Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (59 page)
‘Excellent,’ said Stratton, cheerfully. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Apart from anything else, I need to check that they can put you up overnight. You can keep those.’ He gestured to the packet of cigarettes. ‘If you need a light, there’s a policeman just outside the door. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige.’
Seventy-Seven
L
eft alone, the man buried his face in his hands. Why the hell had he sent that letter? To try and help Fay, yes, but also to show off . . . And Stratton had seen through him. Understood. And the way he’d kept calling him Strang, trying to provoke him . . .
eft alone, the man buried his face in his hands. Why the hell had he sent that letter? To try and help Fay, yes, but also to show off . . . And Stratton had seen through him. Understood. And the way he’d kept calling him Strang, trying to provoke him . . .
He’d wondered, occasionally, if it might be a relief to tell someone - a stranger - about his life, but when he had he’d imagined disbelief, then admiration for his daring. Nothing like this. Now he was right back where he started. Worse, in fact. Not only was John Strang a mere nobody, he was also a common criminal, a fraud. And as for Fay . . . It couldn’t be true, could it? The affair with Dr Reynolds, yes, but the abortion . . . ? And killing that nurse? It wasn’t possible . . . Stratton had said something about a witness . . . Everything had spun horribly, hopelessly, out of his control. The moment he’d seen him at the hospital he’d known that he had lost, that was why he’d run towards the firing range. When Stratton had started bashing his head against the ground, the pain had scarcely registered, so divorced had he felt from even his physical self. Now, he ached all over . . . And then there was the question of his mother. Would she insist on seeing him? Could she insist? She was the cause of all this. He didn’t want to see her, ever again.
His mind worked feverishly as he thought over the things Stratton had said. He was going to arrest Fay. Last time was bad enough, when he thought it was just for taking the morphine, but this time . . . And Stratton had seen Fay in the corridor, she’d told him that herself. But the business of the abortion . . . He felt sick. Reynolds must have made her, forced her. That was the only explanation. He’d tricked her into it, or . . . Bastard! He deserved to die. Stratton talking about her as if she were a common slut made him angry. He knew she wasn’t. Dacre knew. Dacre could judge these things.
But he wasn’t Dacre any more. He wasn’t Rice. He was left alone with his old, useless self. He lifted his head and stared around him at the unpainted walls, the meagre, scarred furniture, the tin ashtray. This was all . . . Except: he could still save Fay. Fay loved Dacre, yes, not Strang, but Dacre couldn’t help her now, and Strang could. It would be the one good thing that Strang had done - it would redeem him. Afterwards, what happened to Strang didn’t matter . . . Suddenly, he laughed. How ironic, after all his hopes for Dacre, for Rice, that it would be Strang’s name in the newspapers, that he would be - briefly, at least - famous for being his original self.
Seventy-Eight
Stratton took himself off to the Gents’ where he saw, in the small mirror above the basin, that he, too, had the beginnings of a nice black eye, courtesy of the giant madman who’d attacked him. His nose looked a bit swollen, too, and he touched it gingerly, wondering if it was broken for the second time. It’s not as if I’ve got looks to ruin, he thought - and in any case, there was no Jenny to cluck over his grotesque appearance when he finally got home . . . That thought reminded him that he ought to telephone to Doris and ask her to look after Monica and Peter overnight, as there was no way he’d be able to get back to London.
This done, he went outside for a think and a smoke. Leaning against the back wall of the station, the sensation he’d previously had of something faint and persistent in the back of his mind suddenly sharpened - the distant wireless, properly tuned, with the volume turned up loud. Of course! He threw down his cigarette and returned to the station, where he asked the duty sergeant to place a call to West End Central. It took Stratton almost twenty minutes to explain the position to DCI Lamb, who ummed and ahhed and asked irrelevant questions, while the duty sergeant looked askance at how long the conversation was taking. Finally, Lamb agreed to do as Stratton asked. After that, he spoke to Ballard, who was quietly reproachful at not having been included, and issued some instructions. Then he asked the now pop-eyed duty sergeant to arrange him some accommodation for the night, thanked the man, and strolled back to the interview room.
‘The good news is that we’ve found you a cell, Mr Strang,’ he said, breezily. ‘There’s quite a crowd in here, but they’re giving you a room of your own, so, if you’d like to come with us, we can get you settled.’
Strang stared at him but made no move to rise from his chair.
‘Anything wrong?’ said Stratton, very solicitous.
The expression of anguish on Strang’s face was, he hoped, an accurate reflection of the turmoil in his mind.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Please.’
‘Very well.’ Stratton remained standing, looking puzzled. Strang now looked agonised, as if some vital part were being pulled from him with instruments of torture - which, Stratton supposed, it was. As he waited, it occurred to him that the contract between the conman and the conned was now reversed, only Strang did not know it.
‘You can’t arrest Fay, Inspector Stratton. She’s innocent.’
‘Oh?’ Stratton raised an incredulous eyebrow.
‘Yes! Look, I know she was seeing Dr Reynolds, but that doesn’t mean - well, any of what you said. She wouldn’t do those things.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I killed Dr Byrne.’
‘Oh, really?’ Stratton laid on the disbelief.
‘He recognised me. This . . .’ The man held up his right hand, palm outwards. ‘The scar.’
Stratton nodded, but still did not sit down. ‘So? A lot of people have scars.’
‘He’d spotted me that afternoon, in the Gents’. I was washing my hands, and that’s when he noticed. I thought I’d got away with it - as you say, plenty of people have scars - but he came up later on, to Casualty. It was just after that business when the woman hit me. Byrne said he wanted to talk to me, and I knew he was going to confront me with what I’d done.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, I had the morphine and the syringe. One fell on the floor during the fracas in Casualty and I managed to pick it up without being spotted.’
‘Why?’
‘On impulse. I’ve found it’s useful, taking things - you never know when they might come in.’
‘And you thought it would “come in” to kill Dr Byrne?’
‘Not at first. I went into the Gents’ and filled it up. I’d thought of doing away with myself.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was tired of being hounded, always having to look over my shoulder . . . It happens sometimes - I get a sense of depression, of not getting anywhere.’ The man’s tone switched suddenly from self-pitying to bitter, and he blurted out, ‘Because I’d failed. Because I’m no bloody good, Inspector. I’m rotten.’
‘No,’ said Stratton, sincerely. ‘You’re not.’
Strang blinked in surprise.
‘Everyone at the Middlesex thought you were a good doctor - until they found out you weren’t a doctor at all, that is. Besides, if you really were rotten, you wouldn’t be telling me all this, would you? You’d have let Nurse Marchant be tried, and perhaps hanged, for killing Dr Byrne. I’d have been none the wiser.’
‘No, no . . .’ Strang shook his head violently. ‘I killed him. Fay had nothing to do with it.’
‘Do you want to make a confession?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well.’ Stratton went to the door and requested a policeman. When he’d arrived, and was ready with pen and paper, Stratton said, ‘John Walter Strang, I am arresting you for the murder of Dr Arthur Mills Byrne, and I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. Do you understand what I am saying?’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. Could you tell us about it from the beginning, please?’
It took two hours before the statement was completed and signed - laboriously, and after some hesitation - John Walter Strang.
Afterwards, Stratton despatched the policeman for cups of tea, and, when they were alone, asked, ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’
Strang, slumped on his seat, his battered face slack with exhaustion, stared at him dully. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten,’ prompted Stratton. ‘Dr Reynolds . . . Nurse Leadbetter . . .’
Strang nodded wearily, and sat up straight with a visible physical effort, but it was as if an inner electrical light had been switched off, and in his eyes Stratton saw only emptiness. He didn’t think the man had enough mental energy, or heart, for his task, but - and you had to hand it to him - he was prepared to try.
‘Well?’
‘I hit Reynolds. I saw him on the bomb-site. I wanted to be a doctor, and I thought if he was out of the way, I could take his place. Now you can charge me.’
‘Not just yet,’ said Stratton. ‘Why Reynolds?’
‘Because of Fay.’
‘So you did know her before you met in the corridor and took the morphine? You knew her when you were Todd.’
‘No! I’d seen her, that’s all. I . . . wanted her.’
‘But how did you know she was involved with Reynolds?’
‘I’d seen them together . . . outside.’
‘When?’
‘From time to time.’
‘But why should you think that there was anything untoward in that?’
‘The way he looked at her.’
‘I see. Did you know Dr Reynolds?’
‘Not personally. I knew he worked in the Casualty Department.’
‘So,’ said Stratton, sceptically, ‘you killed a man you did not know because you thought that by doing so you could get both his position and his mistress?’
‘Well, I did get them, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, but it was a pretty long shot that the one - or, rather, two - would follow.’
‘Well,’ said Strang, defiantly, ‘it worked.’
‘How did you kill him?’
‘I crept up behind him and hit him. Simple as that.’
‘What with?’
‘A brick. I picked it up from the site.’
‘What was Reynolds doing there?’
‘I don’t know. I saw him.’
‘How? It was pitch dark.’
‘That’s not true. There was a moon.’
‘But not enough light to spot Reynolds from the road, surely?’
‘I recognised him.’
‘You must been very close to him, then. Didn’t he see you?’
‘No.’
‘But he must have heard you coming - scrambling over all that debris can be a noisy business. I must say, Mr Strang,’ said Stratton, in the neutral tone of one making an observation about the weather, ‘that the difference between the fluency with which you described the killing of Dr Byrne and this rigmarole is quite marked. You’ll have to do better with the details . . . Did he hear you coming?’
‘Well, if he did, he didn’t turn round to see who it was.’
‘Did you say anything to him before you hit him?’
‘No.’
‘How many times did you hit him?’
‘Three, I think.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Not positive, but I think that’s right.’
‘How did you know he would be there?’
‘He . . .’ Stratton could sense that, even with the information he’d picked up from the post-mortem, the man was flagging. ‘He’d been in the pub. I followed him.’
‘Which pub?’
‘The Cambridge Arms, on Newman Street.’
‘People from the Middlesex go in there, don’t they?’ Stratton decided to take a flyer. ‘Strange that none of them remembered seeing him that night when we asked.’
‘Perhaps they didn’t notice him. He wasn’t there for long.’
‘How long? What time did he leave?’
‘Just before closing time.’
‘And you followed him, did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You followed him to the bomb-site and killed him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Straight away? You said there was no conversation of any kind . . . Why do you think he chose to take that particular route? All that rubble . . . Pretty hazardous in the dark.’
‘Short cut, I suppose. He’d had a few.’
‘A few? You said he wasn’t in the pub for long.’
‘Well, something . . .’
‘Did he appear drunk?’
‘Not drunk, but—’
‘That’s hardly surprising, Mr Strang, because, according to the report, there was no alcohol in his bloodstream. I’m surprised you don’t remember, but of course rather a lot’s happened since then, hasn’t it? Enough to make anyone slip up. Besides which, Dr Byrne told us that Reynolds died sometime between . . .’ Stratton pulled out his notebook and flicked through it, ‘two and six in the morning. And as I’m sure you know, the pubs on that side of Oxford Street close at half past ten, so unless the pair of you were wandering around in circles on that bomb-site for the best part of four hours, your story doesn’t hold water. In fact, it’s unworthy of you.’ Stratton returned the notebook to his pocket. ‘Nice try, Mr Strang.’ He stood up to leave. ‘Oh, by the way, I don’t believe you killed Leadbetter either.’
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