“How old would they be now?” Jennifer asked.
“In their sixties.”
“Neither of them is on the staff.” But she was frowning, narrowing her eyes as she stared at the drawings.
“You’re not certain?”
“Yes, I am, but... no.” She shook her head. “I don’t know either of them.”
A bell rang from a nearby room and she got up to leave.
“Take them with you — the photo and the drawings — please. Something might come to you.”
She hesitated, and this time he wasn’t sure what she was thinking. A shutter had come down.
Was it just to humour him that she did what he asked?
Things got busier for Jennifer after that. Mrs. o’shea, who had been lingering for several days, took a turn for the worse. There are no set visiting hours in a hospice, and her large and devoted family were in and out all night. Not one but two priests arrived to give her the last rites. She was still hanging on when Jennifer went off duty.
At home, there was the fuss of getting the kids ready for school and then she flopped into bed. She woke up at two o’clock, put on her dressing gown, and made a strong cup of coffee. She took it back to bed. The cat followed her up and stretched himself beside her. She stroked him absent-mindedly. The idea that Edith might have been murdered almost wanted to make her snort with laughter. In the cold light of day it seemed absurd, it was absurd. Like something in one of those old-fashioned detective stories that Edward liked so much and maybe that was even where it had come from. Patients on high doses of morphine did get strange notions.
She rummaged around in her handbag and found Edward’s drawings. She stared at them again. The uneasy feeling she’d had earlier came back to her. That widow’s peak... and that bag of photographs going missing... not so odd in itself... She saw again the look of surprise on the duty doctor’s face. He really hadn’t been expecting it, though he had signed the death certificate willingly enough. And — face it — how hard would it be to get away with murder in a hospice? Just one more needle mark in someone who had been having several injections a day.
Her eye fell on the bedside clock. Oh Lord, she was going to be late collecting the kids. She threw her clothes on and was out of the house in two minutes. Then it was nonstop: supervising piano lessons and homework, simultaneously cooking the dinner and listening with half an ear to a convoluted story told by the twins. Five children under the age of nine. Whatever had they been thinking of? Then Matt was home and it was all right again just as it was every evening. He was a computer person, worked in hospital admin, nine to five, which was what made the whole thing possible. Then dinner was over, it was eight-thirty, and the kids were in bed.
This was their time. She told him everything and so she told him about Edward.
“Of course it’s all nonsense,” she said, hoping he’d agree.
“Interesting little problem, trying to identify these chaps,” Matt said, looking at the photo over the top of his glasses. “That nameplate — I could scan the photo and fiddle about with Photoshop, increase the contrast. The one who was Edith’s brother — do you know his name?”
“I don’t think she was ever married — so I expect it’s the same as hers: Johnson.”
“You can do wonders with online records and Google. Leave it with me, love.”
“Of course there can’t be anything in it. Can there?”
“Nah. But if I find out who they are and they’re both long gone, well then, you can put the poor old boy’s mind at rest, can’t you?”
Edward was restless. Kathleen had brought in the collection of Ellery Queen short stories, but they failed to hold his attention. He found himself looking at the clock every other minute. Laura always rang at ten o’clock to say goodnight to him. It was now eleven o’clock. There must be something wrong. He sent his thoughts winging off to the Bay of Plenty, held in the light his daughter and his granddaughter and the child waiting to be born.
Jennifer had popped her head round the door to say she’d do her best to pop in for a chat around one o’clock. So there was that to look forward to, but he had the feeling it was going to be a long night.
When the phone rang he was startled. He knocked a slew of things off the bedside table as he stretched out his hand.
The moment he heard Laura’s voice he knew that it was all right.
The words came tumbling out. “Dad, it’s all over! She went into labour naturally — and after all those problems — couldn’t have gone better, only a few hours — amazing for a first baby. Didn’t have a chance to ring you—”
“The baby—?”
“She’s perfect, oh Dad, she’s perfect. They’re going to call her Alice, after Mum.” He heard tears in her voice. “And Melanie’s just fine. She’ll speak to you herself tomorrow. And that’s not all. The airline rang ten minutes ago. There’s been a cancellation. I’ve got a seat on a flight leaving in three hours.”
“So soon...”
“Look, I’ve got to go. John’s waiting to take me to the airport. When he gets back, he’ll send some photos through to the hospice. Just hang on! I’ll be with you the day after tomorrow.”
The day after tomorrow. A little girl called Alice.
The happy news lit up the room and tears filled his eyes. Now that he knew Laura was coming he could let himself yearn for her. He thought of the day he had held her in his arms as a newborn baby. It was only right and fitting that her dear face should be the last he would see.
There was a far-off muffled boom. A couple of days to go until Bonfire Night, but someone was setting off early fireworks. There was a flash of light and above the town a firework unfolded like a big blue chrysanthemum. There were more distant bangs and whizzes: coloured lights blossomed and chased each other across the sky.
He had always loved fireworks. He settled back to enjoy the show.
Paperwork, paperwork. The downside of modern nursing. Jennifer sighed. One day she might actually clear her desk. She looked at her watch. Twelve-twenty. Forty minutes until her tea break and her chat with Edward. She put her head down and ploughed on.
She was puzzling over a questionnaire from the local health trust when the computer gave the little ping that meant there was incoming mail. She ignored it. It wouldn’t be anything that couldn’t wait.
When the phone rang ten minutes later, she reached for it with her eyes still on the form.
Matt’s voice brought her head up with a jerk. Something wrong with the children? She breathed a sigh of relief when he said the kids were fine.
“What are you doing still up?” she asked.
“Got a bit carried away on the computer. Didn’t you get my e-mail? I’ve managed to work out who they were, the men in the photo. Charles Ballantyne — distinguished career — Southampton Hospital, big wheel in the BMA — you won’t care about all that. Thing is, he died last year. The other one, Robert Cleaver, went to Australia, returned about ten years ago, he’s an Emeritus Professor of Oncology, specialising in a rare form of cancer at—” Matt named a London teaching hospital.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone pass the open door. She caught a glimpse of a dark suit and a clerical collar. The footsteps went on down the corridor.
She opened Matt’s e-mail.
Matt was still talking. “There’s a photo of him on the hospital website. If you want to see what he looks like, click on the link.”
She did, and a face stared out of the screen at her. It was uncanny, how right Edward had been, except for—