by Laura Wilson
Supposing the police were already on their way? Fuck. He needed to act and get out of there. The door was still locked, which was something, but the bars across the window meant that it was the only way out…Right. Get on with it. Dacre took the syringe from his pocket and, positioning himself behind Byrne, pushed up the left sleeve of the pathologist’s coat and jacket as far as he could, then undid the cuff of his shirt and rolled it back above the elbow. He tried to fold Byrne’s fingers into a fist but the pathologist stirred and started to mumble something. Jesus, don’t wake up now…Dacre patted the bare left arm as hard as he dared, attempting to raise a vein, but it was hopeless. He peered at the single blue site he could see in the crook of the elbow, and, aiming the needle, pierced the skin and depressed the plunger. Byrne twitched and made a gurgling noise in his throat. Don’t wake up, damn you, don’t wake up…
Done. Dacre withdrew the syringe and, wiping it with his handkerchief, attempted to put it into Byrne’s right hand. The fingers grasped it for a fraction of a second – long enough, surely? – before loosening and sending the thing rolling to the floor. Dacre, on his hands and knees, crawled round to get a look at Byrne from the front.
He saw in an instant that the pathologist’s eyes were wide open and focused on him. The lips were drawn back in a grimace, showing yellowed teeth and a surprisingly large top expanse of shiny pinky-orange gum that stood out horribly against the dull white mask of the face. Why wasn’t he dead? Dacre drew back, horrified, as Byrne leant towards him and, raising his quivering right arm, made a grab for his lapel. Clutching only air, the arm came down again, the hand thudding against the floorboards, the fingers flexing weakly as if seeking something of their own accord.
Inching backwards to what he judged was a safe distance, Dacre stared at the pathologist, horrified. Byrne emitted a noise that was halfway between a gurgle and a grunt, and continued staring fixedly in his direction. Why wasn’t the bloody stuff working? Why didn’t he just die? Perhaps the injection hadn’t been strong enough. Christ…What if Byrne were to recover?
As Dacre watched, Byrne’s fingers stopped moving, and his eyes shut as swiftly and finally as if someone had pulled down a blind. His lips returned to their normal position, and his face seemed to settle into the placid semblance of sleep. Dacre could hear his breathing – a stertorous rattle of mucous. What had gone wrong? Why wasn’t he dead? Perhaps it just took longer than Dacre had imagined, but he couldn’t just sit and wait…
No sounds from the corridor. Maybe the telephone number on the desk was not for the police station, after all. Higgs, or possibly his own replacement – if there was one – must be about somewhere, but, unless the arrangements had changed, they did not have keys to the office. Only Dr Byrne and Miss Lynn had those. Dacre got up and adjusted the desk lamp so that it shone in the direction of the small shelf where Byrne kept a few medical books. Toxicology. That was it. He took it down and, dropping once more to the floor, reached up to take hold of the lamp and put it beside him so that he could read. Morphine…Morphine…There it was. The chief poisonous alkaloid of opium of which it forms five to twenty per cent…Symptoms, where were the symptoms? Individual susceptibility varies greatly even amongst adults…Several cases are known in which a dose of one grain of hydrochloride of morphine was fatal…Well, Byrne had certainly had more than that, so…What else? Morphine hypodermically injected gives symptoms in three to four minutes…Good…A period of excitement – there hadn’t been much of that, thank God, presumably because of the bang on the head – is followed by incapacity for exertion, giddiness, drowsiness, sleep, stupor, ‘insensibility’…respiration becomes slower, pulse is feeble…the muscles of the limbs feel flabby and relaxed, lower jaw drops, sphincters are relaxed, skin is cold…If vomiting takes place before stupor sets in, there is great hope of recovery…
Dacre stopped reading and, shuffling on his knees, desk lamp in hand, moved over to take another look at Byrne. He certainly looked as though he were in a stupor, but he was still breathing loudly, though more slowly now…What did that mean? Dacre picked up Byrne’s hand – it was relaxed, all right, a dead weight – and felt for a pulse: barely perceptible. The stuff was obviously working, but how long would it take? And if he vomited…Wait. Dacre considered Byrne for a moment, his head on one side, thinking, then took hold of his shoulders and pulled him away from the desk so that he was flat on his back on the floor. If he puked, he’d choke on it. Now, it was just a matter of time…
He felt in Byrne’s pocket for the office keys – he’d have to take them with him if he wanted to lock up again, but that couldn’t be helped. Unless…he was peering beneath the door to see if there was room to slide them back through the thin gap above the floor, when he heard footsteps. He shrank back and crouched, heart pounding and palms clammy, listening. Whoever it was was coming in his direction. Keep calm. Must keep calm. Probably someone going to one of the operating theatres, nothing to do with Byrne. That’s it, go on, keep moving…
The footsteps stopped and he saw the thin line of light beneath the door darken. He held his breath. The sharp sound of the knock made him jump. ‘Dr Byrne? It’s DI Stratton from West End Central.’
So Byrne had telephoned, and set him up to walk into a trap, although, presumably, something must have delayed the big policeman, who was now only five feet away behind the door. At that moment, Byrne made a rasping noise in his throat. Dacre stretched out, almost overbalancing, and placed a hand across the pathologist’s mouth. Byrne’s face was just outside the pool of illumination from the desk lamp. The lamp wasn’t pointing in the direction of the door, but what if Stratton saw the light? He couldn’t turn it off because that might be more noticeable, or the policeman might hear the click of the switch. Jesus. His neck was uncomfortably close to the hot shade, and his calves, unused to the position he was in, were throbbing. Go away, for Christ’s sake just go away…
He could feel the wetness of Byrne’s breath under his right palm, but at least there was no sound other than a faint sighing. He heard a rattle. Stratton must be trying the door handle. ‘Dr Byrne?’
He was in agony, but he dare not move. He attempted to ease his legs by taking his weight on the splayed fingertips of his left hand, but they were so damp that he gave up the attempt, fearing to slip. Surely Stratton would go away now? The feet moved a few paces – yes, yes, that’s it, off you go – then stopped abruptly as a door – the main mortuary room, from the sound of it – opened. ‘Can I help you?’ Higgs.
What if he had a key, or sent for one? He was trapped. Byrne made another noise, more of a snort this time, and Dacre, his entire body quivering with the effort of control, moved down onto one knee. Reaching out his now free left hand, he pinched Byrne’s nostrils closed. Surely, he thought, the man could not be saved now? If they fetched a key, or broke down the door, he supposed he could claim that he had been trying to help Byrne, but that wouldn’t explain why the door was locked or why he hadn’t called out or answered Stratton’s knock. His mind picked its way swiftly across the stepping-stones of a dozen possibilities, but each seemed more implausible than the last.
Sweat was pooling in his armpits and trickling down his brow, stinging his eyes. With both hands occupied covering Byrne’s nose and mouth, he couldn’t wipe them, and the muscles in his legs felt as if they might snap at any second. He couldn’t hold the position – he’d have to move, and then…One second more, he told himself. Just keep still. Then another second, another and another…
Thirty-Seven
Stratton stopped outside the door of Dr Byrne’s office. Hearing no sound, he knocked, calling out, ‘Dr Byrne? It’s DI Stratton from West End Central.’
Nothing.
He called out again, less in hope of a reply than to break the eerie silence. ‘Dr Byrne?’
Still nothing. Stratton tried the handle of the heavy wooden door. Locked.
‘Can I help you?’ The door to the main mortuary, several yards down, opened, and Byrne’s assi
stant, Higgs, appeared, clutching a thick sandwich. ‘Sorry, Inspector,’ he said, indistinctly, ‘didn’t realise it was you.’
‘Is Dr Byrne around?’
‘He was in there.’ Higgs shook the sandwich in the direction of Byrne’s office, causing a piece of lettuce to fall to the floor. ‘Finishing up his notes with Miss Lynn. That was about…oh, I’d say an hour ago. I know she’s left – I should think he’s gone, too, by now.’ Higgs bent to pick up the lettuce leaf and, inspecting it, declared, ‘Waste not, want not,’ then popped it into his mouth.
‘You didn’t see him leave?’
Higgs shook his head. ‘Sorry, Inspector.’
‘You don’t happen to have a key to his office, do you? I’d like to leave him a note.’
‘Afraid not. Dr Byrne’s got one, of course, and Miss Lynn – they’ll have one upstairs, though. I’d fetch it myself, only I’m not meant to leave in case we get something come down.’
Stratton looked at his watch: it was after seven o’clock. If Byrne had decided not to wait, then perhaps whatever he had to say wasn’t that urgent, after all. Presumably, if it had been, he’d have left a more detailed message at the station. Firmly shoving to the back of his mind the thought that Arliss – if he’d been the one to take the message – was quite capable of omitting a vital piece of information (or getting it entirely wrong), Stratton told Higgs he’d be back in the morning, and began retracing his steps towards the stairs.
Thirty-Eight
Dacre gasped. As he listened to the mortuary door bang shut and the big policeman’s footsteps head away down the corridor, he felt all the muscles in his face and body begin to unclench and relax. When he could hear the feet no longer, he brought his knee round and, sitting on the floor, shaking, aching, and drenched in sweat from head to toe, slowly removed his hands from Byrne’s face. For a few moments he was unable to move, and then, turning his upper body slowly towards the desk, he began to haul himself upright. Now, all he had to do was take himself out of the place before anyone caught him. The worst threat was Higgs who might, given today’s luck, actually recognise him. Should he, perhaps, remove his shoes? He considered the idea for a moment, then decided it was stupid. To be found padding about in his socks really would look odd, and, after all, Higgs could have no notion of Byrne’s suspicions, or he would have said something to Stratton. In any case, from what he knew of Byrne, the man wasn’t the type to share his thoughts with his underlings unless it was absolutely necessary. Besides, he was Dr Dacre, wasn’t he? He had every right to be in the hospital where he worked: no-one would question that. It was simply a matter of getting as far away from the room as possible.
Byrne was quiet now. This must be the stupor he’d read about. The book! He tiptoed round the desk, retrieved it from the floor, and stuck it back on the shelf, wiping it with his handkerchief as he did so. He wiped the lamp, too, and, holding it in the handkerchief, placed it gently back on the desk, which he also wiped. Stuffing the scrap of paper with the telephone number on it into his pocket, he switched off the lamp, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light before making his way to the door. This was the hardest part – he mustn’t be heard. He paused in the almost-darkness, wiping his clammy hands on his handkerchief and trying to control his breathing. So nearly there…He fumbled in his pocket for the keys and almost dropped them. The lack of light and his quivering fingers meant that it took several goes to force the key into the lock, but he managed at last.
Now then. Don’t rush, take your time…Did the door creak? He couldn’t remember. He’d just have to find out. Turning the key, he began, with infinitesimal slowness, to pull the door open. Aaahhh…It was silent. The aperture being just wide enough he slid himself out, and then, closing it – the click of the lock made him catch his breath, but no-one appeared – he locked up, and bending swiftly wiped the keys with his handkerchief then flicked them, in a skimming motion, beneath the door. He heard a tiny scraping noise, then nothing. That, he thought, meant they had probably been stopped by the small rug that lay under Byrne’s desk. Good: that would look as if the pathologist had dropped them.
He took a deep breath and then, looking neither left nor right, walked purposefully away, ignoring his brain’s panicked instructions to run. He passed the mortuary – no windows, thank God – and kept the same pace until he rounded the corner. No door opening, no-one calling out…Nothing but the steady hum of the generator. Safely out of sight, he sprinted through the rest of the dingy basement maze, up the outside steps, and away into the darkening evening.
Thirty-Nine
Exhausted, Dacre stopped beside a WVS mobile canteen for a cup of tea. He didn’t know how far he’d walked or where he was, he’d simply left the hospital and stumbled away as fast as he could through the dusk. It was dark now but he’d continued, more slowly because of the blackout, but just as aimlessly, his only purpose being to get as far away from the Middlesex as he possibly could.
Holding the mug in both hands – the July night was warm enough, but, in spite of his exertion, the sheen of cold sweat on his body was making him chilly – he stared at the bomb-site on the other side of the road. Not a recent one, he thought: there were no demolition men or ambulances in sight, and the humps of rubble had a settled look to them, as if they’d been there for some time.
He looked back towards the canteen and, in the dim light from the hatch, saw a couple of blue-overalled ARP men. ‘Two down in the next street,’ he heard one say. ‘Three unaccounted for. They’re still digging.’
How easy, Dacre thought sourly, to kill by firing a doodlebug into the air. He had no idea how the things were launched, but it had to be a bloody sight easier than doing it face to face…if, indeed, he had killed Dr Byrne. Perhaps, right at this minute, the man was recovering, the big policeman beside him, ready to take notes…the alarm being raised, the description circulated…Surely it wasn’t possible? He’d had too much morphine…A score of ‘what ifs’ buzzed in his head like hornets, and the memory of his hand across Byrne’s mouth, the clammy feel of the pathologist’s skin against his palm, of pinching the man’s nostrils closed and feeling him fight for breath beneath his fingers, made him nauseous, so that he tipped the remains of his tea down a drain.
I shouldn’t have done it, he thought. Doctors are there to save life, not to destroy it. Dr Dacre would never kill on purpose…What was he thinking? He was Dr Dacre. ‘I am Dr James Dacre,’ he said, aloud.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ A man’s voice, quizzical. It was the ARP fellows – they must have moved towards him. ‘Charlie Horden, ARP,’ said the older man. The other hung back, staring at him. ‘You’re not here for the…’ Horden jerked his head, presumably in the direction of the bombed buildings, ‘are you? Only they don’t usually send—’
‘Oh, no. Just…’ What? Running away because I think I’ve killed someone? ‘Just wanted a breath of air,’ he finished.
‘Are you all right? I don’t mean to be rude, but you seem a bit…’
What? What did he seem? Was there something wrong with his face? Dacre stared at the man. Was it obvious? Could he tell?
‘I’m fine,’ said Dacre. ‘Just felt a bit stifled, that’s all, so I thought I’d have a walk…’ Even in the faint light afforded by the canteen, he could see the surprise on the man’s face. ‘I’m afraid I got rather lost. Where are we, exactly?’
‘Victoria. Chapel Street, to be exact.’
He must have walked for miles. Squinting at his watch, he saw that it was after midnight. Why am I running away? he thought. There’s no need. No-one saw me. Byrne will be dead – of course he will, he must be – and there’s nobody to connect the two of us. If I run away now I’m leaving everything I’ve worked for – Dacre, Fay, all of it.
‘Dr Dacre?’ Dacre jumped at the sound of the warden’s voice. ‘I was asking where you come from?’
‘Piccadilly.’ He’d said the first place that came into his head, but that was all right – he knew th
e way from Piccadilly to Euston. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to point me in the right direction?’
Lips pursed, Horden considered this. ‘Well, you’ve missed the last train. You’d best go up towards the park,’ he said. ‘Turn left at the end, that’s Grosvenor Place, and that’ll take you to Hyde Park Corner. Piccadilly’s on your right.’ The warden looked at him doubtfully. ‘You going to be all right?’ He glanced upwards. ‘You can bet he’s not finished for the night.’ As if on cue, there was an explosion somewhere in the distance.
Dacre shrugged. ‘I’ll chance it. The walk might do me good.’ He grinned at the warden and went to return his mug to the canteen’s serving hatch.
‘Or it might not,’ Horden called after him. ‘Cheerio – be lucky!’
If he really were lucky, Dacre reflected as he walked up Grosvenor Place, then Byrne would be dead. He’d already forgotten most of the warden’s instructions, but they hadn’t seemed too complicated, and besides, there was bound to be someone he could ask. He should have paid more attention – the more people he spoke to, the greater the possibility of someone remembering him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged onwards, trying to think of something – anything – that wasn’t Byrne’s face with its waxy texture and blueish tinge…
Forty
Stratton left home early the next morning and decided to go straight to the Middlesex. Unusually, it had been a relief to get off to work, and this made him feel guilty. He’d have to make it up to Jenny somehow, for being tired and uncommunicative – not that she was any better. It had to be that damned Mrs Ingram, causing bother, getting on Jenny and Doris’s nerves and making them walk on eggshells. They ought to have a chat about it. Even if it didn’t solve anything, it might clear the air a bit – although there was bugger-all anyone could do about the bombs and shortages and all the rest of the stuff that constantly wore you down.
