Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  Hook smoothed down his green striped tie with one hand and gave me a glance that suggested mere private detectives couldn't match the sheer expertise of the police no matter how hard they tried.

  ‘Who do you think attacked you, Kate?’

  ‘I was about to ask you the same question.’

  ‘Let's just say we have someone under surveillance,’ he said.

  ‘And you're not going to tell me who?’

  ‘We think it better that you don't know at this stage. We don't want our investigation hampered by …’

  ‘An amateur?’ I suggested helpfully.

  ‘A well-meaning amateur, I was about to say.’

  He stood up then. ‘Come on, Roade,’ he said, gesturing with his head. Roade straightened himself up ready to leave.

  ‘Just one thing before you go,’ I said. ‘What about Mick's girlfriend?’

  ‘You mean Margaret Tonbridge?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She couldn't be a suspect?’

  Both Hook and Roade smiled in unison, patronising unison. ‘No problems there. Very fond of each other by all accounts. Mick had been a bit depressed lately. Perhaps he wasn't careful enough drawing up his insulin …’

  ‘You mean you still think it was an accident?’ I said incredulously.

  ‘Or suicide. Happens all the time.’

  ‘But what about my attacker, Jacky's murder? Couldn't Margaret have been responsible?’

  It was Hook's turn to look surprised. ‘Nice woman like that? A devoted daughter. What motive would she have? Anyway she had alibis for both Jacky and your attack.’

  ‘Where was she then?’ I asked.

  Hook moved towards me as I sat at the desk and patted me on the shoulder. ‘She was with her mother, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said weakly. ‘With her sick mother.’

  ‘In my experience of caring unmarried daughters it's the old mother who gets murdered, not a virtual stranger.’

  ‘Jacky wasn't a stranger,’ I protested. ‘They worked together.’

  ‘They weren't friends, though, were they?’

  ‘No, they were …’ I had been about to say enemies but that hadn't been apparent. Disliking someone doesn't necessarily make them an enemy.

  ‘I think you'll have to think again on this one, Kate,’ said Hook, clearly relishing his professional one-upmanship. ‘Miss Tonbridge seems a well-adjusted, caring person, certainly not murderess material at all.’

  ‘Murderers have to be a special type, do they?’

  ‘Most are, in my experience. They are different from normal people.’

  ‘I'm glad you told me,’ I said.

  He didn't seem to notice the sarcasm in my voice.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I rang Linda immediately. She told me that yes, there had been a phone call that night, just after I'd left the ward. She'd simply said that I'd popped over to see the security man and I'd be back in a few minutes.

  ‘Honestly, Kate, I was dead casual. He was talking about sending us an admission and I had to say where you'd gone and that you'd give him a ring when you got back. He wasn't a bit pleased, I can tell you.’

  ‘Dr Duston?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry I forgot to tell you, hope I didn't drop you in it.’

  ‘Not at all, Linda. Bye. Thanks.’

  Hubert came up just after the phone call, looking remarkably cheerful. ‘How did it go?’ he asked, standing in the doorway.

  I shrugged and looked heavenwards. ‘Not well,’ I said. ‘The Inspector patronised me and the Detective Sergeant propped up the wall as talkative as a stuffed parrot, and my chief suspect, it seems, has an alibi as solid as my suet dumplings.’

  ‘I like suet dumplings.’

  ‘You would, Hubert. Are you coming in?’

  He walked in, frowning slightly, ‘Do I have to sit in that chair, Kate?’

  ‘Please yourself, Hubert.’

  He really did try. It was another triumph for the coffin grapevine. It seemed Mick O'Dowd had tested his blood the night of the murder – the pricking of his thumb had been freshly done. He had also had very recent sexual intercourse. Hubert had stuttered over those words. Shortly after that, he had either injected himself with four times his dose of insulin or someone else had done it for him.

  ‘What does your informant think happened?’ I asked.

  ‘He thinks Mick did it himself; there were only his fingerprints on the insulin bottle and the syringe. The equipment was found beside him in the bed as if he were tired after … after …’

  ‘I understand, Hubert. But why? That's what I don't understand.’

  ‘Perhaps we'll never know,’ said Hubert. ‘People do commit suicide on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘And murder,’ I said.

  ‘You don't think he just made a mistake with his dosage?’ asked Hubert.

  I shook my head. ‘Years ago, maybe. Then there were several different types and strengths of insulin. Now there is only one strength and one type of syringe. Insulin itself is slightly cloudy so you can see the amount in the syringe; a mistake of one or two units is possible but not four times the dose.’

  ‘His sister …’ began Hubert.

  ‘His sister!’ I repeated excitedly. I'd been thinking of Mick as being a creature of the night, a loner. I'd been very stupid. ‘What about his sister?’

  ‘He lived with her. She's a widow.’

  ‘You don't know her address, do you, Hubert?’

  ‘I could find it out.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Hubert, I think you deserve a pub lunch.’

  ‘I'm not arguing,’ said Hubert.

  At the Swan we ordered chicken in a basket with chips and I broached the subject of my planned reconstruction.

  Hubert nearly choked on one of the chips and he swallowed hard before he answered. ‘That's a daft idea,’ he whispered, looking round the pub to make sure no one was listening.

  I looked round too, and got the impression today was pension day: the young business types were gone and in their place a few elderly couples sat laughing and relaxed in neat, ultra-clean clothes. In the corner near us a small group of elderly men discussed next spring's plans for their gardens; their mortgages by now a long-forgotten thorn.

  ‘No one's listening,’ I said.

  ‘It's still a daft idea. The police do that sort of thing. It's all organised and safe …’

  ‘Admit it, Hubert. You're scared.’

  ‘No, I'm not,’ said Hubert indignantly. ‘It's just that things you do either go wrong, or someone dies.’

  It was my turn to feel both indignant and guilty, for the thought crossed my mind that if I hadn't been investigating Jacky's death maybe, just maybe, no one else would have died.

  ‘Aren't you going to argue?’ asked Hubert.

  ‘Perhaps you've got a point,’ I said. ‘I may have made things worse. Do you think I should tell the police my suspicions?’

  ‘Didn't you say your suspect had an alibi?’

  ‘They said she has.’

  ‘Well, unless you've got some real evidence, do you think they would take any notice of you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not, I said, beginning to feel a little less dispirited.

  Hubert carried on eating and then wiped his mouth carefully with a paper napkin. ‘What do you plan to do for this reconstruction?’

  ‘You mean you'll help me?’

  ‘Why not? I'm not chicken.’

  ‘Do you think you're normal, Hubert?’ I asked, remembering Inspector Hook's comments on normality.

  Hubert looked only a mite surprised at the question. ‘What's normal?’ he asked. ‘I'm just different.’

  I shrugged. ‘Exactly, Hubert, exactly.’

  ‘What's that got to do with the reconstruction?’

  ‘Nothing at all really, only I know who the police suspect.’

  ‘Someone who's not normal.’r />
  ‘A doctor—’ I began.

  ‘Not Hiding?’ interrupted Hubert with a grin.

  I laughed, ‘I agree he's not normal, but it's not him. I think they suspect Robert Duston. In police eyes being a homosexual is an abnormality, and being left-wing as well makes him verge on the outright subversive.’

  ‘Surely not,’ said Hubert. ‘The police are supposed to be fair and impartial, aren't they?’

  ‘Tell that to a man caught with a friend in a public lavatory. The police can respect a criminal for his daring and bravado. However, it seems that catching gays in the act has less status in the police force than arresting a bag lady for loitering. So some of them compensate themselves by … being less than friendly to gays.’

  ‘How do you know about that sort of thing?’

  ‘I used to live opposite a public lavatory.’

  ‘You're having me on,’ said Hubert.

  ‘Yes, Hubert. I am.’

  We left the pub agreeing to meet outside the hospital at eleven p.m. I still wasn't sure I knew what we were going to do exactly, but I didn't tell Hubert that. I let him think it was as organised as a shopping trip. I don't think he knows quite how disorganised a shopping trip can be.

  He promised to ring me with the address of Mick's sister and I drove to the cottage to plan the reconstruction.

  I assumed in the peace and quiet of my home I would be able to work out a plan of devilish cunning, instead of which I spent ages removing four sutures from my scalp. They had begun to irritate and I was determined to make it a DIY job. I propped up a magnifying mirror and then angled my head in position. My pointed scissors were a fraction too thick for the job but I managed it in the end, minus a drop or two of blood. Still, it gave me great satisfaction and I'd just finished when Hubert rang.

  Mick's sister lived in a hamlet about two miles from the hospital.

  ‘What's the plan for tonight?’ asked Hubert, with what I thought sounded like enthusiasm.

  ‘You'll have to wait and see. Don't get too excited, will you?’

  ‘I've still got my doubts, Kate. We could come a cropper.’

  ‘Trust me, Hubert,’ I said with my fingers crossed.

  The hamlet of Billing-on-the-Water consisted of a cluster of five houses and not a drop of water that I could see. Mick's sister's cottage was of grey stone, built by a man with a sense of humour. Squashed between two more normal-size cottages, it was three storeys high and yet not much wider than a man's outstretched arms. The front garden contained a selection of battered-looking weeds and the front door was painted in a matching green.

  The woman who answered the door wore a floral apron over her full body, a green Crimplene dress and a harassed expression. Only her hair reminded me of Mick: most of it was still black.

  ‘I'm Kate,’ I said. ‘The new liaison nurse from the diabetic clinic. I was so sorry to hear Mick made such a tragic mistake with his insulin. We'd like to make sure nothing like this ever happens again. Could I come in and talk to you about it?’

  ‘Course you can, duck. You come in and warm yourself by the fire.’

  There was no hall to the cottage and with one step I was in the front room and practically on top of the fire. The room was cosy but claustrophobically small. The fire roared and spat like an angry animal but my hostess encouraged me to sit within less than spitting distance. The room was so narrow that it contained just the two flimsy chairs, covered with gold Dralon, a round coffee table and in one corner a glass cabinet of china birds.

  ‘You like a cup of tea, duck?’

  ‘Love one, Mrs …?’

  ‘Eydon. But call me Babs, everyone does except Mick. He calls me Sis … used to call me Sis.’

  From the kitchen, which seemed to be an extension of the living-room, Babs continued to speak to me.

  ‘I do miss him, you know,’ she called from the sink. ‘I didn't see much of him really, him being out most nights, but he used to get up about one and we'd have a bit of dinner and then he'd do odd jobs or go to the shops for me. He was ever so good like that.’

  She carried in the tea on a tin tray, already poured out into her best china cups. On a doily-covered plate sat a pile of homemade biscuits.

  ‘Mick loved my biscuits, he did. Mind you, I didn't let him have too many. Not with his sugar trouble. He was always a bit careless though, always accident prone.’

  She paused to chew on her biscuit. I wasn't surprised Mick couldn't resist them; I couldn't either.

  ‘Poor old Mick. He didn't have much luck. The moment he got diabetic, he was about twelve, he went down to skin and bone and then when they said he had to have injections he went a bit wild. Never came to terms with it, see. As for the needles, well! He was a little bugger. Just refused to give his own injections. His mother had to do it and then when she died I did it, or anyone who was willing. As for his schooling, well!’

  ‘What happened about that?’

  ‘Didn't go, did he. My poor mum tried everything. If she was lucky he'd go once or twice a week. The times the truant officer called was nobody's business. He left at fifteen, could hardly read or write, but he was quite sharp, he was always in work. Mostly labouring jobs, mind you, but he liked to dress well and have a few pints, so he never saw himself short.’

  ‘Do you think he understood about his insulin?’ I asked.

  Babs laughed. ‘Didn't want to understand, more like. He often had funny turns; I used to give him sugar and he'd be okay then. He wouldn't be told though, he could be a stroppy sod. The last couple of years he improved, though. He had this friend, Margaret, at the hospital, a nurse, took a real interest in him, she did. Even got him library books about diabetes. She taught him quite a lot, did his blood test at night for him and everything. Ever so good to him she was. He was scared of the needles, you see, even after all those years. We were too soft with him. He used to screw up his face and look the other way when he had to have the needle.’

  ‘Did you tell the police all this?’

  Babs looked away, frowning.

  I waited and moved my chair back as far as I could from the fire. I was roasting down one side of my face.

  ‘You getting too hot?’ asked Babs, obviously glad to change the subject. ‘I like an open fire, don't you? Nothing like it; mind you, you either get too hot or you ruddy well freeze.’

  ‘About the police?’ I ventured.

  She shrugged. ‘I'll have to tell you, I suppose. Mick was in trouble once or twice with the police – nothing serious, you understand, but when that girl was murdered at the hospital they questioned him ever such a lot. He got in quite a state about it. Once he got drunk and said he knew who did it but he'd take his secret to the grave. He did, didn't he?’

  I nodded. ‘What did you tell the police about his fear of needles?’

  Babs sat forward in her chair and stared at me, the flames of the fire reflected in her hazel eyes. ‘Look, love,’ she said quietly. ‘We're working class and they knew Mick. In my position you say as little as possible. I didn't want them to think he was stupid, did I? If I told them he sometimes had funny turns they might have said he killed that girl and didn't remember doing it. They would think he was a nutter, wouldn't they?’

  ‘What exactly did you tell them?’ I asked softly.

  She grimaced slightly. ‘I told them,’ she said slowly, ‘I told them he was ever so careful and that he gave his own injections. Well, I didn't want to get that nurse in trouble, did I?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I agreed.

  ‘They kept asking me if he could have made a mistake or had he tried to kill himself. Well, I had to say he must have made a mistake, didn't I? He was quite happy, not a bit miserable. He wasn't the type to kill himself.’

  ‘Were they happy with that?’

  Babs laughed. ‘The police, happy! Huh! They just kept asking if he would let anyone else do his injections. I couldn't go back on what I'd said, could I?’

  ‘You're sure he wouldn't have given his own
injection?’

  ‘I'm sure,’ she said firmly.

  ‘What if …’ I began. ‘What if it wasn't a mistake, what if someone had deliberately given Mick an overdose?’

  ‘Don't be silly dear,’ she said. ‘Who would want to do a thing like that? He should have eaten soon after his injection, he was just careless.’

  ‘But he had four times his usual dose,’ I protested.

  ‘Perhaps he needed more. Since he met that nurse he used to alter his dose. She tested his blood, see; it's more accurate than just testing your water. Anyway, I blame Mick. He was always prone to accidents. Broke his leg once and his arm. In a way I wasn't surprised. I knew he's come a cropper one day.’

  ‘Is there anything the clinic could have done to help him?’

  ‘Bless you, no, duck. Mick was his own worst enemy. It was bound to happen one day. You have to take care with something as dangerous as insulin, don't you?’

  ‘You certainly do. Thank you for your time,’ I said, standing up. ‘Knowing about someone like Mick helps us to do our job. I think we may have let him down.’

  ‘Now don't you say that, it's not true. People did help Mick, that nurse especially. Too much help, that was his problem. Take a few biscuits with you, duck, and thanks ever so much for coming.’

  As I left, Babs waved me goodbye, and I, clutching a paper bag full of biscuits, could have cried.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I drove straight from Billing-on-the-Water to Longborough High Street and the public library. I'd been vaguely meaning to join since I arrived, but now I desperately needed some information.

  Although small and with the look of an old-fashioned bank, inside it was modern. The librarians sat at computers and waved wands over the books. As a child I had quite fancied the idea of selecting from and filing away those little tickets into their rectangular boxes. To me the computer didn't seem half so much fun.

  ‘I'd like to join the library,’ I said to the young girl who sat, eyes down, at the computer.

  ‘Here's a form,’ she said, looking up with a half-smile, ‘You can fill it in over at that table. You'll need identification.’

  You'll need identification! You'll need identification! Just like opening a bank account using a false name …