waiting room was empty except for one crazy-looking guy with his arm wrapped up in a DIY bandage made of toilet paper.
Hattie Jacques saw us come in. “Good afternoon, gents. You’ll have to hurry if you want to see Dr Cathcart. Her office is along the corridor and the last door on the right.”
We walked along the gloomy corridor. I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten and my stomach was rumbling.
“I’m starving,” I said.
“You want half a Mars bar?” McCrabban asked.
“Kill for one.”
He fished a Mars bar out of his pocket, broke it in two and gave half to me. We ate it outside her door. Inside we could hear her singing along to “Heart of Glass” by Blondie. She was off key by a country mile.
I smiled at McCrabban and he grinned back.
We knocked on the door.
The radio was abruptly switched off.
“Come in!” she said.
Her office was small and dark, packed with books, files and a couple of anatomy charts. There were no feminine or homely touches. The impression she was clearly trying to convey was business, nothing but business.
We said our hellos and sat down. The view behind her head was of the hospital wall and the Knockagh mountain beyond.
She looked stunning today. Her lips were red, her cheeks rosy, her hair cascaded, her face shone. I don’t know how I had missed it before. She was gorgeous.
There was a graduation picture of her with her class at the University of Edinburgh and even in her robes and mortar-board she stood out from all the others. The camera loved her. Something about her elfin eyes maybe or those pert, full, downy lips.
“I was going to have these sent over to you,” she said, interrupting my reverie and handing across two cardboard files. Her desk was an old cast-iron job with three drawers and a wonky top. You could see through to her legs. She was wearing boots. Riding boots and black jeans and a figure-hugging black sweater. She was trim and athletic in that get-up and I knew that I was going to have difficulty concentrating on the serious business at hand.
“Any surprises?” I asked.
She nodded. “Oh yes. It was all surprises.”
“Really?” McCrabban said.
“Listen, we’ll have to be quick about this. It’s my Sunday morning clinic in ten minutes.”
I opened up the topmost file and set it on the desk so McCrabban could see too. We began reading it together. It was her autopsy of Andrew Young.
“And you’ll need this,” she said, passing across another musical score in a plastic bag.
“This one was rolled up in his hand.”
I flattened it out on the desk and peered at the score which had been ripped from a music book with a lot less care than the previous one.
This piece I recognized immediately. It was “the Galop” from Offenbach’s
“Shit,” I said.
“You know it?” Laura and McCrabban asked simultaneously.
“We all know it. It’s ‘the Galop’ from
“I don’t know it,” Crabbie said.
“Later on in the nineteenth century they called it the Can-can and played it in various musical revues.”
“So what does that tell us?” McCrabban asked.
“I don’t know.
“I’ll take your word for it, mate.”
I looked at the score and shook my head. “Or it could just be that he’s mocking us again. The Can-can is a famous musical pisstake. Perhaps the most famous musical joke apart from Mozart’s K.522.”
“Do you want to read the rest of the report?” Dr Cathcart said.
We read the autopsy.
Young had been shot execution-style in the forehead. The bullet had killed him instantly. His hand had then been cut off and John Doe’s thrown on his chest. That was it. He was sixty years old, in good health. His body had not been abused or violated. The score had been shoved into his left fist before rigor had set in.
“How long do you think this whole thing would have taken?” I asked Laura. “You know, shooting him, cutting his hand off?”
Laura shrugged. “If you came equipped with a bone saw-”
“Door opens, silenced 9mm in the brain, killer closes the door, cuts off Young’s hand and bags it, leaves the musical score in the other hand and gets out of there in, say, under five minutes?”
“It’s possible.”
I turned to Crabbie. “And the rest of the house was untouched. No trophies taken, no money, nothing like that.”
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I think this was all done in a hurry. I think John Doe was killed first in a more premeditated manner and then Andrew Young was murdered because he was a well-known homosexual. The killer shot Young as he opened the door. There was no conversation, no demands, nothing. He knew he had to kill him fast, cut off the hand and get in and out as speedily as possible.”
“Why?” Laura asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know, yet.”
We sat there for a minute while thunder rolled across the lough from a storm in County Down.
Laura gave an apologetic look and pointed at her watch. “I have my clinic,” she said.
I nodded. “Ok, let’s turn to Lucy Moore.”
I picked up the second file.
The first shock was the baby.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked.
“Oh yes. She gave birth about a week before she died. It looks like she breastfed the infant for about two days and then stopped.”
“It died?” I asked.
“Or she gave it away?” Crabbie said.
Laura shrugged. That was beyond her area of expertise.
“We’ll get dogs and go back up to Woodburn Forest. Maybe the baby was buried nearby,” I said to Crabbie.
“And I’ll check the missions and the hospitals,” McCrabban added.
“This might be a better explanation of why she killed herself: you give birth, your baby dies …” I said.
“Why did you think she killed herself?” Laura asked.
“Well, her ex-husband just joined the hunger strike last week and we were thinking guilt or something. But this is more concrete,” I said.
“And it’s probably why she ran away! At Christmas she would have been — what, three months gone?” Crabbie asked.
“She’d know at three months but she might not be showing,” Laura said.
“Pregnant! At least this is one case we can start closing the book on, eh Sean?” Crabbie said.
He was dead right. Everybody in Ireland understood this particular trope. Girl gets pregnant out of wedlock,
