‘Hello, Jo,’ she said. ‘I’d have thought you’d seen enough of this place during the week.’
‘I’m getting some figures together for Mr Jones.’
‘Oh. Couldn’t that have waited until Monday?’
‘Apparently, he needs them for Monday. Everything OK here?’
‘Fine. Viv’s in the clean area. Oh — Mr Phillips died last night.’
‘I see. Not entirely unexpected, although I had hoped …’
‘Yes.’
It was rather ironic. Mr Phillips, of the wandering hands had, against the odds, improved and been moved to Coronary Care. Then he’d relapsed and returned to us, and now he was dead. I shivered. From the moment he’d first come in, I’d not thought his chances good …
I started on the rota. Although it was a long, boring job, the fact that I’d now been vindicated somehow made it less painful. Debbie Hillard came in and asked me what I was doing. Helping Mr Jones to collect figures, I replied.
‘Oh, he’s still around, is he?’ she said darkly. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with him. Where is he?’
‘Not here yet. He said he’d look in sometime during the morning.’
She grunted and stalked out.
A little while later, Viv came in.
‘Ain’tcha got no ‘ome to go to?’
I told her I was helping Mr Jones with his figures.
‘Oh, him. Well, so long as he’s not helping you with yours.’
She peered over my shoulder. ‘What you doing, then?’
I thought quickly. ‘Oh, he wants to know whether the time sheets correlate with the rotas, for some reason.’
‘Nosey bugger, in’t he?’
‘Yes, he is, rather.’
She went out.
When I’d finished that, I found the Duty Room logbook and began making a timetable from it of the doctors and paramedics. This wasn’t quite so painful, since there weren’t anything like so many of them.
Tom managed to time his entrance shortly before I’d finished.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ I asked in an undertone, still curious to know what it was.
‘Thank you, yes. How about you?’
‘Nearly there.’
He waited while I finished, then I ceremoniously handed the sheets over to him and he left. Debbie glared after him but didn’t attempt any bone-picking. I hung around a little longer, then phoned for a taxi.
He’d already started setting up his chart on the table in the living-room when I got home.
‘Wouldn’t it be easier if you got a computer to work that out for you?’ I asked.
‘Mm? Oh yes, certainly.’ He sat up. ‘As a matter of fact, there is one. It’s called HOLMES.’
‘As in Sherlock?’
‘That’s right.’ He grinned. ‘Actually, it’s an acronym. Home Office Large Major Inquiry System.’
‘Why not use that?’
‘It would take too long to set up — it’s a main frame system and we’d have to go to Birmingham.’ He sighed. ‘Although looking at this lot, it might come to that.’
‘I wonder there isn’t a micro version.’
‘I’ve wondered that, too. Probably because no micro computer would be big enough to handle the software. It’s vast.’
He returned to his chart, so I took the opportunity to do some housework and washing.
We took a short break an hour or so later for some lunch, then he went back to it.
An hour after that, he threw down his pencil. ‘Well, I’ve narrowed it down to ten people so far as availability goes.’
I looked up from the book I’d been reading. ‘Who are they?’
He read them out. ‘Mary Tamworth. Stephen Wall. Sophie Marsh. Vivien Aldridge. Josephine Farewell —’
‘Oh, thank you very much!’
‘It’s what HOLMES would have come up with. Emma Riley. Susan King. James Croxall. Helen Armitage. And Paul Ridware.’
‘Well, none of them exactly leap out at you, do they?’ I observed. ‘It sounds to me as though you will have to ask HOLMES. Surely eight deaths counts as both large and major.’
‘I suppose so.’ He looked round. ‘Where did the patient record printouts go?’
‘Over here.’ I handed them to him. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
He gave a grunt which I took to be affirmative.
I’d just brought the coffee out when the phone went. It was my mother, wondering why they hadn’t seen me for over a week. I explained that I’d been busy and would come as soon as I could.
‘Why not come over for tea this afternoon, dear?’ she asked.
‘I can’t, I’m sorry —’
‘There’s something odd here,’ Tom said.
‘Have you got someone with you, dear?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Well, bring him too. We don’t mind.’
‘He’s here on business,’ I said quickly. Mum would like nothing more than to see me married off.
‘I think this is it,’ Tom said, the excitement mounting in his voice.
‘What?’
‘Are you still there, dear?’
‘Mum, something important’s happened. I’ll phone you back. Love to Dad.’ I slammed down the receiver and went over to him. ‘What is it?’
He was holding the patient records. ‘D’you realize?’ he began, but before he could get any further, the doorbell rang … ‘Don’t let them in,’ he murmured. I went over and opened the door against the chain.
‘Hello, Jo.’
‘Stephen!’
‘I’m sorry I missed you this morning …’
‘Pardon?’
‘I wanted to speak to you, but I missed you this morning, when you were in. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’
‘Well, I am, thank you.’
‘Can I come in for a moment?’
‘Er — well, it’s rather an awkward time …’ I began, then inspiration struck … ‘I was just on my way to see my parents.’
‘I won’t keep you long,’ he persisted.
‘Well, it really is awkward,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ve left the bath running. I’ll ring you.’
‘All right,’ he said after a pause.
‘Thanks for calling, anyway,’ I said, and shut the door. And at that moment, I realized he was out of my system — I didn’t want to see him again no matter what he did.
‘Has he gone?’ Tom asked quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder what he wanted,’ he mused, half to himself.
‘Guilty conscience, I expect,’ I said. ‘Never mind him, what have you found?’
‘Mm? Oh yes, the patient records. D’you realize that seven out of the eight victims are marked down under religion as either: None, Agnostic or Atheist?’
Once again, I felt an acute sense of disappointment. ‘So what? We get quite a few these days who say None, at least.’
‘Three of these are Atheist, two each for Agnostic and None. How often do people going into hospital, especially an ITU, claim they’re atheist?’
‘It does happen.’
‘Seven out of eight times? Come on, that can’t be coincidence.’
‘Then why not eight out of eight? Who is the eighth?’
‘Mrs Sutton. A gangster’s wife who tried to commit suicide, which is one of the great religious taboos. Jo, how many patients, say out of ten, claim to be any of those things?’
‘I don’t know —’
‘Then let’s go in and look.’
‘No, let me think a minute.’ I shut my eyes, trying to visualize the records. ‘I’d say two or three, although it’s only a guess.’
‘Out of ten. A bit different from seven out of eight. So which of our ten suspects, sorry, nine, are religious freaks?’
‘I can only think of two,’ I said slowly, unwillingly.
‘Well?’
‘Emma Riley, and Susan King.’
‘Emma Riley …’ His eyes flickered away from me,
back again. ‘Isn’t she that really … attractive one?’
‘Yes, and she’s more than just attractive, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. She’s also old-fashioned, goes to church, and a bit of a prude.’
‘Boyfriends?’
‘I think so. But she doesn’t talk about them.’
‘Does she … flaunt her religiosity?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Does she go on about it? Make a thing of it.’
‘No. She’s just self-contained.’
‘All right, what about the other one, Susan King? Rather plain, as I remember.’
‘Yes. She doesn’t flaunt her religiousness either, but I know she belongs to one of those weird sects that think everything’s a sin. She’s always going away on courses and retreats with them.’
‘Sounds more likely, doesn’t it? And you were sure yourself that it was an individual, a psycho …’
‘Tom, she’s a phlebotomist. I showed you yesterday how it would be impossible for her to inject anything into a patient.’
‘Because all blood samples are taken with that vacuum thing?’
‘That’s right. Vacutainer.’
‘Can I use your phone?’
‘Go ahead.’
He keyed in a number and waited.
‘Holly? It’s Tom … yes, I’m fine thanks, love. How about you?’
His wife, obviously. I turned away, feeling a totally unjustified spurt of jealousy. I still listened, though.
‘Holly, have you ever used vacutainers? … Yes …’ Silence while he listened … ‘I see … Look, suppose you took one of those containers and used a syringe to squirt in some liquid, and then pumped in some air after it?’ Another pause … ‘Ahhh, I thought so … Yes, you’ve been a great help … I’ve got to go now. I’ll ring you later, bye.’
He looked up at me.
I said, ‘Explain it again, please.’
‘You’ve got the double-ended needle screwed into the barrel, right?’
‘Yes?’
‘You stick the outside needle into a vein, then press the tube with its vacuum into the barrel, so that the inside needle penetrates the rubber bung of the tube and the vacuum sucks in the blood.’
‘Oh …’ I said, understanding.
‘Yes. If you put a pressure into the tube instead of a vacuum, it will inject whatever liquid you may have put into it.’
‘And it would be easy enough to use a conventional syringe and needle to do that,’ I said slowly. ‘To put insulin into the tube instead of anti-coagulant, and then pressurize it with air.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right. I remember now how the deaths stopped when Susan went on leave for two weeks, and then Mrs Sutton died the day after she came back. But the timing …? Mrs Sutton died at about half-past twelve in the morning.’
‘What time does Susan leave in the afternoon?’
‘Around five, usually.’
‘An hour later than the nursing shift. And five until twelve is only seven hours, which is within your time range for PZI. Would she be able to get hold of it?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid she would.’ I looked up. ‘But what about the brakes on my car? How did she know we were looking for a killer?’
He drummed with his fingers on the table top. ‘I’ve got it. Remember when your printer went down — the fuse? The patient record came out in the Duty Room, and she was in there. She’d have seen it.’
‘Especially as Viv brought everyone’s attention to it. But would that have been enough for her to —?’
‘Yes, I think it would. It was the first victim, or at least, the first one you spotted. He died nearly two months ago. Why print that out now? And especially just after a Man from the Department has arrived.’
‘But how did she know where my car would be?’
Again, he thought.
‘Yesterday afternoon. I left at about four — remember? And told you in a loud clear voice that I’d see you at Miss Shenstone’s lecture.’
‘All right, you’ve convinced me,’ I said. ‘But what are we going to do? We’ve got to stop her before she kills anyone else.’
‘We have to go to the police, obviously. Which means coming clean about the mortuary.’ He picked up the phone again.
‘Marcus?’ His boss. ‘It’s Tom. I think we’ve found our killer, but there’s a problem …’ He told him what had happened and asked him to clear the mortuary break-in with the police.
An hour later, we were with a rather irritated Inspector Anslow.
‘I wish you’d told us earlier you were here, Mr Jones.’
‘Would you have taken it seriously? In the circumstances?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, although I didn’t believe him. ‘You could at least have told us about the break-in to the mortuary.’
‘Well, I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’ Another example of the unfortunate manner, I supposed.
‘Yeah, after we’ve already spent umpteen man hours on it.’ He sighed. ‘All right, Mr Jones, you’ve persuaded me, but there’s nothing like enough evidence for a conviction on what we’ve got.’ He paused. ‘I suppose she might break down under interrogation … what do you think, Miss Farewell?’
‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ I said, thinking of Susan’s set and determined expression.
‘So what do we do?’
‘We could set a trap,’ said Tom. ‘We could set it up tomorrow and spring it on Monday.’
Anslow looked at him suspiciously. ‘What kind of a trap?’
Tom told him.
18
Monday morning. The trap was set. We waited.
It’s the hardest part, the waiting; at least, so runs the cliché, but as is so often the case, the cliché’s right. That’s why they become clichés, I supposed … My mind tumbled with thoughts and suppositions, most of them as irrelevant as that.
It seemed incredible that the plan could have been set up so quickly. Mr Chorley had had to be told of course; also, Miss Whittington. She’d been deeply shocked and had not wanted to be directly involved. But Mr Chorley was made of different stuff, and as he conducted the ward round that morning, there was no perceptible change in his demeanour.
Oh, and James. He had to be told as well. No one else knew.
As morning became afternoon, the final piece was put into place. We waited …
The police had wanted to wait a few days before setting the trap, to lull any suspicions Susan might have had, but Mr Chorley wouldn’t countenance it.
‘Who knows whom she will take it into her head to kill next?’ he’d demanded. ‘We simply can’t afford to take that risk. She must be arrested tomorrow …
And Mr Chorley had friends in high places, so the trap was set …
That Sunday evening, we’d been driving back from the police station. There was a rich autumn sunset and the Ladies of the Vale stood out black against it.
‘I’ve never seen a cathedral with three spires before,’ Tom said, breaking the silence.
‘The Ladies of the Vale.’
‘Beg your pardon?’
I repeated it. ‘That’s what they’re called.’
He looked in his mirror and indicated to the right. ‘Let’s have a closer look.’
I glanced at him. ‘Are you a religious freak, too?’
He laughed. ‘No. I do like old churches and cathedrals, though. They’re a link with the past. They … they define a town somehow.’
‘Take the next left.’
A few minutes later, he pulled up under the west front.
‘It’s strange,’ I said, looking up at the rows of saints and holy men, ‘I’ve never really thought much about this building, until recently.’
‘What brought it on?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve just had this feeling of the spires, the Ladies, keeping watch over the city, brooding over the centuries.’
He smiled. ‘You’re a romantic. Shall we have a look inside?’
‘It’s Sunday — there might be a service or something,’ I protested. ‘After all, it is what they’re there for.’ He’d already opened his door, though. I followed him. A trio of pigeons clattered away.
The huge wooden doors in the middle of the front were obviously bolted shut. He found a smaller door to one side which he pushed open. We heard singing.
‘There is a service,’ I said.
‘We can still have a quick look.’
Rather reluctantly, I followed him in. The purity of the choral voices shimmered around the stone columns and arches and up into the vault. There was a congregation of perhaps three or four dozen. Brasswork gleamed dully in the stained light. The organ trembled.
‘Tom, let’s go,’ I whispered.
‘Why?’ He smiled. ‘Are you about to turn into dust or something?’
‘I just don’t feel comfortable.’
He shrugged and we went out. He said, ‘I thought it was rather lovely.’
‘Oh, it was; it was beautiful. But we were intruding.’
Back in the car, I said, ‘What a strange place for us to be. Considering the … perversity of what we’ve been doing.’
He was staring up at the spires. ‘Ladies of the Vale,’ he mused. ‘Well, there’s been you, Susan …’
‘Oh, thanks!’
‘So who’s the third?’
‘Miss Whittington?’ I said, catching his mood.
‘No …’
‘Miss Shenstone, then? But as I said in the beginning, she’s a near saint.’
‘I don’t believe in saints,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘People do what they do because they want to.’ He looked around warily. ‘Although perhaps this isn’t the best of places to say so.’
He started the car and we got home without being struck by any thunderbolts. I made a meal. He had still been very thoughtful, for some reason …
*
Monday, twelve-fifteen. Susan came into the Duty Room, picked up the pathology request forms from the basket and looked through them before going to the cupboard to replenish her tray.
Helen Armitage asked Mary some fool question and got a dusty answer. Gail came in complaining: ‘That Mr Bridges, he’s the limit …’
‘Why, what’s he done now?’
‘Oh, it’s the way he turns everything you say into a sexual innuendo …’
All their voices were unreal.
Quietly, unobtrusively, Susan picked up her tray and went out.
Sisters of Mercy Page 13
