‘So you were all there?’
‘We panicked I suppose,’ said Claudette. ‘And Mick was in a terrible state saying he didn't want to have to tell the police he'd found the body and Margaret asked us not to say she'd been at home. It was a nightmare. We covered her body with a cloak and rang the police. Before they came we had to get our stories straight. We didn't want to admit Jacky had been missing as long as she had. There was at least an hour and a quarter's difference between the time we said and the time she was actually found. Instead of just after twelve we said she came over to collect the pads at about one fifteen. We couldn't be that accurate, we said, because we were so busy on the ward …’
Claudette paused and looked towards the door as if planning to make a run for it but she merely said, ‘I'll make some tea,’ and left the office. I knew she would take her usual time and I tried to work out the basic flaws in the events of that night. The main one as far as I could see was Dr Robert Duston. Jacky had visited him about twelve twenty-five. The time of death is never very accurate, it was August and her body had been covered for a while. She was young and fit and the weather not cold; an hour and a quarter discrepancy wouldn't be abnormal. But what about the doctor?
‘Why did Robert Duston agree to lie for you?’ I asked Linda. She didn't seem surprised by the question. ‘We rang him, straight after the police and he agreed to saying it was later when she turned up.’
I was still puzzled. ‘But why on earth would he deliberately lie? He had nothing to hide.’
Linda smiled at what she must have considered my naïvety. ‘I thought you used to live with a copper? You ought to know what some of them can be like. Doc Duston hated the police. He was always having rows with them in casualty. It got round that he was a gay left-winger and I think they gave him a hard time.’
‘I see,’ I murmured and I remembered how Dave had told me tales of the ‘gay baiting' that some of his colleagues engaged in. Somehow I had believed it was a rare occurrence, confined to a few obviously camp victims. I didn't think such things happened to doctors.
The arrival of tea seemed to indicate a change in tactic.
‘I'm really grateful that you've confided in me,’ I said. ‘Only a few more questions about police procedure on the night.’
‘Thank God for that,’ laughed Linda.
Her pretty face had resumed its cheerful look and her cheeks had once more a pink sheen as if relief had opened up her capillaries and allowed the blood to flow once again. Claudette, on the other hand, still looked pale and anxious. Confession hadn't had such a liberating effect on her and I saw a trace of blood on her hands where she had scrubbed again at the raw patches.
Could she have left the ward, done the deed and returned to the ward to dispose of the knife, I wondered? With Margaret off the premises she could have opened the curtains, watched Jacky leave the main building after seeing Robert, followed her, stabbed her, and been back on the ward within minutes. And then she would have washed and washed. If this was true, there still remained the question of motive. And how could it possibly be proved?
Claudette poured out the tea but she couldn't control her trembling hands and she handed me my mug with two hands as if it were a chalice. She held my gaze with her pale grey eyes glistening with the desire to speak, like an eager child in class with a hand held up and the last one to be asked.
‘What is it, Claudette?’ I asked softly.
‘I want … I want to … confess.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Confess?’
Claudette sat down, smoothed her blue uniform dress over her thighs and stared at me miserably for a moment. ‘I've wanted to talk about Jacky ever since it happened. You see, that night when we found her body … I didn't feel anything … no real emotion at all. I looked down at her lying there and I thought … I thought … thank God it wasn't one of us. But she was one of us! But she was apart from us, if you know what I mean.’
I nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Do you? I don't think so. She wasn't bitchy or even a gossip … she was creepy. She smiled a lot, not a friendly sort of smile, but the sort of smile that said, “I know a secret.” But it wasn't just that she felt superior because of her religion, it was as if she could tell your innermost thoughts, knew your weak spots and if she chose she could somehow expose you …’
Claudette's voice trailed away and she lowered her head and then in a whisper said, ‘I was glad she died. I was glad someone had killed her. I don't know who did it but if I did, I'd know that they had good cause. That makes me as bad as the murderer, doesn't it?’
I moved my chair nearer hers and put my arm round her shoulders. ‘Wishing someone dead and putting wishes into action are quite different. It's like fancying the milkman – how many women do anything about it?’
She smiled then. ‘I suppose you're right—’
‘Of course she's right,’ Linda interrupted. ‘I've fancied my milkman for years and I've still got no nearer than asking for an extra pint.’
Claudette half smiled and shrugged her shoulders. Emotionally she seemed in that limbo land somewhere between laughter and tears.
But I couldn't leave it mere, so I said, ‘Talking of fancying people – was it you who was seeing Mick?’
‘Do you mean …?’ she asked, her thin eyebrows arching in disbelief.
‘Yes. Were you having an affair?’
The honest surprise that showed in her face didn't need any explanation to convince me, and after the initial shock she laughed briefly. ‘Do we look suited?’ she asked. ‘He wouldn't say no to anyone, but give me credit for a bit more taste. Did you think that was my big hang-up? Why I didn't like Jacky? You've got it all wrong. I'm living with someone. I have a child, not his, in an institution. My son is blind and deaf and brain-damaged. An infection in utero. I couldn't cope, you see. I try and wash my guilt away. It doesn't work of course. I've been told it could have happened to anyone. Since he was born I suppose I've tried to wage war on germs. I do know what I'm doing is abnormal and doesn't make sense, but it makes me feel better. It's a sort of punishment, isn't it?’
It was a question which I sensed she didn't want me to answer. Some people need their obsessions to survive. I'd seen people ‘cured' of one sort of compulsive behaviour only to acquire another. Better, I supposed, to have a withered natural leg that supports you, than the discomfort of a perfect artificial one.
I looked at my watch then; I couldn't expect Margaret to cope on her own any longer. Both Claudette and Linda were on duty the next night and I already had some idea of what the police did at the scene of crimes. What I wanted to know about that night could wait.
‘I'll go back to the ward now. Thanks again for your help,’ I said.
‘Want me to ring Margaret to let her know you're on your way?’ Linda asked.
‘Okay,’ I said. I had planned to speak to Mick O'Dowd but he could always come to the ward when Margaret had gone on her break.
It had stopped snowing, and the dark moodiness of the sky had cleared, like chalk wiped from a child's slate, allowing the stars to shimmer and the quarter moon to shed some light on the dripping branches of the trees. Branches that shed their snow in soft and irregular splashes as though the trees themselves were shaking an unwanted guest from their domain. Underfoot the ground snow seemed harder and crisper and my footsteps sounded loud in the early morning quiet.
I took my time on the walk back. There were two routes Jacky could have taken that night. The shorter and more isolated passed old closed wards and then into the wooded area. The longer was via the covered walkways and out on to open grass and the back of the ward. I could only guess why Harper and Melba Wards had been kept open and the others closed. They were in the best condition. Their roofs were still intact, they weren't damp and they were spacious. As I passed the empty wards their windows stared back at me like sightless eyes and the only reflection in them was mine. Someone cried out, not in sudden and unexpected fear but
with the chronically agonised cry of the demented. I started to walk faster; that cry could well be coming from my ward.
Margaret seemed unhurried and in control when I returned. ‘It was only Eva shouting for attention,’ she said when I asked her who had screamed. It remained peaceful after that and when Margaret went for her break I rang Mick O'Dowd.
‘I'll be about three-quarters of an hour,’ he said. But he didn't ask what I wanted and I had the feeling from his tone of voice he knew already.
When he did arrive, though, he seemed cheerful enough and he stood in the doorway of the office looking me over and smiling. ‘I hear you're a private detective,’ he said. ‘Wouldn't have believed it. Well, well.’
Something in his tone seemed to suggest he now placed me in the same category as a mud wrestler and with as much sexual innuendo. ‘No need to get excited, Mick,’ I said. ‘Sit down and you can give me the benefit of your life's experiences. Criminal experiences.’
‘What's that supposed to mean?’
‘Just what it says. I want to know why the police suspected you and why they still suspect you of Jacky's murder.’
His jaw tensed as he clenched his teeth but he took his black jacket off and hung it carefully over the back of a chair. Then, sitting down, he crossed his legs and undid the first three buttons of his blue shirt. I could see the thick gold chain of his medallion, and the black hairs curling into his neckline. Once he'd settled down in the chair his brown eyes flicked tongue-like over my breasts.
‘Now then, young Kate, what do you want to know?’
‘I want to know what crimes you committed in the past,’ I said. He laughed. ‘No need to be so serious,’ he said. ‘I wasn't in for murder, you know. I'm not the violent type. I stay clear of that sort of thing. I prefer women and fast cars.’
‘Come on, Mick. I've got to check the patients soon. What was it? Robbery without violence, kidnapping women drivers?’
‘Under-age sex, if you must know, and taking and driving away. Big stuff, eh?’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I was twenty,’ he began. ‘Painting and decorating. I met this girl at a disco. Not very tall but was she stacked! Make-up, tight skirt, low-cut blouse, long blonde hair to her shoulders. She told me she was sixteen; she looked older than that. Anyway we went out for three months until her father saw us together. He laid one on me and next thing the police were round my place saying this girl was only twelve! Twelve! It was funny really, I nearly passed out with shock. They decided not to prosecute when they saw some photos I'd got of her. I only saw her once after that, going to school. She only looked like a well-developed twelve in her uniform. I learnt my lesson, though. I found out I liked older women. Which was just as well.’
‘And the taking and driving away?’
‘Ah, that! Just a little hobby of mine. Did a spell in the old Borstal system for that. When I got a car of my own I stopped. I haven't been in any trouble since, or I wouldn't have got this job. When the police found out, you'd think they'd found the Moors murderers. They made enough fuss. I thought they were going to dig up my bloody garden. They kept me for hours trying to make me confess. Then they latched on to Kennie, the peeping Tom. Questioned that poor little sod too, over and over.’
‘And the nurses?’
‘The police were hardly bothered with them. The ex-boyfriend got a grilling but it seems he had a watertight alibi. They even questioned one of the doctors, got no joy there.’
‘And by that time the trail was cold,’ I said.
Mick nodded and expanded his chest with a good stretch. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That's all I can tell you.’
‘Not quite. If you had stabbed Jacky, just an if, but if you had, where would you have hidden the knife afterwards?’
Mick passed a hand through greased hair and frowned. ‘Not sure, probably down a drain. I wouldn't have just tossed it away. The police went all through the grounds with torches; I watched them fan out in a line searching everywhere.’
‘What about the mortuary?’
‘Locked. Not in use. Undertakers do the job.’
‘Rubbish bins?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Maybe.’
‘You wouldn't have kept the knife on you?’
‘No. They might have searched me. I had to turn out my pockets anyway. Well, they didn't force the issue but suggested that it might be in my own best interests. And they searched the porter's lodge. Found nothing of course. I didn't have anything to hide, did I?’
‘I don't know, Mick. What about the woman?’
‘What woman? I don't know what you're talking about I haven't got a woman, not here anyway. I know someone down south but not up here—’
‘You're protesting too much, Mick,’ I interrupted, with what I hoped was a warm but knowing smile. ‘It would be strange if you hadn't. You're in your prime, good-looking, probably virile. A man like you surely wouldn't have any problems attracting women.’
Not quite knowing if I was totally sincere, but perhaps hoping I was, he said, ‘That's true. There is a woman but I can't tell you who. She's—’
At that moment the telephone rang. Mick saw his chance, picked up his coat and made for the door.
‘I'll see you tomorrow night,’ I mouthed as I picked up the telephone. He smiled, a tight mean smile, and I knew it masked an obscenity.
Night sister's call was brief, interrupted by one or two shouts from the ward, and when I went to investigate I found one extremely large patient half out of bed and a slim one wedged between the cot side and the bed. I wondered wearily how I would manage, and I'd just started to east their legs back into bed when the day room door opened and Margaret appeared. She walked slowly towards me, her primrose-yellow dress fresh and uncreased. In the dim light she looked younger and I noticed for the first time the fullness of her breasts and the trimness of her waist. A shape Mick would say was ‘well stacked'. I knew at that moment Margaret and Mick shared more than just an initial.
From then on the ward just seemed to erupt. As we got the large patient out of bed on to a commode we heard a thump and guessed someone had fallen. At first I couldn't see the patient at all and I switched on the angle-poise attached to the wall.
‘She's under the bed. Silly cow,’ called Alice from the next bed.
‘Don't worry, Alice,’ I said. ‘We'll soon have her back to bed.’ But I was wrong. I knelt down on the floor and peered under the bed. The old lady lay flat on her back, eyes wide open, her rose red brushed-nylon nightie at knee length and her left ankle awkwardly rotated. She blinked as though coming to life.
‘My leg, she wailed, ‘my leg.’
I didn't hear Margaret approach, just saw her feet in their regulation lace-ups and the shapely ankles above.
‘Shall I ring the doctor?’ she asked, trying not to smile at my position.
I nodded. ‘Tell him, probable fracture left leg and that she's ninety-something with severe osteo-arthritis.’
‘Will do,’ she said.
I could hear her soft voice on the telephone but not what she was saying. Then her final words resounded. ‘Well, thanks,’ she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘What's wrong?’ I asked, as she knelt beside me on the floor. ‘He won't come. Says give her two paracetamols and she'll be seen in the morning. He said if we couldn't get her back to bed we could nurse her on the floor.’
‘Oh, well. We'll have to do what we can.’
‘How can you take this so calmly? It's a disgrace.’
‘I agree, Margaret, but they won't pin and plate her; they may try traction or plaster of Paris but a few hours won't make that much difference. If she'd appeared in casualty she'd have had to wait hours on a hard trolley.’
She shrugged dispiritedly as though she knew I had a point.
‘Come on,’ I said, trying to encourage her. ‘We'll pad her and splint her as best we can and lift her on the bed. She's not heavy.’
We had no problems doing that, except ou
r patient, Aggie, insisted on trying to hang on to the underneath of the bed and we had to prise her fingers apart and offer her various inducements. Finally, she agreed on a brandy.
Once Aggie was on the bed, given her well-deserved tot, she began to relax and close her eyes.
‘Strange isn't it, how the really old don't feel as much pain as a younger person.’ Margaret spoke softly as she stood by Aggie's bed, looking down at her.
Margaret's voice held a trace of wistfulness as if she couldn't wait for a time when she too would feel less pain. And as she stood there in the glow of the angle-poise, with her shoulders slumped as if in defeat, and with her dress the colour of sunshine, she reminded me of a daffodil that had wilted early. Full of promise, verging on beauty, but destroyed by – frost? Too little sun?
‘I'll make some tea,’ she said. ‘It's nearly morning.’
Back in the office I opened the curtains, and although it was still dark, lighter patches of grey showed in the black, the snow still covered the ground and the birds had started singing. And soon it would be light and the night would be over. It was one of those moments which pass so quickly, you just have time to register the emotion as happiness, and it's gone.
‘Look,’ I said, pointing to the sky when Margaret came into the office, ‘it's nearly dawn.’
‘I prefer the night,’ she said. ‘I've always preferred the night.’
Chapter Seventeen
I had several letters that morning. Hubert handed them to me at the bottom of the stairs. ‘One from Australia,’ he said. ‘Old boyfriend?’
I shook my head. ‘My mother.’
He stood watching me expectantly, but I was too tired to explain. My early morning euphoria had vanished as I'd driven along roads made treacherous with snow and ice, and I'd only returned to the office because I couldn't face the even more exposed roads to Farley Wood.
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