“I agree. The question is,” Marcus continued after a pause, “How are we going to do it? I can’t see an easy way of shoehorning you in there.”
“We’re going to have to use Haggis, aren’t we?”
“What if he won’t play? He might not – especially when I tell him it means carrying on with his girlfriend.”
Tom thought for a moment. “He did say he was hard up ... ”
Marcus grinned. “It might work,” he said. “He wouldn’t be able to do it on his own, though.”
“No,” Tom said. Then, “There is always Jo … “
“Yes, there is, isn’t there … but is she going to even speak to us after last time?"
“Use your charm on her – it’s always worked before. Besides,” Tom continued reflectively, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a bit short of the readies, too”.
*
Fraser’s mother was pleased to see him. As it happened, she was about to be discharged, so he was able to make sure she had the right nursing care and everything she needed in her flat. He rang Edwina who said he could come back Monday afternoon, although something in her tone warned him not to expect any more favours from her.
On Sunday, he went back to Bristol, having decided to take Marcus at his word about train fares. He went through his post, slept in his own bed on Sunday night and caught another train up to London on Monday morning.
“Well,” said Marcus when he’d sat down, “We’ve repeated your exercise on a larger sample. So far as we’re concerned, Wansborough Community Hospital has an unacceptably high death rate and we want to look into it.”
“Good,” Fraser said softly.
“We’re going to need some help from you.”
“Sure. Although since I’m going to have to go on working there, I’d prefer my colleagues didn’t know.”
Marcus said carefully, “For what we have in mind, it’s absolutely essential your colleagues don’t know.”
“How d’you mean?”
Marcus said, “How did you think we were going to go about this?”
Fraser shrugged. “By interviewing everyone concerned, I suppose, gathering all the information you can - it’s what you did in Bristol, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but we were dealing there with a fait accompli. Here, we’re looking at something far more nebulous. We may be sure in our own minds that a crime is being committed, but we have no proof. If we interviewed everyone, then I imagine the killing would stop – for a time, maybe even for good – but we probably wouldn’t be able to catch the – er – malefactor. We might strongly suspect someone, but we’d have no proof.”
There was a short silence.
“So what are you going to do?” Fraser asked.
“What we’ve done in the past is to infiltrate someone who can watch from within, so to speak. It’s usually been Tom, although I can’t see any opening for him here. Sometimes we’ve had to enlist inside help.”
Fraser laughed uneasily. “If you’re thinking about me, forget it.”
Marcus looked at him. “How would you go about it if it were your problem? I’d be interested to hear.”
“I’ve no idea.”
Marcus didn’t say anything, just kept looking at him, and after a moment Fraser went on: “If you questioned all the staff, surely someone would have noticed something suspicious. If you then compared what everyone said, you’d be able to work it out ... ”
“But suppose nobody has noticed anything – and believe me, that’s quite possible – then all we’ll have achieved is to alert the killer.”
Fraser didn’t reply to this and Marcus went on, “Could you give me an example of the sort of suspicious something you had in mind?”
“Well … the same person always around when someone dies, someone doing something to a patient they shouldn’t be …”
“Who better than a doctor for that?”
“But I’m no’ suitable for this kind of thing.”
“You didn’t do so badly last year, I seem to recall,” Tom murmured.
“Aye, but that was because I had to, because of Frances … “
“All we want for the moment,” said Marcus, “Is someone who’ll keep their eyes and ears open. You’d be remunerated, of course,” he added.
Fraser blinked, he hadn’t thought of that …
Marcus continued carelessly, “We thought £2000 a week with a guaranteed minimum of £10,000. I seem to remember you saying you were having difficulty with your mortgage – well, that might help, especially tax-free.” Pause. “Just for keeping your eyes open.”
Fraser laughed weakly. “I think we both know there’d be more to it than that. The person responsible, the – er – malefactor, might take unkindly to being spied on.”
“Indeed they might, should they become aware of it. Our aim is to ensure they don’t. Tom can help you there.”
“I’m only one person, I couldn’t cover everything.”
“We’ve got some back-up in mind.”
“What kind of back-up?”
“We’ll go into that if you agree.”
“I’ll … need to think about it,” Fraser said at last.
“You can have till tomorrow morning, we must know by then.”
*
He thought about it on the train.
The money would come in handy, and it might not mean much more than keeping his eyes open – then he remembered something … Marcus asking him if he’d finished with Helen …
They wanted him to go on seeing her.
You canny bastard, Marcus, he thought, Seduce me with the money, then give me the bad news after I’ve agreed …
No. Absolutely not. He’d done his bit, it was up to them to do the rest.
He got back to the hospital at three and went to find Edwina. She was in her room.
“Ah, Fraser,” she said coolly, “Come in and shut the door, please. Mother better now?”
“Yes, she is, thanks Edwina.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” she said. Then, after a pause: “We’ve cut you a lot of slack in this Fraser, and enough is enough. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” he said. There was no point in arguing, let alone telling her she was mixing her clichés.
“Good,” she said. Then: “We’ve got a Mrs Ferrers waiting to see you. She’s come about her father, Mr Carter who died last week. She was completely hysterical earlier, but we managed to calm her down. You had more to do with him than anyone, so perhaps you could talk to her.”
Fraser slunk off, smarting … sure, she was within her rights to cuss him off, but what was it about her that gritted every joint in his body?
Mrs Ferrrers was in a side room, red-eyed and looking every one of her forty-something years. She got to her feet as he introduced himself and took his hand. Hers was damp and limp.
She said, “They told me you spoke with him a lot before he died.” Her voice was an irritating mix of London and New York.
“That’s right,” Fraser said. She was overweight and wearing too much makeup and jewellery. “I came to know him quite well before he died, Mrs Ferrers. I liked him a lot.”
“I have his letter here, the one the PI gave me – “ She pulled it out of her handbag – “It’s so sweet, if only he’d contacted me earlier.”
Thinking: you could have contacted him … Fraser said carefully, “He wasn’t sure what kind of reception he’d get, which is why he didn’t try until he was ill.”
As though she could read his thoughts, she said, “Pride’s a stupid thing, isn’t it? I blamed him for everything that went wrong in my life without giving him any credit for the things that went right.”
“All he wanted to do was make his peace with you ... ”
He told her everything Harold had said to him and her mascara ran as she began crying again, but he felt that the tears were cathartic this time. She said she wanted to stay on to organise his funeral and asked him if he’d come.
It was nearly
four by the time he got back to Edwina and told her what had happened.
“He didn’t say anything to me about a daughter,” she said, looking at him. “I wonder why he told you.”
Fraser explained about his relationship with Harold. “He made me promise not to tell anyone else about it.”
“I see,” she said after a pause. She seemed about to say something else, then gave a wry smile instead. “Pride is,” she said, “Indeed, a stupid thing.”
Maybe it is, Fraser thought later over his pint in the social club, but it hadn’t been pride that had killed Harold before he could see his daughter and grandson.
He thought about Alice Steel and Olive Spencer and the others who might have had their reasons for wanting another two or three months of life. He thought about the last months with Frances.
The idea of carrying on with Helen made him squirm, but if that’s what it took …
He phoned Marcus in the morning and told him he’d do it.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Can you come up here on Saturday to sort all the details out?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and meanwhile, don’t finish your relationship with Sister St John.”
Fraser smiled grimly to himself. “Why not?” he asked innocently.
“Partly because she’s already been very useful in giving you all the gossip and muck raking, but also, of course, because she might be involved.”
Chapter 10
Well, Agent Callan, he thought as he put the phone down, better go find her and make up …
Not that they’d actually fallen out, he reflected, but she must have noticed how he’d cooled lately, maybe even realised he was about to dump her, she wasn’t stupid. He went to look for her in the canteen at lunchtime.
He spotted her at exactly the same time she spotted him. She waved and beckoned him over. Ranjid was with her.
“Going to join us, Fraser?” she asked.
He couldn’t refuse, not after he’d been so obviously looking for her. He bought some Shepherd’s pie and took it back to their table.
“Mother any better?” she asked brightly.
“Yes – thank you.” He told her about it in stilted sentences.
Ranjid stared at him, his face expressionless but his eyes boring into him as though trying to see into his mind.
“Well, that’s good news,” said Helen.
“Yes.”
Ranjid, still staring, said, “So how much longer now is it you’re with us, Fraser?”
“Until Clare Simpson comes back from maternity leave. You’d know the date of that better than me, Ranjid,” he said, staring back at him.
“Two months, I believe,” said Helen, still bright.
“Ah, yes,” said Ranjid. “Two months.”
There was a silence. Fraser ate some Shepherd’s pie. Helen said,
“Any idea yet what you’ll do after that, Fraser?”
“Not really, no.” He looked at her – she was smiling and he suddenly realised she was enjoying the situation …
Ranjid said, “Shall we go now, Helen?”
“Yes, let’s.” She stood up. “See you later, Fraser.”
They left.
Ah, shit … was he too late? He must have done a better job of putting her off than he’d realised … he gave up on the Shepherd’s pie and went back himself.
After he’d finished the afternoon clinic, he took a deep breath and went along to her office. The door was open and she was at her desk.
“Oh, hello Fraser.”
He went in and closed the door.
“I’m afraid I’ve been rather neglecting you lately,” he said. He could hear his voice in his ears.
“That is your prerogative,” she said, prim and cool now. “You have no duty to attend on me.”
“No, not a duty,” he said slowly. Then: “I have had a lot on my mind this last week or so.”
“Yes, of course, your mother.”
He said, “It’s not the only thing that’s been worrying me.”
She didn’t reply. He went on, “Perhaps we could go out for a drink tonight?”
“I can’t, not tonight.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“All right,” she said after a pause.
*
Almost exactly 100 miles to the north, in the City of Latchvale, Sister Josephine Farewell was attending a Health and Safety meeting. To say she was annoyed would be an understatement: two livid red spots stained her face as she stared back at Mr David Petterman, the official from the local Health and Safety Office.
“Sister Farewell,” he was saying, “I clearly remember telling you on my last inspection that the position of the vent in your office is in contravention of Section five, paragraph 23 relating to air conditioning. Why haven’t you done anything about it?” He was a small man with glasses and a voice that was always quiet, always even.
Jo swallowed before replying. “Because at the time, when we pointed out to you how difficult it would be to move it, you said that since the position was only a foot from where it should be, you accepted that it didn’t present any actual hazard.”
“Thirty centimetres.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The vent is thirty centimetres out of place Sister, and if you remember, I wrote to you the following day saying that having reflected on the matter, I felt that after all, the legislation should be complied with in full.”
“Yes, I remember receiving your letter,” Jo replied, trying to keep her own voice level. “However, I then discovered that in having the vent moved, we would be in contravention of Section 8, paragraph 15, relating to building works in the vicinity of patient care.”
There was a rustle of paper as everyone round the table found the relevant paragraph.
“Ah yes, I see,” said Petterman. He looked up. “Why didn’t you inform me of this?”
“I am informing you, now.”
“But surely, you should have informed me as soon as you realised there was a problem.”
“But surely,” said Jo, openly mimicking him, “A matter of this importance requires discussion at a meeting such as this – I mean, what are we going to do? Shut down ITU in order to move a vent one foot – sorry, thirty centimetres, to the left?”
“If necessary, Sister Farewell, that is exactly what you will do,” said Petterman, the barely perceptible tightening of his voice betraying his own anger.
Jane Goodall, Jo’s immediate superior, quickly intervened. “I’m sure a way can be found round the problem without closing ITU. Why don’t we form a committee, including the building works department and any other interested parties, to discuss this.”
“That, at least, is a constructive suggestion,” said Petterman. He thought about it. “Yes,” he said at last, “I will agree to that. Can I leave it with you, Ms Goodall, to arrange?”
“Of course.”
When the meeting finished, she summoned Jo to her office. “Why do you go out of your way to antagonise Mr Petterman?” she demanded.
“Because he makes it impossible for us to do our jobs,” Jo blazed back. “He’s a health hazard in himself – shutting down ITU because a vent’s one foot out of place, for God’s sake.”
“Thirty centimetres,” said Jane, with the ghost of a smile. “I accept that he’s difficult, but we both know that ITU will not be shut down. We can, and will, find a way of placating him.”
“Appeasing him, you mean. I didn’t become a nurse in order to massage the egos of inadequate little pronks like him.”
“Whether we like it or not, Jo, he does have the power to shut us down. We have to work with him as best we can, even if it does mean massaging his ego. He has the law on his side.”
“Then the law is an ass.”
“That will do, Sister.”
Jo went into the courtyard behind ITU, gobbled a fag to calm her nerves, then went back to her office. Perhaps because she was glancing up at the offending vent in the ceiling as she wen
t in, she failed to notice the dark figure sitting in the corner at first – then let out a yelp of surprise when she did.
“Hello Jo,” said Marcus. “Sorry if I startled you.”
“Whatever it is,” she said, her heart still pounding, “The answer’s no.”
“That’s rather sweeping, isn’t it?”
“I remember the last time …”
“Ah, but this is this time,” said Marcus. “Not the same thing at all.”
She smiled despite herself.
“Can we talk now?” he asked
She sighed. “Come back in an hour.”
*
“We need a nurse to work in a Community Hospital for about a month,” he said an hour later.
“Why?” she asked. They were in her office with the door closed.
“Because a doctor working there has come to us with rather a strange story …”
As he outlined it, Jo’s mind worked busily: although she knew it was stupid, her soul revolted at the thought of having to work closely with David Petterman – he’d be quietly crowing over her every minute of every day, and from the sound of it, this wasn’t likely to be anything like so dangerous as last time … and the money would come in handy …
Jo’s widowed mother still lived in the marital home and Jo helped her with the expenses. They could have lived together, but Jo had her own house and, for the sake of their relationship, she wanted to keep it that way. But it was expensive.
“We’re offering two thousand a week with a minimum of £10,000, if that’s any help,” said Marcus.
“That’s all it was last time,” she said. “What about inflation?”
“But as I’m sure you’ve already worked out, this isn’t anything like so onerous.”
“I’d still like a raise,” she said.
They settled on £2250 a week.
“When d’you want me to start?” she asked.
“As soon as possible. I’ll sort it out with your bosses tomorrow and you can come up to London the day after.”
She knew he could, too.
*
That night in Wansborough Community Hospital, Mary Bailey, aged 74, died of pneumonia. Like Harold, she’d had advanced cancer but hadn’t been ready to die yet. Also like Harold, she’d been put on ampicillin, and it hadn’t worked.
Death Before Time Page 7
