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?”