Night Visit (24 page)

He
said nothing.

‘
Where have you buried her?’

Again
he said nothing. I can only think in his defence that he did not even try to feed me one. He knew his actions were indefensible.

I
touched the damp rail of the gate. ‘But why Danny, Neil?’

‘
He saw me,’ he said wearily, ‘stuffing the dress into the hedge. He said nothing at the time. He was only a kid. He probably didn’t understand the significance of what he’d seen. And no one questioned him. But years later he came to the surgery for something and recognised me. To be honest, Harriet, I didn’t know what to do. Anyway, I had no record in this country. I don’t think the police would necessarily have believed him. And it didn’t cost me anything. A few prescriptions,’ he said contemptuously. ‘That’s all.’

‘
And Petra?’

Neil
gave a dry cough. ‘Let’s just say Petra had her suspicions.’

‘
Not about Melanie?’

‘
No, not about Melanie. She would have told the police if she’d known anything about Melanie. She just knew something was wrong.’ Again that dry cough. ‘The funny thing was that Sandy picked up on something too. He knew something was wrong though I’m pretty sure Petra didn’t actually say anything to him.’

I
couldn’t believe his voice was so normal. We could have been discussing a patient. I tried again. ‘Where can I find her body?’

I
heard soft footsteps, then Pritchard struck.

I
had not heard him. The first I knew was a waft of body odour, the rush of air as his arm was raised and the crunch as he struck Neil’s head.

In
films they use a cabbage to mimic the sound. They are right. Struck hard enough the human skull will turn as soft as a raw cabbage.

Neil
sank with a groan. Pritchard and I were left to face each other across a black void.

‘
He would have killed you,’ he said, ‘Harriet.’ And for the first time I did not care that he called me
Harriet
. He gripped my hand. ‘Now do you trust me?’

I
was too shocked to speak.

‘
Trust me, please.’

‘
What are you doing here?’

‘
I heard his car approach. Then yours. I wondered what you were doing out so late. I thought it must be a secret meeting.’

I
opened my mouth to speak. Not one word came out.

‘
Then I heard you quarrelling. I thought he might hurt you. I wanted to protect you.’

‘
Why?’

He
shuffled his feet. I could picture his face. Lardy, pale, sweating with embarrassment.

‘
I’m a lonely man, Harriet. I don’t make friends easily. But you became my friend.’

‘
I’m your doctor,’ I said.

‘
You talked to me like a friend. You
felt
like my friend. Now you know I had nothing to do with that little girl surely you can
be
my friend.’

My
mouth was too dry to say anything.

And
I
knew
Pritchard
was
smiling
.

‘
You did things for me. Personal things. And for the first time I’ve done something for you. I’ve helped you, Harriet. You should thank me really. I’ve protected you. He would have hurt you.’

The
words.
Any
words stuck in my throat.

I
glanced down at the dark, immobile shape on the floor.

I
believed Neil dead after such a blow. I wanted him dead.

He
deserved to die.

I
had no pity left in my heart. My pity was for the children of the photographs. For Melanie and those other children in other countries whose abuse was never registered. Perhaps I should have left him lying there.

But
I was a doctor. Such behaviour was against my Hippocratic oath. Therefore I was forced to do something. So I did what I must. I knelt beside him. I found his radial pulse, feeble but present. I rolled him into the ‘recovery position’ and went inside Pritchard’s shack to ring for an ambulance while he watched in stunned, uncomprehending immobility.

But
Neil was my patient now.

*

And in the wake of the ambulance came the police to finally take Pritchard away from me, into custody. And an hour later I was forced to face Angela Skilton’s sharp questioning. Sceptical and disbelieving. My evidence was weak. Photographs I
claimed
to have found hidden in my partner’s consulting room? A hay fever spray I
said
had come from the dead child’s rucksack?

But
when I told her to check with the paging service and recall my summons to Gordon’s Lane I finally watched her attitude change.

Even
she could not believe a dead child had called me out there tonight.

‘But
why,’ she asked. ‘If he knew you had discovered his dirty little secrets why lure you out here?’

I
smiled. Not so clever after all. ‘Pritchard would have made a perfect scapegoat,’ I said. ‘And who would have believed him?’

‘
Not I,’ she admitted. ‘When we walked in and saw him sitting in the chair.’ She swallowed. ‘Blood on his hands, his clothes.’ She sat quite still for a moment. ‘Do you know what he said, Doctor Lamont?’

I
shook my head but I could guess.

‘
He said he had been protecting you.’ Again she paused. ‘He couldn’t believe it when we took him in. I think he thought we would be pleased with him.’ She gave a tight, confused smile before reverting back to the subject of Neil. ‘Your partner was a clever man, Doctor Lamont. I would like to see him stand trial.’

But
I would not.

I
would prefer him to die.

He
deserves to die as Pritchard deserves his undoubted plea—of diminished responsibility and his undoubted fate: following psychiatric assessment to be committed to an institution for an indeterminate length of time. Perhaps until he dies.

*

But they say Neil will live. Live and face trial? Or merely exist in a vegetative state?

Another
fungus feeding on rotting matter?

No
one knows yet what will be his prognosis. The medical profession is notoriously cautious and slow. But I am told that Detective Inspector Angela Skilton watches his bed with a puzzled concentration. She still asks herself why these events all happened.

And
if we must distrust a doctor then who can we rely on?

Who
indeed?

22

It
was more than six months later, on a warm July day that the final chapter of the story was written. At a point not far from the fairy ring of fly agarics in the centre of the wood, an oak tree, rotten for years, toppled after a dry spell and with the wide spread of soil grasped in its roots exposed a small, shallow hole, long enough only for a child’s body, now decayed into an anatomy class, bones, some skin, fragments of hair and nails. A hair ribbon.

The
child that was lost is found.

If you enjoyed
Night Visit
you might be interested in
A Fatal Cut
by Priscilla Masters, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
A Fatal Cut
by Priscilla Masters

26
June 1987

It was supposed to have been a joke. Something said in jest when they were stiff and sticky from sitting too long in a hot examination room. It had not been meant to be taken seriously.

But
he had taken it seriously.

His
question. ‘What will you do if you fail your A levels?’

Her
answer. Flippant. ‘Shoot myself. I will. I’ll shoot myself. I’ll feel such a failure. I won’t know what else to do. Not to get in to do the right degree would be worse than death. There wouldn’t be any point them offering me another course. There isn’t anything else I want to do with my life.’

His
eyes, opened as wide as they could go. Fringed by dark, girlish lashes. ‘Would you really? I mean, shoot yourself.’ A pause. ‘How would you get hold of a gun?’

And
so easily it had progressed further than she had meant it to. Much further. ‘Easy. My uncle’s got a gun. He doesn’t even keep it locked up like you’re supposed to. He’s ever so careless.’

His
interest, feigned she knew afterwards. ‘What does he use it for?’

‘
Clay pigeons.’

‘
Does he keep it loaded?’

‘
No. Even he’s not that negligent. He keeps the pellets in a special box at the bottom of the gun cabinet!’

So
she had spread the noose on the floor in a perfect circle, and watched him step inside it without understanding. Anything.

‘
Who is your uncle?’ Asked without deliberation, casually.

‘
My mum’s brother. Lives a couple of doors away from us.’ She echoed his question back at him. ‘What would you do, Sam? If you failed? If you didn’t get in?’

It
was the question that had dominated that whole summer. What they would do if...?

‘
The same.’ His answer had been said with enough empty bravado for her to believe she could safely disregard it.

‘
You wouldn’t.’ She’d said it scornfully, with derision. ‘I bet you wouldn’t.’

He
’d held out his hand. ‘I bet I would.’

She
’d stood up then, brushed the newly mown grass from her skirt. ‘I don’t know why we’re having this stupid conversation. We’ll both pass.’

But
he’d fallen silent and looked away from her, beyond the playing fields of the King Edward the VI School – which hated losers – towards the skyline and the university across the road. Students’ Union block, tall clock tower, gracious Victorian buildings, waiting for the successful.

If
not earlier, she should have known then.

23 July 1991

The surgeon was sweating. His paper cap and facemask were already damp. Dewdrops of sweat shone on his forehead, picked out by the operating lights overhead.

The
theatre sister watched him. She glanced over his shoulder at the list of names written on the whiteboard, all cases set for this afternoon. He
couldn’t
be ill. There were six more patients lined up, the next probably already in the anaesthetic room, nervously preparing to sink into oblivion. The others would even now be having their pre-med on the ward. The operations
must
go on. But not without the surgeon.

He
was still sweating.

Opposite,
and to his left, stood the registrar, new the week before. A Greek. In his luminous eyes she saw he had noted the surgeon’s condition and she read his own misgivings: that he wouldn’t be able to handle the remaining cases. Not alone. She guessed – whatever his references said – that he’d performed only minor solo ops before moving to England. He didn’t have the skill of the operating consultant.

She
took another surreptitious look at the surgeon. Sweat was trickling towards his eye. Unable to wipe it himself he was blinking rapidly, his gaze drifting away from the open wound. She sensed it was a struggle for him to concentrate on the operation. He was even having difficulty holding the scalpel handle accurately. Instead of holding it delicately, like a fine fountain pen, he was grasping it in his hand like a ham-fisted amateur, his face flushed with effort. The theatre sister glanced round for some explanation. Maybe the problem was the heating. It was always kept warm in here in deference to the still figure on the operating table. She called the theatre porter across and asked him to turn the air-conditioning dial down by three degrees. Then, using a pair of long, angled forceps, she dropped a sterile gauze swab into the student-nurse’s hand and asked her to wipe the sweat from the surgeon’s brow.

He
couldn’t do it himself without contaminating his gloves. And that would mean abandoning the entire operation and having to rescrub, while the patient waited and bled.

Silently
the student nurse moved behind the green-gowned figure and wiped the sweat away with the gauze. The surgeon should have been grateful for this courtesy. Normally he would have been.

But
today the act seemed to annoy him. He half turned from his patient and snarled at the nurse, so violently that she dropped the swab onto the sterile green towels. There was a horrified silence, broken only by the rhythmic rise and fall of the ventilator. Everyone knew. The swab, touched by the nurse’s ungloved hands, was contaminated. And now the green towels were too. And the green towels surrounded the gaping open wound; flesh unprotected by skin. True, only a hernia repair but nevertheless a deep slice through the skin, muscle and blood vessels of a living person. A living person now exposed to infection through the clumsiness of a member of staff. The silence emanating from the surgeon was both tense and angry. Breathing heavily, his hands remained poised a few inches above the ‘dirty’ swab as though the air around it was also infected.

The
theatre sister rescued the situation. Muttering a swift, ‘Sorry, sir,’ she placed a spare pair of artery forceps into the nurse’s shaking hand so she could retrieve the gauze swab without crossing the invisible barrier of sterility. Then, using another pair of long artery forceps, she draped a fresh green towel across the suspect patch before shooting the unfortunate nurse a comrade’s look of sympathy. They’d all gone through the same experience at least once before. A tetchy surgeon, a hot day, a stuffy theatre, complicated surgery.

Only
this was none of those things. ‘Pinky’ Sutcliffe had a reputation throughout the hospital for being calm and even tempered, a cool professional who tended to limit his conversation to demands for instruments and spasmodic explanations to teach the medical students. A snarl from him was out of character. For him to sweat he must be hot – or ill. The theatre sister frowned. The case on the table was not complicated, bread and butter work in a healthy subject. So far.

The
entire theatre suddenly fell quiet as though all the staff sensed something was not quite right. For a couple of seconds even the ventilator seemed to be holding its breath. Over her mask the sister’s black eyes scanned the operating room, trying to hunt down the cause of the surgeon’s poor humour. Her gaze rested first on the registrar. An incompetent import, but with a steady hand for holding retractors. No more was demanded of him. The problem was not here. She glanced across the room at the two medical students. Fourth years. One a plump male, the other a small female. Both were dressed appropriately in theatre greens and white leather clogs, and that was as far as their involvement in the proceedings went. They were leaning against the far wall, sharing some private joke. Mentally she tut-tutted. A perfect chance to study the anatomy of the rectus sheath and they were more interested in the gossip of the day. She watched them giggling, for a fleeting second almost envious of their lack of responsibility in the proceedings. She took in the male student’s arm lightly resting round the girl’s shoulders.
They
seemed to have no worries. Her eyes moved back to check the surgeon’s face and her alarm intensified. He was staring down into the wound as though struggling to focus. Oblivious to the medical students. His distress was nothing to do with them.

She
shifted her attention to her side. A thin, shy figure in white cotton, hands subserviently tucked behind his back – like a member of the royal family – or someone who did not know quite what to do with them. The theatre porter. Quiet and unobtrusive as a ghost. Earnest, new, inoffensive. However seriously the porter took his job no one really took much notice of him, least of all the surgeon. She smiled at the thought that the theatre porter could possibly be responsible for Pinky Sutcliffe’s uncharacteristic behaviour. She was still smiling as her eyes rested speculatively on Bill Amison. Tall, muscular, blond, the anaesthetist was, as usual, struggling with
The
Times
crossword, paying the patient the very minimum of attention. He looked up for an instant and caught her gaze. She gave him a broad wink which he returned before glancing meaningfully across at the surgeon. His message was clear, what’s up with him today?

She
shrugged an ‘I don’t know’ and continued pondering. But there was only one more person in the theatre. The unfortunate student nurse who had dropped the swab and whose face was still flushed with embarrassment. As flushed as...her eyes swivelled back to the surgeon with alarm. As flushed as the surgeon.

The
theatre sister continued handing him the instruments but her unease mounted. She was mechanically going through the motions of something so routine she hardly needed to think about it: assisting at a hernia repair; automatically passing instruments – sutures, scissors and forceps – most of the time without the surgeon even needing to ask for them. Something she did five days a week. But not like this.

To
day something was very wrong. He was fumbling, awkwardly holding instruments that were as familiar to him as his own fingers as though they were foreign. He kept staring at them as though he had never seen them before. Thrice he grabbed hold of forceps by the blades. Once he requested a stitch when there was nothing to stitch. She handed it to him and watched him drop it in confusion. As she retrieved it she peered at his face and saw someone unfamiliar to her.

It
was a few moments more before she knew exactly why she could not relax. It wasn’t just his clumsy hold of surgical instruments. There was a fine tremor in his hand which was making him dangerously inaccurate. Hardly noticable if you only watched the fingers. But when you studied the pointed end of the scalpel blade you could see it vibrate like a tuning fork which has been struck against a hard surface. Dumbly she watched the surgeon’s fingers, pale and dehumanized, encased in sterile latex as they fumbled the scalpel through bleeding tissue. The blade, meant to peel away a band of muscle, hacking through it instead, like a butcher.

‘
Truly alarmed now she looked again at the surgeon’s face, at his two visible features, blank eyes and furrowed forehead. His nose and mouth were shrouded by the paper mask, which was saturated with his sweat. The sister’s discomfort turned to panic. She didn’t know what to do. Pinky Sutcliffe was a respected senior surgeon; she was only a junior theatre sister. She was aware that her primary responsibility was to her patient, the man who lay beneath all their hands, unconscious of the drama being played out above him. So she stood between her two obligations, her professional duty and the invisible hierarchy that permeated the medical profession. It was not done to question the competence of a senior surgeon.

Once
again she cast a desperate glance at Bill Amison. He had stopped struggling with the crossword. The paper lay discarded on the floor and he was holding the respirator tube hard against the patient’s mouth, his other hand checking the radial pulse. As she watched he registered the patient’s blood pressure before looking straight at her.

They
were both watching the surgeon now. His head was swaying, his eyes glazed unaware. He was ill. He
must
be ill. And he was getting worse. Sutcliffe glanced up. He seemed unable to focus on her. Concern forced her to say, ‘Sir, are you all right to carry on?’

The
surgeon giggled.

Both
medical students stared across at him, startled. The student nurse opened her mouth to speak, met the sister’s warning glance and shut it again. The Greek registrar picked up a large artery clamp and held it like a defensive weapon, ready – if needed. Bill Amison looked at the cardiorator and pressed his fingers even harder against the radial pulse. He muttered something. No one knew what, but no one asked him to repeat the words. The theatre porter backed against the wall, as though he wanted to disassociate himself from the proceedings. They all watched as the scalpel slipped and severed a minor blood vessel. The theatre sister mopped the oozing blood away. The registrar touched it with the diathermy. There was an acrid scent of scorching flesh. Blue smoke hung over the body and turned hazy under the operating lights.

The
bleeding stopped. The registrar used a swab on some sponge forceps to mop around the wound.

Bill
Amison checked the patient’s blood pressure yet again and speeded up the IV drip. He sat, upright on his stool at the patient’s head. The crossword was forgotten. They were all tense. All except the patient. Oblivious to it all.

The
surgeon giggled again, blood smearing the forefinger of his glove. He moved the finger in front of his eyes and gazed at it, fascinated.

The
theatre sister peered into the abdominal cavity with a mounting sense of alarm. Less than a centimetre away from the surgeon’s blade pulsated the femoral artery, a major blood supply to the lower part of the body. She watched the rhythmic beat with a feeling of absolute dread. As the scalpel descended towards it she involuntarily closed her eyes.