Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  ‘I'll see you later,’ said Hubert. ‘Do you want to be woken?’

  ‘Only if Prince Charming is available,’ I said, feigning cheerfulness.

  Hubert smiled his slightly crooked smile. ‘We could go to the pub. I'll buy you lunch.’

  ‘The last time in the pub, Hubert, I practically had to carry you home.’

  ‘Whose fault was that?’

  ‘I blame your wife. Any news on that front?’

  He shook his head. ‘Have you found the murderer yet?’

  I shrugged. ‘Sometimes I think I know who, sometimes why, but not both together. Let's just say I'm looking sideways at most people.’

  Hubert's eyes shone with interest and although I did want to discuss progress, my concentration was at an all-time low.

  ‘We'll talk later,’ I promised. ‘My brain is on shutdown at the moment.’

  A wash and three chocolate biscuits later I lay on the sofa-bed and read my mother's letter. She had found a job waitressing near Sydney and if I had any spare cash would I please send it. She had met a man, a Crocodile Dundee type, but he was only thirtyfive and although she had made a play for his body, he seemed more interested in the outback. ‘Men are such a disappointment, Kate,’ she had written. ‘What's happened to all the randy ones?’

  A stranger reading the letter would have thought it written by a worldly-wise teenager, not a fifty-year-old widow who once did meals on wheels. Not that my mother looked fifty, she looked older. Three years of world travel takes its toll, I supposed. And perhaps the photographs lied.

  Her letter – marked Letter One – ended mid-sentence. Disappointed and dejected, I snuggled under the covers and tried not to think how much I missed her, how much money I could afford to send, and how much she infuriated me. Why, I wondered, couldn't my mother live up to my expectations? I was drifting off to sleep when I realised I hadn't opened the rest of my mail. It looked like junk mail, so that I could happily ignore it. Probably yet another lucky number win on some car or a credit company offering me one more facility for increasing my debts.

  I slept then, dreaming my mother had been bitten by a funnelweb spider and was being flown home, in a wheelchair, by hot-air balloon. And I would have to look after her for ever.

  It seemed only minutes later I woke up worried and apprehensive; the dream still a reality. I peered bleary-eyed at the alarm clock and it took some time for my brain to decode the message from my eyes – it was twelve thirty.

  I dressed in peach blouse, long purple skirt, purple cardigan, black beads. I looked like a fortune-teller, but I felt comfortable and the dream had just been a dream and soon I was about to crack my first case. One day perhaps I'd be able to afford to go to Australia to see my mother, and perhaps find my own Crocodile Dundee.

  I drank three coffees and stared into space for a while, then I went downstairs to find Hubert. He was just putting on his coat and arranging a red scarf by tucking one end into the front and tossing the other end over his shoulder. He cast himself a glance in the glass of one of the landscapes that lined the main hall, smoothed his remaining hair and then gave me a look as if to check my presentability.

  ‘I don't approve of mirrors in funeral parlours,’ he said. ‘Our customers don't want to see their grief staring them in the face.’ That was something I'd never thought of. I smiled and took his arm. ‘Let's walk to the Swan,’ I said. ‘The sun is trying to shine.’ ‘Not trying very hard, is it?’ he said glumly.

  The view up the High Street towards the Swan was depressingly empty. Although the sun shone feebly, the wind blew at our faces with icy preciseness. The snow had turned to grey-black sludge and passing cars churned it over until the gutters and the edges of the pavements were banked on either side as though it were a defensive sea wall. The shop windows shone with the lights and shiny red and gold paper of early Christmas decorations but the empty street seemed to mock the effort to be jolly. Occasionally one or two shoppers appeared from shops and scurried away quickly with their collars up and heads bowed to avoid the chill wind. Hubert tried to linger at the shoe shops, but I yanked him past, complaining that I was cold.

  As I opened the lounge door of the Swan the beery warmth of the inside hit me. A log fire roared with fierce orange flames in the open fireplace and as we entered, one or two faces I recognised as regulars turned to us and smiled. Here, they seemed to be saying, is sanctuary.

  Hubert got the drinks and we sat near the fire, removed our coats and began roasting our cheeks and warming our hands and staring into the flames. Then, when I felt warmer, my hands cupped a rum and blackcurrant, hot on the stomach but sweet in the mouth, and Hubert stayed with his usual ale which I supposed was neither.

  ‘Do you think the female is deadlier than the male, Hubert?’ I asked.

  Hubert stared into the fire, his face pink and childlike in its glow. He'd probably been an ugly little boy, bullied or shunned because his father was an undertaker. I wondered if, as a teenager, he had lied to girls about his job, dreading the moment they would find out that the hands that caressed them also caressed corpses.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Women make better liars. Their brains work quicker because they are shorter. The messages don't have so far to travel. I think it's also something to do with electromagnetic fields.’

  ‘You're joking!’

  ‘I'm not. I believe it. Some very sound research has been done on it.’

  ‘Well, I've never heard … that before,’ I said, not wanting to upset him.

  ‘There's always exceptions, I suppose,’ said Hubert graciously.

  ‘Would homosexuals be an exception?’

  Hubert looked a little worried by the question. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I was wondering if homosexuals had more female attributes than male. The main difference being their physical strength …’ I tailed off. Robert Duston was strong physically and he had a caustic tongue. If Jacky had been so much of a nuisance surely he could have dissuaded her from her frequent visits. Perhaps he had – the ultimate dissuader!

  ‘That's because the police are prejudiced,’ Hubert was saying in a line of thought I must have missed. ‘They expect murder to be a male crime. If she wears a nurse's uniform she must be okay. Suspecting a nurse would be like suspecting one of their own.’

  ‘What about a doctor?’

  Hubert shrugged. ‘I still think the police are more likely to suspect outsiders.’

  I knew Hubert was right but I thought it careless of the police not to suspect everyone. In all the murder films I'd ever seen detectives always kept an open mind until the final reel, and the camera managed to hover suspiciously over everyone from the baby-sitter to the butler. Not so in real life, though.

  ‘How do you think the knife was disposed of?’ I asked.

  Hubert smiled. ‘Perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps the murderer just took it home.’

  My mouth opened to argue the point and then closed. He was right. It was so simple. Why does anyone who isn't a suspect have to get rid of a weapon? ‘You are a genius, Hubert,’ I said, laughing. ‘I shall buy you another drink.’

  Although he looked pleased, he said, ‘The closer you get to this murderer the more likely they are to start plotting your end – let's face it, you are a rank amateur.’

  ‘Thanks, Hubert. You do wonders for my confidence.’

  Hubert shrugged. ‘I'm only worried about your welfare, Kate.’

  ‘Well, you needn't worry, Hubert,’ I said, patting his hand. ‘I won't take any unnecessary risks.’

  ‘You never turn your back on anyone then?’

  ‘Well, of course I do but we're not talking homicidal maniac, are we?’

  Hubert raised an eyebrow and drained his glass. ‘He or she will be getting desperate. You might be the only obstacle in their way. Our killer might feel the need to get rid of you. Kate, I'm telling you to take care. You ought to stop working at the hospital now.’

  ‘Tonight's my last night,’ I said, and only r
ealised how ominous that sounded when Hubert sighed, loudly.

  By the time I went on duty the snow had mostly disappeared but patches of ice had remained on the roads, malignant and black, waiting to catch the unwary. But tonight I planned to be wary. Hubert's misgivings must have got through to me because when I knew that I was working with Linda I felt a great surge of relief.

  We worked well together and by eleven all the patients were asleep and the ward tidy. We sat in the office and Linda put her feet up on a chair and chatted about her family and we laughed about my mad mother chasing men in Sydney.

  ‘Talking of mothers,’ said Linda, ‘Margaret's mother has had a stroke, quite a bad one. Margaret's off on unpaid leave to look after her. That poor girl doesn't have much luck, does she?’

  I agreed that she didn't. ‘Do you think she'll ever come back to work?’ I asked.

  Linda shook her head. ‘She might. Mind you, she'll probably have to wait until the old girl dies.’

  Linda had brought in eggs and bacon for our evening meal and we both stood in the ward kitchen watching it sizzle in the pan. ‘Tell me about Margaret and Mick,’ I said.

  She flicked over a rasher of bacon before she answered. ‘Tell you what?’ she said, but there was no surprise in her voice.

  ‘Did you know they were having an affair?’

  ‘We only guessed. Mick was mad about her. But Margaret … well … you could never be sure.’

  ‘Did Jacky know they were seeing each other?’

  ‘I doubt it. With Jacky we only talked about work or the church. Sex wasn't something Jacky showed any interest in. And if she had found out about Mick she would have made Margaret's life a misery.’

  Linda served up the egg and bacon and we'd just sat down to eat when a plaintive cry echoed down the ward.

  ‘Typical!’ said Linda. ‘Bloody typical!’

  By the time we came back to our meal the eggs were cold and splashes of fat had congealed on the plate. We looked despairingly at each other and burst out laughing.

  Later, over toast that we managed to eat hot, I asked Linda about the police on the night of the murder.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.

  ‘Just tell me what happened.’

  ‘Mick stayed with the body. We went back to our wards and rang the night sister, she rang the managers and they arrived in force, creating havoc. The police cordoned off the area and took photographs and then a bit later they moved into the main building to interview people. One by one they talked to us all. And that's it really.’

  ‘Did they act as if they suspected anyone?’

  ‘Only Mick. To the nurses they said not to worry, to go back to our wards and lock ourselves in. They assured us the boys in blue would soon catch him.’

  ‘And they didn't search anyone?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Thanks, Linda. I'd like to have a word with Mick also if he's on duty.’

  ‘He's on tonight. I saw him as I came in.’ She looked up at the office clock. ‘He's late coming round. I haven't heard him, have you?’

  I shook my head. ‘Perhaps he's on Melba.’

  ‘Yeah. Probably talking to Olwen, they always chat for ages.’

  ‘If he's not here soon I'll go over to the porter's lodge to see him on my break.’

  At one thirty there was still no sign of Mick so I rang the staff on Melba Ward, but they hadn't seen him either.

  ‘I bet he's asleep,’ said Linda. ‘I've had to wake him up several times. He does too much overtime. He often works twelve nights in a row. Night porter isn't a popular job. They have to get a day man in to relieve Mick and he hates doing it.’

  I borrowed Linda's cloak, unbolted the door and stood for a moment breathing in the night air and watching my breath white against the dark outside.

  ‘I won't be long,’ I promised.

  My footsteps echoed along the boards of the walkway and from there it was through the archway, past the one bike in the bike shed and under the second archway. Here it reminded me of stabling yards, a section of low wooden huts, sealed and windowless and at the end of the row the porter's lodge, like a cricket pavilion long unused. The white paint had become grey and peeled with age and the six wooden steps leading to the door were warped and cracked and my first step on them sounded, in the silence, like treading on a dry stick in a forest. A light shone inside from behind thin green curtains that didn't quite meet, and the gap cast a shimmery arrow of light on to the ground. The steps remained in darkness. I walked carefully upwards, holding on to the single handrail. It wobbled in response.

  At the top I knocked loudly. ‘Mick,’ I called. ‘Wake up.’ I called again. No answer. There was no handle or latch on the door, just an empty keyhole. I pushed open the door. The room inside smelt musty; a central light bulb hung naked and moving slightly as the door opened and underneath it were a trestle table and two chairs. A half-empty bottle of milk, a mug, an unopened packet of biscuits and a newspaper lay on the table. In the corner of the room on a mattress covered by a red hospital blanket lay Mick. I could just see the top of his head, his black hair peeking out on to a white pillow. I could hear him snoring. Loud and very slow and deep … like a … oh, my God!

  I moved forward. ‘Mick!’ I shouted. I heard the footfall on the bare boards behind me but I wasn't quick enough. The crack on my head felled me. I knew I was going to be hit again. But I didn't feel a thing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I was awake before I opened my eyes, and just for a moment I wondered if I was hung over. My head felt encased in a vice and my hearing seemed supersensitive. I could hear feet moving over solid floors, hear coughs and whispers, a trolley rattling along, keys jangling. Footsteps approaching, cold fingers forcing my left eye open and shining in a great light and then assaulting my right eye. And it seemed as if someone was trying to invade my head, see my brain. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a feeble ‘Don't.’

  ‘Welcome back,’ said a young voice from above me. ‘Open your eyes – you're in the General Hospital.’

  She said it with such pride you'd think I'd somehow acquired the best suite at the Ritz.

  ‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ I said ungratefully, my eyes still tight shut.

  I heard the slight rustle of her plastic apron and then the sounds of rubber soles moving away and when I felt sure she'd gone, I opened my eyes. My ears had deceived me, I wasn't in an open ward. I was in a single room and by my bed sat a woman in blue – not a nurse, a policewoman. A young woman, pretty, wearing red shiny lipstick and with blonde curly hair that stuck out from under the front of her cap.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, smiling. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Lousy.’

  ‘Like some tea?’

  It seemed like a big decision at the time and I took ages to answer, ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  When the policewoman returned she brought the same nurse back and together they helped me to sit up and banked me against pillows and I couldn't avoid once more facing the world. A world of beige walls and pale green curtains and counterpanes. I ran my fingers over the embossed leaves of the counterpane; it seemed familiar, and then I remembered – during my nurse training the beds had been covered identically.

  The nurse smiled and left.

  ‘Feel like talking?’ said the policewoman. ‘I'm Angela.’

  I didn't, but I'm quite polite, especially to the police, so I attempted to nod. It was a mistake. My head still belonged in the vice and raising my hand I moved it gingerly over my scalp. My hair was still there, although at the back of my head I felt a prickly shaved patch and round the edges the matted, unmistakable feel of dried blood. I felt the patch again; the prickly bits were sutures, seven in all. I wondered if I'd bled dramatically.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ said WPC Angela.

  I told her about finding Mick on the mattress snoring. And then realising he wasn't snoring but dying.

  ‘A bit like the poem,’ s
he said.

  I didn't catch on but I smiled as if I had. ‘And then I heard something behind me and, wallop, I was downed but not quite out.’ I began to shiver men, at the memory of waiting for the second blow, knowing it would come but not knowing if it would be the last thing I ever felt.

  ‘You didn't see who it was, then?’ she persisted.

  ‘No,’ I repeated. ‘I did not.’

  She wrote that down and I asked, ‘How's Mick? Did you get to him in time?’

  Shaking her head she said, ‘He was rushed here, and the doctors tried very hard, but it was too late.’

  ‘What had happened?’

  ‘An overdose of insulin. He was a diabetic.’

  ‘A diabetic?’ I echoed stupidly.

  ‘Yes. Since childhood, it seems. The doctor said something about him being a very unstable diabetic and even though the dose was large if he'd eaten plenty of glucose he could have survived. It seems as if he wanted to die.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ I blurted out. ‘Why on earth would he want to kill himself?’

  ‘Miss Kinsella, please don't upset yourself. It does seem, though, that he did kill himself. His fingerprints were the only ones found on the syringe and the bottle of insulin. And the CID have got no reason, at the moment, to think anyone else was involved.’ ‘What about the crack on the head? My two cracks on the head. Or have I imagined that?’

  Angela's red mouth broke into a smile that was no doubt meant to be soothing. Then, to make matters worse, she patted my hand as if I was an old lady in need of reassurance. ‘I'm sorry to have upset you. Try to get some sleep. I'll leave you in peace for a while and perhaps when you wake up you'll remember some more about what happened.’

  She carried a chair outside and closed the door behind her. I lay back on the pillows feeling defeated and suddenly very alone. A mad killer was managing to bump people off, as easily as a ball knocking down skittles, and was getting away with it. I appeared to be the only failure. But what if I developed complications, a subarachnoid haemorrhage, a severe infection, a clot on the brain? I'd be on one of Hubert's slabs, tucked away in his freezer with a certificate stating that death, by person or persons unknown, was due to complications following a head injury. And I'd never manage to grow tomatoes – ever. And why hadn't Hubert come to see me? Tears of self-pity began to well in my eyes. Private detectives don't cry, I told myself, but they do, and I did.