Читать книгу The Returned Dead - Rafe Kronos - Страница 7

It didn’t take long for things to get interesting. In less than an hour Kate was back.

“I may have found something and it’s odd,” she said as she sat down. Her cheeks were flushed and her green eyes seemed to sparkle. She could never hide her pleasure at discovering things.

“I decided to start by checking on the doctor, William Whitehead, the chap Rankin says identified his body and signed the death certificate. Well, I’ve got him,” she paused for emphasis, “or rather I haven’t got him.”

I felt a prickle of interest.

“The thing is, I haven’t been able to locate him. He’s vanished, disappeared. I’ve checked the current Medical Register and all the other obvious places but I can find absolutely no trace of Dr William Whitehead. He’s not in the local phone book or at his old residence; there is no trace of him.”

I felt my interest surge.

“At first I wondered if he’s never existed, if Baxendale had invented him as part of his weird story.” She held up a hand, “And for God’s sake don’t quote our motto again.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said coldly.

She gave me a doubting look.

“But I back-tracked and went through the Medical Registers for earlier years. And there he was: Dr William Whitehead. He definitely existed, in fact he was a partner in the medical centre in Grove Place – that’s about a third of a mile from Rankin’s old house so it would make sense for him to have been Rankin’s doctor. OK, so he was there and then suddenly he wasn’t. Think about it Charlie,” she commanded.

I was thinking about it, thinking hard.

“Whitehead identifies a body as Rankin’s and signs a death certificate so it can be cremated. Right? And then he gives up medicine and vanishes. Don’t you find that interesting?” she demanded.

Of course I found it interesting and I told her I did. Like her, I had a feeling that there was something wrong. I was beginning to smell the sweet, rotten scent of corruption.

“So when exactly does he drop off the medical map?” I asked.

“Pretty damn soon after identifying the body. He’s not listed in the annual directory for the year following Rankin’s death – or his supposed death.”

“Perhaps Whitehead just died and that’s why you can trace him. Even the NHS doesn’t expect dead doctors to work. Or he might have retired,” I said. though I didn’t really believe it.

“Possibly, Charlie, possibly, but in this case retirement’s very unlikely. I did some more digging; he was – possibly is -- pretty young. He graduated from Edinburgh University fourteen years ago, so unless he was a very late starter he’d be about forty now. Sure, he might have died but statistically it’s unlikely. As for retiring, no way– he was far too young.”

“OK, Kate, tomorrow I’ll see what I can find out about the disappearing doctor.”

“Do that Charlie. Meanwhile I’ll get back to checking on the other things. Wish me luck.”

I watched her leave; the room seemed colder without her.

That evening I stayed late to clear up a heap of paperwork so that starting tomorrow I could work exclusively on Baxendale-Rankin. As a result it was after nine when I got back to my flat. I let myself in, hung up my coat and looked around wearily. It didn’t need my investigative skills to tell me the place needed a damn good dusting. I decided housework would have to wait; I was in no mood for such chores.

I made a large cafetiere of coffee and went to sit on the small balcony that overlooks the garden at the back of my block of flats. I like my balcony in the evenings. It is only just big enough for two chairs and a low table but that’s more than adequate for my needs: I rarely have visitors and I like it that way. Away from work I’m lousy company. I guess my staff would say I’m much the same at work.

I sat down and gazed out over the garden. Late sunlight was filtering through the leaves of a big chestnut tree; it splashed golden patches on the lawn. Somewhere nearby a blackbird was singing. From a flat below faint sounds of blues music drifted up like smoke. Moments like this were the nearest I ever came to peace.

I was just about to pour a second mug of coffee when the phone rang. I groaned, went back inside and picked it up.

“Dawson,” I grunted, annoyed at being dragged away from my moment of quiet.

“Ah, Mr Dawson, I’m sorry to bother you.”

I recognised the woman’s voice and felt suddenly cold. I knew what this was about. I forced myself to say, “Not at all.”

“I’m afraid it’s a matter of money, Mr Dawson. I’m afraid we need…”

I cut her off, “Yes, I understand. How much?”

“Well, that’s really up to you isn’t it? I’m sure you understand the situation.”

As always when I talked to her I felt cold and frightened. “I understand,” I said carefully, hoping she would not hear my fear. “Can we meet tomorrow? Will that be all right? I can come to the usual place. About six? I’ll bring the money.”

“Six o’clock, of course. I knew we could rely on you.”

I took a deep breath and asked the question I always had to ask, even though I dreaded the answer I always got. “And how…”

“No change. Still…” Her voice faded away.

I had to swallow a great breath of air before I could speak again. “Right, I will see you tomorrow at the usual place.”

Even exchanging a few words with her upset me deeply. Torture is a damnable thing: it injures far more people than the immediate victim. I supported the hospice for victims of torture -- how could I do otherwise -- but the thought of my friend in there and what she had suffered was a perpetual darkness in my life.

“I will see you tomorrow, Mr Dawson,” she said quietly.

I muttered something and put the phone down. I thought about the money Baxendale had given me and tried to work out how much of it I could hand over and how I could conceal it from Kate. Then I went back to the balcony, slumped down wearily and sipped at the coffee: it now seemed very bitter.

I slept badly that night; dark memories kept resurfacing. I got up just after five, driven from my bed by those horrors. Work is the only palliative I had found for the guilt that throbbed like a tumour inside me. Well, I consoled myself, at least Baxendale had given me something to work on – and enough money to keep the hospice going for another few weeks.

I got to the office early and as soon as they arrived I talked to three of my staff about their current investigations. We discussed what they were doing and in two cases I suggested new approaches. Then I called Kate, another early starter, and asked her to prepare some photos for me. She had them ready in a few minutes and grinned as she passed them over. I slid the photos into a folder and, just after nine, I drove the firm’s three year old Toyota to Beasley Ford’s main showrooms.

It was time for a story.