“Please see that you do. What was your name again, young lady? I want to mention it to the doctor when he calls. You’ve been very helpful.”
That did it. She was purring as I walked quickly but calmly out of the waiting hall. I kept walking like a robot across Westminster Bridge, up Whitehall and on through Leicester Square. I didn’t stop till I was knocking on Mary’s door. I collapsed on her sofa. Mary was grinning like a marmoset at the success of my mission. “You nice in glasses. Like teacher. Or lawyer.” “Or conman? Shall we see what we’ve got?”
I opened the case and pulled out the folder. There was a covering note giving details of admission time and date and personal details of the patient such as date of birth and home address. I almost missed it. The date of admission wasn’t the thirtieth of November but the twenty-third. The house blew up a week later.
It was a coincidence. And Kate and her brother had thought to use the two events to fool me. If – as happened – I went checking hospitals, they were counting on putting the discrepancy in the dates down to a simple clerical error.
But it was the second sheet that gripped me. It was the write-up by the good Doctor Cunningham – who even now would be harassing the phone operator to get through to the non-existent Doctor Ferguson. Or maybe he was beyond that stage and was ranting at the poor receptionist for being duped. I felt bad about that.
The note was brief but unequivocal:
The patient was admitted with severe internal injuries causing bleeding from the vagina. Inspection showed damage to the lining of the womb consistent with a termination. Scarring has become infected and ruptured. Bleeding was staunched and area disinfected. Prognosis: patient was advised that damage to womb is extensive. Further surgery may be necessary (D amp;C or full hysterectomy) to ensure seat of infection removed. Review in 1 month.
Poor Kate. I read and re-read the note and handed it to Mary. She donned a little pince-nez and squinted at the page.
“No more babies, now. Right?”
“You read English very well, Mary. All those newspapers of yours. What I don’t understand is why she went to the hospital? Wouldn’t she go back to where she had the abortion?”
Mary was shaking her head. “Abortion not legal. Risky business. But if you got problems after, you can go real hospital and get fixed. I seen it. Happen all time here.”
“But why would a woman like Kate Graveney go to a back-street abortionist, Mary?
People like that have access to private clinics. They can pay for the best.”
“Depend who father is.” She gave me a knowing look.
I was slow at times. She must have got pregnant by Tony. Her half-brother Tony.
No wonder she wanted to keep it quiet. But Liza told me that Kate didn’t know Tony was related to her. Had she found out? Either way, the Graveney family physician probably wasn’t the type to put his gilded stethoscope on the block for something like this.
“But surely you don’t have to track down an old woman with a rusty knitting needle. There must be some trained folk that are prepared to do this?”
“Sure. Halley Street!”
“Harley Street? But they’re not back-street butchers.”
“But need middleman to get right man. Right man like little money on side.” She rubbed her fingertips together. “We use all time. Halley Street just round corner. That’s why girls in trouble come Soho.”
It was true. I could walk to the centre of the best private medical system in the country in ten minutes. “Are you saying that Kate Graveney might have come to Soho to find someone to do this?”
“Sure, Danny. We got lots of middleman. We got everything here,” she giggled.
There was a certain irony in that. No wonder the church wanted Soho razed to the ground and salted. I felt I had to follow this lead through, find out if Kate did pass through here, and if so, where she went next. It wasn’t clear why it seemed important; it just did. It didn’t begin to explain why Caldwell might have murdered several women, but it was the only thread I had. I had to reel it in. As to how to follow Kate’s tracks, I had an idea, but it was a long shot.
“Mary, if I had a photo of Kate Graveney, would you be able to take it around Soho? See if anyone recognised her?”
“Cost you money, Danny. Not for me. People want money for information. That’s how Soho work.”
“Mary, will you help me a little more? I’ve got a bank book and a photo of Kate in my office. I daren’t go there, but maybe one of the girls?”
“This make big fat bastard unhappy?”
“Pig sick, Mary, with any luck.”
“Then, shoo thing, Danny!”
Colette grumbled about losing her siesta but I promised her ten bob if she could get hold of my savings book – assuming the coppers hadn’t cleared out my whole flat and office. I told her to look out for a skinny girl with long hair, and if she saw a cat and it looked hungry, there was a can of Carnation in a cupboard.
She returned triumphant three hours later, waving my pass book and Kate’s file with the photo in it. There was no sign of Valerie. Or a note. Or anything untoward. Colette said if the place had been ransacked, they’d put it all back together very neatly. She’d seen nothing except a very peeved cat, who’d gone daft at the sound of the can of milk being punctured.
Valerie, Valerie, where are you? If only you’d given me an address.
I sneaked out – wearing the glasses again – to my Westminster branch at Elephant and Castle. I didn’t breathe much during the transaction in case a stop had been placed on my account or a note left to call the police if I showed. I tried not to grab the fifty pounds in fives and ones as the girl counted it out twice in front of me.
I hopped on a bus going back up to Piccadilly with a light heart and an even lighter bank book. But I swear the weather had turned while I was inside the bank. There was a lightness in the air, a sense of change, a feeling of hope. Or maybe it just felt good to have money in my pocket and a game plan unfolding.
When I’m stuck or trapped and can’t see my way forward, I fret and droop. When I’m on the move with an objective and a plan, cares fall away. Even if I’m heading in the wrong direction, it’s better than standing still waiting for life to turn out right for you. It doesn’t.
I was almost whistling when I got back to Mary’s but I wasn’t so carefree that I didn’t zigzag my way to Rupert Street taking sharp turns and crossing roads whenever I saw a blue uniform. I carefully recce’d the street before approaching her door. I couldn’t spot anyone hanging around looking as if they weren’t looking. In I went. I paid Colette and she hinted I might get one for free if I asked nicely and Mary wasn’t counting. That would have been stupid; Mary was being kindness herself, and she was always counting. Besides, I was feeling part of the family now, not a customer.
I showed Mary the photo.
She whistled. “She pretty girl. Any time she want work, I get her plenty customer.”
I enjoyed the thought. “I don’t think that’s her style.”
“All women the same. Only price different,” she said, as if it were a universal truth.
“What happens now, Mary?”
“I take photo big timers round here. You go any bar and ask who top men are.
They tell you Maggie Tait, Jonny Crane…”
Crane? That rang a bell. “Who did you just say?”
“Jonny Crane?”
“You’ve mentioned him before?”
“He got lot of businesses here.” She tapped the bridge of her flat nose. “Drugs, money, contacts, girls.”
Girls. Now I had it. “It was his girls got murdered, wasn’t it?”
Mary nodded, her eyes searching my face.
“This is getting interesting, Mary. Very interesting.”
Threads spinning and twisting together. Gather enough threads together and you have a tapestry.
TWENTY TWO
