Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  He swung round. ‘You wouldn't have believed me.’ His eyes moved to my feet and glinted. When he looked up my black patents seemed to be reflected in his eyes. ‘Odd, isn't he,’ he said. ‘I go to Benfleet. Very good with feet, on account of his bunions, I suppose.’

  I was about to tell him about the cream cakes when he said, ‘You've had a phone call. From Jacky's aunt. She wants you to attend the funeral tea.’

  ‘What joy.’

  ‘Could be very useful – in between the ham sandwiches.’ I hoped so, I really did. If Jacky had been as irritating as Dr Hiding I wasn't surprised she'd been murdered. And I wouldn't have been surprised if Hiding was hiding something.

  ‘I've bought us some cream cakes,’ I told Hubert.

  He looked inordinately pleased. As we left the chapel he said, ‘That coffin on the right is Jacky's. She's been embalmed.’

  I was sure he was joking but I couldn't eat my cream cake. Hubert ate them both.

  Chapter Five

  My companion of the night, Olwen Jones, looked as old as some of the patients.

  ‘It's me first night on, Staff,’ she announced. ‘Been off sick with my back for six months. Still, I'll do my best.’

  Olwen, although plump, assumed a stooped position, as though she were permanently ready for action. This was very misleading, and halfway through the evening's work I suggested we stop for ten minutes. Olwen looked ready to drop. A cigarette seemed to revive her and she peered at me through thick bifocals.

  ‘I needed a break, Staff. I forgot how tiring it is. My doctor didn't want me to come back to work at all, said I should go on long-term sick. But I retire in six months and I wanted to see it out. I've been at St Dymphna's for forty years.’ She puffed reflectively on her cigarette. ‘Forty years,’ she repeated. ‘The changes I've seen you wouldn't believe. Forty years.’

  Mutterings and groanings from the ward cut short our break. ‘Come on, Olwen,’ I encouraged. ‘We'll soon be finished.’

  Although our patients could no longer tell the time they did seem to sense we were late. Dolly, who wore the mob-cap, reproached me. ‘You should know better, Mrs Bluefrock. Coming here late, expect you've been with that man again. You should get a proper job instead of taking up space in my house.’

  I agreed that I should.

  ‘And you, she said, peering at Olwen, ‘you're fatter than ever. I've never seen an arse like it.’

  Olwen laughed. ‘You're on form, Dolly. I've missed you.’

  Once Dolly was settled and had been given her usual tot of brandy she cheered up. ‘You get to bed now, girls, thank you and God bless.’

  The best part of night duty is connected with lights. The switching off of the main lights at night and the switching on again in the morning. Standing by the light switches I checked all was quiet both ends of the ward.

  ‘Good night everyone,’ I called. There was no reply. They were all cocooned in their duvets, warm and untroubled. By morning the plastic mattress covers and the plastic covers of their duvets would have cooked them as though in a sandwich toaster. For now, though, there was peace.

  ‘I'm knackered,’ said Olwen, sitting down heavily on one of the office chairs and beginning to forage in her shopping bag. Triumphantly she produced a packet of chocolate biscuits. I made tea and soon Olwen's pale face looked less anxious.

  ‘Didn't think I'd cope at first. I'm past it now, I know that. But I've enjoyed working here. Mind you, there's not much excitement here these days. In the old days there was always something going on.’

  ‘Well, I call a murder exciting enough, but I suppose you don't know much about it, being off sick at the time.’

  Olwen smiled wryly and shrugged. ‘Don't you believe it. I probably know more about the murder than anyone—’ She broke off. ‘Apart from the murderer of course.’

  ‘You knew Jacky well?’ I asked.

  Olwen paused for a while as if not quite sure. Murder, like suicide, seems to make people doubt their memories of that person. As if all their ideas and thoughts and feelings had been scrambled in a computer and the dead person has become a stranger. A mystery. A jigsaw puzzle personality that takes a long time to reconstruct. For close relatives and friends all that takes a very long time. Guilt clouds the memory too. Eventually Olwen said, ‘She'd only worked here three years but I worked with her quite a bit.’

  ‘And did you like her?’

  Olwen looked past me and shifted her bottom in the chair. ‘She was okay.’

  Condemnation indeed.

  As if sensing I was about to ask more questions she stood up suddenly. ‘I'll just check the patients, Staff.’

  When Olwen came back from her tour of the ward it was obvious she wanted to change the subject. She sat with crossed arms and frowned. ‘It's funny,’ she said reflectively, ‘being away for six months has made me see everything differently. I never felt old before and now I realise I'm nearly ready to be a patient myself. I've got no kids, my husband's been dead these three years. You worry all your life about paying the mortgage and then once it's paid you have to sell it to be able to afford private care. Well, I'm getting out.’

  ‘Retiring, you mean?’

  ‘I'm off to Spain, I've decided. I'll sell the house before the DSS can force me to sell. Once the money's gone that's it. I'd rather be old and poor in Spain in the sun than crouched over a gas fire in England.’

  ‘Perhaps you'll find a man out there,’ I suggested.

  Olwen laughed, her good humour returning. ‘Pigs might fly. Anyway only a younger man would do, a toy-boy. The old boys I meet look all right on the outside, then when you get to know them better they tell you about their haemorrhoids, their constipation and, worst of all, boast about how they used to perform. No, I don't need a man. I just want to be warm, near the sea, go to the occasional tea-dance and relax with nothing and no one to worry about.’

  ‘You could get bored.’

  ‘Boredom is a wet Sunday in England, watching Songs of Praise on the box and wondering how many more miserable Sundays you can live through.’

  I nodded. I hate Sundays. The longest, loneliest day of the week.

  Our mood had begun to go downhill fast. But food came to the rescue. Olwen had brought baked potatoes, sausages and bacon that only needed reheating. The food lifted our mood and Olwen began to reminisce about the old days: the hard work, the fun, the parties, the affairs.

  ‘Surely the affairs still go on?’ I protested.

  ‘Hardly at all,’ said Olwen, ‘unless of course if you counted Jacky and Dr Robert Duston.’

  I was intrigued. Perhaps here was a motive – jealousy, thwarted sexual desire. Dr Duston desperately trying to lure Jacky to his bed and then in a frenzy of rejection killing her. One stab in the back, though, hardly constituted a frenzied attack. It seemed almost half-hearted, but perhaps the killer had been disturbed mid-attack or perhaps in the dark it had been a ghastly mistake.

  ‘They were having an affair?’ I asked, wondering if an unconsummated relationship could ever be called an affair.

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Olwen. ‘In a casual sort of way. No one ever saw them out together but she did visit him in his room.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes. In the main building.’

  ‘When she was on duty, you mean?’

  Olwen took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, then she stared at me as if trying to focus her eyes and her thoughts together. Her face looked naked without her glasses. ‘Oh, yes. “I'll just pop over and see Robert” she'd say, bold as brass.’

  ‘Does he still work here?’

  Olwen nodded. ‘He's a registrar, shares his time between here and the General. Not bad looking, about thirty, single.’

  The phone interrupted us. It was one of the night sisters checking that all the patients were likely to last the night. If a patient died and the houseman or registrar were busy then they had to come. I reassured her that everything was in order, including the patients.

&
nbsp; Olwen wasn't pleased. ‘We're just a backwater now. They'd just like to forget about us altogether. Did anyone come last night?’

  I nodded. ‘I thought a night sister always came.’

  ‘Not if they can help it, especially if an RGN is on and she seems to know what she's doing.’

  The phone rang again almost immediately. ‘It's Mick O'Dowd, security. All right if I come over to see Olwen?’

  She looked pleased. ‘I'll put the kettle on,’ she said.

  By the time the tea had brewed Mick O'Dowd had arrived. ‘Hello, Ollie, old love, nice to see you back,’ he said, giving her a hug. ‘And who's your good-looking friend?’ he asked, his eyes flicking over me without a trace of sexual interest.

  Mick O'Dowd, I'd decided, liked women. Probably not a womaniser but a man who felt happiest in the company of women. Well, he'd chosen the right job. Olwen plied him with thick buttered toast and well-sugared tea and I had the feeling it was going to be a long visit. An informative visit, too, I hoped.

  As they chatted I wondered if he had known Jacky well enough for tea and toast. His greased black hair and gold chain worn outside his uniform shirt certainly didn't suggest her type. But perhaps he'd been as friendly with Jacky as he obviously was with Olwen.

  ‘How long did the police keep you?’ Olwen was saying.

  ‘Bloody hours. Why they should suspect me I don't know, I wouldn't have—’ He stopped as if realising I was there.

  ‘I'll go over to another ward or sit in the day room if you'd like to talk privately.’

  ‘Don't be daft,’ said Olwen quickly, ‘you're one of us now.’

  Somehow that sounded vaguely ominous and I shivered slightly.

  Olwen noticed. ‘Borrow a cardigan from the cupboard, Staff, your arms are all goose-pimples.’

  As I left the office I heard Olwen say, ‘They're not still asking you questions?’

  In reply Mick's voice seemed tinged with bravado, ‘Only once a week now. “Anything to tell us, Mick? Want to get it off your chest?” I just keep my mouth shut.’

  Looking through the linen cupboard, I noticed we needed more sheets. It was the excuse I needed to visit Melba Ward and perhaps have a word with Mick on his own. He could walk with me through the grounds.

  When I returned to the office Mick was saying, ‘In her own way she fascinated me.’

  Olwen muttered, ‘Yeah, like a snake.’

  ‘Who's like a snake?’ I asked with a smile, trying to sound casual.

  Olwen was quicker than Mick, ‘Oh, just one of the night sisters.’

  She was lying, I was quite sure of that.

  For a while then they talked in riddles of people I'd never met and places I'd never seen.

  Eventually Mick stood up. ‘I've got to go, girls. Do my duty.’

  ‘Will you walk me over to Melba?’ I asked. ‘We need some more sheets.’

  ‘I'll go,’ said Olwen.

  ‘No, I'll go. I need some fresh air.’

  Olwen shrugged. ‘I'll ring to let them know you're coming.’

  Outside the air did seem fresh but as we started walking I soon began to feel cold.

  ‘You should have worn a coat,’ said Mick as he placed one arm round me and crushed me to him.

  For a moment I held my breath and tensed. I swear I could feel the adrenalin pumping. My nursing tutor used to say ‘Adrenalin, girls, is for fear and flight.’ Or was it flight and flee? I couldn't remember.

  ‘You scared?’ asked Mick as he slackened his pace.

  ‘Should I be?’ I tried to walk faster, hoping soon to see the lights of Melba Ward instead of just bushes and trees.

  ‘It was just here,’ said Mick slowly, as he stopped and looked around.

  ‘What was?’ I asked stupidly, realising as soon as I spoke what he meant.

  Mick released me. ‘Just here. I found the body just here.’ He stared at the ground and I joined him, just staring at a patch of bare earth as if Jacky were still lying there; as if somehow we could conjure her back.

  ‘I thought …’ I began. ‘I thought Linda Brington and Claudette found her.’

  ‘Well, that's what the police think,’ said Mick, giving me a sideways glance that dared me to answer. ‘Here we all stick together.’

  I pulled the cardigan tight around me and walked on quickly. Mick O'Dowd followed behind, his footsteps a dull thud on the hard ground. I looked over my shoulder, once, nervously. Did Jacky do the same thing that night? Was the same person following her? Perhaps she breathed a sigh of relief when she realised it was only Mick O'Dowd. Did she ignore him, turn away, walk on? What would I have done?

  The outside light of Melba Ward shone reassuringly in the gloom. Mick walked by my side now, and when we reached the door he said, ‘Bye, Staff, nice to meet you. See you again. Take care.’ He sounded so ordinary, so easy, so good-natured. Do murderers urge their victims to take care, I wondered?

  A young staff nurse greeted me at the door. She seemed pleased to see a new face. ‘Hi – I'm Claudette. Kettle's on – office is straight in front.’

  She disappeared into the kitchen and I walked into the office. This room was larger and more square than Harper's, the windows were higher and the vivid blue curtains with appliqué moon and stars gave it a more cheerful look. Otherwise, the equipment was the same, even to the position of the desk which faced the wall.

  At the desk sat a slim, middle-aged woman. She half turned and raised a hand in welcome. Her hair and makeup were not quite defined enough to make her face come alive. As if discretion was her byword. Her uniform dress, although crisp and fresh, was a dull yellow. And in the harsh strip lighting rogue grey hairs glinted in her short brown hair, alien, not only in colour but in their frizzled texture. I wondered why she didn't pluck them out. Her eyes, a greenish-blue, were bright and with their thick lashes her most attractive feature. Like me, she wore no rings and I noticed her fingernails had been neatly and completely bitten away. I guessed she was divorced.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You must be Kate from the agency. I'm Margaret Tonbridge. Take a seat. Tea will take a while.’ I saw then that she was working on some embroidery. She continued to work, the needle moving in and out, in and out. Monotonously. In silence. At last she put down her work. ‘There. That's finished. Do you sew?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Very soothing, embroidery. I could teach you the basics.’

  ‘I haven't got the patience,’ I explained. ‘Not with things.’

  She ignored that. ‘You'd acquire it with practice, she said. ‘I'm patient – any sort of handicraft teaches patience.’

  I smiled. ‘I'm sure you're right,’ I said. But I didn't agree. I thought sewing was a masochistic occupation, fraught with dangerous things like hooks and needles and scissors and sore fingers and irritation. I looked towards the door, finding the silence worrying. Where the hell was the tea?

  ‘The tea won't be too long now. Claudette's a bit obsessional. She has her routine – wash hands, rinse mugs, scald with boiling water, dry with paper towels, then wash, rinse and scald teaspoons, wipe tray, wash taps, wipe taps, lay tray, make tea. It takes a long time.’

  At that moment Claudette appeared with the tray. There were biscuits, and I wondered if she used tongs to put them on the plate. As she put down the tray I noticed the raw, steak-red hands, the scraped-back hair, fine and dry as though washed as often as the hands. I supposed she was in her early twenties. I'd seen Macbeth once. She reminded me of his lady.

  ‘Has Margaret been telling you how long I take to do things? It's very irritating I know, but it's just the way I am.’ She seemed proud of the fact.

  ‘Have you had any treatment for your condition?’ I asked.

  Her eyes widened in surprise; obviously no one had been quite so blunt before. ‘No, of course not. It's not a condition anyway, it's – it's —’

  ‘A nuisance,’ Margaret provided helpfully.

  For a while a frosty silence descended: Claudette poured t
he tea and I tried to think of something useful to say. Useful to me.

  ‘I talked to Mick on the way over,’ I said, ‘about the murder. Scared me rigid.’

  Claudette spoke first, her hands moving to her hair and patting her head as though fixing her words into place. ‘Scares us all,’ she said. ‘I shall be glad when they catch him. Sometimes at night, in the quiet, I imagine him creeping about outside.’

  ‘Were you both on duty the night of the murder?’

  Claudette glanced at Margaret as if seeking confirmation. Margaret nodded, looking up for a second from the needle she was threading, and then resuming her in-out motion.

  ‘Did you hear anything that night?’ I asked.

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Claudette. ‘You heard a car, though, didn't you?’

  Margaret answered thoughtfully, pausing mid-stitch. ‘Yes. It was about twenty past twelve. I'd done a round at midnight and then I checked all the plugs were out. I looked at the clock in the day room.’

  ‘And I was in the kitchen tidying up,’ murmured Claudette.

  ‘Mick tells me you and Linda Brington found the body?’

  Claudette stared at her water-worn hands. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  I waited for her to continue but she didn't. ‘How awful,’ I said. ‘What on earth did you think?’

  ‘Think?’ she echoed. ‘I didn't think. I just looked at her, lying there on the ground like a rag doll. I couldn't believe it.’

  ‘I would have run off screaming,’ I said. ‘What about you, Margaret?’

  She looked at me blankly. Claudette, too, looked blank.

  ‘We just stood there, it seemed like a long time. She was face down with the incontinence pads still in her hand.’ Claudette's voice had dropped to a whisper.

  ‘Were you scared?’ I asked.

  ‘I was shocked.’

  ‘Didn't it occur to you he might still be around, lurking in the bushes?’

  ‘No, that didn't occur to me.’

  I wondered why. ‘Did you touch the body?’ I asked.

  It was one question too many. A look of suspicion passed between them. I was sounding like a policeman. ‘I'm sorry,’ I smiled. ‘I read too many murder stories, a morbid hobby.