“So the husband didn’t know anything of his wife’s termination before the fact?”
“No.” Paxton took off his spectacles again. Sussock had the impression Paxton wore his glasses when he felt under threat and took them off when he felt on firmer footing. “It isn’t a requirement in law nor is it a requirement in the National Health Service guidelines which we follow. We pursue a policy of the woman’s right to choose. I daresay it’s not wholly ethical to keep the husband in the dark, but it’s a dilemma that crops up in other areas of medicine. When should a doctor violate the confidentiality of the relationship with a patient? What does the family doctor do when the fifteen-year-old daughter of a patient asks for help with birth control? Does he give advice, in which case he is colluding with underage sex, or does he notify the girl’s parents, in which case he has violated the relationship with his patient, which ought to be as confidential as a confessional?”
“It’s not easy, is it?”
“It isn’t — and often as not, a termination is requested in order to save a marriage.”
“To save it?”
“Yes. If, for example, the father of the unwanted child is not the woman’s husband and for a variety of reasons the husband knows the child could not be his, that is something we would rather not be involved in. We believe that if the husband or father of the child should be informed, it is the responsibility of the woman to inform him. She has the right to choose termination, and she also has the right to decide whether the father of the child is to be notified. You may think sterilization is the male equivalent, but because it is virtually irreversible, we require the full consent of a wife before sterilizing a husband.”
“But abortion—”
“I don’t like that word.”
“I’m sorry — termination, then. That is entirely the woman’s decision?”
“Yes. It’s an emotive subject. We won’t terminate beyond the thirteenth week, when we deem the fetus to be alive, unless the mother’s health is in danger, and we won’t terminate if the woman is not of sound mind when she asks for the termination.”
“Which in this case she was — I mean of sound mind.”
Paxton’s eyeglasses were on again. “We were aware of her depressive episodes, but Hugo and the G.P. believed she still was able to retain a grasp of the issues. It may even be that Hugo and the G.P. felt that the danger of postnatal depression, on top of an already present depressive illness, would have been fatal for both mother and child, and as the woman in question was still well within her childbearing years a good argument could be made for allowing her time to recover from her illness before continuing to have her family.”
“Continuing?”
“She had two children already. Two kids, a difficult husband apparently, depression — not to be dismissed as an illness — an unwanted pregnancy for whatever reason. Yes, I can see why the G.P. and Hugo felt that termination was a reasonable request to accede to.”
“You certainly make a good case, Dr. Paxton, even to a layman.”
“Well, I think it was the illness that clinched it. Even otherwise-healthy mothers have been known to throw their babies out of the window when suffering postnatal depression. In some cases they follow the child down, so that it becomes a double tragedy. In this case, it seemed reasonable to agree to the termination.”
“Can I have the lady’s name, please?”
Paxton leaned toward his desk, shuffled some files, and selecting one. “Muirhead, Jean,” he said. “Aged twenty-five, address in Castlemilk.”
Donoghue phoned the Press Office and requested a press release: The Maxwell Park murder, Sunday between 1500 and 1700 hours, the murderer probably heavily stained with blood, did you see anybody, did anybody come home to your house or your neighbor’s house like that?
“That sort of thing,” said Donoghue. “I’ll leave the exact wording up to you, but will you clear the final copy with me before you release it? Thank you.”
From the Victoria Infirmary, Sussock drove the short distance to a house in Langside. He climbed the stairs and stopped when he came to a door marked WILLEMS. He tapped on the door. When she opened it, she had changed out of her uniform and her blonde hair was down about her shoulders. She was dressed in a short brown mini-robe that revealed her long slender legs. Behind her, in a recess just off the kitchen, steam was pouring from the shower cubicle.
“You’ll lose your hot water,” Sussock told her.
She smiled and went to the shower and wound the silver knob into the wall. “You’ve been known to call at more convenient times,” she said.
“I’ll leave if you like.” Sussock stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“No, you won’t.” She slipped his jacket off his shoulders and pecked his cheek. “Now you’re here, you’ll stay.”
He held her about the hips. “I can’t stay that long. I’m at work. I’m just observing the old Glasgow tradition of dropping in on folk.”
“Well, just drop into the chair in the living room, old Sussock, and I’ll fix you a coffee.” She turned. Then she turned back. “Is that all I mean to you? Just someone to drop in on?”
He smiled. “I’ve come out of my way to see you. I should be rushing back to Donoghue with information, but I’m here.”
“I saw the paper,” said the sobbing woman. “I know he’s a violent man, I know he’s a bad swine when he’s got a drink in him, but I didn’t think he’d do anything like this.”
“Yes, madam.” Donoghue pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder while he struggled to free his ballpoint from the spine of his notepad. Then he asked, “Are you still there?”
Silence.
“Madam?”
“Yes—” She was fighting back emotion. “I’m still here.”
“You saw the paper — you mean the Evening Times?”
“Yes, the early edition — about the man who was stabbed to death.”
“Yes?” Donoghue coaxed. “Don’t hang up — in the name of heaven, don’t hang up—”
“My husband. It — was my husband.”
“Can I have your name, madam?”
“Mrs. Muirhead. Bogbain Road, Castlemilk. My husband is at home at the moment. He’s a violent man.”
“You’re not in your home at the moment?”
“No, I’m phoning from a neighbor’s.”
“We’ll be coming to arrest your husband on suspicion. It’s up to you whether you want to be there or not.”
“I’d rather not. My kids are here with me. Just don’t tell him I shopped him.” She hung up.
As Donoghue put the phone down, Sussock tapped on the door and entered Donoghue’s office. “I have a name and address,” said Sussock triumphantly.
“Muirhead — Bogbain Road, Castlemilk,” said Donoghue.
“How did you know that?” Sussock asked. Then belatedly added, “Sir.”
Donoghue and Sussock drove to Bogbain Road in Castlemilk. A patrol car with two uniformed officers followed in close company. Castlemilk sprawled over the hillside, a postwar project of high-rises and low-rises, densely packed. It is in terms of its population the largest housing scheme in Europe. Donoghue drew his Rover to a halt outside the address in Bogbain Road. It was an appropriate name for the road, he thought, as he negotiated the dog excrement on the footpath beside the untended front garden. The Muirheads lived two up left on the urine-stenching, graffiti-covered stairs. Donoghue rapped on the door.
It was opened by a well built man in his thirties, dressed in Army fatigues.
“Police,” said Donoghue. He flashed his I.D.
“You didn’t waste any time,” said the man. He showed not the slightest hint of violence, and Donoghue knew instantly that there would be no resisting of arrest.