The phone rang in the hall. It was nine o’clock. We looked at each other. We dived through the door. She picked it up.
“Yes? Just minute.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It for you.” She handed me the phone.
“Mr McRae? Who was that person?”
“We share a phone in our building, Elspeth. First one there picks it up.”
“Hmm, right. I have your dates for you. Do you have a pencil and paper?”
“Yes, yes. Fire away. Thank you.” Mary handed me the implements.
Elspeth rattled off the dates: when I arrived, when I left. Some were two days, some were six. I thanked her profusely and then sat back afraid to take the next step. Mary didn’t move, just sat with her hands folded in her lap waiting for me to pluck up the courage. Finally I reached over for the list we’d made last night, the list of dates of the murders.
Tick, tick. Nothing, nothing. Yes! Dear god in heaven, a match. In November, while someone – someone else – was slaughtering a young woman, I was safely tucked up in the hospital. I ringed and ringed the date with my pencil till the relief started to ebb away. I stood up and grabbed Mary and lifted her up in the air and hugged her. She squealed in merriment like a young girl. I put her down.
“Thank you, Mary. Thank you.”
“See. I tell you, you a good man.”
“No, Mary. You said I wasn’t such a bad man.”
She shrugged. “All men got bad in them. Some more than others. So now, only two men might got blood on hands.”
She was right. It still hadn’t quite got me off the hook; there was still doubt about Lili’s murder. But I’d have to leave that for the moment. I had Caldwell and Wilson to tackle. If either one was the killer I had to find a way of pinning it on him. I didn’t think dreams would be admissible in evidence.
Both men were dangerous to go after. Caldwell probably had a personal armoury and a strong motivation for seeing me dead. Wilson would tear my head off and ask questions after. And he was surrounded by the system; who would I make an accusation to? For the same reasons I didn’t feel inclined to surrender and ask him to check my alibi. It would prove he’d either planted evidence in a conspiracy with the real murderer or done it himself.
Mary had piled my little set of belongings from my suit and coat on her table.
It amounted to some loose change, my office and flat keys, and the list of questions I had for Kate and Liza. I picked up the crumpled list, smoothed it out on the little table and examined it.
Kate:
Are you also known as Mrs Catriona Caldwell?
What’s your real relationship with Tony Caldwell?
What was really wrong with you in the hospital the night of the bomb?
Why hire me to find out if he was dead? You could have done it yourself.
Liza:
Are you or are you not married to Tony C?
Why don’t you care enough that your husband is dead?
Did he mention the murder to you? What else did he say about me?
Why are you lying to me?
I could cross through most, now I had the answer to the one question I hadn’t posed: Tony Caldwell, alive or dead? He was very much alive, and Kate and Liza were his half-sisters and protecting him. But I still didn’t know why Kate had gone into hospital on November thirtieth. Was it important? Had she faked an injury just to make sure she had an alibi if I checked? Or had something happened to her – coincidentally – at the time of the bomb? It niggled me and I kept coming back to one of my tenets in a murder enquiry: there are no coincidences. I turned to Mary. “Mary, do you know anyone who can make me a business card?”
TWENTY ONE
I swung through the doors of St Thomas’s hospital as if I owned the place.
Self-belief was everything in what I was about to try to pull off. My confidence was increased by what Mary had managed to do. She’d found me a pair of specs with clear glass in them from a relative of hers in Lisle Street. The thick frames partly hid the scarring round my eyes. Together with the battered briefcase forgotten by a customer in his post-coital bliss or funk, they gave me the studious air I needed.
My plan would be scuppered if I found the same girl manning the reception desk from my first visit and she remembered me. But behind the desk was a large woman with a big laugh. She looked mid-thirties, and was talking and having fun with one of the nurses. I took a deep breath and marched up to her.
“Good morning, young lady. I’m Doctor Ferguson and I’m here to collect the notes on one of my patients.”
“Oh, right, sir. See you later, Alice.” The nurse left, smiling at me as she went.
I slammed my briefcase on the counter, reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a set of cards. I made a show of picking one out – they were all blank except one – and handed it over.
She took it and I knew that she was seeing:
Doctor James Ferguson, MD, MSc Edin,
Consultant 105 Harley Street
London
Telephone: Marylebone 2131 “Yes, Doctor. And what was it you wanted again?” She handed me back my card.
“I can see that you don’t recognise my name. Were you on duty yesterday?”
“No. This is the start of my shift this week.”
“That would explain it. I phoned up yesterday and asked for the notes on one of my patients. I needed them rather urgently and wanted to speak to the doctor who attended her.”
“I’m so sorry, Doctor. There doesn’t seem to be a message here. What was the name of the patient?”
I put on my exasperated air. I was a busy man and here specially to deal with an urgent matter. “Miss Kate Graveney. She was brought into the hospital on the thirtieth of November last year. This is too bad. I don’t have a lot of time.” I glanced at my watch.
The woman’s chubby face was beginning to take on a flustered glow. “Just a minute sir; perhaps if I looked in our records?”
“Please do. As quick as you like. Thank you.” I smiled encouragingly at her. I watched her begin to pull out drawers and check the files. Sweat was starting to pour down my back. All it would take was a real doctor to pitch up and start asking questions and I was done for.
“Here we are,” she said triumphantly. “Miss Kate Graveney. Address…”
“Onslow Square… yes, yes, I know.”
“Here you are sir.” She handed me a thin brown folder with Kate’s name on the edge, sideways. I flicked it open and had a quick glance, but I wasn’t taking anything in. I just wanted out of there.
“Which doctor was it you wanted to see, sir? I’ll see if he’s around.”
My eyes dropped to the foot of the page of notes. “Doctor Cunningham. Is he on duty?” I prayed and prayed Cunningham was on holiday, on nights or had broken his damn leg.
“I’ll just see.” She turned to her desk and flicked through a clipboard list.
“Thank goodness, yes. Doctor Cunningham is on duty. He’ll be on his ward rounds now, but he won’t be long. If you’d like to take a seat, Doctor, I’ll send someone to find him?”
I glanced again at my watch, and closed the file. “I don’t have time. Look, keep my card. It’s got my phone number on it. Could you ask Doctor Cunningham to phone me as soon as he can?” As I was saying this I was stuffing Kate’s notes into my briefcase. The receptionist was looking a little panicky about it but I was gambling on her not gainsaying a doctor.
“Well, yes. I can quite see. I’m sorry things weren’t arranged as you asked Doctor. I’ll get Doctor Cunningham to call as soon as possible.” She clutched my card like a talisman.
