“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.”