Free The Marvellous Boy by Peter Corris Page B

eyes.
    â€œNasty,” he said. “A possible concussion. You should be at a hospital. I’m afraid I don’t practise any more.”
    â€œYou did though, until recently.”
    â€œAnd how would you know that?”
    â€œFrom the medical register.”
    â€œYou’ve been researching then. You’re right, I retired two years ago. You should go to the hospital, there’s a good one here.”
    â€œMaybe later.” I sipped some coffee. “I want to ask you about Gertrude Callaghan and things that happened here thirty years ago.”
    â€œDo you now? You come here bleeding and smelling of spirits and you ask me that. How do I know you didn’t kill Gertrude?”
    â€œWould I have come here and told you about her if I had?”
    â€œPerhaps not,” he said wearily. “But I doubt I have anything to tell you.”
    â€œI think you do. Thirty years is a long time but I need information and you’re the man that knows where the bodies are buried.”
    He winced and a sharp breath came out of him; he tried to cover it by lifting his cup to his mouth.
    â€œJust an expression, Doctor. Why does it startle you?” He didn’t answer and I pressed on. “I’ll dig for it, Doctor. I’ll be working in the dark and things will just have to fall out as they may. It doesn’t have to be that way though.”
    â€œWhat are you saying?”
    He was good, very good. Without trying he’d got me to say more than I meant to while he hadn’t volunteered a damn thing himself. I had to plunge on with my uncertain knowledge and try to flush him out. I had hints, clues and guesses and just one piece of hard information on him—knowledge of his feelings for Gertrude Callaghan.
    â€œI’ve seen a photograph of Nurse Callaghan with a pregnant woman taken down here. The photograph was authentic and I’ve identified the locality.” This was a lie but it seemed like a safe one. “My interest is in that woman specifically and the child, I’m not concerned with the wider issues.” I chose the words carefully but they still sounded thin.
    â€œMay I see this photograph?” he said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd why not?”
    â€œIt’s a crucial piece of evidence and I don’t carry it around with me.”
    He leaned back in his chair and drank some coffee. “You mean you don’t have it,” he said confidently.
    â€œThe man who had it is dead. He was murdered, probably by the same person who killed Nurse Callaghan.”
    The smugness left his face. “Murdered! You didn’t say that before. No, not Gertrude. Did she . . .”
    â€œTell me anything? I’m not going to answer that, Doctor, it’s time for you to open up a little.”
    I finished the coffee, thought about a cigarette and decided against it. It wasn’t a time for betraying weaknesses. He sat back further in the chair and his eyes seemed to sink deeper into those cavernous, dark-rimmed sockets. He looked like a man letting his mind run back. I waited. When he spoke it was carefully and slowly with the Scots accent more pronounced.
    â€œI’m going to talk in generalities, Mr. Hardy, at least to start with. Do you understand? A lot of reputations and lives, good lives, are at stake in this. A lot of harm could be done.”
    I nodded.
    â€œLet me say for a start that I know nothing about anyone by the name of Chatterton. I might have had some dealings with a Chatterton but if so I’ve forgotten. I’m an old man and I have forgotten many names.”
    â€œBut you remember some?”
    â€œAye, and with good reason.” He ran a hand over his head and plucked at the dewlaps on his face. “This is hard for me. I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing. I know nothing about you.” He groaned. “Tell me about Gertrude, was she . . . hurt?”
    â€œShe was in bed. I didn’t