Free An Empty Death by Laura Wilson Page B

steal a look at Byrne’s notes, too - although that would have to wait until tomorrow, when they were typed up, because Miss Lynn’s shorthand was incomprehensible. Byrne’s office, which was down the corridor, was only locked at night, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.

    The spectre of the policeman loomed once more in his mind. There’s nothing to connect you with Reynolds, he told himself, and no reason for the coppers to be interested in you. And if he was questioned, he’d be able to say, with perfect truth, that he had not known the man. He’d seen him, while he was testing out his doctor’s uniform upstairs, and made a point of discovering who he was - that was how he’d been able to recognise him, even in the near-darkness. Besides, he told himself, the burden of proof is always on the accuser, even if he is a policeman. That was the most important thing to remember. He was going to be a good doctor, he knew it. Better than Reynolds, if, as he suspected, the man had made some cock-ups . . . When Byrne went out he’d satisfy his curiosity about that by searching through the records to see if he was right. When post-mortems were on hospital patients, Byrne always noted the name of the doctor at the top, so it would be fairly simple.

    He crushed his cigarette out and leant against the wall, eyes closed and face turned upwards to the meagre sunlight. ‘MB, ChB,’ he murmured to himself, remembering the moment when, in the safety of his room, he’d taken Dacre’s papers from his pockets and scattered them across the bed: birth certificate, school certificates, degree certificates - he’d been right about St Andrews. There were even some letters to his mother, written from university. Handy, those, since he’d never been anywhere near either St Andrews or Dundee, which was apparently the home of the medical school. They’d be useful for background colour, if he ever got into a conversation about it. There was nothing a university man liked more, he’d learned, than a good chinwag about the dear old college with another graduate. He’d been caught out that way once before, and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. He’d send off for a prospectus too, to be on the safe side.

    He’d already made up a new ID card for Dacre. The next thing he needed to do was to open a bank account in Dacre’s name, and then there was the question of the medical discharge certificate. The hospital was bound to ask why he hadn’t been called up - which was ironic, considering that the real reason was because he was, officially, dead, and you couldn’t get more medically discharged than that. How to go about it? He heard a creaking noise and, opening his eyes, he saw, slouching through the door from the emergency operating rooms, the rotund form of a hospital orderly. ‘Sorry to disturb you, mate. Got a match?’

    ‘Here.’ As the orderly bent his head to light his cigarette, Todd realised that the answer had been provided. Had been there, in fact, all along, right under his nose.

    ‘Deep in thought, were you? Looked like you was concentrating on something.’

    ‘Nice to have a bit of peace, that’s all.’

    ‘Work in there, do you?’ The orderly jerked his head in the direction of the mortuary.

    ‘That’s right.’

    ‘Blimey. Wouldn’t fancy it myself. That what happened to your hand?’ He gestured at the pink scar that circled the base of Todd’s right thumb. ‘One of ’em sit up and have a go at you?’

    Todd shook his head. ‘Dog bite. When I was a kid. It’s not so bad in there, you know. You get used to it soon enough.’

    ‘You’d have to. Not that it’s all fun and games where I am, mind. Been on my feet all morning . . .’ The orderly rattled off a litany of complaints and Todd nodded sympathetically, his mind racing. Something about the orderly’s face, with its meaty flesh and bulbous nose, put him immediately in mind of his landlady’s son, Jimmy, a thickset