Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 6. Whole No. 778, June 2006

Bad Blood by Keith McCarthy

Copyright © 2006 Keith McCarthy

Here’s an author CSI fans will adore. Keith McCarthy is a pathologist who has chosen the same trade for his fictional hero, John Eisenmenger. In Mr. McCarthy’s novels — of which there are four in the series to date: A Feast of Carrion, The Silent Sleep of the Dying, The Final Analysis, and A World Full of Weeping (all Carroll & Graf in the U.S.) — Eisenmenger works alongside DI Beverly Wharton, who appears in this story.

It was raining and it was cold. The man with the tape measure, the camera, and the clipboard was grumpy because his pen wouldn’t work properly and there was water dripping off his hat down the back of his neck.

“Tell me why I’m here, Kocher.”

Beverley Wharton looked as if she had fallen amongst lepers.

Sergeant Kocher grunted and abandoned his attempts to write. Without a word he walked out into the centre of the road, knowing he was safe because police cars blocked both ends. Despite the rain, the incidents of the night had still managed to attract six of the more rubber-necked citizens of the city; the audience was considerably augmented by faces peering from the sitting-room windows of the houses that lined both sides of the street. Beverley followed him to a point in the middle of the road. It was surrounded by plastic police cones joined into an approximate square by yellow tape. The rain had not been heavy enough to obliterate all the blood from the tarmac.

“The hit-and-run happened at approximately eight fifty-five. The victim was a young female, identified by credit cards and organ donor card in her handbag as Elizabeth Sanderson.”

“Is she dead?”

“Not yet.”

“So what’s it to do with me?” This was a uniform matter. Not that anybody ever openly admitted that uniform matters were less important than those of plain clothes, at least not to the poor spacks in uniform.

Once more Sergeant Kocher didn’t get around to replying directly. He walked up the road, away from the bloodstain, his torch pointed directly down on the surface. As Beverley followed him, a train rumbled past in the distance. The rain seemed to get slightly heavier and far more uncomfortable. He stopped walking about twenty metres away from the coned-off area and looked at her.

She asked, “Well?”

It was his show and he knew it. That she should have failed to spot the evidence was a source of pleasure to him, irritation to her. He said, “I’ve been up and down this street. The only skid marks are inside the toilets.”

At last she understood. “Deliberate, you mean?”

“Without a doubt.”

Now she was interested. “Witnesses?”

He shook his head, a sour grin on his face. Indicating their audience both inside and outside, he said, “Believe it or not, none.”

“Where’s she been taken?”

“St. Benjamin’s.”

Having organised house-to-house enquiries in the street, she arranged to meet DC Rich at the hospital.

“It’s potentially attempted murder, okay?”

He nodded and said nothing. She liked that about him; when he spoke it was usually worth the effort of listening. If she said that it was attempted murder then, as far as he was concerned, that’s what it was. She asked, “Where is she?”

“Intensive care.”

She didn’t voice her feelings as he led her through the starkly lit corridors, past occasional abandoned beds and wheelchairs. They ignored the sign on the door that requested them to ring and wait and walked straight in. The warmth stifled them at once.

They were ignored at first, allowing Beverley to look around. She counted eight beds, six of which were occupied, all flanked by stacks of equipment. There was a background cacophony of electronic beeping, an amelodic composition that never repeated yet was depressingly familiar. Beverley murmured something under her breath. Rich asked, “Beg pardon, ma’am?”

Her eyes were bright, her expression one almost of anxiety as she continued to look around the room. “I hate places like this. There’s death here, but no dignity.”

Besides the patients, there were about ten people in the room, some of them at the desk in the centre of the far wall, others around the occupied beds. All were dressed in blues; all, to Beverley’s eye, were steeped in sanctimonious dedication. It was as if they were priests and priestesses scurrying around the temple.

At last one of them — a young blond woman — noticed them and frowned at their presumption in invading the sanctum. Rich saw her, too, and smiled. Beverley saw that there was more than politeness in his expression and found a twinge of jealousy.

“Can I help you?” She was attractive, Beverley had to admit, and she knew that Rich liked blondes, but there was also a ring on her finger.

Rich said easily, “Police. I’m DC Rich, this is DI Wharton. We’re here about an RTA victim. Elizabeth Sanderson.”

At once there was a shift; from wary disinterest came forth sorrow. She indicated the bed in the corner to their right. “Liz is over there.”

Beverley asked, “Liz?”

The woman — her name badge told them that she was Sister Hamman — said, “Liz Sanderson, yes.”

“You know her?”

“She works here. She’s a doctor — a specialist in one of the medical departments.”

Rich made a note of this; Beverley considered the information, then decided that it was a coincidence of little likely import. She asked, “Can we speak to her?”

Sister Hamman shook her head regretfully. “She’s intubated and sedated. She’s in a bad way, too.”

“How bad?”

“Broken pelvis, flail chest, hairline skull fracture, and broken femur; possible lung lacerations. She’ll be going to theatre later tonight, assuming we can stabilise her.”

“So when will we be able to talk with her?”

Sister Hamman sighed and said seriously, “If she makes it at all, not for days.”

Beverley had hoped for better but was philosophical. “Next of kin?”

“Parents live in Spain; they’re on their way over.”

“Husband? Boyfriend?”

“She’s single. I don’t think she was seeing anyone in particular.”

“You’ve got a home address for her?”

She went to the nursing notes and scribbled it down on a Post-it note. As she handed it to Beverley she said, “Until a few months ago she was going out with someone.”

“Name?”

“Mark Strauss. He’s a gynecologist here.”

“And where does he live?”

She shrugged. “Switchboard would know,” she suggested. Beverley glanced at Rich, who nodded slightly; he would find it out for them. To Hamman she said, “Thanks. We’ll keep in contact.”

Beverley began to walk out, with Rich following her. A porter came in, went up to the desk, and asked Sister Hamman, “You got something for the Path Lab?”

She handed him two clear plastic bags in which there were several tubes of blood and request forms; the tubes were capped in a variety of colours. “Took your time, didn’t you?”

The porter smiled slyly. “Busy night.” He left whistling jauntily.

Outside, Rich asked, “Where does she live?”

“Vineyard Street. If she lives alone, we’ll have to wait before we can get in there. Why don’t you ring the switchboard and get Strauss’s address? At least we should be able to get some background, if nothing else.”

Strauss had taken the news of the hit-and-run badly, and had appeared to be devastated when Beverley suggested that perhaps it had not been an accident. He sat now in his chair, looking pallid and even, Beverley thought, shaking slightly. When they arrived he had been drinking wine and scribbling notes on a paper pad — “Writing a chapter for a textbook” — and he had by now nearly finished the bottle. He was tall, with a wide mouth and bright blue eyes.

“What was she like?”

He hesitated, searching for the words. “Pretty, bright, happy.”

She ignored the begging of the question at the back of her mind. “I understand that you’re no longer seeing each other.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The question nonplussed him. “Well...” He shrugged. “We weren’t getting on.”

She raised her eyebrows. “In what way?”

“Oh... we were bickering a lot. Anyway we were finding it difficult to get much time together.”

She smiled at him, noting that his hands were fidgeting; he didn’t like answering these questions. “Bickering? Or arguing?”

He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

Rich had stopped taking notes and was looking at him. She explained, “I mean, how violently did you argue?”

Once more he hesitated, but this time because of indignation. “What’s that got to do with anything? Are you suggesting that I did it?”

If he hoped for mollification, he got only implacability. “Out of interest, what were your movements this evening?”

“Now, look here...”

She said tiredly, “Calm down, Mr. Strauss. Nobody’s interested in you if you didn’t do it, but there are questions I need to ask you.”

He calmed down slightly. Rich asked, “What time did you get home?”

“Seven, I think.”

“What then?”

“I had a sandwich, then started on this. I’ve been doing this all evening.”

“Nobody saw you?”

“No.” He looked suitably worried. “Is that a problem?”

Beverley’s face was neutral as she assured him blandly, “I shouldn’t think so.” Before he could look too relieved, she enquired, “So. Was it arguing, or bickering?”

“It was disagreement, okay? It was two people who weren’t quite so much in love anymore. We decided that we weren’t destined for each other.”

“And that’s it?”

“I didn’t hit her, if that’s what you mean.”

The interview went on for an hour. They built up a picture of a young woman who had apparently been a hard-working junior doctor; overworked and under stress.

“Her colleagues all liked her?”

“Absolutely. No one had a bad word for Liz.”

Rich’s question was almost flippant. “What about her patients? Were they all completely happy?”

Strauss took the question with unexpected seriousness. “You mean Mr. Ascherson, I suppose.”

Did he? Beverley said at once, “That’s right.”

Strauss sighed. “Look, Liz made a ghastly mistake, that’s all. It could happen to any of us. She was tired, it was late at night, and there were two other sick patients on the ward. To this day she doesn’t know how she mixed the bloods up.”

Still ignorant of what he was talking about, Beverley said nothing and let him fill the space.

“Liz went through hell about it. She was suspended by the Trust, there were extensive investigations that were practically a witch hunt; it was awful. And then, to cap it all, the GMC have taken this whole thing out of proportion, charging her with gross negligence.”

“But Mr. Ascherson was upset...”

“Wouldn’t you be? His wife had died of a transfusion reaction because of Liz’s mistake.” He laughed sourly. “Yes, he was upset.”

“Did he threaten her?”

He shook his head. “No, not with violence, anyway. He’s not the type.”

They moved on to other matters — her family, her background, her habits — then were on the point of leaving when Strauss said suddenly, “Waterhouse!”

“Waterhouse?”

He was animated now. “He’s a porter at the hospital. Weaselly sort of chap. He threatened her.”

“Why?”

“His wife was a nursing auxiliary at the hospital. She stole some money from Liz. Liz found out and made a fuss about it. The woman was sacked.”

“And her husband threatened violence?”

“He threatened to kill her.”

A radio message when they got back to the car told them that perhaps he had kept his promise; Elizabeth Sanderson had died from her injuries.

Philip Waterhouse might have been designed by a protocol to be the killer. Although only twenty-seven, he had four convictions for violence, including seven months’ imprisonment for assault. He had several cautions for joyriding, and had tried his hand at social-security fraud.

“A charmer,” was Rich’s dry conclusion as they drove to Waterhouse’s flat next morning. It wasn’t a chintz-and-charm neighbourhood; low-rise blocks of concrete flats separated by tatty grass strips and old, rusting cars. Perhaps half of the windows around them were boarded. The atmosphere was one of hard hostility. It was the kind of area that the fire brigade didn’t want to know existed and that taxi drivers avoided after dark.

“With a grudge, perhaps.”

Waterhouse had had educational difficulties, leaving school at fifteen without anything to show for it, not even proficient in cycling. He had had a broken home, been fostered at the age of nine and then sexually abused by both of his foster parents, who had subsequently been convicted on seventeen counts.

Waterhouse answered their knock after a long delay, clearly woken from sleep. It was with some shock that they recognised the porter who had been in Intensive Care the night before. From his expression, he, too, had recognised them.

Beverley didn’t waste any time. “We’re here about Elizabeth Sanderson.”

“What about her?”

The room was cold and untidy and small. Baby’s things cluttered the floor and there was an odour of soiled nappies. Beverley wondered where the wife and child were.

“She died last night.”

“So?”

“We’re treating it as murder, and you are known to have threatened her.”

His attitude suggested insouciance, but Beverley saw concern in his small eyes as he said, “So I killed her? All I said was that I would get even with her.”

“What did she do?”

“She got my wife sacked.”

“Your wife stole some money from her.”

“So she said, but she’s a liar. Look around — we’re not rich — we needed that money. She’s got a job cleaning but she’s working her guts out and it’s a lot less than she was getting as a nurse.”

“But if she stole money...”

He said at once, “Sally’s no thief. Sanderson lost the money, or maybe someone else stole it.”

“You are a thief, though, aren’t you?”

His defence of his wife faltered, then he rallied. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“A thief; a violent thief.”

“I’m not a murderer.”

Beverley smiled. “So you say.” Then, “The fact remains that you did threaten to kill Elizabeth Sanderson and now she’s dead.”

“And it wasn’t me.”

“Where were you last night?”

“At work. You saw me.”

“What time did you start?”

“Nine.”

Beverley smiled. “Plenty of time. Elizabeth Sanderson was run down at about eight. Where were you before you went to work?”

“Here, babysitting. Sally doesn’t get in from work until eight-thirty.”

“You were alone?”

“No. The baby was here.”

Strangely no one laughed. Beverley asked, “You’ve got a car?”

“It’s got four wheels but I don’t reckon Michael Schumacher would rate it.”

“Where is it?”

A sleepy half-cry came from a room beyond before Waterhouse said, “Outside.”

“Make? Colour?”

There was a moment of quiet, but then the crying began again, this time louder, this time more demanding, this time not ceasing. Waterhouse said sourly, “It’s a white Ford Escort.”

Beverley and Rich stood up. Over the noise, she said, “We’ll need to take it for forensics.”

Despite the crying of his baby, Waterhouse stayed seated. “And what am I supposed to do?”

She held out her hand for the key. “Take the bus. Now, are you going to cooperate, or shall we take you down to the station for questioning on suspicion of murder?”

In the street, they inspected the car.

“I can’t see anything,” said Rich. “Can you?”

It was covered in scratches and was rusting badly around the doors. It had probably been in several collisions, but none of them recently as far as she could tell.

“No,” she sighed. “Still, he might have got a quick body job done on it. We should get it checked out by the lab.”

A woman was looking at them from across the street. She was old but still erect and apparently alert. She held her coat closed tightly across her chest. Beverley said, “I can’t believe we’re that interesting, can you?”

They crossed to her. Rich showed her his warrant card and Beverley asked, “Can we help you?”

The woman must have been around eighty. She said, “I saw you looking.”

“And?”

She nodded at Waterhouse’s flat. “Drives like a maniac, he does. ’Bout time you did something about it. Nearly knocked me down last week.”

Beverley nodded sympathetically. “What about last night? Did he drive like that when he went out last night?”

“Oh yes. Woke up half the neighbourhood, he was so loud.”

“And what time was that?”

The woman thought. “Just before eight. Coronation Street hadn’t finished.”

Elizabeth Sanderson’s home proved barren of interest. It was untidy, but no worse than Beverley’s, and Rich thought it positively exemplary. There were no letters from blackmailers, the bank statements were boring, and they found no hint that she was a drug dealer.

Rich, who had done the majority of the searching while Beverley watched, announced, “There’s nothing here of use to us.”

She was reading a letter that she had found in the kitchen by the bread bin. It was from the GMC. “We should speak to Ascherson.”

“Why? It’s obviously Waterhouse.”

She stood up. “It’s never obvious, Ed. Not even when they’ve been convicted.”

Ascherson lived in quite a large house that was slightly rundown. It had a view over a golf course at the back and the road was relatively wide, but there was a faint air of neglect over the entire neighbourhood; the paint on window frames and doors was peeling, some of the gardens were overgrown. It was as if the upper middle classes had moved on elsewhere, leaving the slightly less prosperous to their fate. The Ascherson house had clearly not been painted for a long time, and there was an ugly green stain on the brickwork where a blocked gutter had been overflowing, possibly for years.

The man who answered the doorbell was small and perhaps in his sixties. He looked crushed, both because he had a slight stoop and because on his face was a look of total loss. He had an unhealthy, pallid look to his skin. The room into which they were ushered was cluttered with ornaments and photographs; all of the pictures were of Ascherson and a woman, clearly his wife. The pictures presented a haphazard photojournal of their lives together, with some clearly dating back forty years. The surfaces had not been dusted for many weeks.

“We couldn’t have children,” he said, although no question had been asked. “We only had each other.”

“We’d like to talk to you about your wife’s death, Mr. Ascherson.”

He nodded. What else, he seemed to imply, was there to discuss?

“I understand she died because of an error on the part—”

“Negligence,” he interrupted. “It was unforgivable negligence.”

Beverley started again from a different tack. “Something went wrong with a blood transfusion.”

He shook his head. “Nothing ‘went wrong,’ as you put it. The doctor gave her the wrong blood. It killed her. It was horrible. She had fits, she was in pain, moaning...” He had drifted back to her death, his eyes looking beyond his guests. “They took her to Intensive Care and stuck tubes in her, put her on a ventilator, but it didn’t matter. She died in the night.” He suddenly looked up at Beverley. “I was there.” This with pride. “I stayed with her. I was there when she died...”

He drifted away again, clutching his hands together. Peeping from beneath a frayed cuff, Beverley saw a crudely drawn tattoo.

She said, “And Dr. Sanderson was found to be at fault.”

He nodded fiercely. “That’s right. She did it. She killed my Jean.”

Beverley said softly, “Dr. Sanderson died last night.”

He looked directly at her. For a moment his face held something she couldn’t define; possibly pleasure, possibly fear, possibly even pride. Then, “How?”

“She was run down in the middle of the road. Deliberately.”

He digested this. “And you think it was me?”

“You had a motive.”

“I’m suing her. Why would I want to kill her?”

“Money isn’t always enough.”

He nodded, as if agreeing. “I haven’t got a car,” he pointed out. There was a hint of slyness, Beverley thought. She let it pass.

“Mind if we look in the garage?”

He shrugged. As they walked outside she asked, “May I ask why your wife needed a blood transfusion?”

“Ulcers. She’d had ’em for years.”

The garage was full, but of rubbish, not cars. They didn’t spend long looking. Rich asked, “Could we ask where you were last night? Between say seven-thirty and nine?”

His reply was riddled with sour melancholy. “Watching the bloody telly. What else have I got to do now?”

They sat in a bar not far from the station, he drinking bottled lager, she vodka and tonic.

“House to house in the street where the hit-and-run occurred has drawn a blank,” he told her gloomily.

She snorted. “I bet we’d find some witnesses if it had been a live sex show.”

“People don’t want to get involved. It’s understandable.”

“People are morons, Ed. They don’t deserve to be protected.”

He wasn’t as experienced as she was and wasn’t, therefore, as cynical.

She said, “So, we have three potential killers, none with an alibi.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. No alibi, nothing to disprove. You can’t prove they’re telling the truth, but you can’t prove they’re lying, either.”

He was about to argue but she asked, “What about the autopsy?”

He had made notes which he now consulted. “The pathologist’s report is pretty much as we expected — multiple fractures and extensive intra-abdominal soft-tissue injuries.”

“Anything to help ID the car?”

He perked up. “There were some paint flecks embedded in the hip wound, apparently.”

“Colour?”

“White.”

“Enough for a make?”

He shook his head. “Probably not.” When she looked disappointed he said, “Waterhouse’s car is white.”

“So are at least a quarter of a million others in this city alone. Anyway, I don’t hold out much hope that Waterhouse’s car was the one that did the deed.”

“But he’s got to be our number one—”

“I didn’t say that Waterhouse didn’t do it, merely that he didn’t use his own car. He’s stupid but not imbecilic.”

They sipped their drinks. “What now?” he asked.

“Well, tomorrow I’m going to dig a little deeper into Mrs. Ascherson’s unfortunate demise, while you’re going to talk to Mrs. Waterhouse.”

“You think she’s involved?”

“Who knows? I don’t and I want to.” She remembered something else. “Second, ask around the hospital about Strauss. Reassure me that he’s not the vindictive type. Third, I want you to do some background research on Mr. Ascherson.”

“Why?”

She thought of the crude tattoo. “Humour me,” she suggested.

There was a period of silence before Rich said softly, “And what about tonight?”

She smiled and put her hand on his. “Sorry, Ed. Not tonight.”

At the look of disappointment she whispered, “Time of the month.”

“Take me through the details.”

Miss Cowden looked a little disconcerted to have a police inspector in her office. She opened the file on her desk and said nervously, “Well, the incident occurred on the morning of Saturday the fourth of April. Mrs. Ascherson was admitted as an emergency because of a GI hemorrhage...”

“GI?”

“Gastrointestinal. She was vomiting blood.”

“Thanks.”

“Dr. Sanderson was on call...”

“How long had she been on call?”

These interruptions proved even more disconcerting for Miss Cowden. After several minutes of searching through the papers she said, “Twenty-two hours.”

“Okay.”

“The medical notes indicate that Mrs. Ascherson was ill but not in extremis. However, as per protocol, Dr. Sanderson decided to take a blood sample for a cross-match of blood. At the same time another patient, admitted that same night and with a similar condition, also needed a blood transfusion. Dr. Sanderson took the blood from both at the same time. In the course of doing that she somehow mislabelled both bottles.”

“So the blood in the tube with Mrs. Ascherson’s name came from the other patient.”

“That’s right. The lab cross-matched the blood, sent it to the ward, and it was transfused into Mrs. Ascherson. She became seriously ill very quickly. Although the transfusion was stopped, she deteriorated on the Intensive Therapy Unit and died some hours later.”

“What about the other patient?”

“Mr. Peyer was fortunate in not actually receiving his units of blood. As soon as the potential problem was appreciated, they were sent back to the lab.”

“And what happened then?”

“As per procedure, this was reported as an Adverse Clinical Incident — graded red for highest priority — and we, the Clinical Governance and Risk Management Department, began an investigation. It soon became apparent what had happened — the laboratory checked the samples again; following that, Dr. Sanderson was suspended from duty.”

Beverley considered this. Eventually she asked, “Did you interview all the staff involved?”

“Oh yes.”

It all sounded very plausible to Beverley and, in truth, she couldn’t actually see why it shouldn’t have been just a terrible, terrible accident. “Tell me, did Dr. Sanderson admit liability?”

“She was adamant that she hadn’t made a mistake, but, of course, the evidence...”

“Could I see that report?” Miss Cowden looked as if she were about to refuse when Beverley added, “This is a murder investigation, you appreciate.”

Miss Cowden relented.

And over the next thirty minutes, as she read, Beverley became very, very intrigued.

By the time she arrived back at the station, Ed Rich looked about to explode.

“At last!” he said.

“Got something?” She sat at her desk. “What about Mrs. Waterhouse?”

“She’s out of the picture. She was at work until eight and then took the bus home. She can’t even drive. No, it’s Ascherson who’s interesting.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I thought he might be.”

“He’s not quite the respectable citizen we thought.”

Beverley had never thought he was particularly respectable but she let it pass. “What’s he done?”

“Multiple counts of child abuse.”

“He served time?”

“So did Jean Ascherson. She was up to it as well.” He pushed a file across her desk, which she picked up.

“How long ago?” she asked.

“He was sentenced to seven years, she to four. She got out two years ago, but he’s only just been released.”

She began reading the file. After a while she leaned back. “Anything on Strauss?”

“He hasn’t got a reputation for violence, but by all accounts the bust-up with Elizabeth Sanderson was pretty explosive. Big row in the canteen, apparently.”

“I still don’t see him as a killer.”

“No alibi, though.”

“Mmm...” Suddenly she fished in her pocket and produced a plastic carrier bag wrapped around something. Handing it to Rich, she said, “I nearly forgot. Get these to forensics, will you? I didn’t have an evidence bag, so don’t touch.”

“What are they?”

She was reading intently and he nearly missed what she said. “Evidence of a second murder.”

Two hours later, Beverley took a phone call, listened for perhaps ten seconds, then put down the phone. She walked out of her office, called across to Rich. “Come on, Ed.”

He had been typing at his computer console. It took him a moment to save and close the file, then he stood up, taking his coat from the rack on the wall by his desk.

“Where are we going?”

“To arrest a murderer or two.”

Ascherson looked no better, possibly worse. His skin seemed now to have the quality of parchment, something taken from a sarcophagus.

“May we come in, Mr. Ascherson? We need to talk.”

He eyed her warily from eyes that might have been faintly yellowed. Without a word he stood aside. They resumed their places of a day before.

“You’ve only recently been released from prison.”

If he was surprised by this he concealed it completely; he nodded. “How did you know?”

She indicated his arm. “The amateur tattoo.”

He covered it up as if embarrassed.

“Released early,” she went on and once more he nodded.

She took a deep breath before asking, “How long have you got?”

He didn’t hesitate. “They won’t say. It’s gone to my liver. Maybe weeks, maybe months.”

She nodded. “Not long enough to sue the hospital for the death of your wife.”

He shook his head. He looked at her intently but his expression was unmoving. There was a long pause in which the silence became thick, old, cloying. At last Beverley asked, “Whose car did you use?”

For the first time he dropped his gaze. “It was just an old banger. I bought it for cash that afternoon.”

“And where is it now?”

“We own a lock-up garage about a mile from here. It’s in there.”

She pursed her lips and said, “We’ll have to take you in. You’ll be charged with murder.”

He didn’t shrug, just smiled. “You think I care?”

She didn’t want to tell him but had to. As they were walking out to the car, he in Rich’s handcuffs, between them, she said quietly, “You were wrong, you know. Elizabeth Sanderson was innocent.”

He stopped, stunned. “What do you mean?”

“She had nothing to do with the death of your wife. Nothing at all.”

“No...”

“We’re going to arrest the guilty party now.”

It was the cruelest thing she had ever done. He didn’t want to believe her, but was terrified he would have to.

They went first to the station, where Ascherson was formally charged, then left again, this time for the hospital. They found their quarry in the canteen.

“Hello, Philip.”

He was eating a flaccid sandwich that was damp and overstuffed with ketchup, mayonnaise, and some sort of artificial meat. Just looking at it made Rich feel ill. “Have you finished with my car?”

Beverley sat down opposite him, Rich to his side. “Oh yes. We’re quite satisfied that it wasn’t the car involved in the death of Elizabeth Sanderson.”

“ ’Bout time.” He ducked his head into the sandwich, came out again with a full and ugly mouth.

Beverley leaned back in her chair, perhaps to keep her distance from the sight. “You won’t be needing it, though.”

He ceased to chew. “What do you mean?” This through semi-masticated food.

“You won’t be needing it. Not inside.”

He started chewing again but it was clear there was no longer much flavour. Only when he had swallowed did he ask, “Inside?”

She smiled and moved her head just once up and down. “That’s right. Inside. For the murder of Jean Ascherson.”

For a moment he didn’t speak, his eyes eloquent as they flicked from Beverley to Rich and back. Then, “What are you talking about?”

“You murdered Jean Ascherson.”

“No, I...”

“You murdered Jean Ascherson because she and her husband fostered you and whilst you were in their care they sexually abused you.”

“No...”

“I’ve looked at the files, Philip. You’d made accusations against them early on, but no one believed you then. By the time the authorities caught on and realised you were telling the truth, your criminal record meant that they couldn’t use you as a witness; they had enough anyway.”

“You got no proof...”

Suddenly Beverley looked around the canteen. “How did you get a job here?” she asked. “Did you lie about your record?” Before he could answer she resumed her story. “They went to prison but then, quite unexpectedly, they walked back into your life. Jean Ascherson was admitted with a hemorrhage, while you were on duty as a porter.”

He shook his head, his sandwich thankfully forgotten.

“And Dr. Sanderson took some blood for a cross-match. Dr. Sanderson who had got your wife the sack. You were the porter who took the samples to the lab, weren’t you? And while you were doing it, you had a brain wave. A single stone to kill two birds.”

He was wide-eyed now, very afraid.

“How did you do it, Philip?” She wasn’t actually interested in his answer. “I would guess that you took two empty but otherwise identical blood bottles, emptied Mrs. Ascherson’s into one, Mr. Peyer’s into the other, then washed the originals out with sterile water, and poured the samples back in. Only you swapped them over.” She smiled. “Almost the perfect murder. Mrs. Ascherson dies of a transfusion reaction, Dr. Sanderson is accused of gross negligence.”

“No...”

“What did you think when Elizabeth Sanderson was knocked down? Pleased or disappointed?”

For a moment he seemed about to break, then abruptly he said, “Prove it.”

She looked at him, apparently giving this challenge due consideration for a while. Then, sweetly, she said, “I have the records that you were the porter who took the samples to the path lab. From the records, it took forty minutes for the samples to leave the ward and arrive in the laboratory. A long time, especially as it only takes ten minutes to walk it.”

“I came here, for a cup of tea.”

“Really? Tut, tut. Those samples were urgent.”

He shrugged.

She sighed, then stood up. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To the police station. To charge you with Jean Ascherson’s murder.”

He didn’t believe her and remained seated. “You can’t prove anything...”

She swooped down on him suddenly, her face a few centimetres from his. “Yes, I can, Philip. They’ve kept the blood samples, you see. It’s a medico-legal case, so they keep everything. And I’ve had the bottles dusted for prints. Do you know what I found, Philip? Your fingerprints. They were in plastic bags, so why would you have to handle them?”

It took him a moment. “I dropped them accidentally. I had to pick them up.”

“What, all of them? From both bags?”

A nod.

Her smile was broad. “Nice try, Philip, but your prints weren’t on all of them. They weren’t on the other blood samples from Mr. Peyer and Mrs. Ascherson, only on the samples taken for cross-matching.”

Before he could say anything more she said, “You know, I could almost forgive you for what you did, except that you might have killed someone who was entirely innocent. That’s unforgivable, Philip.”

He shook his head.

For a moment all three of them remained still. Then Beverley nodded at Rich and he took Waterhouse’s arm.