Ann Cleeves - A Lesson in Dying

In Jack Robson’s house, on the door mat, there was a letter from Kitty. It was in a thin, pale blue envelope and written on prison notepaper with a number stamped on the top. His hand was shaking as he opened it. It might have been a first love letter. Then, with a kind of superstition, he decided it would be wrong to read it immediately. He left it on his dining room table, lit the fire and put on his slippers. He drew all the curtains and made himself tea. Then he sat by the fire and gave the letter his full attention.

It was an old-fashioned flowing script. It had a formality which distressed him. Why did she write as if he were a mere acquaintance? He could have been an employee. Did she feel she could not trust him? At the end he was not sure exactly what she meant to say. The letter was an anticlimax.

Dear Mr Robson, I would like to thank you for your kindness to me on the night of my husband’s murder. You must forgive my foolishness. You must not concern yourself about my welfare. Everyone here has been most considerate and I do not need anything.

Yours, Kathryn Medburn

As Jack read the letter for a second time he realized that it was a form of dismissal. He was angry and refused to accept it. He decided he would take Miss Hunt’s advice and he went to look for Ramsay.

Northumberland police’s B Division spread from the old pit villages of the south-east plain to the rural wildness of the inland hills. Its headquarters were in Otterbridge, in the middle of the region. Otterbridge was a stately county town with a ruined abbey, a wide, slow-flowing river and walls which had once protected it from Scottish brigands. The police station was in the middle of the town. It was an ugly red-brick building, extended into a modern block where the communications centre was housed. Ramsay’s office was at the top of the old building with a view of the sheep market and the moors. The surface of the desk was clear. Once he had kept a photograph of his wife there, but since Diana had left he preferred things uncluttered. He could hear Hunter’s voice above all the others in the large communal office at the other side of the glass door. The sergeant had just come in but already had the others listening to his stories, laughing at his jokes. Ramsay opened the glass door and the outer office fell silent.

‘Gordon,’ he said quietly, ‘could you spare a moment?’

Hunter sauntered in and leaned against the window sill, as if Ramsay was hardly worth his attention. Ramsay shut the door carefully behind him.

‘I think we can soon close the Medburn case,’ he said. ‘The pathologist’s report seems to tie it up.’

That’s good, Hunter thought. He might make that date with the nurse from the Freeman after all. But he pretended interest. He was ambitious in his own way. He wanted an inspector’s salary.

‘How’s that then?’ he asked.

‘Medburn was drugged before he was strangled with his own tie,’ Ramsay said. ‘The business with the noose was a charade. The pathologist found traces of Heminevrin in the body. It’s a medicine used in the control of alcohol addiction. It’s also taken by old people to help them sleep. As a district nurse Mrs Medburn worked a lot with elderly people in their own homes.’

‘Did she give them the Heminevrin herself?’ Hunter asked.

‘Not officially. She wouldn’t have had access to it directly. It’s a controlled drug only available on doctor’s prescription, but she often went to the chemist’s to collect her patients’ medicines. Apparently it would only have taken three teaspoons to knock out Medburn. He took it on an empty stomach and that would have made it work more quickly. Mrs Medburn could easily have taken that much from a bottle of syrup without her patient noticing. All we need is the information that one of her regular patients has been prescribed the drug recently.’ He looked at Hunter. ‘You can do that,’ he said. ‘ It’ll not take long.’

‘Won’t it wait until tomorrow?’

‘Let’s get it wrapped up tonight,’ Ramsay said. ‘I thought you needed the overtime.’

‘Slave-driver,’ Hunter said, only half joking. As he left the office the phone was ringing.

At first Ramsay did not recognize Jack Robson’s name. He had thought of the old man only as Patty Atkins’s father.

‘I need to talk to you,’ Robson said. ‘When can I see you?’

Ramsay looked at his watch.

‘I could come to Heppleburn now,’ he said, ‘if it’s urgent.’

‘Aye,’ Robson said. ‘It’s urgent all right.’

‘Will I come to your home?’

‘Where else? I don’t live with my daughter, you know, I’m a grown man.’

When Ramsay arrived at the house in the quiet, ordered street Jack was waiting for him, the fire made up, the room tidy. Ramsay was determined not to antagonize Robson. He sat where he was told.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘How can you help me?’

‘I don’t know that I can,’ Jack said. Now that Ramsay was in his house he felt awkward and the embarrassment came out as hostility. ‘Not yet. I need information. How did Medburn die?’

Ramsay considered. Jack thought he would refuse to tell him and prepared to be angry.

‘I’ll tell you,’ Ramsay said at last. ‘There’ll be a press statement tomorrow anyway. He was drugged with a medicine called Heminevrin which is used to treat old people.’ He paused, then continued a little apologetically: ‘It’s just the evidence we needed to convict Mrs Medburn. She would have had access to the drug through her patients. We’ll probably be closing the case tomorrow.’

‘Why tomorrow?’ Robson demanded. ‘ If you’re so certain, why haven’t you closed it already?’

‘We need to confirm that one of Mrs Medburn’s patients was taking the drug.’

‘If you’ve not done that yet, there’s no proof,’ Robson exclaimed. ‘You’re being a bit hasty, man. What about all the other folk who could get hold of it? This estate is full of old people. The bathrooms are full of pills and potions and no one would notice if a bottle was missing. And what about Angela Brayshaw? She’s always in and out of her mother’s nursing home. I expect they use that medicine there.’

He stopped abruptly, realizing how desperate he sounded.

‘We’ll check, of course,’ Ramsay said, ‘but I think you should prepare yourself to accept the fact that Kitty Medburn killed her husband.’

Robson did not answer. Ramsay felt he had been misled. The old man had brought him all the way to Heppleburn under false pretences. He had no useful information at all. He was an infatuated old fool who could not believe that a childhood sweetheart was capable of murder. Well, he would have no part in his games. When he spoke again it was with brisk formality.

‘Heminevrin has a very unpleasant taste,’ he said. ‘You can’t think how Medburn was persuaded to drink the stuff? Even in coffee it must have been very bitter.’

‘Medburn didn’t have much of a sense of taste,’ Jack said, despite himself. ‘He had a lot of sinus trouble.’ Then he added quickly: ‘Everyone who came to the school knew that. He was always complaining about it. It doesn’t mean Kitty killed him.’

‘Why did you ask to talk to me?’ Ramsay said, his patience suddenly at an end. ‘Have you any new information or is this all a waste of time? If you know anything it’s your duty to pass it on.’

‘My duty is to the people I represent,’ Robson cried. ‘I’ve nothing to tell you. Not yet. Unless I find proof you’ll never let Kitty go. You’re only interested in getting a result.’

‘No,’ Ramsay said quietly. ‘That’s not true. I’m not that sort of policeman.’

Robson wanted to believe him. There was a great temptation to share the responsibility, to tell Ramsay that Wilcox was frightened of Medburn, that Miss Hunt was a blackmail victim, that he had seen Wilcox and Angela Brayshaw together in the park. It was only stubbornness and an habitual distrust of the police which kept him silent. He was confused and did not know how best Kitty could be helped.