PARSONS: No … No.
‘Very convenient of him to leave it in such an incriminating place,’ Brock murmured.
‘Yes, except he didn’t leave it there.’
‘Presumably the search teams looked there when you were investigating Petrou’s death.’
‘No, they didn’t. I remember that Dowling came to ask me about it. It was locked and had Parsons’ initials on it. We had no search warrant, and I told him to leave it until we could ask Parsons’ permission. We never got around to it.’
‘So?’
‘So I had a little private peek anyway. I was curious. There might have been a blade that matched the serrations on the end of the rope in the temple, or some duplicate keys to the temple — who knows? At that stage we were desperate for real clues. But there was nothing except his jumper and some very old tools that didn’t look as if they’d been out of the box in years. So — the rope has been planted.’
‘Very interesting. What do you suggest we do?’
‘It means I have something to trade with Tanner,’ Kathy said. ‘I can save his case for him if he’ll drop any unpleasant plans he has for us.’
Brock thought, then shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s going to seem unbelievably convenient that you now happen to have remembered some uncorroborated evidence in order to save your bacon. And it’s going to mean revealing Penny’s role in supplying you with these documents.’
Kathy sighed. ‘Yes, you’re right. What, then?’
‘We have to carry on. The only evidence that’s going to count now is the confession of the real murderer.’
‘Well, let’s get on with it, then.’
‘Now? They’ll all be in their beds by the time we get there.’
‘I put off going to see Beamish-Newell once before and found the next morning that I was too late. I think I’d like to go now.’
23
It was almost 10 p.m. when they came over the stone bridge and turned on to the gravel drive leading to Stanhope Clinic. It was a clear, cold night, and the lights of the house glimmered brightly across the black meadow. Kathy drove slowly past the car park and along the lane which curved beyond the staff cottages, thinking that the Director might be at home by that hour. His cottage was in darkness, however, its brick walls drained of colour under the faint moonlight. She turned at the end of the lane and returned to the car park. As she and Brock walked towards the house, she pointed to a window on the main floor. That’s his study, isn’t it? The one with the light?’
‘Could be.’
The front door was still unlocked, the hall deserted. They both hesitated briefly as their noses picked up the familiar cloying smell, and then they walked down the corridor to the west wing. They stopped at Beamish-Newell’s office and Kathy rapped on the panelled door.
He looked up from the desk and astonishment spread over his face. ‘I didn’t expect… What are you doing here?’
‘I think it’s time I took the statement from you that I never managed to get last November, doctor,’ Kathy said. ‘The one that takes us to the truth of the matter.’
Beamish-Newell stared at her and seemed confused. ‘I didn’t think it would be you.’ He turned in consternation to Brock.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock is not directly involved with this matter, sir. However, he has been helping with my inquiry and will be reporting to Scotland Yard on the outcome.’
‘Your inquiry? I thought …’ His voice trailed away. There was no aggression in it, only confusion, as if he had prepared himself for something else and now it was happening differently. Kathy felt like an actor who has blundered on stage at the wrong time, throwing the others off cue. She wondered what he had been expecting. She stared at his eyes, trying to read them. They seemed to have become even more piercing, their sockets, like his cheeks, more hollow and gaunt. There was a film of sweat on his forehead, and his voice seemed hoarser than before.
‘You thought what, doctor?’
‘I think …’ Beamish-Newell seemed to rouse himself. ‘I think I should confirm what you’re doing here with the Deputy Chief Constable.’ He reached for the phone.
‘You might prefer to hear what we have to say before you do that, sir. It could affect the way in which we proceed.’
He hesitated, reluctant to refuse the offer of information. He withdrew his hand and waited.
Kathy extracted a notebook and pen from her shoulder bag, taking her time.
‘You recall a patient here called Grace Carrington?’
He looked startled, as if it was the last thing he expected her to say. ‘Of course. What of it?’
‘You know that she died last Saturday?’
‘I heard. I was sorry I wasn’t able to go to the funeral.’
‘Before she died she wrote to Chief Inspector Brock. A letter to be posted after her funeral.’
Beamish-Newell had become very still, his dark, hypnotic eyes staring at Kathy’s.
‘It was a suicide note.’
‘My God,’ he whispered, almost inaudibly. Then, ‘No. She was very ill, terminally ill.’ The protest was weak, his voice entirely lacking its previous forcefulness.
‘In her note she confessed that she had been helped to die.’
Kathy paused. He said nothing and continued to look blankly at her. She went on, ‘We’re also interested in the death of another sick person that you were treating, the mother of Errol Bates.’ She paused again and returned his stare.
He sat motionless, waiting for more. When Kathy remained silent he finally whispered, T have nothing to say.’
Brock now cleared his throat and began to speak, addressing himself to his hands on his lap until he had Beamish-Newell’s full attention, then raising his head to speak to the man directly. ‘We don’t need to remind you of how the law stands at present, Stephen. I’m sure you’re much more familiar with its ramifications than we are. A doctor may give drugs to relieve pain even if it shortens life, but may not shorten life even if it relieves pain. A frustrating distinction, no doubt, and perhaps one that will change. But that’s how it stands at present. Nobody has the right, even with the patient’s consent, to shorten life.
‘I had a high regard for Mrs Carrington. While I was here she spoke to me about her condition and about the trust she put in you. Anyone who was of help to her when she needed it most has my respect. We have no real desire to pursue that matter. We are only interested in the Petrou and Duggan deaths. We know that Geoffrey Parsons was not responsible for them. We want to walk out of here tonight with your statement of what really happened. If we don’t get it, then we shall pursue whatever other avenues we must.’
Beamish-Newell’s face had become chalk-white, contrasting shockingly with the shiny black of his beard and hair. He opened his mouth in protest. ‘You can’t … can’t expect that!’
Again Kathy had the impression that he was following a different script.
Brock frowned at him and leaned forward, his voice intent. ‘I do expect it. I think I can understand something of the position you were in — are in. There would have been intolerable stress.’
‘My God!’ Beamish-Newell groaned and leaned forward on the desk, cradling his brow. ‘Stress!’ he echoed. ‘Unbelievable stress! But you can’t ask that. You know that I, of all people, can’t do that.’
Kathy’s mind was racing, trying to understand.
Beamish-Newell gave a sudden grunt and sat up straight. ‘Stress always has a long history. You know that, David — your shoulder. Stress is like memory, it ties the parts of our lives together. The unresolved, unhappy parts. You may think that you’ve come to terms with something when really you’ve only bottled up the poison, which secretly builds stress. Then something happens to break the bottle and the poison becomes a terrible weapon.’
The confusing homily on mental well-being caught them by surprise.