Only the Dead Read online

  The Doctor stopped as if in reflection. He turned and from a cabinet removed a photograph of a young couple in what could be described as casual hippy-style wedding clothing.

  “My wife, Mary Flint, Chief Inspector. She was emotionally harder than her new name.”

  Cyril studied the photograph and then passed it to Owen. He looked at the Doctor. He was a youthful-looking seventy one with fairly long, white hair and an immaculately trimmed goatee and moustache. He obviously kept himself trim or maybe the daily dog walks did that. The face from the picture was still there after all the years.

  “Is that the same car you have outside now?” Owen blurted more interested in the car in the photograph than the missing girl.

  “Yes. ’59 Morgan. Originally my father’s racer.”

  Owen looked more closely at the car moving his head from side to side.

  “Lovely that Doctor.”

  “Owen!” grumbled Cyril.

  “Sorry. Could I ask you for a DNA sample so that we may eliminate you from this enquiry?”

  Cyril looked at Owen who returned the photograph to the Doctor before removing a packet containing rubber gloves.

  “Certainly, but will it help stop the speeding motor-cycles?

  Both men smiled at each other. Owen removed the buccal swab from its packaging.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Owen moved away and stored the swab.

  “Would it be possible to borrow your diaries detailing your time at the College and this photograph? They might give us something to go on. I’ll get them back to you as quickly as possible.”

  “Only if you return them personally, Chief Inspector and let me buy you dinner.”

  Cyril left Richmond with five diaries, a photograph, a DNA sample and a very acceptable memory of a suggestive smile from the housekeeper, as well as a bone he needed to chew with Owen. When had Mary Nixon changed her name? His mind moved to thinking about the housekeeper, surely she could not find this gargoyle-featured face attractive but if his radar was functioning accurately, he had received a very positive fix! If all his mornings were as profitable as this one; life could not be better.

  ***

  It was mid afternoon when Cyril hung his jacket behind his office door. His head now ached and his eye seemed sore. He’d rest both eyes for a short time. He closed his eye with his hand, the good eye almost slammed shut.

  By the time he had gone through all the diaries there was no natural light outside. He needed to go and rest.

  The night was much cooler than he had expected and he felt the cold air on his eye; it was a peculiar sensation. He desperately wanted a drink but he didn’t want the pub, not with his new found dribbling skills. He’d drink at home, ponder the new direction the investigation was now taking and lastly reflect on the Doctor’s housekeeper. Could she really find him attractive looking like this? His mouth turned up at one side in a bent smile at the same moment that he flicked up his collar.

  Chapter Nine

  Lawrence performed the same procedure in the workshop that he had done for the last four nights. The room began to smell of the penetrating oil as he swept up the brown, wet flakes that had been sloughed from the upper area of each shell.

  He used a fabricated ‘spanner’ onto which had been welded two cylinder lugs. These were inserted into the two corresponding holes situated in the end of the brass fuse. Using a similar tool, some young soldier had inserted the fuse in 1915. He tried to turn back nearly one hundred years of corrosion. The shell was firmly locked in the rubber-capped vice, allowing Lawrence to apply maximum leverage to the spanner with both hands. Nothing moved. He retrieved an extension bar from the cupboard and threaded it onto the end of the spanner, doubling the length of the bar. He tried tightening the thread first before un-doing it, a trick his father had taught him. There was a small click and creak as the spanner began to rotate, breaking the seal. The fuse was soon moving freely as the fine, corroded thread yielded to the force applied. Lawrence could feel the perspiration drip from his temples and noticed that his mouth was dry. He stopped and tightened the fuse again, optimistic that the damaged threads would hold. He removed the shell from the vice and replaced it with another. He would complete three that evening and save the rest until the following day. By the end of the week he needed to have built a separate, safe area within the workshop in preparation for extracting the fuses fully. It was all planned; he had purchased the necessary materials months ago.

  On removal of his mask, Lawrence was relieved to feel cool air on his face. He put both gloved hands on the bench and inhaled deeply. There was a sense now that he was another step closer to entering a land of uncertainty, the unknown and he visualised the picture of the young soldiers, ‘Their future was uncertain but they faced it with smiles.’ His hand instinctively reached onto the shelf and retrieved an old cylindrical, chrome whistle attached to a fraying lanyard and read the engraving, ‘Hudson & Co.1915’. He gave it a faint blow. Its shrill call filled the workshop. If someone had blown the whistle sooner about the state of elderly care he would not be in this position. He was nearly ready to go into battle. His eyes glanced up at the Three Hammerton books, soldier row straight and then to the brass face with the bristling moustache.

  “Nearly there, mother, nearly there.” He smiled before returning the whistle to the shelf.

  Once finished, he removed the suit pushing it into a yellow, clinical waste bag that he would discard at work the next day. It would be incinerated by lunch time. There was a shrill sound from a small cage. Lawrence added more food and changed the water. The Gloucester Crested Canary flitted from the perches. He closed up the workshop, double checking the locks and headed out. He too felt the chill in the night air.

  Once home he relaxed, sipping tea and reflected on the stepping stones that had led to his choosing this path. Like Jekyll and Hyde, two people, two lives. Although he assumed there was a major cover-up at the home after his mother’s fall, his initial anger was soon calmed. For a clever man, he had failed miserably to see what was taking place in front of his own eyes. Yes, he had noticed a gradual deterioration in his mother’s well-being. He had noticed that there were progressively more sedation, bruises and scrapes. He had seen all of this and had accepted it for far too long because, innocently, he had wanted to believe that this was the price one paid for living too long. It wasn’t the obvious outward signs that caused him a degree of distress, he somehow refused to accept what he experienced. It was the small clues that he and others had obviously missed, even though they were clear and looking straight at him. But what could he have done? He couldn’t look after her. Yes, he could have changed nursing homes but why? What real evidence did he have to support his theory of neglect and cruelty? Didn’t all dementia sufferers fall and grow confused?

  It had been exactly nine months after her initial fall that he had suddenly seen it. He had seen it before but he had failed, for one reason or another, to comprehend its meaning. This one day, a day when the rain washed the panes in the bay window incessantly and disturbed the curtains, he had seen it. He had approached her to kiss her forehead as he always did when he had experienced his Epiphany moment and it had made him nauseous. Looking into her eyes he had seen it, a fear that came staring back; there in the familiar eyes he loved so much, he had seen it, deep and entrenched. He had stopped and dropped his hand onto hers and had caressed it lovingly, still searching for a glimmer of change through the windows to her soul, but none had come. She had tried to remove her hand, to withdraw into the security of the bed like a small mouse trapped in a corner; unsure and frightened. She had made a number of guttural sounds that appeared to rise to her throat from somewhere deep inside her timid, frail frame. A clear, ‘No!’ had been audible, the first comprehensible word she had uttered for months. A tear had rolled down her cheek and as he had moved tenderly and carefully to wipe it, she had flinched like a small dog afraid of its master’s next move.

  It had stopped him in his tracks as his stom
ach churned and his brain suddenly focussed on the memories he held of the last few months and he realised that he had seen it before, but had failed, for whatever reason, to comprehend fully what was being conveyed. It brought immediately to mind the photograph and caption of the smiling Tommies he had so often studied; her future was now very uncertain. He had clearly created excuses to conceal his anxieties, he had shoved it conveniently away in the belief that his mother had slowly failed to know her own son. He had clearly become a person she had slotted into the plethora of people who came and went, regular strangers she saw daily. Whether she even recognised differences in voices, different gender or even different people now, he was unsure, but he was certain she still understood kindness, cruelty, fear and pain. What had saddened him more than anything was the sudden understanding that she couldn’t communicate her fears or her happiness. There seemed little of the latter at that moment, it was only visible in her eyes and her limited actions; she could only withdraw when she suffered. The signs had been there and the dutiful son that he had always tried to be, had failed in his duty of care.

  He remembered little of her death, the details blurred beneath guilt and heartbreak. He had registered the kindness his colleagues demonstrated but his world had become a maelstrom of confusion and inner soul-searching. It was the guilt, his guilt that had weighed heavily on his waking hours. Work went by the way-side and he had found himself trawling the few family photographs trying to hang onto the last part of his family. For two days he had encamped in the workshop handling his father’s models and staring at the Hammertons and he had always ended up focussing on page 1458. It had been magnetic, a safety blanket, it was always there, he was always there and would always be there; even when the future was uncertain he had faced it with a smile.

  From the moment he had begun to recover a degree of equilibrium, he had started to reflect, to see more and more. The blinkers were slowly removed and it quickly became apparent that this was not just an isolated incident. Replaying the scenarios in his mind had brought a great deal of anger, anguish and uncertainty. Guilt had tended to cloud his clear understanding of the experiences he had witnessed. With the funeral, pressure of work and the gnawing guilt that had burdened him with blame for his mother’s death, his perspective of the culminating issues had seemed to be twisted; he was drowning in guilt, and the only life-line he had grasped was to pick up the pieces of his life and suppress the doubts and the uncertainty until they faded. His denial had been the key to moving on. His work would be the panacea.

  It was approximately three weeks after the cremation that the letter had arrived. There was no stamp, just a plain, brown envelope beneath a pile of other mail. It was simply addressed to Dr. Young, hand written, in blue ball-point ink. He had turned the envelope over in his hands before picking up the letter-opener and slitting the top. It contained one sheet of A4. After the first reading, he couldn’t fully digest the words, they seemed to stick somewhere between his eyes and his brain but his heart had digested them immediately; a fear, a prickling sensation began to rise and the nausea he had experienced on that wet day returned. He read it again and again and the agonies he had squeezed out of his life were re-focused more strongly than ever. A faint whistle tingled in his ears as a deep loathing settled somewhere within his very being and grew like a rampant cancer. Guilt began to turn to anger. He considered the police, ‘the Old Bill’ as his father had referred to them but then dismissed it. He knew that little or no effort would be brought to bear; a sad, old confused lady dies, they do every day. No they would do absolutely nothing.

  Immediately coming to mind was a story that was often told to him by his father’s grandfather, a story that was repeatedly told with all the passion, fear and pride he could muster, that set Lawrence on a new pathway. It must be said, the heading taken was most uncharacteristic. In some ways the story might have set the sub-conscious foundations upon which he slowly built his own profession and character for he always tried to be compassionate, kind and dedicated to the task in hand, too much some times, but who knew the catalysts of fate that await and whether this long ago story had anything to do with it.. Lawrence quickly compressed the bones of the story to mind.

  In 1912, Dr. Noel Chavasse had been a house physician, followed a year later by his appointment as house surgeon at the Royal Southern Hospital in Liverpool. As war loomed, he was commissioned as a Lieutenant in the Royal Army Medical Corps and soon found himself in Belgium in June, 1915. He continually went into No Man’s Land to find the injured soldiers, some were out there and not wounded just frightened and disorientated. He spent most nights ensuring that all had been returned and for this he was awarded the Military Cross. Not only was he caring, treating the injured during the day, at night, he would venture out looking for those who couldn’t get back; often this meant venturing just in front of the German trenches. In 1916, he was awarded the Victoria Cross For the most conspicuous bravery and devotion to duty. Although injured a number of times, he continued to disregard his own safety. His sensitivity enabled him to sympathise with soldiers who had lost their nerve and he made arrangements to keep them away from the front until they were mentally stronger. Lawrence was fascinated by the Doctor’s boundless compassion and his selfless acts. His winning a second Victoria Cross posthumously made such a lasting impression that as a child he set out to be a little like Noel. He could even hear his great grandfather’s voice in his father’s words. There’s a man, a man to look to, to follow, lad. True and honourable qualities that make some men different, special, which make a man stand head and shoulders over his peers. Think on my story boy!

  Lawrence did think on the story and the man and studied the dreadful World War, intrigued that his own great grandfather had played his part and lost two brothers in the hell of conflict. He then contrasted the human frailty he had witnessed with his mother’s own passing. Had Dr. Chavasse been in the nursing home things would have been so different. He felt like a child again and wept, “Oh Mummy!” It was then that it occurred to him as he reflected on his mother’s smiling face. Another childhood adage flashed in his mind, if you reward for good then you punish for bad. As black is to white, it should be clean cut, clinical and proper. It had always been the case when he so often stood in front of his trembling, furious father awaiting the punishment he knew would come, so often for simple misdemeanours: an untidy room, a poor report and even dirty shoes were some of the many; all were considered unacceptable; there were no if nor buts. Only the cold judgement of physical pain brought it to a conclusion. An engineer’s large and firm hand could bring about a direction change rapidly. However, the older he became, the more like his father he grew and with that, the fewer punishments he received.

  He put down his cup and retrieved the letter that was on the table, its edges were now quite battered. After each reading it was carefully folded and returned to the envelope. He read it again, savouring every word, clinically filing every name.

  He drank the cold remains of his tea, rinsed the cup thoroughly, dried it and put it back in the cupboard. Everything was now it its proper place. The envelope was placed in the drawer and he switched off the light. Tomorrow would be another step closer.

  Chapter Ten

  The two identical strangers stared at each other, one real the other a reflection. Cyril pulled at his face trying to move his mouth into its correct position but as he let go it reverted to the droop. The click of the boiling kettle drew him away.

  “Why would a woman find this attractive?” he mumbled as he plunged the coffee to the bottom of the French press. He drank without dribbling which was a first and he smiled causing a small droplet of coffee to run from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it and laughed. At least he still had his sense of humour. Maybe that was what she found irresistible!

  He put on his watch, rubbed the glass and shook it. He had bought this as a gift to himself for reaching forty. He had nobody else with whom to share attaining such an important milestone so h
e had decided to treat himself, splash out a good deal on an Explorer 2 wristwatch. He loved it, even though he seemed to be constantly shaking it. He was convinced the superlative chronometer that was officially certified should never lose time and in truth it didn’t but he was never sure. He collected his jacket, rain coat and a small umbrella before leaving for work.

  Owen was already there chasing the DNA results and chatting with colleagues. There was always a lot of office banter about ‘Flash’ but Owen proved himself to be extremely loyal, saying very little. He felt there was a degree of jealousy amongst the lads; not every Copper there could afford to dress like Cyril and many more didn’t have his looks. To be honest, very few were as thorough, so he was a tough act to follow.

  The rain held off and Cyril hung up his coat and jacket, a hanger for each. Owen knocked and entered.

  “DNA should be with us shortly, Sir. Did you glean anything from the diaries?”

  “It wasn’t what was in the diaries but what wasn’t that interests me. Bring the Doctor’s file and let’s plot his life on the chart. Something felt not right yesterday. I don’t believe he is involved with the deaths but the more I read the more my senses tingled and that, Owen, is not good. Before you ask, it has nothing to do with this!” he pointed to his face. “Anyway, more importantly, why didn’t you tell me about Mary’s name change?”

  “I did Sir, if you recall. You said I believe let me guess... Mrs Flint and I said no but then the subject was changed.”

  It was the first time he had seen Owen stand his ground.