THIRTY-ONE

Perhaps you can imagine my delight to arrive at the surgery next morning to discover that in the small ‘doctors only’ car park in front was an interloping vehicle, and that in that interloping vehicle was one small, choleric inspector of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. He was accompanied by Sergeant Abelson, but she had on her official face which, although not in any way unpleasant to feast upon, was distinctly unresponsive in that way that I have often found with those who, even metaphorically, wear the Queen’s blue uniform. As soon as I got out of the car, I was accosted, as I knew I would be. He had been smoking and the faint tendrils of blue-grey smoke that drifted around him as he emerged into the foetid early morning air gave him faintly the image of a malevolent daemon summoned into the corporeal realm without his permission.

‘Can I have a word, Doctor?’

If ever there was a needless question, that was it. I carried on walking and said as I passed, ‘I haven’t got long before morning surgery.’

He followed, taking my reply as consent to his question; it occurred to me that this small exchange had succinctly encapsulated our relationship; I was ahead of Masson when we went into my room, but in every other way – spiritually, legally and psychologically – it was Masson who was the leader. I sat behind my desk and he sat in the patient’s chair, Sergeant Abelson on the only other one in the room, the one that is meant for mothers when they bring in little Johnny after he’s spent the night projectile-vomiting. ‘What do you want?’

‘Arthur Silsby is a patient of this practice.’

He had me there, bang to rights. Since this was not obviously uttered in an interrogative manner, I didn’t respond. He said after a short pause, ‘I’m given to understand that he’s attempted suicide.’

‘He’s in hospital being treated for an overdose of paracetamol, yes.’

I was treated to an owlish stare. ‘Why do you put it like that? Do you know something we don’t?’ His voice was so suspicious I felt that he was ready to slap the handcuffs on.

‘No. I just prefer to not to make premature assumptions. That’s all.’

He was doing the thing that he always did when he was barred from playing a game of ‘dare’ with the lung-cancer fairy, which was to fiddle with something in his jacket pocket; presumably his cigarette packet or lighter. His shirt-collar button was undone and his tie at half mast; somehow, Jean Abelson was remaining apparently unaffected by the already rising environmental temperature. He said, ‘We’ve checked with his wife. She was in the house all the night and heard nothing. They sleep in separate rooms, so she had no idea until the morning that he had done anything like it. The house is secure and they had no visitors. He did it himself, all right.’

‘But that doesn’t necessarily make it suicide.’

‘The doctors looking after him tell me that, to judge from the blood levels reached, he took at least forty tablets. Difficult to see that as an accident.’

‘Maybe para-suicide?’

‘Which is what?’

‘A cry for help; an attempt at taking one’s life that is meant to draw some attention to the individual rather than result in death.’

‘If that was his plan, he’s in for a shock. The quacks didn’t get to him in time to save his liver; they say he’s going to die a rather unpleasant death in about a week.’

I ignored the derogatory nomenclature for my usually so well-regarded profession. ‘Is he conscious?’

‘Yes.’ He sounded bitter. He added, ‘And he’s saying nothing of any use, other than that he’s ashamed of showing such weakness. Apparently, it’s not something that a proper man should do.’

That sounded like Arthur Silsby, all right. I asked, ‘So?’

‘His wife says that that’s typical of the man. Would you agree with that assessment?’

‘Absolutely. Arthur Silsby is the archetype of morality, decency and any old-fashioned Christian value you’d care to mention. He would see suicide as a mortal sin, and not the kind of thing a man of honour should do.’

He squinted at me, one hand fiddling in his jacket pocket while his teeth seemed to do a bit of grinding. There was a bit of heavy breathing – as if he were working himself up to tossing the caber or a bit of ‘clean and jerk’ in the gymnasium – then he asked in a voice that suggested much restraint of passion and little hope, ‘I’m not going to ask you to betray medical confidences because I know I’d be wasting my breath, but do you have any reason to believe that he is in any way involved in this business?’

I could never resist baiting Inspector Masson and I pondered the possibility of what deeply seated psychological urge drove me to poke this feral law-enforcement officer so relentlessly as I replied, ‘Please, Inspector, you know I couldn’t possibly give away any confidential information, even if it’s to aid the police in a murder enquiry . . .’

He exploded and turned to his sergeant at the same time. ‘You see! I told you this would be a waste of time.’

Which changed things. Had I known that it was Jean Abelson’s idea to talk to me, I might have been a little less aggravating. I raised my voice through his bluster and continued, ‘However, I don’t wish to appear deliberately unhelpful.’ And that made him turn back to me.

‘What does that mean?’ he enquired, his voice subsonic with suspicion.

‘I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you the negatives. Arthur Silsby has not been to see us for over a year. That visit was, I can assure you, for a reason that can possibly have no bearing on this case. He has since made no contact with the surgery.’

He digested this, although to judge from his expression, it was more an act of indigestion. Eventually he shook his head, ‘Why on earth has he done it, then?’ he asked. ‘He must know something, Doctor.’

‘Have you got any solid evidence for that assertion?’

It was Jean Abelson who replied, however. She looked up from the notebook in which she had been scribing and said, ‘His wife tells us that he’s been under a lot of strain these last few days. Acting very strangely and refusing to tell her what’s wrong.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. His school – and believe me, he thinks of it as most definitely his school – has been beset by scandal and murder. I should think that to someone like Mr Silsby, that’s about as bad as it gets. Losing three of his teachers in such circumstances would be bad enough, but finding out that two of them were lesbians was probably overwhelming for him.’

He considered this but he had already made up his mind. ‘No, he’s hiding something.’

I knew that there would be no budging him, so I changed the subject to what had been bothering me, what had awoken me in the night. ‘Have you considered the possibility that there might be more than one killer?’

His head jerked up and for once his expression was neutral. ‘Go on,’ he invited in a voice full to overbrimming with curiosity.

‘The first two murders – those of Miss Jeffries and Miss Mangon – were frenzied. They had the mark of a murderer who hated them.’

Masson asked curiously, ‘Don’t most murderers hate their victims?’ This took me aback somewhat.

‘I think you know what I mean.’ He acknowledged this with a curt nod and a faint smile; Inspector Masson’s smile was a fragile and rare thing and I was reminded of those jungle plants that flower only once every century. I continued, ‘Whoever it was who killed them didn’t just want them dead, he wanted them completely obliterated.’

‘You have a way with words, Doctor.’

I was emboldened to continue. ‘The murder of Jeremy Gillman was different, though. No blood, and not even much of a display of anger. Almost an afterthought, you might say.’

He was listening to all appearances quite intently; so was Jean. He opined, ‘So, two MOs, therefore two killers.’

‘Yes.’

‘Someone searched both houses,’ he said thoughtfully; actually, I was rather pleased to think that he said it as if he was looking at things anew.

‘Yes,’ I conceded. ‘But quite conceivably Jeremy Gillman’s killer was an opportunist thief who saw him out walking the dog, killed him, then burgled his house.’ He seemed quite taken with this idea, so I sallied forth. (Did I think that this detecting lark was easy? You bet I did.) ‘Was anything taken?’

He took a long breath in, a long one out, then stood up. ‘Thank you for that, Doctor.’

He was out of the room before I could react, leaving me looking at Jean. ‘What’s going on?’

She smiled tiredly. ‘I think there are times when you underestimate my boss, Lance.’ She stood up and followed Masson out of my surgery. At the doorway she turned and said, ‘Gillman left his house locked, as he always did. He had five hundred pounds in one of the drawers of his kitchen dresser – he was something of a horse-racing man, apparently – the drawer had been left carelessly open and it was obvious to anyone in the room that the money was there, but it wasn’t taken. OK?’

It was to an empty room that I said after a while, ‘Oh . . .’