Sisters of Mercy

by Andrew Puckett

  ‘Let me come in and I’ll tell you.’

  He sat me down on his sofa and took the armchair opposite. I gave him all the facts, excepting what I’d let slip to Sutton.

  ‘How absolutely appalling,’ he said when I finished. ‘I think you were probably right to be cautious about involving the police, though,’ he continued slowly, ‘if Sutton’s as dangerous as you say.’

  ‘Stephen, the reason I was cautious is that I think Mrs Sutton was murdered. Like the others.’

  His eyes opened wide for a moment, then closed as he said tiredly, ‘Oh, my God, I thought we’d sorted all that out. All right. You’d better tell me.’

  My tongue touched my lips — lip, rather.

  ‘She was getting better. She was over the worst. It was what … thirty-six? Forty hours since she’d taken the amitriptyline. She was young, healthy. There’s just no earthly reason why she should have had a heart attack then. We must get a post-mortem on this one, Stephen …’

  ‘But you know as well as I do, Jo, that amitriptyline O/Ds can still be at risk of cardiac effects up to six days later … D’you know how much she took?’

  ‘Er … 1500 milligrams, I think.’

  ‘A hell of a lot, then. She could still …’

  ‘But Stephen, a post-mortem would show us once and for all …’

  He let out a breath. ‘OK, OK. I’ll speak to Debbie, see what she thinks —’

  ‘You’re not going to tell her about —?’

  ‘I’ll only ask her about the medical aspects — OK? Now you get home and try to get some rest.’

  ‘But Stephen …’

  ‘Look, Jo, I’m on duty in ten minutes and I daren’t be late. Go home and I’ll either come round or ring you later today. I promise. OK?’

  He squeezed my hand before gently pulling me to my feet and seeing me out.

  I suppose he couldn’t really have done any more, I thought as I drove slowly back.

  He could have put you to bed at his place … a small voice answered.

  I was trembling with exhaustion when I got home, and pausing just to brush my teeth and rub some cream into my bruised face, went straight to bed.

  But not to sleep — every nerve in my body seemed to be jangling and jostling at once …

  I got up, made some tea and had a cigarette. Then, after some hesitation, I poured myself a strong whisky. As its warmth spread from my stomach to the rest of my body, I began to relax.

  I glanced at my watch. Josephine Farewell, I thought, drinking whisky at ten in the morning. Whatever next?

  But it did make me feel better and as I settled back into bed, the worst of the trembling and jangling seemed to have gone, and after a while, I slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  About four or five hours later, I surfaced with great difficulty, reaching for the phone before I realized it was the doorbell. Stephen!

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming!’ I shouted as I ran down the stairs, tying the sash of my dressing gown.

  If I hadn’t been so muzzy, maybe I’d have checked who it was, but it probably wouldn’t have made any difference …

  Anyway, as soon as I slipped the chain, the door was thrown in my face and two creatures: one black, one white, not long evolved from apes, pushed their way in. Len Sutton strolled in after them.

  7

  As the white ape shut the door, I said, ‘If you touch me, I’ll scream.’

  Sutton looked at the black ape, who put his hand in his pocket and brought something out. There was a snick and a blade sprang from his hand. It flashed in the light from the window.

  ‘You won’t scream, Sister,’ Sutton said flatly.

  My eyes were hypnotized by the blade. Sutton said, ‘All I want from you is answers. What did you mean last night about I should go after the one that really killed Sharon?’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything. I was overwrought. It was a mistake.’

  He nodded to the black ape with the knife, who took a quick step forwards … the blade became a glinting arc and the sleeve of my dressing gown fell loose, slashed halfway up the arm. I had neither heard nor felt anything. My skin was untouched.

  ‘What did you mean?’

  My back pressed into the wall and I realized I’d been walking backwards. ‘I — I suppose I meant you. Because …’

  ‘No you didn’t, Sister. You meant somethin’ else. What was it?’ He didn’t raise his voice and his very calmness was as frightening as the knife.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I heard my own voice rise to a squeak. ‘I swear I —’

  But he’d nodded again, and once more the blade flickered … and the sash fell softly round my feet as the dressing gown gaped open.

  ‘I’ll ask you once more. What did you mean?’

  They were all staring at me. The black knifeape was staring at the material of my nightdress over my breasts, but there was nothing lascivious in his gaze, only professionalism.

  My tongue touched my lip. ‘All right. Please, can I sit down?’

  ‘No. Jus’ talk.’

  ‘All right.’ I swallowed. ‘It has seemed to me, over the last two months, that … more people have died in that ward than should have died. It seemed to me that your wife may have been another.’

  ‘It seemed to you … is that all?’

  ‘I did a statistical analysis. Statistically, the deaths shouldn’t have happened.’

  His eyes stared back at me.

  ‘Have you told anyone?’

  ‘My nursing officer.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She didn’t believe me.’

  ‘D’you tell anyone else? The police?’

  ‘Yes. A detective-inspector, but —’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he’d pass it to his superiors, but …’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘I — about two weeks.’

  ‘Two weeks? They done anything?’

  ‘No. I was trying to tell you, I told him later it was a false alarm.’

  ‘Why? Why d’you do that?’

  ‘Because I also told my … my boyfriend — a doctor — and he persuaded me I was wrong.’

  He stared at me. ‘So now you’re sayin’ you were wrong after all?’

  ‘No! No. I was never really convinced, and your wife’s death made me realize I was right …’ It occurred to me, too late, that I should have let him think I had been wrong — neurotic, in fact.

  ‘How long was this after you first told them? The police?’

  ‘A few days — a week.’

  ‘D’you tell anyone else?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  He thought for a moment, still staring at my face.

  ‘How many of these … killings?’

  ‘Your wife was the eighth I thought was sus —’

  ‘Eighth? Eight killings and no one does a fuck about it? What kinda fucken hospital is this?’

  ‘I didn’t suspect anything myself’ — I gabbled — ‘until the fifth or sixth … each one seemed like an ordinary death until you took them all together.’

  His mouth was still working. ‘Sounds more like in-fucken-competence to me …’

  His outline became fuzzy, his voice indistinct …

  ‘If I don’t sit down, I’m going to faint.’

  ‘Aw right, aw right.’ He waved me to the sofa. I sank on to it and closed my eyes.

  He was talking to his apes …

  ‘Sounds like some kinda sicko, like the one in Thatchbury …’

  ‘Maybe it’s just in her mind, boss …’

  ‘Naw. I don’t think so …’

  ‘Me neither …’

  ‘Think the filth’re doin’ anythin’ about it?’

  ‘Naw. Not if she told them not to.’

  ‘But they might. Y’ can never tell with the filth. Why not make her ring an’ ask?’

  ‘’Cos it might get them sniffin’ round again, that’s why not.’

  I felt his shadow l
oom over me.

  ‘Listen, Sister. You told the police to forget it and you heard nothin’ since, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at the others. ‘Typical filth. Can’t recognize real villains. Right. Listen, Sister, I want the names of the people you think were rubbed out; when they died, everythin’. An’ your stastistycall whatsit. Got that? An’ then I want the names of all the staff an’ what hours they work. An’ I want you to think hard about who did it — right?’

  ‘I tell you, I’ve no idea,’ I said tiredly.

  ‘Well, you’d better get some ideas, fast. Either someone killed her, like you said, or, like I said, it was incompetence. Your incompetence.’ He paused to let this sink in, then said, ‘How long will it take you? To get the names together?’

  ‘A day. Two days.’

  ‘You got a day. What time d’you get back here in the morning?’

  ‘It depends. About nine.’

  ‘Polo’ — he indicated the black knifeape — ‘will collect it tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. An’ when I’ve seen it, I’ll be asking you some more questions. An’, Sister, one more thing. Look at me …’

  Unwillingly, I raised my eyes to his …

  ‘Don’t go to the filth about me — right? For two reasons. First’ — he touched a finger — ‘it’ll be the word of the three of us against you. An’ secondly, ’cos Polo here won’t like it.’

  Polo flourished the knife and grinned down at me. Sutton turned and walked to the door. The white ape scurried over to open it for him.

  ‘An’, Sister …’ he said tiredly, looking round at me, ‘get some clothes on.’ Then the door closed and they were gone. I sat, frozen.

  Time passed.

  I stood, robot-like, and made for the stairs. Get some clothes on, he’d said. To hear is to obey.

  I found some jeans and a sweater and stumbled back downstairs. Stared at the whisky bottle awhile, then slowly rose from the sofa and poured myself one. Then another. Found my cigarettes.

  Stephen … he’d still be on duty, but I had to speak to him.

  I lifted the receiver, dialled. Had him paged.

  ‘Dr Wall speaking.’

  ‘Stephen, it’s Jo …’

  ‘Jo! I said I was going to phone you — you needn’t have bleeped me.’

  ‘Stephen —’

  ‘Listen’ — he lowered his voice — ‘you’ve no need to worry any more about Mrs Sutton. I’ve spoken to Debbie and she says there was absolutely nothing untoward about her death. Tragic, but nothing sinister …’

  ‘Stephen —’

  ‘She also told me what a shock you had last night. It was probably that that gave you the idea. We’ll talk about it later.’

  ‘But, Stephen, he was here, at my house.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Sutton, with two thugs. He threatened me.’

  Pause. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well … I let something slip last night. I was shocked, as you said, and …’

  ‘Let something slip about what?’ he demanded.

  I swallowed. ‘The murders.’

  Tiredly: ‘Oh, my God! Jo, there haven’t been any murders.’ Pause. ‘Listen to me carefully. I think you will have to go to the police now, but the only chance you’ve got for them to take you seriously is to admit from the outset that you made a mistake.’ You go to the police, not we, I noticed through my misery. ‘Have you got that, Jo? Then, maybe they’ll be able to get Sutton off your back.’

  ‘But I can’t go to the police, Stephen. Sutton’ll deny it and it’s three to one …’

  I heard him talking to someone at the other end, then: ‘I’m sorry, Jo, I’ve got to go now. I’ll be in touch. Go to the police and tell them you made a mistake.’

  I sat, frozen.

  Time passed.

  What could I do?

  I lit another cigarette.

  Go to my parents?

  But what could they do? They wouldn’t understand. It wouldn’t be fair on them. And Sutton would simply find me and threaten them, too …

  Stephen was right, it had to be the police, or at any rate, Anslow. I found the number of the station and keyed it in.

  ‘Latchvale Police, can I help you?’ It was the fat slob behind the desk.

  ‘Inspector Anslow, please.’

  ‘He’s not on duty at the moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘When will he be? On duty.’

  ‘Not until Monday, I’m afraid. He’s away on leave tomorrow.’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘Perhaps I can help you. It is Miss Farewell, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Could you possibly give me his home number, please? This is rather important.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we’re not allowed to do that,’ he said, not sorry at all. ‘Perhaps if you were to tell me what the problem is …’

  ‘No, thank you.’ I banged the receiver back and fumbled for another cigarette.

  Time passed.

  Mary … but she was ill.

  I rang her anyway, but knew somehow after the first ring that she wasn’t going to answer it.

  Too ill? Or otherwise occupied with one of her toy boys … Irresponsible Mary — could I really have confided in her?

  Yes! Yes … the receiver slipped from my fingers into its cradle.

  Time passed.

  Who could I talk to?

  I tried a cousin in Birmingham I was close to once, but her husband, whom I didn’t like much, told me she wouldn’t be back until late …

  All my friends had moved away, in spirit as well as place … but that hadn’t really mattered while I had my career …

  Without warning, I burst into tears. I could feel them coursing down my face, stinging my cheeks; I could feel my body convulsing with the sobs until it felt as though I had stomach cramps …

  That was the curious thing. I couldn’t stop crying, and yet another part of me seemed to be looking on, measuring, thinking: So this is what despair is really like …

  It can’t be happening, not to me … but it is …

  After a while, I stopped crying, but through exhaustion, not because it had made me feel any better.

  I looked at my watch, it was nearly seven — only five hours before I was on duty again. I felt so exhausted I thought I might sleep, but when I tried, everything just went round and round in my head …

  I got up and made some more tea, then had a bath, hoping it would relax me. It seemed to, but the moment I was in bed again, everything came back …

  The alarm went — I must have dozed off after all. I felt awful — unrefreshed, dull headache — and it occurred to me to ring in sick, like Mary …

  But what good would it do? Besides, I had to collect the information for Sutton — oh, yes — there was no way I could avoid doing that now …

  I pulled on my uniform and dragged myself to the hospital.

  I could never do justice to the next eight hours. I made mistakes, a lot of mistakes. Walked into things, knocked things over. A couple of times I felt so dizzy, I had to go and sit down.

  Deborah asked me if I was all right.

  ‘Just tired,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘After last night, I’m not really surprised.’

  She sounded sympathetic, and for a moment, I was tempted to confide in her to relieve my heavy heart, but then she continued in a sharper tone, ‘Stephen tells me you were unhappy about Mrs Sutton’s death?’

  ‘Well, yes, I was a bit. Didn’t you think —?’

  ‘We did all we could, you know.’ She was defensive, hostile almost — what had Stephen been saying to her? ‘There was nothing anybody could do about it. It was nobody’s fault.’

  ‘No,’ I said dully.

  I was too exhausted to give much thought to getting the information together for Sutton, although I realized I’d have to find something for him. There were the notes about the dead patients I’d originally made and shown to Miss Whittington, together with t
he statistical analysis — they were both still at home.

  I couldn’t face trying to sort through all the recent work rotas, so at the end of the shift, I simply photocopied the list of all the staff in ITU and their grades. After that, I dragged myself home.

  When I got to my door, I couldn’t find my keys. They weren’t in my bag, nor in the car. I must have left them at work.

  There’s no back way into the terraces as such, a factory building forms the wall at the end of the garden, but there’s a gate from my neighbour’s. I knocked at their door and they let me through. I kept a spare key to the back door in my shed.

  Once inside, I felt dizzy and just wanted to lie down. When was it Polo was coming? Nine-thirty, wasn’t it? I made a coffee and sat on the sofa to wait.

  Doorbell ringing … I’d dozed off. I picked up the envelope with the information and took it to the door, so that he wouldn’t have an excuse to come in. Opened it on to the chain.

  Not Polo.

  A smaller man — white, rather hard looking.

  ‘Sister Farewell?’

  Another of Sutton’s men …?

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name’s Jones, I’m from the Department of Health. You made a rather disturbing allegation to the police a couple of weeks ago and I wondered if we might talk about it …’

  8

  ‘You’d better come in.’ I undid the chain. I hadn’t really taken in what he’d said.

  He came in almost hesitantly, holding something out. ‘Don’t you want to see my identification?’

  ‘If you like.’ I shut the door, then gazed at the plastic card he was holding.

  I felt him staring at me. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I’m all right,’ I shouted back at him. ‘People are being murdered in my ward and no one’ll believe it except a Birmingham gangster who’s threatened to knife me unless I … I thought you were him.’

  ‘Unless what?’ he said quickly.

  ‘Unless I give him this’ — I held up the envelope — ‘information about the patients who’ve died, and the staff on the ward … he thinks he can find out who …’

  ‘And you’re expecting him now?’

  ‘His sidekick, Polo … I thought you were him.’

  ‘What time’s he coming?’

  ‘Nine-thirty, he said.’