Free An Empty Death by Laura Wilson Page A

staff than Todd had realised. He’d never seen Byrne in the main part of the hospital, but all the same . . . That wasn’t good. Wrenching his thoughts back to the matter in hand, he said, deliberately stupid, ‘Do you mean he’s dead?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘But what’s he doing there?’

    ‘Well, he’s not admiring the scenery, is he? Come on, look sharp.’

     
    ‘Mind you,’ gasped Higgs, as they galloped down the corridor, ‘he’s had a bang on the head. Dr Byrne’s not happy about it. Said the coppers ought to search the place.’

    Todd slowed. ‘Search? What for?’

    ‘What do you think?’

    ‘Did someone hit him?’

    ‘How the hell do I know? Bleeding hurry up, will you?’

     
    Despite the fact that Reynolds was covered up, Todd kept his face averted as they loaded his body onto the stretcher and brought him in, bumping clumsily over the mess. Dr Byrne walked silently beside them, and Todd wondered how he might find out how it was that he’d recognised Reynolds. A meeting, perhaps? Some sort of hospital committee? Reynolds had a fairly distinctive face - thick, dark brows and a prominent nose. He was too young to have been at medical school with Byrne. Perhaps Byrne had taught him - but, from what he’d observed of the pathologist, the man wasn’t likely to remember his former students, and certainly not to be friendly with them even if he did. Not that recognising someone was an indication of friendship, of course . . . But it might indicate that Byrne was more in touch with the rest of the hospital than he’d thought. Perhaps he ought to put James Dacre on ice for a while . . . But that would mean more boredom, more frustration, and he was ready - more than ready - for this. It was his most audacious scheme yet: for that very reason, he told himself, it had a higher than usual chance of succeeding, because nobody would believe it possible.

     
    ‘On the table, please,’ said Byrne, when they arrived at the mortuary. ‘I’ll attend to him immediately.’

    Higgs rushed to fetch the instruments, leaving Byrne staring down at the shrouded form on the table. ‘Did you know Dr Reynolds well?’ asked Todd.

    ‘Well?’ Byrne sounded puzzled, as if the idea of having more than a passing acquaintance with somebody had never before occurred to him.

    ‘Higgs said you’d recognised him, so I thought . . . I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I didn’t meant to—’

    ‘No, no,’ Byrne interrupted. ‘We’d met on a couple of—’ He stopped, his lips moving silently, as if trying out words for suitability. ‘On a couple of occasions.’ He turned away and started to remove his jacket.

    Todd uncovered Reynolds’s body and began, with difficulty since the outer garments were partially caked with wet plaster dust, to strip it. Occasions, he thought, as he tugged the trousers over the hips. The way Byrne had said it was significant. The most likely explanation was a post-mortem on one of Reynolds’s patients - if there was a suggestion of negligence, perhaps? And if it had happened more than once . . . ?

    Higgs bustled in with the instruments and lent a hand with removing the rest of Reynolds’s clothes. ‘Better make a list of this lot,’ he said. ‘The police’ll need it.’ Todd stared down at the stripped corpse: merely the shell that once contained the man. The harsh overhead lamp gave the body a yellow tinge, so that it looked as if it were made of dirty wax.

    Dr Byrne took up his position by the table, and his beanpole of an assistant, Miss Lynn (the Forces’ Sourpuss) drew up a chair several feet away and hunched, vulture-like, over her notebook. Dismissed by Byrne, Todd took himself out to the basement yard for a breath of fresh air and a smoke. A little curiosity, he thought, would hardly seem suspicious - after all, he’d been told about the blow to the head and the police search. He could ask Higgs later, while they were cleaning up the room. He ought to try and