A Dead Man in Malta

by Michael Pearce

  Every time they had looked in he had snapped at them. Quite rudely. So they had left him to it for a while. When they had looked in again he seemed to have fallen asleep.

  In what position?

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said one of the nurses, a tall, striking girl named Melinda.

  Seymour was taken aback.

  ‘When I looked in,’ said the tall girl, ‘he was lying on his side with his face turned away. But he was breathing. Right? I checked. That was what I was looking for. Right?’

  What was all this about?

  ‘And when I looked in the next time he was lying on his back. And he was dead. And it was nothing to do with the position in which he had been lying.’

  After a moment he got it. She was referring to Mrs Wynne-Gurr, whose charges had evidently stung deep.

  ‘That was not in my mind at all,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I was merely trying to establish the time of death.’

  ‘You were?’ said the tall girl suspiciously. ‘Oh, well, it would have been sometime between three thirty and four thirty.’

  ‘And you saw at once - ?’

  ‘You can tell. When you’ve had a bit of experience.’

  Seymour had had plenty of experience: but that was not quite the same thing. He usually saw a body when it had been dead for some time.

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Tried to resuscitate. And sent for Dr Docato.’

  ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘Joined me in trying to resuscitate. But after a while we could tell that it was useless.’

  ‘What was his reaction?’ ‘He was surprised. Puzzled, I think. You could tell he was puzzled because, well, you could see him thinking. He just stood there, going through the possibilities. Eventually he shrugged and sent for the porters.’

  ‘And what about you: were you puzzled?’

  ‘I?’ She seemed surprised.

  ‘Yes. What did you think?’

  ‘I don’t think.’ she said. ‘I’m just a nurse.’

  Seymour went into the other room. There was another door and he went across and tried it.

  ‘It’s locked.’ said Melinda, who had followed him in. ‘It’s usually open, but we lock it when there’s someone in there trying to get a sleep.’

  ‘And was it locked on this occasion?’

  ‘Yes. Especially after the German had snapped at us.’

  ‘And what did you do with the key?’

  ‘Put it back on the board.’

  She showed him. On the wall in the nurses’ office was a board hung with keys.

  ‘This one,’ she said.

  ‘And is there another one?’

  ‘In the porters’ office.’

  ‘So someone could have used that to get in?’

  ‘They could.’ she acknowledged. ‘But why - ?’

  She stopped.

  ‘I see.’ she said.

  Seymour smiled.

  ‘I think nurses do think,’ he said.

  The porters’ office was next to Reception. There were two porters.

  ‘And that’s a mistake,’ said the one who was there. ‘There ought to be three. I keep telling them that. You need someone to man the office when the others are out. And they’re usually out, because most of what we have to do is a two-man lift.’

  ‘What do you have to do?’

  ‘Carry things about. Usually bodies. And that’s another mistake, because that work ought to be done by the mortuary people.’

  ‘You move other people about, too,’ said Melinda, who had gone with Seymour to show him where the porters’ office was. ‘When they have to change wards. Or go to a unit.’

  ‘I don’t mind that,’ said the porter. ‘That is the nature of the job. But even that requires two men. You might not think it, but it does. Just to get into a wheelchair. You’ve got to take their weight, you see. And you don’t want to do that on your own, not if you want to save your back. You’ve got to think of these things, otherwise your back will go and you’ll be of no use to anybody.’

  ‘Stop whinging, Berto.’ said Melinda.

  ‘You’d whinge if you - ‘

  ‘Bollocks!’ said Melinda. ‘I’m lifting people all the time. Or moving them. Turning them over.’

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ said Berto. ‘These nurses! They’ve got no respect and no sense.’

  ‘But we do love you, Berto. You and Umberto. Berto and Umberto - they go together. A two-man whinge! And we couldn’t manage without you, could we? The hospital would seize up.’

  ‘I take back my remark about them having no sense.’

  Seymour laughed. ‘And you’re out and about most of the time, I guess?’

  ‘Oh, we’re kept busy!’

  ‘And while you’re out the office must be unmanned and anyone could get in?’

  ‘They could.’

  ‘And help themselves to a key?’

  ‘Now, wait a minute! They’re not supposed to do that - ’

  ‘Do you keep a record of your jobs?’

  ‘When people book us, we write that down. So’s we know.’

  ‘And so that you can always claim you’re doing something else when we want you to do something,’ said Melinda.

  ‘Melinda, I’m going to have a word with your mother - ’

  Melinda laughed.

  ‘They’re quite systematic, really,’ she said.

  ‘Could I see how you book jobs in?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘How, and when,’ said Melinda.

  She didn’t miss much, thought Seymour.

  He looked at their bookings for the afternoon the German had died and, yes, they had been out of their office for considerable periods.

  ‘Can I have a look?’ asked Melinda.

  ‘Are you setting out to move into Work Study or something?’ demanded Berto.

  ‘I’m like Dr Malia: I think things could always be improved,’ said Melinda.

  ‘Malia: that daft old bugger!’ said Berto.

  ‘So someone could have got in and taken the key,’ said Melinda, handing the log-book back to Seymour.

  ‘No they couldn’t,’ said Berto unexpectedly - he was another one, thought Seymour, who was sharper than at first sight. ‘Because if they had tried it, they’d have Laura up their ass!’

  ‘Laura?’ said Seymour.

  Laura was the receptionist. She was a middle-aged lady with her hair tied up tightly in a bun and sharp shrewd eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I keep an eye on things when they’re out. And I wouldn’t let anyone in there. What business would anyone have in the porters’ office by themselves?’

  ‘Delivering a package?’ suggested Seymour.

  ‘They would deliver it to me,’ said Laura firmly.

  From her position at the Reception desk she had a good view of the door into the porters’ office: and also of the general entrance into the rest of the hospital.

  ‘What is the policy about visitors?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘Most of them are sailors,’ said Laura. ‘This is a naval hospital,’ she added with pride.

  ‘And they can come and go pretty freely?’

  ‘They just have to sign in.’

  She showed Seymour the book. Many of them, a little self-consciously, had given their rank. Some, however, had not given their name at all, just putting down the name of their ship.

  ‘I know all the ships.’ said Laura. ‘If I needed to, I could pretty soon find out who it was.’

  ‘Not all of them are sailors.’ said Seymour.

  ‘We do take some general patients as well. Most of them are local.’

  ‘And they sign in, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She showed him.

  ‘Just their names,’ said Seymour.

  ‘I don’t need anything else. They all come from around Bighi and I know their families.’

  ‘What about strangers?’

  ‘They have to give their addresses, look!’

  And there,
written in a neat, firm hand, was: ‘Philippa Wynne-Gurr.’ And, just beneath it, more casually: ‘Dr Wynne-Gurr’ with the address of a hotel.

  ‘And son?’ inquired Seymour.

  ‘The boy? Had to be with his father. I wasn’t having him wandering around the wards. Nor in the units, with all that equipment!’

  ‘Dr Malia?’

  ‘Oh, him! Well, he’s always roaming around. But he signs in, like everyone else. Just as he used to. On the doctors’ pages. He used to work here, you know. He’s part of the furniture.’

  ‘So you could tell me who was in the hospital on the afternoon of the eighteenth?’

  ‘The day the German died?’

  Here was another one who was pretty sharp.

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned over the pages.

  ‘Can I just make a note of the names?’

  ‘I will write them down for you.’

  Seymour could see that she was a lady who liked to have everything under her control.

  ‘Thank you. And this would be pretty comprehensive, would it?’

  ‘The name of anyone who entered the hospital that afternoon would be here, if that’s what you mean.’

  Seymour looked at the book again. ‘Except that there’s no record of Mr Kiesewetter’s arrival.’

  ‘There is.’ She showed him. ‘Kiesewetter. To A and E.’

  ‘He would have been taken straight there,’ said Melinda. ‘After Laura had booked him in.’

  ‘And then he would have booked in again,’ said Laura triumphantly. She looked sternly at Melinda. ‘I hope.’

  Melinda nodded. ‘He would.’

  ‘My guess is, though, that when he arrived, a lot of people arrived with him,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Half the island,’ said Laura. ‘I soon cleared them out!’

  ‘You didn’t sign them in?’

  ‘No need to. They weren’t going anywhere. Except out.’

  ‘Someone must have taken him into A and E, surely?’

  ‘We did,’ said Berto. ‘Umberto and me.’

  ‘Where is Umberto?’ asked Seymour.

  Umberto was in one of the wards.

  ‘Always on the hop, you might say.’

  This time he was hopping at the behest of one of the nurses, who wanted him to move a bedside locker.

  Did he remember the afternoon the German had been admitted?

  He did. Not only that, he remembered his descent in the balloon. Umberto had gone outside ‘for a moment’ to see the balloons and he had noticed that Mr Kiesewetter was coming down. He had watched the balloon until it had come right down into the water.

  ‘And I saw Frank get over there in his dghajsa and I thought: He’ll bring him over here. And he did, too. I thought he might be in bad shape. Well, you’d expect it, wouldn’t you, if he had come down from that height. But he seemed all right.

  ‘In fact, a bit too fresh, if you ask me. I went to help him and he says: “Take your hands off me, my man!” His man! Who the hell did he think he was talking to? I nearly gave him a cuff instead. But if I had, they would have nailed me to the front door by my bollocks, so I just said: “Hospital staff, sir. Just helping.”

  ‘“I don’t need help,” he said. “My balloon came down all right.”

  ‘“It came down into the drink,” I said, “and that might not have been all right.”

  ‘He pooh-poohed it. “It is neechts, my man,” he said, waving his hand dismissive-like. “To come down into the trees is worse. Or on to the rocks.”

  ‘“You came down in just the right place, sir,” I said. “Right in front of the hospital.”

  “‘But I don’t need - “ he starts up again. Glad to get rid of him, I was.’

  He turned to Melinda. ‘What did the nurses do with him, love? Give him a syringe up the backside?’

  ‘I was just going to,’ said Melinda, ‘when Dr Docato stopped me. I think he was sorry afterwards that he had done.’

  ‘So who took Mr Kiesewetter to the room he was put in?’ asked Seymour. ‘After Dr Docato had looked at him? You, Umberto? Or a nurse?’

  ‘Dr Docato.’ said Melinda. ‘With the nurse on duty. Who was me.’

  ‘And I was sort of in attendance.’ said Umberto. ‘In case the bugger keeled over.’

  ‘You put him in the little room,’ said Seymour, ‘and then, presumably, Umberto, you left?’

  ‘As soon as I could,’ said Umberto.

  ‘And you, Melinda?’

  ‘I waited until Dr Docato had settled him down and left. And then I went in to make sure everything was all right.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He snapped my head off.’

  ‘At some point the door into the corridor was locked, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was that? After Dr Docato left? Did he lock it?’

  ‘No, I locked it. That was one of the things I was making sure was right.’

  ‘So that he wouldn’t be disturbed?’

  ‘As I explained to him.’

  ‘And then you put the key back on the board?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Was the nurses’ office left empty at any point?’

  Melinda considered.

  ‘If it was,’ she said, ‘it wouldn’t have been for very long.’

  ‘But it could have been?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think anyone could have counted on that. If that’s what you were thinking.’

  ‘That is what I was thinking. But I agree with you. It would have been too risky. But you see what that means, don’t you? If anyone went in, it would have been by the other door.’

  ‘Using the other key.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If, of course, anyone went in at all. Have you thought that there might be another explanation? That he simply died of heart failure. From normal medical causes.’

  But would three men have done so? In such a short space of time? The argument kept coming back to this.

  The other two men who had died had been in general wards. There would have been other patients around them and Seymour couldn’t see how they could have been attacked in their beds without someone seeing. If they had been attacked.

  One of the two had died during the night, which made an attack more plausible. He consulted Melinda about the arrangements for night nursing.

  In the bigger wards there was a night nurse on duty all the time. She had a desk at one end of the ward, at which she sat when she was not being called to one of the beds.

  All the time?

  Well, not quite all the time. At certain points during the night when things were quiet they would slip out to the nurses’ office for a quick cup of something.

  Would these points be regular? That is, could the nurse be depended on to be absent at that time?

  Melinda thought not. There were so many little things that might come up. You just went when it seemed the best moment.

  Still, there was a point in the night when the nurse would be absent and an intruder might come in at that point?

  Melinda was doubtful. They would have to be watching for the nurse to depart and where would they be while they were doing that? Anybody hanging about would be questioned by the nurse.

  And how would they get in anyway? When Laura was off duty, Reception was manned by the porter on duty. But there were also, always, the nurses in A and E who worked in shifts and there was a certain amount of socializing if things weren’t too busy. And on the whole they weren’t busy. This was a naval hospital and the flow of patients, largely, was restricted. It wasn’t, said Melinda, like a big London hospital.

  And what about the porters?

  Berto and Umberto took it in turns to work nights. They didn’t mind working nights because there wasn’t usually much to do. They could have a nice chat with the nurses and the people on Reception, come in on the cups of tea, and have a good kip, which they couldn’t do at home because there were babies around and you were up half the night. Bes
ides, said Melinda, they could call in assistance.

  Assistance?

  Laura’s boy and his cousin. And young Fred from round the corner. And other members of the families of hospital staff. Seymour soon realized that there was a great web of family connections around the hospital. Jobs were not that plentiful in Malta and once you were in somewhere you had to do the best you could for other members of your family. It was open to abuse but it was also a source of strength. As here. For if someone fell down on the job,

  Laura was on to the family in no time and then the whole family was on the offender’s back. It was remarkable, said Melinda, how conscientious people became in these circumstances. So, no, there was no slackness in the system at nights. Indeed, it was the other way. For if Berto or Umberto should show signs of falling off, they would immediately be put right by young Peter or Johnnie, and that would be reported back to the family, too.

  It reminded Seymour of the East End, where he normally worked. Step out of line, over a girl, say, and the next moment the sky would drop in on you.

  And Melinda herself, he asked curiously: did she belong to a family, too? She certainly did; but they were up in Gozo to the north of the island, which was a long way away, and absolutely fine by Melinda, who had come down to Valletta for precisely that reason.

  The impression Seymour was getting was that the human web of which the hospital was the centre spread a sort of protective film over the hospital. Everybody knew everybody - everyone was probably related to everyone - and the hospital was like not a Big Brother but a small brother whom everybody in the family had to watch over and see that it came to no harm. It was very effective. And yet somebody had breached the film.

  If they had.

  It was time, he thought, to home in on the most specific of the charges: that made by the sailors. He had arranged for them to be sent to the hospital and saw them one by one.

  The first was a Londoner named Cooper. He was the one who had volunteered the supplementary information about what he had seen one night in the hospital at Singapore. Seymour had hopes of him. He had evidently a propensity to say too much.

  This morning, however, he was on his guard.

  ‘I’m not saying that’s what I saw,’ he said. ‘I’m saying that’s what I thought I saw.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Seymour encouragingly.