Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  “There we are, Sister Milton ...”

  She was dressed in a scarlet V-neck jumper and a black pleated skirt with a wide belt which emphasised her waist, having discarded her overcoat onto the seat next to mine. She had fixed her make-up while I had been at the bar, and I gazed into dark brown eyes with yellow flecks, under long black lashes; auburn hair hung loose down to her shoulder-blades, and contrasted with her pale skin; her features were regular apart from a slight snub-nose; I hadn't noticed before how pretty she was. My eyes were inevitably drawn to her deep cleavage.

  “Please don't call me ''Sister Milton'; I'm Theresa, and my friends call me Tess.”

  Her voice was deeper and more melodious than she allowed herself on the ward; and every now and again there was a catch in it that I found appealing. There was more than a trace of an accent I couldn't place – was it native Hertfordshire?

  “Good Lord, no, Edwin. I'm from Poole in Dorset; Hardy Country ... I could be Tess of the D'Urbervilles ... Have you read Thomas Hardy?”

  “Yes ... The Trumpet-Major and The Mayor of Casterbridge ... but several years ago ...”

  “His prose is beautiful, but his poetry's sublime.” She smiled, and for a time seemed quite cheerful. Her accent broadened. “Dorset's a lovely county, a lovely place to be brought up in ... When I was young we had a boat ... Dad took us out sailing, along the south coast – Hampshire, Devon, Cornwall – around the Isle of Wight with all its little empty bays and sandy beaches, sometimes across the Channel to France ... My brother and I used to crew for him ... until my brother died ...”

  We sipped our drinks and watched the place slowly fill. The most recent arrivals were dripping wet. Amid the background hum of voices, I picked up snatches of conversation:

  “We drove up, but got drenched, just crossing the car park ...”

  In a momentary pause, I heard the storm raging overhead and the rain rattling against the window panes.

  “Oh, Edwin, that swine Brian Root ditched me and took up with Shirley Jenkins, that wet staff-nurse on Ward Ten – and now she's dead! First I was a laughing stock throughout St Peter's; now they seem to blame me for her death. I hardly dare show my face in the sisters' sitting room any more ... I go on my own to the flicks ... But I don't like to trot to the pub unaccompanied ... Thank you so much for taking me ...”

  She leant forward and squeezed my hand. I was at a loss for words, but she seemed content for me just to listen.

  “What do you think of Brian Root, Edwin?”

  “Well, er Tess ... He's a good doctor ... and he treats me quite well, comes in when I call ... All in all I guess I've no complaints ...”

  “Let me buy the next round ...”

  Before I could reply, she was up, and moving to the bar. She seemed to be there a long time giving her order, and then fiddling with her handbag while she paid. Eventually she returned with two full whisky glasses – they appeared to be doubles.

  “I hope you like whisky, Edwin. This is an Islay single malt. I love it ... the smoky peaty flavour's simply divine. But see what you think.” Again that broad Dorset accent.

  It certainly had a strange flavour – not altogether to my liking. I sipped it slowly, and felt its warmth spreading down my throat. All the while she watched me over the top of her glass, an unfathomable expression on her face.

  “It's lovely,” I lied.

  “Drink up, honey, the rain appears to have stopped ... We'd best get back whilst it stays dry ...”

  I knocked back my drink, and was left with a rather unpleasant after-taste.

  I won't try Islay single malt whisky again, I vowed to myself.

  She helped me on with my coat, and I staggered a little as we emerged into the cold night air. She put her arm around my waist to steady me. Surely I couldn't be drunk on one pint of beer and a double whisky?

  “I hope you'll escort me to my door ... I feel a little scared walking on my own nowadays. I'll make you a night-cap if you're good ... I make the best cocoa and toast in Hertfordshire, better than the nurses on the wards ...”

  I felt the heat of her body even through our overcoats.

  I am in a powerful car, low on the ground, the sun is shining, the fields rush by. We are taking the corner too quickly, a massive tree looms ahead. We are going to crash! I feel a jarring impact. Am I going to die?

  It is dark, and I am walking up a leaf-strewn path; conkers crunch underfoot. I am heading towards the pub to meet someone. I hear a stealthy footfall behind me. I am terrified, but am incapable of turning around. I feel a tight band around my neck, can't remove it with my fingers, hard as I struggle. This time I really am dying. The light before my eyes goes red, and then turns black ...

  I woke up, wet with perspiration, my heart pumping with an adrenaline surge, a sensation of dread and tightness in the pit of my stomach.

  Outside it was still dark. Her face, on the pillow next to mine, was largely hidden by her tousled hair. She breathed softly and regularly – clearly fast asleep. I remembered feeling very drowsy as we walked across the hospital car park. After that everything was blank – how I got into this bed I did not know. I blacked out again.

  The next time I awoke, dim daylight was diffusing around the curtains. I glanced at the luminous dial of my wrist-watch: six-fifty. My mouth was dry, and my head ached. I was alone in bed, and wondered momentarily whether I had dreamt it all. Then I smelled fresh coffee and toast, and heard the curtains being drawn. Tess Milton stood at the bed-side with a tray, an expression of unusual tenderness on her face.

  “Wake up, sleepy-head. Breakfast ...”

  She was fully dressed in her sister's uniform, hair pinned up, face lightly made up, smelling faintly of soap.

  As I moved to get out of bed, I realised that I wasn't wearing a stitch; I glimpsed my clothes, neatly folded on a chair. On a book-shelf was a ball of string, scissors, wrapping paper, and a small doll with a porcelain head. I blushed, and pulled the bed-clothes up to my chin. She caught my look, and deliberately misinterpreted it:

  “It's a present for my young god-daughter ... She's just four.”

  She smiled, planted the tray on the bedside table.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, Edwin honey ... I've got to be off to Ward Four, now. But you can take your time ... Have your toast and coffee before they get cold (She was beginning to sound like my mother) ... your stuff''s over there on the chair. Close the door when you leave. I never lock it. I'll be seeing you ...”

  And she was gone.

  I breakfasted in bed, then got up. Before getting dressed, I had a lightning strip-wash in cold water at the basin; I felt a stinging on my chest and throat, and glanced in the mirror: on my chest were florid scratch-marks from sharp fingernails, on my neck were two scarlet love-bites!

  6

  Wednesday, 15th September: Apart from my outing with Tess Milton, I had been having difficulty sleeping; presumably I was still depressed. Eventually I plucked up my courage, and visited Mr Thompson in the hospital pharmacy, a dour man with a sour face and very little social conversation.

  “Yes, Dr Scott?”

  “I'm recently bereaved – my fiancée has just died – and I can't sleep ... I was wondering if you could give me something for it ... some sleeping pills.”

  “Chloral hydrate, 'Welldorm', should fit the bill ... How many?”

  “Could you let me have a hundred ...”

  I was making a feeble attempt at humour; however the look of dismay on his face forced a genuine smile from me – the first in a long time.

  “I'm only joking, Mr Thompson, three should do ...”

  “You'll have to see your GP, if you require any more ... In the meantime, you must sign the drugs register, doctor, or you will have me in trouble ...”

  That evening, I took one of the sleeping pills before switching off the light. The taste reminded me of something ... I thought long and hard, trying to remember. It came to me, just as I was drifting off to sleep at last – it was t
he taste of the Islay whisky I had drunk with Tess!

  7

  Thursday, 16th September: “There's a rumour circulating that opiates are going missing from the pharmacy. Tim won't comment: he's unusually stingy with his information since he's been attached to that Detective Chief Inspector Butter from the CID – I can't coax anything from him ...”

  It was twenty past three on a Thursday afternoon; I had finished the houseman's round of all my patients. As Stanley Pollett, the charge nurse, had an afternoon off, I was being entertained to afternoon tea by staff-nurses Belinda Peach and Valerie Stoppard, who were both back on day-duty. Laid out were tea, toast and marmalade – using the silver teapot, cream jug, sugar bowl and the delicate porcelain reserved for private patients. When the cat's away, the mice do play, I thought wryly.

  When Belinda had finished expounding on the drugs mystery, she moved on to the latest gossip of Stanley Pollett's exploits, making the most of her moment in the lime-light.

  “He's definitely got a girl-friend, someone from outside the hospital. I've seen a swish saloon car pick him up in the car park, but couldn't see a face ...”

  She was interrupted in mid-flow by the trill of the phone on her desk.

  “Hello, Ward Ten, Staff-Nurse speaking ... Yes, he's here.”

  While she listened to the voice on the other end, her eyebrows rose, and she gave me increasingly strange looks.

  “Very well – send her over.”

  She replaced the receiver.

  “Your wife's here, Dr Scott – she's coming right over ...”

  Both nurses stared at me in silence; the atmosphere turned frigid. In contrast, my face burned with embarrassment, shock and dismay. Who could this be? Was it Jill's ghost, come to haunt me? The long silence stretched out, while I tried to find words.

  Behind me, I heard the door open. I turned my head, as a young woman entered: she had shoulder-length golden hair, huge sapphire-blue eyes; she was radiant and breathtakingly beautiful; a wedding ring was displayed prominently on her left hand. It was Paula Howard, whom I'd last seen at the Hackney Children's Hospital when I was a student ...

  Jamie Smythe had given me the afternoon off. I climbed the last flight of stairs, pushed open the door, and emerged on the flat roof: the blinding light and searing heat of summer struck me simultaneously; a cast iron water tank and several tall brick chimneys barred my way; attached to one chimney was a television aerial, and leaning against its base a stack of folded deck-chairs; picking one up, I went in search of somewhere to sunbathe. It was just after lunch, and the place appeared deserted ...

  “Why don't you come and join me, Edwin?”

  I felt a surge of excitement at the sound of the lazy, rather husky voice; there was a shimmer of platinum-blond hair, as I rounded the water tank, and I found Paula Howard at the far end of the roof, reclining on a deck-chair. She wore a brief bikini in purest white, which emphasised her light tan and breathtaking figure; her eyes were half-closed against the sun; by her side lay a white towelling robe, an open book and a pair of sun-glasses; in her hand was a bottle of suntan oil.

  A roof-top panorama of aerials and chimneys stretched out as far as the eye could see; on a nearby council-flat balcony, washing hung on a makeshift line; to the north, in the heat haze, I discerned the heights of Highgate; to the west, the dome of St Paul's Cathedral; the sky was a washed blue, with just a few wisps of cream cloud; the sun blazed down from almost directly above.

  “Put your chair here ... Then be an angel and give me a hand with this ...” She lifted the bottle a fraction. “Could you just oil my back ... and my shoulders?”

  She leant forward. I moved toward her like an automaton, then found myself gently kneading her shoulder-blades; her skin felt warm and silky, as my hands – lubricated by the oil, slid easily around her shoulders.

  “Down a bit,” she murmured, as she loosened her bikini straps and settled back in the chair; with her own hands, she guided me to the soft flesh of her upper arms, pushing the straps down further; in a trance, I continued my massage: the bikini-top fell forward exposing one exquisite white breast, its pink areola and nipple standing erect. Her eyes flew wide open, and she looked searchingly into mine, an inscrutable smile on her lips; her gaze travelled down to her bare breast – while I stood over her, turned to stone, unable to tear my eyes away.

  “Don't worry, Edwin ... No-one can see ... apart from that bird ...” her voice soft and low, she nodded towards a sparrow, perched on the parapet. The world stood still ...

  A door banged, and high-pitched female voices approached: the spell was broken. I straightened and stepped back; Paula, with one smooth movement, pulled up her bikini straps – regaining her decorum; she lay back again, eyes closed. Three young student nurses appeared from behind the water tank, carrying deck chairs.

  Slowly and deliberately, Paula stood up; she put on her towelling robe, and then glanced ostentatiously at her wrist-watch:

  “Gosh! Is that the time? Must get back to work,” she exclaimed, addressing the gallery; she picked up her belongings, and was gone – leaving behind her the deck-chair and a faint aroma of suntan lotion. I sat down; I put on my sun-glasses; I opened my book, and gazed at it through unfocussed eyes, my pulse still racing ...

  “Hello, darling ...”

  She came over and kissed me theatrically. My reputation in the eyes of the the nursing staff of St Peter's Hospital, Hitchin, was destroyed.

  The gramophone was playing the Trout quintet.

  “It was only a joke, Edwin ...”

  Paula Howard sat on the bed in my room, while I was perched on the hard chair, which I had swivelled round to face her. She had removed her coat and silk scarf to reveal an elegantly cut jacket and skirt in navy blue. Her eyes had darkened, and her smile vanished when I told her about Jill.

  “You poor boy ... I'm so, so sorry ...”

  After a long pause, she seemed to brighten.

  “I've separated from Jamie, and we're going to get a divorce next year. Somehow it just didn't work out.”

  “Jamie” was Jamie Smythe.They had both been house physicians at the Hackney Children's Hospital, but, though married, she had retained her maiden name professionally. I remembered the big man with the infectious smile; they had seemed the ideal couple, and I felt a pang of regret that they should be parting.

  She settled herself into a semi-recumbent position on my bed, and gazed up at me from under her long eye-lashes, a lazy smile hovering around her lips. My heart lurched and my breathing became tight, but she appeared not to notice the effect she was having on me.

  “I've just had an interview for the SHO post in paediatrics at St Peter's. That's why I'm here now... The consultant paediatrician – Dr Flack – gave me the glad eye, so I think I may be in with a chance ...”

  8

  Sunday, 19th September: I sat in the back of Steve Bolton's Sunbeam Rapier with Teddy Blayne, travelling down Park Way, which, after a while, became the A602 Road to Stevenage. Ahead of us, a shabby old Jaguar saloon was disappearing into the distance, as Russ Potter put his foot down. The pale disc of sun was lost behind dark clouds; then the rain came, obscuring the windscreen and drumming down on the roof of the car. We passed sedately through the tiny village of Wymondley, with its up-market tennis club, and were soon on the outskirts of Stevenage New Town, headed for the ten-pin bowling centre which had only recently opened its doors.

  Steve and Russ had arranged a bowls match: Physicians versus Surgeons. We, the three occupants of Steve's car, were to represent the Physicians; Russ had brought the anaesthetic senior house officers, Olly and Ginny, and together they formed “the Surgeons”. Several snags had been encountered in putting together the two teams, but these had been ironed out eventually: the anaesthetic registrar, Alec Oxford, had been persuaded to cover for his two junior colleagues; Teddy's wife had permitted him to come in on his week-end off – an almost unheard-of concession; as for me, though it was also my week-end off, I had returne
d to Hitchin at eleven this morning in readiness for the match, to the ill-concealed dismay of my family.

  By the time we arrived at our destination, the downpour had, thankfully, abated. Stevenage, I saw, was a building-site, many of the streets yet unpaved, many shops, stores, factories and some residential housing still under construction; scaffolding, bulldozers and cranes were everywhere. However my dominant impression was of the thick mud underfoot, and the impossibility of keeping my shoes clean. The bowling alley car-park had yet to be completed, so we parked in a side street behind Potter's Jaguar, and walked to our destination in the light drizzle, trying valiantly to avoid the extensive puddles.

  “What kept you?”

  The others awaited us in the smart new lobby. They had already abandoned their overcoats in the cloakroom, and changed into the trainers, without which no-one was allowed to the inner sanctum. When “the physicians” had followed suit, the whole group proceeded upstairs; after a brief search we found a store-room with dark wooden balls stacked on racks – a range of heavy hollow spheres fitted with holes through which thumb, index and middle fingers could grip them. We moved on: around a corner we came upon a cavernous, brightly-lit hall, all polished wood and chrome, divided by ditches into twenty parallel alleys, each with a phalanx of ten skittles at the far end – which seemed to me a very long way away.

  Olly and I were complete novices. We had been helped by our captains to select balls of a comfortable weight and size. Now they instructed us on the rules and techniques of the game. Steve demonstrated how to grasp the sphere securely, to take three steps to the chrome line across my alley, and then launch the missile smoothly under-arm along the centre of the lane, aiming to strike the central pin at the other end. We each had our own lane, and were allowed two bowls per game.