit as they were with faintly glowing bulbs spaced far apart and caged in wire. Together with the sickly green paint on the walls, they gave the place a horribly subterranean feeling.

  Stratton was about to turn from the main corridor towards the mortuary when he heard quick, light footsteps coming towards him, and, rounding the corner, found himself face to face with Fay Marchant, who let out a startled ‘Oh!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Stratton. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Fay. She gave a nervous laugh and when she continued, it was at a slightly higher pitch than he remembered. ‘Inspector Stratton! Have you come to see someone? Only, I don’t think there’s a soul about. I mean,’ she added, unnecessarily, ‘apart from us.’

  ‘I do have an appointment, yes. With Dr Byrne.’

  ‘Oh…Well, I hope you find him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s in his office.’

  ‘I don’t think there was a light on. As I said, the place is deserted.’ Fay gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘I don’t like it when it’s like this. Creepy.’

  ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you. I’m sure you’re busy.’

  ‘I’ve just finished, actually. I was going back to the nurses’ quarters.’

  ‘I’ll say goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight, Inspector.’

  Stratton watched her go, and wondered if she’d been telling the truth. After all, she’d come in the opposite direction from the only basement stairs that he knew about…There were outside doors, of course, and yards and things, so perhaps she’d come in through one of those. He suddenly found himself wondering if Byrne had some intelligence about Reynolds and Fay, and, if so, what it might be. Fay had said there was no light on in Byrne’s office, but he ought to check. She’d seemed nervous, but perhaps that was the effect of the mortuary corridor, which was bloody creepy. Or possibly bumping into him like that. Policemen had an unsettling effect on some people. He wouldn’t have thought she was one of them, but…

  Was it his imagination, or was the humming noise louder now? It must, he thought, be coming from further down the corridor – the refrigerated room where the bodies were kept. The thought of all the corpses, lying stiff and blue-white in their individual compartments, made him uneasy.

  Stratton set off down the corridor. The sooner he found Byrne, the sooner he’d be able to get out of the place.

  Thirty-Five

  ‘Now then, what’s all this about?’ Dacre kept his tone deliberately light, as if he assumed it was some minor matter which could be cleared up in a few minutes.

  Dr Byrne, standing back to let him enter the mortuary office, closed the door and locked it before replying. ‘I think you know very well what it’s about.’ He paused for a moment, before adding, with hideous emphasis, ‘Mr Todd.’

  Dacre felt his heart trampoline in the direction of his throat. Somehow, he had not expected Byrne to get to the point so quickly. He raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard me. The game’s up, man.’

  ‘What game? What are you talking about? I think you must have me confused with someone else.’

  Byrne permitted himself a small smile. ‘No. You’ve confused yourself with someone else. Someone, apparently, called Dr Dacre.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I am Dr Dacre.’

  Byrne shook his head. ‘You’re Sam Todd, masquerading as Dr Dacre.’

  ‘What?’ Genuinely furious now, Dacre said, his voice growing louder and deepening with every word, ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘I did wonder.’ Another thin smile. ‘In fact, I’ve been wondering all day, but there was no mistaking your hand. As you well know, I am trained to remember these things, Mr Todd.’

  ‘Why do you keep calling me that?’

  ‘Because that is your name. Or I assume it is. It may, of course, be something entirely different.’

  ‘Rubbish! I’m not going to stand here and listen to this.’ Dacre turned on his heel and started towards the door, with Byrne a pace behind. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but by God, I’ll—’

  ‘Your hand, man.’ It was on the handle of the door. Both men looked down. The scar, livid now against the whiteness of Dacre’s knuckles, was plainly visible. ‘The scar.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dacre took his hand off the handle and folded his arms. ‘A dog bite, when I was a child. What of it?’

  ‘I recognised it.’

  ‘So you said. Listen, old chap,’ here, Dacre injected a patronising note into his speech, as if dealing with a dim-witted child, ‘it’s just a scar. I’m sure I’m not the only person unfortunate enough to have been bitten by a dog.’

  ‘It’s a very particular mark – identical to that on the hand of Mr Todd, my former assistant. I see you’ve made some alteration to your appearance and your voice, but you are one and the same. Explain yourself.’

  ‘There isn’t anything to explain. You’re mistaken, that’s all.’

  ‘No. Passing yourself off as a doctor, deceiving the authorities, practising medicine without a licence…These are serious matters.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dacre, heatedly, ‘they are. But they have nothing to do with me. I’ve told you, I am Dr Dacre. I can prove it. I don’t see why I should have to, but, if it’s necessary to defend my good name, I shall. And, believe me, you’ll look quite a fool when I do.’

  ‘I’m more than willing to risk looking a fool if it exposes a criminal. I don’t know why you’re doing this – I can only assume that you are suffering from some form of mental disorder – but I cannot allow—’

  ‘How dare you?’ bellowed Dacre. Spittle landed on Dr Byrne’s face, causing him to take a step back. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

  ‘I know who I am.’ Byrne took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his cheek. ‘The question is, who are you?’

  Dacre took a deep breath. This wasn’t going according to plan. Instead of beginning to doubt himself, Byrne seemed more positive by the second. ‘I am Dr James Dacre. I have a perfectly good medical degree from St Andrews, and I have been practising—’

  ‘In that case,’ Byrne interrupted, ‘why were you working as a mortuary attendant under a different name?’

  ‘I wasn’t! You’re deluded. Look,’ said Dacre, trying now for a reasonable, both-men-of-the-world, sort of tone, ‘I understand how this must have happened. You’ve obviously been under a lot of pressure, what with…’ here, Dacre looked skywards, ‘and when one’s been working hard, one can sometimes get a bit confused about—’

  ‘There’s no confusion, I can assure you of that,’ said Byrne, stiffly. ‘I have the evidence of my own eyes.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Dacre. ‘When we’ve never met before today? How do you account for that?’

  An exultant gleam in Byrne’s eyes made Dacre realise, with a sudden, sickening oscillation of all his innards, that he had made a terrible mistake. Even before Byrne opened his mouth, he knew what he was about to say
.

  ‘If we’ve never met before,’ said Byrne, triumphantly, ‘then how did you know who I was? I didn’t introduce myself, and you didn’t ask, did you?’

  Thirty-Six

  In the split second that Dacre hesitated – should he try and flannel his way out of it by saying that someone had described the pathologist to him, or…or what? – he could see that Byrne felt he had won. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘are you going to explain yourself, or do I have to—’

  By this point, instinct had taken over from conscious thought, and Dacre gave Byrne a violent, two-handed shove in the chest. Caught off balance, the pathologist, his mouth still open, staggered backwards, slipped and fell, hitting the side of his head against the sharp corner of his desk as he went.

  Dacre looked down at the crumpled, white-coated heap before him, one side of the waxy bald pate darkening with blood. ‘Oh, God.’ Kneeling down, he patted Byrne’s face. The pathologist did not respond. After a few seconds, Dacre got to his feet, unsteady and gripping the edge of the desk for support, and stared out of the window into the courtyard. No-one there. No-one had seen. He lurched to the window and pulled down the blackout, then stumbled back across the room in the half-light to turn on the desk lamp.

  Still Byrne had not moved. Dacre bent over him. He was breathing all right, just knocked out. This was his chance. Assuming that the morphine did not kill him absolutely on the instant, there was no reason for anyone to think that the blow had come before the injection…It had to look as if he’d injected himself, then fallen over…Was Byrne right-handed? Dacre thought so, but glanced at the desk to verify it. Yes, the pen and ink were on the right side of the blotter, with a piece of paper with writing on it: GER 1212. No name, but GER must be Gerard Street, so it couldn’t be far away…Christ! The police station – where was that? Savile Row, so the number might be…And if Byrne had already telephoned them…Checking would mean a call through the hospital exchange, and that was out of the question.