An Empty Death (30 page)

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Authors: Laura Wilson

BOOK: An Empty Death
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Stratton was about to turn from the main corridor towards the mortuary when he heard quick, light footsteps coming towards him, and, rounding the corner, found himself face to face with Fay Marchant, who let out a startled ‘Oh!’
‘Sorry,’ said Stratton. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Fay. She gave a nervous laugh and when she continued, it was at a slightly higher pitch than he remembered. ‘Inspector Stratton! Have you come to see someone? Only, I don’t think there’s a soul about. I mean,’ she added, unnecessarily, ‘apart from us.’
‘I do have an appointment, yes. With Dr Byrne.’
‘Oh . . . Well, I hope you find him.’
‘I’m sure he’s in his office.’
‘I don’t think there was a light on. As I said, the place is deserted.’ Fay gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘I don’t like it when it’s like this. Creepy.’
‘Well, I mustn’t keep you. I’m sure you’re busy.’
‘I’ve just finished, actually. I was going back to the nurses’ quarters.’
‘I’ll say goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight, Inspector.’
Stratton watched her go, and wondered if she’d been telling the truth. After all, she’d come in the opposite direction from the only basement stairs that he knew about . . . There were outside doors, of course, and yards and things, so perhaps she’d come in through one of those. He suddenly found himself wondering if Byrne had some intelligence about Reynolds and Fay, and, if so, what it might be. Fay had said there was no light on in Byrne’s office, but he ought to check. She’d seemed nervous, but perhaps that was the effect of the mortuary corridor, which was bloody creepy. Or possibly bumping into him like that. Policemen had an unsettling effect on some people. He wouldn’t have thought she was one of them, but . . .
Was it his imagination, or was the humming noise louder now? It must, he thought, be coming from further down the corridor - the refrigerated room where the bodies were kept. The thought of all the corpses, lying stiff and blue-white in their individual compartments, made him uneasy.
Stratton set off down the corridor. The sooner he found Byrne, the sooner he’d be able to get out of the place.
Thirty-Five
‘
N
ow then, what’s all this about?’ Dacre kept his tone deliber-N ately light, as if he assumed it was some minor matter which could be cleared up in a few minutes.
Dr Byrne, standing back to let him enter the mortuary office, closed the door and locked it before replying. ‘I think you know very well what it’s about.’ He paused for a moment, before adding, with hideous emphasis, ‘Mr Todd.’
Dacre felt his heart trampoline in the direction of his throat. Somehow, he had not expected Byrne to get to the point so quickly. He raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me. The game’s up, man.’
‘What game? What are you talking about? I think you must have me confused with someone else.’
Byrne permitted himself a small smile. ‘No. You’ve confused yourself with someone else. Someone, apparently, called Dr Dacre.’
‘I don’t understand. I am Dr Dacre.’
Byrne shook his head. ‘You’re Sam Todd, masquerading as Dr Dacre.’
‘What?’ Genuinely furious now, Dacre said, his voice growing louder and deepening with every word, ‘Have you lost your mind?’
‘I did wonder.’ Another thin smile. ‘In fact, I’ve been wondering all day, but there was no mistaking your hand. As you well know, I am trained to remember these things, Mr Todd.’
‘Why do you keep calling me that?’
‘Because that is your name. Or I assume it is. It may, of course, be something entirely different.’
‘Rubbish! I’m not going to stand here and listen to this.’ Dacre turned on his heel and started towards the door, with Byrne a pace behind. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but by God, I’ll—’
‘Your hand, man.’ It was on the handle of the door. Both men looked down. The scar, livid now against the whiteness of Dacre’s knuckles, was plainly visible. ‘The scar.’
‘Yes.’ Dacre took his hand off the handle and folded his arms. ‘A dog bite, when I was a child. What of it?’
‘I recognised it.’
‘So you said. Listen, old chap,’ here, Dacre injected a patronising note into his speech, as if dealing with a dim-witted child, ‘it’s just a scar. I’m sure I’m not the only person unfortunate enough to have been bitten by a dog.’
‘It’s a very particular mark - identical to that on the hand of Mr Todd, my former assistant. I see you’ve made some alteration to your appearance and your voice, but you are one and the same. Explain yourself.’
‘There isn’t anything to explain. You’re mistaken, that’s all.’
‘No. Passing yourself off as a doctor, deceiving the authorities, practising medicine without a licence . . . These are serious matters.’
‘Yes,’ said Dacre, heatedly, ‘they are. But they have nothing to do with me. I’ve told you, I am Dr Dacre. I can prove it. I don’t see why I should have to, but, if it’s necessary to defend my good name, I shall. And, believe me, you’ll look quite a fool when I do.’
‘I’m more than willing to risk looking a fool if it exposes a criminal. I don’t know why you’re doing this - I can only assume that you are suffering from some form of mental disorder - but I cannot allow—’
‘How dare you?’ bellowed Dacre. Spittle landed on Dr Byrne’s face, causing him to take a step back. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘I know who I am.’ Byrne took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his cheek. ‘The question is, who are you?’
Dacre took a deep breath. This wasn’t going according to plan. Instead of beginning to doubt himself, Byrne seemed more positive by the second. ‘I am Dr James Dacre. I have a perfectly good medical degree from St Andrews, and I have been practising—’
‘In that case,’ Byrne interrupted, ‘why were you working as a mortuary attendant under a different name?’
‘I wasn’t! You’re deluded. Look,’ said Dacre, trying now for a reasonable, both-men-of-the-world, sort of tone, ‘I understand how this must have happened. You’ve obviously been under a lot of pressure, what with . . .’ here, Dacre looked skywards, ‘and when one’s been working hard, one can sometimes get a bit confused about—’
‘There’s no confusion, I can assure you of that,’ said Byrne, stiffly. ‘I have the evidence of my own eyes.’
‘How?’ demanded Dacre. ‘When we’ve never met before today? How do you account for that?’
An exultant gleam in Byrne’s eyes made Dacre realise, with a sudden, sickening oscillation of all his innards, that he had made a terrible mistake. Even before Byrne opened his mouth, he knew what he was about to say.
‘If we’ve never met before,’ said Byrne, triumphantly, ‘then how did you know who I was? I didn’t introduce myself, and you didn’t ask, did you?’
Thirty-Six
I
n the split second that Dacre hesitated - should he try and flannel his way out of it by saying that someone had described the pathologist to him, or . . . or what? - he could see that Byrne felt he had won. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘are you going to explain yourself, or do I have to—’
By this point, instinct had taken over from conscious thought, and Dacre gave Byrne a violent, two-handed shove in the chest. Caught off balance, the pathologist, his mouth still open, staggered backwards, slipped and fell, hitting the side of his head against the sharp corner of his desk as he went.
Dacre looked down at the crumpled, white-coated heap before him, one side of the waxy bald pate darkening with blood. ‘Oh, God.’ Kneeling down, he patted Byrne’s face. The pathologist did not respond. After a few seconds, Dacre got to his feet, unsteady and gripping the edge of the desk for support, and stared out of the window into the courtyard. No-one there. No-one had seen. He lurched to the window and pulled down the blackout, then stumbled back across the room in the half-light to turn on the desk lamp.
Still Byrne had not moved. Dacre bent over him. He was breathing all right, just knocked out. This was his chance. Assuming that the morphine did not kill him absolutely on the instant, there was no reason for anyone to think that the blow had come before the injection . . . It had to look as if he’d injected himself, then fallen over . . . Was Byrne right-handed? Dacre thought so, but glanced at the desk to verify it. Yes, the pen and ink were on the right side of the blotter, with a piece of paper with writing on it: GER 1212. No name, but GER must be Gerard Street, so it couldn’t be far away . . . Christ! The police station - where was that? Savile Row, so the number might be . . . And if Byrne had already telephoned them . . . Checking would mean a call through the hospital exchange, and that was out of the question.
Supposing the police were already on their way? Fuck. He needed to act and get out of there. The door was still locked, which was something, but the bars across the window meant that it was the only way out . . . Right. Get on with it. Dacre took the syringe from his pocket and, positioning himself behind Byrne, pushed up the left sleeve of the pathologist’s coat and jacket as far as he could, then undid the cuff of his shirt and rolled it back above the elbow. He tried to fold Byrne’s fingers into a fist but the pathologist stirred and started to mumble something. Jesus, don’t wake up now . . . Dacre patted the bare left arm as hard as he dared, attempting to raise a vein, but it was hopeless. He peered at the single blue site he could see in the crook of the elbow, and, aiming the needle, pierced the skin and depressed the plunger. Byrne twitched and made a gurgling noise in his throat. Don’t wake up, damn you, don’t wake up . . .
Done. Dacre withdrew the syringe and, wiping it with his handkerchief, attempted to put it into Byrne’s right hand. The fingers grasped it for a fraction of a second - long enough, surely? - before loosening and sending the thing rolling to the floor. Dacre, on his hands and knees, crawled round to get a look at Byrne from the front.
He saw in an instant that the pathologist’s eyes were wide open and focused on him. The lips were drawn back in a grimace, showing yellowed teeth and a surprisingly large top expanse of shiny pinky-orange gum that stood out horribly against the dull white mask of the face. Why wasn’t he dead? Dacre drew back, horrified, as Byrne leant towards him and, raising his quivering right arm, made a grab for his lapel. Clutching only air, the arm came down again, the hand thudding against the floorboards, the fingers flexing weakly as if seeking something of their own accord.
Inching backwards to what he judged was a safe distance, Dacre stared at the pathologist, horrified. Byrne emitted a noise that was halfway between a gurgle and a grunt, and continued staring fixedly in his direction. Why wasn’t the bloody stuff working? Why didn’t he just die? Perhaps the injection hadn’t been strong enough. Christ . . . What if Byrne were to recover?
As Dacre watched, Byrne’s fingers stopped moving, and his eyes shut as swiftly and finally as if someone had pulled down a blind. His lips returned to their normal position, and his face seemed to settle into the placid semblance of sleep. Dacre could hear his breathing - a stertorous rattle of mucous. What had gone wrong? Why wasn’t he dead? Perhaps it just took longer than Dacre had imagined, but he couldn’t just sit and wait . . .
No sounds from the corridor. Maybe the telephone number on the desk was not for the police station, after all. Higgs, or possibly his own replacement - if there was one - must be about somewhere, but, unless the arrangements had changed, they did not have keys to the office. Only Dr Byrne and Miss Lynn had those. Dacre got up and adjusted the desk lamp so that it shone in the direction of the small shelf where Byrne kept a few medical books. Toxicology. That was it. He took it down and, dropping once more to the floor, reached up to take hold of the lamp and put it beside him so that he could read. Morphine . . . Morphine . . . There it was. The chief poisonous alkaloid of opium of which it forms five to twenty per cent . . . Symptoms, where were the symptoms? Individual susceptibility varies greatly even amongst adults . . . Several cases are known in which a dose of one grain of hydrochloride of morphine was fatal . . . Well, Byrne had certainly had more than that, so . . . What else? Morphine hypodermically injected gives symptoms in three to four minutes . . . Good . . . A period of excitement - there hadn’t been much of that, thank God, presumably because of the bang on the head - is followed by incapacity for exertion, giddiness, drowsiness, sleep, stupor, ‘insensibility’ . . . respiration becomes slower, pulse is feeble . . . the muscles of the limbs feel flabby and relaxed, lower jaw drops, sphincters are relaxed, skin is cold . . . If vomiting takes place before stupor sets in, there is great hope of recovery . . .
Dacre stopped reading and, shuffling on his knees, desk lamp in hand, moved over to take another look at Byrne. He certainly looked as though he were in a stupor, but he was still breathing loudly, though more slowly now . . . What did that mean? Dacre picked up Byrne’s hand - it was relaxed, all right, a dead weight - and felt for a pulse: barely perceptible. The stuff was obviously working, but how long would it take? And if he vomited . . . Wait. Dacre considered Byrne for a moment, his head on one side, thinking, then took hold of his shoulders and pulled him away from the desk so that he was flat on his back on the floor. If he puked, he’d choke on it. Now, it was just a matter of time . . .

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