Reginald Hill - The Price of Butcher

The nurse laughed out loud and said, “Is there a police convention here they didn’t tell me about?”

“No, I’ve just been sent to make sure this guy’s doing his job. Also I’m looking for someone. Bet those bright blue eyes don’t miss much. Ever see her around?”

He put the edited photo into the nurse’s hand then made himself a cup of coffee with an ease that even more than the nurse’s reaction told Seymour he was getting old.

The nurse said, “I think it could be Miss Bannerjee. She was a patient when I started a year ago, but I didn’t really know her, as she moved on not long after I came.”

“Moved on? You don’t mean she, you know, died ?” said Hat, mouthing the last word lugubriously.

“No, of course not. I mean she left,” said the nurse, laughing.

“Thank God for that!” said Hat, laughing with her. “Had me worried for a moment. So she was discharged, everything in working order? That’s great. I expect they’ll have a forwarding address in the office.”

“I expect so,” said the nurse. “Though there might be a problem. If I remember right, she wasn’t discharged as such, more sort of like I said…left.”

“Left? You mean like…disappeared? Here one moment, gone the next? Indian rope trick?”

“No, don’t be daft! I think her family decided she should go, there was a bit of bother…. Look, I shouldn’t be talking to you about a patient really…”

“You’re not, ’cos she’s not a patient, is she?” said Hat triumphantly. “Anyway, if you’re talking about the rumors about her and Dr. Feldenhammer, no one pays any attention to that sort of thing. Happens all the time with doctors, and with policemen too. I mean, here’s you and me talking away, all innocent, but if someone decided to start spreading a rumor that I really fancied you, there’s nothing we could do about it, is there? Specially ’cos a rumor like that would be really easy to believe. I’ve just heard it myself and I’m starting to believe it!”

It was ludicrously corny, but that didn’t stop it from working, thought Seymour half enviously. Another couple of minutes of this should be enough for Bowler to have extracted everything she knew about the rumored relationship between Feldenhammer and Miss Bannerjee.

Time to give him a free run.

“Best be getting back,” he said.

He stuck the scone in his mouth to free a hand to pick up a newspaper. That might win him a few precious minutes in the fight against boredom.

As he reached the intensive care unit door, he glanced through the glass panel and suddenly boredom seemed a condition devoutly to be wished.

There was someone in there, stooping over the recumbent figure on the bed, his hands hovering over her head.

It was Gordon Godley.

Dropping his cup and newspaper, and letting out a bellow of, “Hat!” that Dalziel would have been proud of, Seymour pushed open the door and rushed in.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, grabbing hold of the man and dragging him away.

Godley offered no resistance.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Really. It’s okay.”

“It better had be, you bastard,” grated Seymour, pushing the man up against the wall and holding him there with one hand on his chest, the other ready with clenched fist to deliver a disabling punch if he tried anything.

Hat Bowler burst through the door, followed by the pretty nurse.

“You need any help there?” demanded Bowler.

“No. I’ve got him,” said Seymour, irritated to realize he was much more out of breath than Godley. “Just check that she’s okay, will you?”

He glowered at his unresisting captive till the nurse said, “Everything looks fine. No harm done.”

“Good,” said Bowler. “Well done, Dennis. You got him before he had time to do anything.”

“Thank Christ for that,” said Seymour, shuddering to think of Pascoe’s reaction if he’d been too late.

But Mr. Godley was shaking his head.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “It felt like I had plenty of time.”

“For what, you bastard?” demanded Seymour, alarmed once more. “What were you trying to do to her?”

Then the nurse cried, “Look!”

He turned, fearful of what he might see.

Clara Brereton had opened her eyes. They were moving rapidly, taking in the room, the people there. She brought her fingers up to the tube down her throat as if she wanted to speak.

The nurse said, “I’ll get a doctor,” and pressed a button on the wall by the bed.

Seymour looked back at Godley.

The man was smiling and nodding his head.

“There,” he said. “I knew I’d had time.”

Seymour was by nature and by nurture an honest, straightforward man, so much so that it never even occurred to him, as many of his colleagues theorized, that if he’d had just a little capacity for deviousness, he might have risen a lot higher in his career.

When Pascoe turned up at the Avalon, the DC made no attempt to conceal the dereliction of duty that had allowed Godley access to Clara Brereton, only perhaps slightly overstressing in mitigation the miraculous nature of the woman’s recovery.

But Pascoe was in no mood either to administer bollockings or to debate miracles.

“Is she talking yet?” he demanded.

“Don’t know. Dr. Feldenhammer made us leave the room.”

Another thing Pascoe wasn’t in the mood for was being obstructed by doctors whose professional expertise was no match for the mumbo jumbo of a hairy healer.

He strode into the intensive care unit. Clara Brereton was lying there, still looking very pale, but unencumbered by breathing or feeding tubes. He saw her intelligent eyes register his arrival.

There were several nurses and doctors around the bed. One of them said indignantly, in an American accent, “Now see here, whoever you are-”

“Pascoe. DCI Pascoe. It’s Dr. Feldenhammer, isn’t it? I’ve seen your photo.”

“That’s right. So you’re Pascoe. I’ve heard about you.”

“And I about you,” said Pascoe significantly. “I’d like to speak to Miss Brereton.”

“Not possible till my people are done here.”

“If she can talk, it’s possible,” said Pascoe.

The men glared at each other, but the struggle was ended by a whisper from the bed.

“Mr. Pascoe…”

“Yes. I’m here, Miss Brereton.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes full of tears, “but I can’t remember anything…. What happened to me?…I can’t remember….”

Pascoe allowed himself to be escorted out of the room by Feldenhammer.

“So what’s the prognosis?” he asked, his tone now conciliatory.

“Surprisingly good. As you saw, she can breathe unaided and though her fractures and possible internal injuries will probably keep her bedridden for some time, her mind seems unimpaired. Memory loss is common in such cases. Often it returns eventually, at least in part, but you’ll just have to be patient.”

“One of my officers will be with her, or close to her, at all times. I’d like your assurance that anything she says to any of your staff will be passed on immediately.”

“We have a duty of confidentiality, Mr. Pascoe-”

“I’m glad to hear you take your responsibilities to your patients so seriously, Doctor,” said Pascoe heavily. “Regardless of race or creed. It’s a concept I may need to discuss with you sometime in the future. Meanwhile, if I can have your assurance…”

Feldenhammer looked at him uneasily, perhaps recalling the remark about seeing his photo. Finally he said, “Yes, of course, we’ll be happy to cooperate. Now excuse me.”

He went back into the room.

Pascoe said, “Dennis, no cockups this time, right? Next time you may not be so lucky.”