“Exactly.”
“That would explain why she was under so much stress. She was desperate to stay at Black Law but Fulwell saw it as some sort of test of loyalty.”
“It’s possible, don’t you think?”
He didn’t give a direct answer. “Inspector, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How does this relate to the murder of Grace Fulwell? Or even to that of her father?”
“Piss off, Ashworth. Don’t be such a smart alec. If I knew that I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be out making an arrest.” But the question had amused her. She chuckled into her tea.
Chapter Fifty-Eight.
The psychiatrist who had been consultant at St. Nicholas1 Hospital when Bella Noble and Edmund Fulwell were patients had moved on to become professor of a southern university. Vera spoke to him on the telephone without much hope. He was unexpectedly human and laughed out loud at her questions.
“Good heavens, you can’t expect me to remember individuals after all this time.” Not unfriendly though and not in so much of a hurry that he wouldn’t let her go on.
“They weren’t ordinary patients. Bella Noble came to you from a secure hospital on Merseyside to prepare for discharge. She’d killed her father. Edmund was one of the Fulwells from Holme Park.”
“I remember him. At least I remember wondering why he was slumming it on the NHS instead of being treated in a private clinic. I have some recollection of the transfer of the woman but only because it was a bureaucratic nightmare. As I recall she didn’t stay long. She wasn’t ill and even in those days we needed the beds. Why do you want to know?”
“They’re both dead.” “Ah.” He paused. “I’m sorry but I can’t say I’m surprised. Community care only works if there’s adequate supervision. It’s tough on the street. People get depressed, angry. There’s always a danger of suicide or violence.”
“Bella married a farmer and seems to have lived happily, caring for him after he had a stroke. Edmund had the same job since he left the hospital.” “Ah,” he said again. This time sheepishly. “And I’m always telling my students not to resort to stereotypes. You’ve given me a text for my next lecture. I’m afraid I can’t help you. Any notes will be at St. Nick’s.”
“I’ve seen them. I was wondering if there was anyone else who would remember Bella and Edmund. Someone who would have had more day to day contact than you. A nurse perhaps or a junior doctor.”
“Some of the nursing staff might still be there. Talk to the auxiliaries. In the Health Service the higher up the hierarchy you go the more time you spend in an office. The junior doctors came and went with such frequency that sometimes I couldn’t even remember their names.” There was a silence while he considered. “Better still talk to Christina. Christina Flood. She’s a psychologist. St. Nick’s was her first permanent appointment and she was like a breath of fresh air in the place. She was interested in group work, art therapy, drama.
Not all of it was useful but it was about engaging with the patients rather than hiding away from them and letting them sit around until the drugs started to work. If anyone can remember those individuals it’ll be Christina.”
“Do you know where she’s working now?”
Vera held her breath. The woman was idealistic, enthusiastic. It would be just her luck if she’d decided to become a missionary in Africa.
“Still in Northumberland. Still on the coast. She’s moved on since then though. She’s in charge of the Community Service based at an outpatient clinic. When you talk to her pass on my best wishes. And my admiration for sticking in there. I escaped from the patients too in the end.”
Eventually Vera tracked down Christina Flood to her home. She was on maternity leave and had given birth the evening before to a daughter.
She’d just returned from hospital. The partner to whom Vera spoke on the phone had just returned from hospital. He was so full of goodwill, so proud of the new infant and his part in creating it that he would have invited the whole CID into the house but Ashworth was horrified.
“You can’t intrude today,” he said. “They’ll want some time on their own. She’ll not feel up to it. She only came out of the labour ward this morning.”
“That’ll surely not have taken away her ability to talk.”
Anyway, I can’t think why it’s so important.”
“Because something went on in that hospital that brought those two together and kept them together for years. I need to know what it was.” She looked up at him. “You like babies. Do you want to come along?” “No,” he said, brave for once. “I think it’s harassment and I want no part of it.” Then, as she hesitated at the door, he added, “You’re not frightened of going on your own, are you? It’s only a baby. It’ll not bite.”
Christina Flood lived in a narrow, three-storeyed house close to the seafront in Tynemouth. A skinny man in a scarlet, hand knitted sweater opened the door to Vera. Against his shoulder he held a white, wrapped bundle. He leant forward slightly, tilting from the waist so that Vera could see the baby’s face.
“Isn’t she lovely?”
He seemed to find it impossible to keep still, skipping from one leg to another like an excited child but the baby slept, puckering its face occasionally as if it were dreaming. “We haven’t decided on a name yet. Chrissie wants something solid and respectable.” He seemed to take Vera’s interest for granted. “I think she’s going to be outrageous. She should have something to suit.”
The ground floor of the house was one large room set up as a workshop.
On a grimy central heating boiler a ginger cat slept on a blanket.
There was a serious angle poise lamp on one of the benches but that wasn’t switched on and the only light came from a small dusty window, the corners in shadow. There were rows of shelves made of dull metal, racks of tools, a vice. Vera sensed a secret passion. In a room like this Hector would have met the brotherhood to inject eggs and blow them.
“What goes on here?” she asked. She was glad for a moment to escape baby talk.
“I make flutes. And repair them and other woodwind instruments.” From then on Vera saw him as a pied piper, dressed in scarlet, piping to his baby.
“Chrissie’s upstairs. I’ve told her she should be in bed, but she’ll not listen to me.” He danced on, up a flight of bare wooden stairs into a wide thin room with a view over water and down the Tyne as far as the docks at North Shields. Christina Flood sat on a green linen sofa with her legs up. She was wearing trousers and a loose white tunic. She had strong features, a square jaw, black eyebrows. Her hair was cut in a straight fringe. The room was filled with flowers and a hand-painted banner saying WELCOME HOME was strung above the window. Christina saw Vera looking at it.
“I know. What is he like? I was gone for less than twenty-four hours.” She turned to the man. “For Christ’s sake, Patrick, put her in the carry cot Why don’t you make yourself useful and get some tea?”
With one lithe movement he knelt and put the baby on its back in the basket, which stood on the floor.
“Spoilsport,” he said and left the room.
“Patrick said you wanted to talk to me about Edmund Fulwell but I’m not sure I can help. He wasn’t a client of mine. Not really. He’d been stable for some time. If he did need medication he’d probably get it from his GP.”
“I’ve seen his recent records. I’m more interested in the time he spent in St. Nick’s. Do you remember working with him there?”
“Very well. It was an exciting time for me. My first chance to put my ideas and my training into practice.”
“Do you remember a patient called Bella Noble?”
“Yes. She was there at the same time. A member of the group. I’ve not even seen her since she was discharged.”
“But you had seen Edmund?”