‘Most of our other clients are with us for two, sometimes three, days. We work to a cycle which means most beds are available on Wednesdays and Saturdays, which is when we perform the terminations. The usual figure is somewhere between a dozen and … oh, as many as twenty on a Wednesday, with perhaps six or eight on a Saturday.’

  Cicely came in with the coffee and returned the smile I gave her. This time I decided to indulge myself, and used the cream and sugar.

  I quizzed the doctor about the workings of a private clinic. He was helpful and completely at ease with the situation. The cosmetic surgery was usually done on Mondays and Thursdays, by surgeons moonlighting from other hospitals, although he didn’t use that word. He’d moved into administration early in his career, after finding that other people’s varicose veins and bowel troubles were more than he could take.

  ‘And you’ve never had any problems with the pro-life people?’ I asked.

  ‘The only problem I have with them is that title,’ he said. ‘I like to think that we are pro-life at the clinic.’

  ‘No threatening letters? No demonstrations outside? Nothing like that?’

  ‘No, Inspector, not at all. We pride ourselves in our discretion. All, our referrals come by personal recommendation and we never advertise. A lady might come in to have a blephorectomy, for example. Some time later the daughter of a friend – at university, perhaps – confides in her that she is pregnant and doesn’t want to marry the father. Our client tells her that she knows a very nice clinic where she can obtain all the support and attention she needs. It’s amazing how the word spreads, Inspector.’

  And the same would be true, I thought, if it just happened to be the au pair confiding in the lady’s husband.

  ‘Doesn’t the father need to give his consent?’ I asked.

  ‘We consider it desirable, especially if she’s married, but it’s not a requirement. And it’s only a signature on the bottom of a form. We don’t check it.’ He smiled and flapped a hand.

  ‘Right,’ I said. My ex-wife had an abortion after she left me, without my consent. I hadn’t known she was pregnant until it was too late. The top of Blea Fell had vanished in the mist and a squall was dashing sleet against the window.

  ‘… anything else?’ Dr Barraclough was saying.

  ‘Er, no. I mean, yes,’ I stumbled out. ‘Dr, er, Mr Jordan’s private life. I get the impression that he led quite a colourful one. What can you tell me about that?’

  ‘Nothing, Inspector. He was a fine doctor and that’s all I cared about. He was a single man, I believe: young and handsome. The surprise would be if he wasn’t breaking a few hearts, here and there, don’t you think?’

  ‘But whose? That’s what I want to know. Was he, can you say, having a relationship with anyone from the clinic?’

  ‘I really have no idea.’

  ‘A married woman, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m afraid gossip of that sort never reaches me, Inspector. The nursing staff may be able to help you with that, but I hope you will be discreet. Many of us were very fond of Clive, in our own ways. Please try not to cause any further upset.’

  ‘Thank you. I was going to ask you if you minded me having a word with some of the staff.’ I had a printout of all their names that Nigel had obtained. ‘If possible I’d like to interview the ones I’ve highlighted,’ I said, sliding it across his desk.

  ‘No problem. We want to see someone behind bars for this dreadful crime as much as you do. Feel free to talk to anyone you care to, but please appreciate that this is a working hospital and time is money, as with your job. If you show the list to Mrs Henderson she’ll be able to tell you when they are available.’

  ‘Smashing. I’ll try to be brief with them. There is one last thing that you may be able to help me with. We have received a suggestion from other quarters that Dr Jordan may have been cited for malpractice, sometime in the past. Possibly about five years ago. Were you aware of this?’

  He looked puzzled and fiddled with his shirt cuffs, adjusting them to the optimum fifteen millimetres. ‘Ye-es,’ he said, after a while. ‘There was something …’

  ‘Can you remember what, Doctor? We could go to the Medical Council, but, as you said, time is money.’

  ‘It was all something over nothing,’ he said, his brow furrowed with concentration, ‘but I can’t remember the details. It was completely unfounded, I can assure you of that. We’d just opened, and Clive had been highly recommended to us, then this happened, at the General. It put a bit of a cloud over him for a few weeks, but it all blew over. Your best bet will be to ask at the General – they’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘If I can find someone to ask,’ I said. ‘If I can cut through all the red tape. If I can find someone who doesn’t start telling me about confidentiality. There are ways of extracting information from institutions like the General, Dr Barraclough, but like I said, I prefer the personal approach. I’d be very grateful if you could give me a head start.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean, but I’m sure it was all a storm in a teacup.’

  ‘It might not have been a storm in a teacup to the complainant.’

  ‘You mean someone might have borne him a grudge?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Could you leave it with me, Inspector? You’re quite right, there was something, a few days after he joined us, but it all blew over. I’d forgotten all about it but it should be in there, somewhere. My secretary is off today, but I’ll ask her to dig out Clive’s file, first thing in the morning, if that’s OK?’

  ‘That will be fine. I’ll look forward to hearing from you and thanks for your cooperation.’

  I went down the short corridor that led back to the foyer. I thought about standing there and yelling: ‘Step forward everybody that Clive Jordan was shagging!’ but decided it might be against Dr Barraclough’s guidelines, and I didn’t want anyone killed in the stampede. I’d have to do it the hard way.

  Mrs Cicely Henderson was not one of the names I’d highlighted, but I decided to start with her. I like to keep my methods flexible.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ I said.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she replied. ‘Was Dr Barraclough able to help you?’

  ‘Yes, he was. And he’s given me permission to talk to all the staff, so I’ve decided to start with you.’ I gave her my lopsided grin and just knew her legs were turning to jelly. Some of her make-up had rubbed off on to the edge of her tunic’s mandarin collar. She’d have to have a fresh clean one every day, eye-squinting white and crisp as an iceberg lettuce. I wondered what she was like at ironing shirts.

  I told her about Makinson’s broken leg, just to be friendly, and explained that I was doing follow-up interviews. Someone had spoken to her early in the enquiry, but she’d said that she rarely saw the doctor and had heard no scurrilous gossip about him.

  ‘How often did you see him?’ I asked.

  ‘Just once a week, when he came in on a Wednesday.’ ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘He’d stop here for a moment and ask me how I was, that’s all.’

  ‘I get the impression that he was a bit of a charmer.’

  ‘Yes, he was, if you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘A ladies’ man?’

  ‘Yes, I’d say so.’

  ‘You’re an attractive woman,’ I stated. ‘Did he ever approach you? Chat you up? Invite you out?’ I gave myself a small pat on the back for slipping the compliment in and making it sound like a professional observation. She looked uncomfortable and might even have blushed under the make-up.

  ‘N-No,’ she stuttered, meaning yes.

  ‘You don’t seem sure.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t seem right, talking about the dead when they can’t defend themselves.’

  ‘The doctor was murdered, Mrs Henderson,’ I reminded her. ‘It’s my job to defend him, by tracking down his killer. If you know something that isn’t in your previous statement you’d better tell me right now.’

  She sighed and said: ‘Right.’

  I was standing at her desk and there was no handy chair for me to pull closer. ‘Come and sit over here,’ I said, and walked across to a small sofa. She sat down next to me and crossed her legs. Her tights were the same shade as the pancake mix on her face. ‘That’s better,’ I said. ‘Now what do you want to tell me?’

  ‘About four years ago,’ she began. ‘Clive – Mr Jordan – invited me out. I’d left my husband about three years earlier and was still off men. He was very persistent but I kept saying no. Then he stopped asking me.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Right. Thank you. He must have been very disappointed.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘Oh. Go on, then.’

  ‘As I said earlier, two of us work full-time on reception. This week I’m covering from eight a.m. to four p.m. My opposite number is called Josephine Farrier. She comes on at three and stays until ten. Josie – Mrs Farrier – was having an affair with Clive.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘She told me herself. He must have approached her after I turned him down. Last summer she poured her heart out to me – said she loved him, wanted to leave Eric, her husband, and the two children. Unfortunately for her, that was the last thing on Clive’s mind. It was all a bit pathetic – real Marj Proops stuff. It had been going on for years, she said, after work. When she was on early she was supposed to be at a pottery class, would you believe?’

  ‘It happens,’ I said. ‘People in love do desperate things. Do you think her husband – Eric – knew?’

  ‘I don’t know. I told her not to be so stupid. Men only wanted one thing, I told her, and Clive was no different to the rest of them.’

  For a moment I felt … invisible. ‘You weren’t very sympathetic,’ I said.

  ‘It wasn’t sympathy she needed, it was a good shaking.’

  ‘Right. Did you tell her that she’d been the doc’s second choice, after you?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t be so cruel.’

  ‘And she never mentioned that her husband knew?’

  ‘No, but do you think it’s possible to keep something like that secret?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied, untruthfully. I’d discovered the answer the hard way, a long time ago. I didn’t have a highlighter pen, so I underlined Mrs Josephine Farrier’s name on my printout. She had some questions to answer.

  I interviewed the ward sister, two enrolled nurses and the finance manager without coming to any conclusions, other than agreeing with Nigel’s statement about them all being good-looking. I couldn’t help contrasting the accommodation – every bed in a private room, wallpaper on the walls, no hospital smell – with Heckley General where my father spent his final days. As a visitor, I’d definitely prefer to come here. As a patient, I wasn’t so sure.

  Hunger’s clammy tentacles, clutching at my innards, drove me away. I had hoped to last out until Mrs Farrier came to work, at three o’clock, but I’d hardly eaten for twenty-four hours. As I strolled into the foyer for the last time, after seeing one of the nurses, Mrs Henderson looked up from a keyboard and smiled expectantly, awaiting the next name on my list.

  ‘I think that’s it for today,’ I said. ‘I need to be in the station, shortly.’

  ‘Will you be coming back, Mr Priest?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I think I’ll have to, but thanks for your help today.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  I turned to leave, then stopped, hand to head as if deep in thought. ‘There was one final question I’d like to ask you,’ I said, turning back to her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Now, what was it?’ I tapped my cheek with a fingertip. ‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘I remember. You said you were off men, Mrs Henderson. I was wondering: are you still off them?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, but her smile was so broad her make-up did well to contain it. A little flirting can go a long way.

  I called in a cafe in the town centre that did steak and kidney pies you could trust, with apple pie and custard to follow. Maggie came in a few minutes after I arrived back at the station. She’d been to see Herbert Mathews, who sent his regards, and to consult the court histories at Burnley. We now had a clear picture of Buxton’s career as a serial rapist – allegedly – but nothing that helped much. All it did was harden our resolve to nail him.

  I let Sparky finish the interviews at the clinic. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said when he returned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re mixing with a higher class of woman on this enquiry.’

  ‘You mean Mrs Farrier was a good-looker?’

  ‘And the other one. All of them, in fact.’

  I said: ‘Maybe it’s us. Perhaps we’re growing old, beginning to see women in a new light.’

  ‘If it is, then yippity-di-doo. Let’s have more of it.’

  ‘What else did you discover?’

  ‘She admitted that they were lovers, right to the end. On the night in question she was out with her husband at a choral festival at the local church. Lots of people there that they knew. I’ve got some names, one of which is Dr Barraclough. He sold them the tickets.’

  ‘Check them out just the same,’ I said. ‘Let’s not have another Ged Skinner.’

  ‘Right. So what do you reckon?’ Sparky asked.

  ‘I reckon,’ I told him, ‘that so far we’ve caught more red herrings than a Russian trawler. Do you know what we need?’

  ‘Er, no. What do we need?’

  ‘A chart. That’s what we need. When in doubt, draw a chart. And there’s nothing like one for impressing the top brass when they start asking questions.’ I pulled the flip-board easel from the corner and turned over to a clean page.

  ‘Why not do it on the computer,’ Sparky suggested. ‘Because I wouldn’t know where to start,’ I confessed. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘I’ve only just mastered the flip-board. And besides, this way I get to use coloured pens. Let’s start with the doctor.’

  I wrote his name at the top of the sheet, drew a black square around it to signify deceased and put the date, December 23.

  ‘Supplying drugs to Ged Skinner,’ Sparky suggested.

  I wrote the exact words and drew a little box. ‘That’s his alibi box. Number one means he claims to have one, two means we’ve checked it, three, it’s foolproof. Two, would you say?’

  ‘Yeah. Two.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘The registrar. And his wife.’

  I wrote them in and put ‘sexual’ along the connecting line to suggest possible motives. ‘Alibis?’

  ‘Only one.’

  ‘We haven’t spoken to her yet, have we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’d better put that right, soon as pos.’

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘But presumably she was at the same dinner party?’

  ‘That’s right. She did the cooking.’

  ‘Unless they had a takeaway,’ I suggested, ‘and while she was waiting in the shop for eight portions of spare ribs, Peking duck and sweet and sour dogs’ bollocks to be prepared she nipped out to the doctor’s and bumped him off.’

  ‘Brilliant, Holmes,’ Sparky said. ‘Let’s bring her in.’

  ‘Maybe not. Who’s next?’

  ‘The chemist.’

  ‘A.J.K. Weatherall. Motive?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘He’ll still have to pay for the car, into the doc’s estate.’

  ‘In that case, maybe they really were on the fiddle.’

  ‘OK.’ I put a one in his alibi box. ‘He and his wife were fitting curtain rails at the new house,’ I explained.

  ‘How pleasant. And that brings us to the bag of worms at the clinic.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Farrier.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘Sex, again.’

  ‘Alibi?’

  ‘Yes, but not checked.’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Barraclough?’ I had to bend the word downwards because I was running off the edge of the page. ‘Barraclough? What’s his motive?’

  ‘Sex, jealousy, anything. We can’t rule him out.’

  ‘OK. Alibi?’

  ‘You said he was at the same carol concert as the Farriers.’

  ‘Of course. So that’s a one, again.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What about Jordan’s acting friends?’

  I pulled a face and sighed. ‘I don’t think so. We’ll have to keep a weather eye on them, though. Can’t rule them out completely.’

  ‘Next?’

  I wrote ‘Malpractice?’ at the bottom of the page. ‘What are we doing about that?’ Sparky asked.

  ‘Dr Barraclough is supposed to be ringing me. I’ll give him a reminder.’

  ‘So, is that it?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, there’s one last group.’ I wrote ‘Abortions’ in the last bit of clear space.

  ‘I thought Barraclough was convinced that the pro-lifers didn’t know the clinic existed,’ Sparky said.

  ‘That’s what he said, but we can’t be sure. I’m not thinking of just the pro-lifers. Mr Jordan performed between four and five thousand terminations in his short but eventful career. Including fathers, that’s ten thousand potential dissatisfied customers.’ I wrote ‘X 10,000’ next to ‘Abortions’ and clicked the top back on the pen.

  We were both silent for several minutes, pretending to be studying the chart. I was thinking about the five thousand foetuses that Jordan had been instrumental in destroying. I imagined ten schools, side by side. Filing into them was a long line of boys and girls, smart in their grey uniforms. They carried satchels and sports bags and jostled and teased each other. For as far as the eye could see. I’m in favour of choice, but I couldn’t do it.

  Sparky leant his chair back on two legs and flipped his notebook shut. ‘You know your comment about the Russian trawler?’ he said.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I think you’d better make it the whole bleedin’ fishing fleet.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sparky was right. We were no nearer narrowing the field down than when Ged Skinner walked out of the station. We hadn’t even considered Darryl Buxton. Much as I’d have loved to have pinned it on him, living in the same block of flats as the dead man was hardly grounds for suspicion. Monday, I’d have a word with Mr Wood and Mr Isles. We needed more manpower. Every alibi would have to be checked, every interview re-done. Maybe somebody’s guard would drop, or their story wouldn’t tally with the first one they’d given. They’d embroider it, add bits that contradicted what they’d said earlier, and talk themselves into a murder charge. And Mother Teresa might buy a Harley for nipping to mass on. I told Sparky that I’d see him Monday and went home.

 

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