‘Hello?’ said a slightly irritated voice. ‘Am I speaking to Ms King?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Willow. ‘Is that Marigold Corfe?’
‘Yes. May I ask who you are?’
‘A patient of the late Mr Ringstead,’ said Willow, who had invented and rejected several different excuses for her call as she waited.
‘Oh, yes?’ The voice was even more irritated. ‘And just exactly what do you think I can do for you?’
‘I wondered whether I might come and see you.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been asked to write a … a sort of appreciation of him for a newspaper.’
‘What? An obituary?’
‘That kind of thing.’
‘For which newspaper?’
‘You sound very suspicious.’ Willow laughed lightly and decided to rely on Jane Cleverholme. ‘It’s for the women’s page of the Daily Mercury, actually.’
‘And why should you want to talk to me?’
‘I gather that you had worked with him for years at Dowting’s. I just thought that perhaps someone who …’
‘Oh, come off it and tell me what you really want. He died almost two weeks ago. Any obituary that was going to appear would have been written by now. Stop wasting my time and tell me: just who exactly are you?’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Willow, quickly deciding to take a gamble on the basis that she did not in fact have anything at all serious to lose, except face. ‘Perhaps I really have given birth to my brains as well as my baby. To tell you the truth, I am trying to find out who could have killed him, and I thought …’
‘That it was me? Is that it? You and the police both. I’ve just seen them off, and now I’m faced with a bungling amateur. God preserve me! Just who the hell do you think you are ringing me like this?’
‘I am really sorry,’ said Willow, cursing herself and her bad timing. ‘I do not think it was you who killed him, not least because as an ex-member of the Dowting’s Obstetrics Unit, you are one of the few people whose presence there that night would have been noticed.’
‘Well, I suppose that shows a modicum more intelligence than the police offered.’
‘Thank you.’ Willow thought it would not be in her interest to suggest that the police had probably been seeking background information from Sister Corfe rather than interviewing her as a suspect. ‘You obviously knew him very well, and I thought you might be able to give me some insight into what kind of man he was.’
‘I could do that all right,’ said Sister Corfe, sounding contemptuous. ‘Where exactly would you like me to start?’
‘Could we meet? I mean, it would be so much easier to talk face to face. Do you live in Chiswick?’
‘No.’
Reminding herself that she, too, would have been obstructive if she had been cross-examined about an ex-lover by an unknown female over the telephone, Willow tried to sound placatory.
‘I was just trying to think where would be the most useful place for us to meet. I live fairly near Sloane Square. If you’d rather I didn’t come out to Chiswick, what about the coffee shop in Peter Jones? It’s nice and neutral and it’s late-night shopping there tonight, but if you live in the opposite direction I’d hate to drag you all the way into the middle of London.’
There was a short gasp of half-suppressed laughter, which made Willow think that either her own frankness or Sister Corfe’s feelings about Alex Ringstead might make her cooperate after all.
‘Well, I suppose I could come to Sloane Square. As it happens I’ve got to be in Leicester Square at six-thirty this evening.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Willow, not wanting to give her a chance to withdraw again. ‘What time would suit you?’
‘I suppose I could be at PJ’s by five.’
‘Perfect,’ said Willow at once. ‘How will I know you?’
‘I’m five-seven, blonde, shortish hair with a fringe, and I’ll be wearing a Burberry over jeans.’
‘And carrying a copy of the Financial Times,’ said Willow laughing.
‘More likely the Evening Standard.’ Sister Corfe sounded less angry and Willow began to hope that she might actually turn up. ‘And you?’
‘Three inches taller. Red haired. Not sure what I’ll be wearing. I’ll find you, and the coffee’s on me.’
‘Too right. Sticky buns as well. Lots of the most expensive of them.’ There was a click and then silence at the end of the telephone.
Smiling, Willow put her receiver down and looked forward to meeting the feisty Marigold, who sounded rather more her type of woman than Mary-Jane Roguely.
When Willow came face to face with Marigold Corfe over a pile of Iranian prayer rugs in the carpet department of Peter Jones just outside the fifth-floor coffee shop, she was disconcerted to see how much like Mary-Jane she looked. There were the same big grey eyes and the same thick blonde hair, although Marigold’s was a lot less sleekly arranged than her supplanter’s. They also had very similar figures. But there was no appealing friendliness in Marigold’s expression. Instead there was defiance, anger, endurance and a suggestion of curiosity that gave Willow hope.
‘So you’re Ms King,’ she said, neither smiling nor attempting to shake hands. ‘Well, we’d better get down to it.’
They collected trays and queued up for their coffee and cakes, exchanging meaningless remarks about the weather as though they were old but distant acquaintances. There were not many other people in the coffee shop; the usual day-time shoppers were at home overseeing their children or cooking, and the people likely to take advantage of the late opening were still in their offices. Willow led the way to one of the desirable tables in the window, which had proper chairs instead of stools.
‘All right, what do you want to know?’ said Marigold as she stirred the foam into her cappuccino.
‘Who you think might have killed Alex Ringstead.’
‘I haven’t a clue, but I can assure you it wasn’t me.’
Willow could not stop herself looking down at Marigold’s nails, which were cut very short indeed. Seeing the direction of Willow’s glance, Marigold spread her strong-looking hands out on the edge of the table.
‘What do you think? Could these hands have forced Alex’s head into the water and held him there until his lungs filled with water and he stopped breathing?’
Refusing to be embarrassed, Willow nodded. ‘I can’t see any reason why the hands couldn’t have done it,’ she said. ‘I’m not so sure about the mind, though.’
‘Why?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ said Willow like the most irritating kind of teacher.
‘We were lovers for three years. However much I hated what he did, how could I have killed him?’
Willow looked at Marigold’s face and shook her head.
‘I have to say that it seems unlikely.’
‘Good. Because, as I explained to Inspector Plod and her mates, the only person I have ever wanted to slaughter is that rich bitch who trailed herself in front of him just because she’s bored with her own husband and wanted distraction. Alex and I could have had a life together – in fact we’d had a really good one until she spoiled it – whereas she only wanted him to play titillating games with. If she’d been the victim, you’d have good reason to suspect me. I could have held her wretched head under water with the greatest possible pleasure.’
‘Except that you’re far too intelligent ever to kill anyone,’ said Willow, rather enjoying Marigold’s energy and undisguised rage. ‘Murder is such a stupid crime. No one like you would ever imagine that it could solve anything.’
There was a distinct slackening of tension in the woman opposite Willow. After a moment Marigold smiled and shook her head.
‘You’ve found the joint in my armour there,’ she said, sighing. ‘I’ve always been a sucker for people who thought I was clever. What makes you …?’
‘It’s written all over you.’
‘That’s how Alex got to me, you know.’ Marigold sipp
ed her coffee and then licked some foam off her upper lip. She was looking less ferocious and as she talked her lips began to curve and her eyes softened. ‘I was experienced enough to see most seduction techniques coming. Some male doctors try it on as a matter of course, as though they have to test their virility on any woman who’s in charge of anything. But that time I was the complete sucker. He used to ask my opinion about women on the ward or about new ideas in obstetrics, and one day he actually said: “I can’t think why you’ve stuck with midwifery; you’d make the most marvellous doctor.”‘
Willow was framing a question about what sort of man Alex had really been when Marigold tightened her spine again and said more harshly: ‘It wasn’t until later – much, much later – that I began to realise he was as much of a Don Juan as all the rest and just had a cleverer line in flattery. Pretty slick, eh? I don’t suppose he tells the lovely Lady Roguely that she’s clever. I wonder what her secret dreams are?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Willow, more concerned to keep the conversation flowing between them than because it was what she really thought, ‘to be pursued by a man who demonstrably wanted to spend time with her rather than with his work as her husband does.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Marigold through a mouthful of pecan-and-date ring. She swallowed. ‘D’you know what my secret fantasy has been ever since she made Alex dump me?’
Willow shook her head.
‘That I would be around to gloat when he sacked her and moved on to someone else. To be perfectly frank, it’s that rather than any hidden intelligence that’s the reason why I’d never have wanted him dead. And it would have happened, you know.’ She sighed as though she were feeling an almost physical pleasure. Willow raised her eyebrows. Marigold grinned like a naughty child found stealing sweets.
‘It’s wonderful to be able to say all this. I wasn’t sure why I’d been mad enough to agree to meet you, but it’s worth it for this alone.’
‘Haven’t you been able to talk to anyone else?’
‘Not like this to anyone I know.’ Marigold took another mouthful of coffee. ‘I felt so humiliated at the time that I couldn’t bear anyone at Dowting’s to know that I even minded what Alex had done. And at Chiswick no one knows we were close.’
‘What makes you …? I mean, I’m sure you’re right, but what makes you certain that Alex wouldn’t have stayed faithful to the Roguely woman?’
Marigold laughed.
‘At the beginning of their fling I told myself that he was only pursuing her at all because of the dry rot. If the fruiting bodies hadn’t been found in the basement, the trust wouldn’t have needed to try to cut Alex’s budgets and he would never have felt challenged into trying to prove that he could raise far more money than their proposed cuts would have saved them. He wouldn’t have had anything to do with the fundraisers or seen Mary-Jane Roguely or needed to motivate her to work on his behalf.’
‘Are you saying that he only pretended to fall for her to try to make her work harder for the appeal?’ asked Willow. ‘Could he have been that cynical?’
Marigold sat with her lips tightly closed.
‘Could you ever have loved anyone who could be as cruel as that?’ Willow said. ‘As you say, you and he had built up a life together.’
‘There are some men,’ said Marigold coldly, ‘whose position as alpha male of the band, tribe, troop, what-have-you, is so important to them that any other consideration fades before it. For that even more than the other reasons Alex would not have been able to bear being beaten by Mark Durdle. Everything else would have had to give way. It’s possible that once he’d won their battle, he would have come back to me.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Willow, but she could not forget what Mary-Jane had said about Alex Ringstead’s boredom with Marigold. It was probably too much to expect either woman to see the other without the distortions of jealousy or defensiveness, but Mary-Jane’s diagnosis of his state had sounded convincing.
‘Why exactly was Alex so badly at loggerheads with Mr Durdle?’ Willow asked.
Marigold shrugged and ate another piece of her bun.
‘They got across each other almost as soon as Durdle was appointed.’
‘I know there was trouble over the car-parking,’ said Willow.
‘That was a pinprick compared with some other things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, they had a terrific row over outpatients.’
‘What? I don’t understand.’
‘We’re going to need more coffee if I’m to regale you with the whole dreary history,’ said Marigold. ‘I’ll get them. Espresso again for you?’
‘Thanks.’
Willow watched her walk briskly back to the counter and return only a few moments later with two more cups of coffee.
‘You probably know about the Patient’s Charter,’ Marigold began. Willow nodded. ‘Well, outpatients are supposed to be seen within thirty minutes of their appointment time. On a busy day, when a consultant has a whole string of difficult cases, he or she may overrun that, but Durdle could never accept it. He used to time Alex’s clinics with a stopwatch.’
‘Then that must have been where I’d seen him before,’ Willow exclaimed.
She had been wondering at intervals whether she could have caught sight of him on the night Lucinda was born, which would have pushed him right to the top of the list of suspects.
‘I knew he looked familiar, but I just couldn’t place him. Thank you. One mystery solved.’
‘Not a very interesting one, I’d have thought.’
‘No. But I’m glad to have it sorted. So tell me more about their war over the outpatients.’
‘Durdle used to draw up a report, a sort of chart thing, at the end of each week and berate Alex for his slackness at the clinics. You see, for Durdle, clinical necessity is not as important as meeting government targets. Alex once said that Durdle behaved as though he’d rather symptoms of pre-eclampsia were missed in one woman than that another should have to wait ten minutes extra for her consultation.’
‘Durdle couldn’t think that,’ Willow protested. ‘No one could.’
‘No, of course he didn’t really. That was just one of Alex’s jibes. But, you see, Durdle’s responsibilities do not include the actual treatment of patients. His job is to make sure the money is there and spent to its best advantage, and that there’s a steady stream of patients coming into the hospital. If Dowting’s loses out to St Thomas’s, Guy’s or St George’s, it’ll be closed down. Durdle is there to make sure that doesn’t happen, and it’s a tough job. But Alex couldn’t let himself see things that way. All he could see was that he was being told what to do by “an arrogant little shit” half his age who knew nothing whatever about medicine.’
Willow watched Marigold as she spoke, intrigued to notice how warmly she was speaking up for Durdle. No one else in any way connected with the hospital had done that.
‘But I can see why that would have irritated any doctor,’ Willow said, hoping to find out why Marigold should have felt such sympathy for the hated manager. ‘I think in Alex’s place I might have felt like throttling Durdle – or banging his head against the floor – but it wasn’t Durdle who was killed.’
As Marigold’s big eyes filled with tears, Willow felt furiously guilty.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said directly.
Marigold shook her head. ‘Alex had other ways of getting back at people who’d annoyed him, and he did get back at Durdle.’
‘So I’ve heard. There was the grand humiliation at the budgeting meeting. But could any reasonably intelligent man have got seriously upset by Alex’s joke about women in labour having to cross their legs and hold on until Durdle could afford to let them have their babies?’
‘I suspect that when you feel yourself as beleaguered as many of the managers do these days,’ said Marigold slowly, ‘any mockery from the medical staff can burn like acid. And you mustn’t forget that Alex had a big following in the hospital. Almost every wom
an there adored him, and most of the men thought he was the bee’s knees. If all I heard about that meeting was true, he got the whole lot of them, including most of the other managers, laughing at Durdle. It would take gigantic self-confidence to ignore something like that and poor Mark has never been giantlike in any department, least of all self-confidence.’
‘I see. Then do you think he could have been upset enough to want Alex dead in revenge?’
‘No, I do not. He might have gone so far as to fantasise about how wonderful it would be if a divine thunderbolt were to strike Alex down, but I can’t see him laying hands on anyone. And he doesn’t exactly look strong enough to do what must have been done that night.’
Willow just nodded. It was a thought that had occurred to her more than once.
‘Have you talked to the perfect Lady Roguely yet?’ asked Marigold. ‘I’d have thought she’d be able to tell you a thing or two.’
‘Really? My discussions with her haven’t been exactly fruitful.’
‘So you have met her. Do you think he’d have stayed with her?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Willow, picking up her coffee cup.
‘I genuinely don’t think he would have,’ said Marigold, shaking her head. ‘A man who’s left one woman as easily as Alex left me is always going to have it in mind as a possibility. And when he does see someone he wants more than her he won’t think twice about giving himself the treat. However difficult the first time is, the second must be a doddle.’
‘As they say about murder.’
‘Do they? Look, why are you doing this? Alex’s death is none of your business and you have no personal connection with him. It’ll infuriate the police when they hear what you’re up to, and I can’t see it doing you much good either.’
‘Probably not,’ said Willow and then reluctantly sketched in some of her recent mental turmoil. She was disconcerted to see the woman opposite her shake with laughter.
Fruiting Bodies Page 16
