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  Anyway, the mysteries of the human soul were not Kash’s area of expertise. He’d carry on, being the best he could be. And that started with being professional. ‘Good morning, Mr Trenchard. It’s Kash.’ Absurd as it sounded, he was determined to treat Mr Trenchard as he would any other patient. ‘I’ve just come to examine you. Nothing special. All routine. And I’ll not be doing anything too undignified or painful.’

  He kneeled just to Trenchard’s right, and took his hand. It was warm, and the skin felt smooth from the application of some emollient or other. The radial pulse was regular and full, with a rate of about eighty beats per minute. Skin turgor? Seemed pretty normal. Certainly not suggestive of significant dehydration. Jugular venous pressure wasn’t elevated.

  He moved slightly back. The respiratory rate was about sixteen but its pattern wasn’t quite normal. It still tended to accelerate a little and then decelerate to a short pause – the Cheyne Stokes pattern not uncommon after neurological injury, and which he’d first seen on the night all this had begun. The tracheostomy site itself was well dressed, but a sticky pool of mucus had collected around its margins. He placed a stiffened left middle finger across the upper left chest, and tapped it sharply with the middle finger of his right hand. The resulting sound was hollow. He repeated the process at three points on each side of the chest, before progressing to examine the back of the chest.

  Standing in front of Trenchard, he seized his shoulders, and drew his body forwards, allowing him to reach over and behind so as to percuss the chest at the back. As he did so, he noticed a small piece of plastic resting just beneath Trenchard’s left buttock. He fished it out with one hand, and his brow furrowed. It was a three-way tap and connector – a common enough piece of kit used on many intravenous lines in the hospital.

  But Mr Trenchard didn’t have an intravenous line. And nor had he for some time, to Kash’s knowledge.

  Kash kneeled again, and pried Trenchard’s buttock clear of the seat. There was a deep indentation in his skin, red and livid. Left much longer, and the skin would have broken down and a full-blown bedsore would have resulted, which might have taken months to heal. At the very least – if Trenchard could feel anything at all – it would have been exceedingly painful.

  On his way out he saw Sister Vale.

  ‘All well, Kash?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sister. I’ve just been to see Mr Trenchard.’

  She nodded, her expression unreadable.

  ‘I just thought I’d mention this.’ He passed her the tap. ‘Mr Trenchard was sitting on it. Skin was breaking down.’

  ‘That’s odd. I sat him out myself this morning with Sandra, and I’m normally meticulous. I guess I must have missed it.’ She dropped it in the front pocket of her uniform. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No,’ Kash said. ‘Nothing else.’

  He stood for a moment, wondering whether he should have kept the tap, without being quite sure why. He was about to say something, but Sister Vale was already on her way down the ward.

  19

  Kash’s thoughts about the tap faded away as the demands of the night took hold, but whenever there were a few minutes of respite to grab a coffee or gulp down a chocolate bar, his mind returned to the seemingly insignificant piece of plastic. Now it was five in the morning, and Kash made an industrial-strength coffee in the mess.

  ‘Fuck me. Was last night a full moon or something?’ It was the orthopaedic registrar.

  ‘It was your fault.’ Obstetrics.

  ‘My fault? How come it was my fault? I wasn’t out there breaking their hips. I was in Caesarian Central last night.’

  ‘I know. I couldn’t get a bloody anaesthetist half the time.’

  ‘That’s not my fault.’

  He paused. ‘You used the Q word.’

  In return, she paused, and shrugged. ‘OK. It’s a fair cop, guv’nor. You got me bang to rights.’ She held out her wrists, together. ‘Take me away.’ It was true. Earlier that evening, she had said that it seemed ‘quite quiet’. In a hospital, this was like holding up a lightning rod in a storm.

  The registrar plonked himself down beside Kash. ‘You all right, mate?’

  Kash nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘How’s it going with the lovely nurse Barker?’

  Kash looked at him. ‘Fine,’ he replied in the same flat tone.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ the registrar grinned. ‘That bad, eh?’

  ‘No, really, everything’s fine,’ Kash said, trying to inject a bit of enthusiasm into his voice. Not that his relationship with Claire was anyone’s business, but even summoning the energy to be annoyed was beyond him. He pulled himself to his feet.

  ‘Right, I’m for my bed. See you later.’

  *

  Nine o’clock, and back in his flat, Kash took a scalding shower, then made himself some more coffee and a piece of toast. Tomorrow – today now – was Saturday, and he was off duty, thank God. But he knew he wasn’t going to sleep. Something about the tap refused to let go of his mind. Had someone placed it there deliberately? It was hard to see how it could have got there accidentally. But why would anyone do that? To induce a painful bedsore? Who would be so vindictive? ‘Not everybody likes him,’ Liz had said. But not liking someone was one thing; trying to cause them pain – even on the vague off chance that Trenchard could feel it – when they were in such a desperate condition spoke of deeper and darker motives. And anyway, Liz might be pretty sharp, all things considered, but a ninety-two-year-old woman in her condition? He probably shouldn’t put too much stock in the things she said. Especially when she had nothing to do all day but let her imagination run riot amid the paltry goings-on of ward fourteen. Stick to the facts, he told himself. Stick to what you know. To what you’ve seen with your own eyes.

  With that in mind, Kash decided to replay as accurately as he could everything he’d witnessed that night in Trenchard’s office, from the moment he’d first had the call. That would require concentration, which meant not falling asleep, and that meant keeping moving. He decided to go for a walk.

  Ten minutes later, he was marching through the winter sunshine, in no particular direction except away from the Victory, his coat buttoned up to his neck and a woolly hat pulled low over his ears. It wasn’t much of a way to spend his day off, he had to admit. But Claire was stuck doing a long day. And this was his chance to finally seek out and neutralize the source of the unease which was gnawing away at him. To confirm that the shocking tableaux that had confronted them in Trenchard’s office was exactly what it seemed – a kinky solo sex game that had gone tragically wrong. Or . . . that it was something else. He couldn’t yet see what that ‘something else’ might be but he had a terrible feeling that it could be even more shocking.

  *

  An hour later, Kash finally stopped walking. He leaned back against the railings of a little park and took a deep draught of the frosty air. He had no idea where he was. But all his vague imaginings had finally come into focus. He didn’t have all the answers – not by a long chalk. But he had something. Enough, anyway, he felt, to take to DI Lambert. The police, thank God, could take it from there, and he could get on with his life again.

  Two bus rides later, with darkness falling, Kash stood outside the police station off the Walworth Road. It was a nondescript building, barely as imposing as a town hall, and Kash would have thought it had been abandoned, had it not been for the police cars banked up outside, their rooftops beginning to frost over.

  Inside the station a duty sergeant took his name, his profession and the reason he was presenting himself. When he mentioned Mr Trenchard, Kash was certain he saw a wry smile flicker and die on her face. Then she invited Kash to take one of the empty plastic seats and disappeared into the back office.

  In the waiting room the walls were drab green, not unlike the Victory’s. He hoped someone would come soon, otherwise he was afraid he’d fall asleep. He thought about pacing, but his aching feet told him he’d done enough of that today.
He wondered if anyone would come for him. Perhaps DI Lambert wasn’t there. It was a Saturday, after all. He cursed himself for not having waited and made an appointment. But he couldn’t wait; there was too much he needed to get off his chest.

  They seemed to take pleasure in keeping him waiting. More than once, he did fall asleep, his head snapping back in response to its sudden fall forwards. Half an hour must have passed by the time he heard the click of an electric lock. A door opened, and a thin man in a grey suit that hung off his bony frame emerged from the corridor beyond.

  ‘Detective Inspector Lambert,’ he said, extending his hand. He sounded bored and mildly resentful that Kash had interrupted his day. ‘We’ve met, of course. I’m guessing that’s why you asked to see me personally. Mr Devan, is it?’

  ‘Doctor,’ Kash corrected. He remembered Lambert more clearly now; the mournful demeanour and the smell of cigarettes that clung to him.

  ‘Of course, Doctor. Well, Doctor, why don’t we step through here where we can have a quiet chat.’

  Kash followed Lambert along a bright white corridor and into a bare room. Inside there was a desk, two chairs, and recording equipment mounted on the wall. One of the walls was mirrored and, in its face, Kash saw himself as the detective must have seen him: exhausted and bedraggled.

  Lambert wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m sorry about the rather barren office, doctor. Just like the NHS, I imagine. No money in the kitty for paint and pictures, I’m afraid.’ He waved to a seat on the opposite side of the interview desk. ‘Can I sort you a coffee?’

  ‘That would be great. The NHS runs on caffeine.’

  ‘NHS strength it is, then.’

  Lambert slipped out of the door, leaving Kash alone with only his reflection. Just being here gave him the jitters. It was hard to sit in an interview room like this, so familiar from countless TV dramas, without feeling as if you were about to be interrogated. The chairs and desk were attached to the floor, presumably so you couldn’t pick them up and hurl them at your accuser. He took a deep, slow breath to lower his heart rate and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, aware that he was already showing all the signs of a guilty conscience.

  The door reopened, Inspector Lambert using his knee to press down on the handle whilst holding a disposable plastic cup in each hand. He put them down rapidly, then blew on his fingers. ‘Bloody cups. Hot coffee turns them to napalm.’

  As Kash took a tentative sip of the scalding liquid, Lambert produced a thin buff folder from beneath his arm and began to scan its contents.

  ‘The desk sergeant tells me that you wish to discuss your boss. Is that right?’

  Kash nodded. ‘Yes. I—’

  Lambert interrupted him. ‘I’ve your statement here, Dr Devan. There! Signed in your own fair hand.’ He flourished the document as if he’d scored a point, then handed over the sheaf of papers. Kash didn’t need to read it. He’d given the statement, just like everyone else, and the next morning, a PC had brought them back, neatly typed, for them to read and sign in black ballpoint pen. Here was Mr Trenchard’s downfall in all its banal, titillating detail, and Kash remembered every word.

  ‘I haven’t come to change my statement, Inspector. I wanted to see somebody because I’ve got some concerns about what happened to Mr Trenchard. About the case.’

  Lambert sniffed. ‘You do realize, Doctor, that there is no legal case here, civil or criminal? Mr Trenchard took his indulgences a step too far, some might say, but there was no legal requirement for him to desist from throttling himself with a noose, no legal requirement not to dress up in hot harlot panties. Bar finding out how he got the morphine, there’s no case to be solved.’

  Kash once more took a deep breath, struggling to keep his voice even. ‘But surely . . .’

  Lambert sensed his distress and took an avuncular tone. ‘Look, I understand what a shock this all must have been for you. I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of blood and guts in your time, even a young and inexperienced doctor like you, but finding your boss, a man you no doubt admired, in that . . . situation, must have come as a blow. For him to finally show his true colours—’

  ‘True colours?’ Kash suddenly found his voice again. ‘This is what I’m trying to tell you. I’m not sure it could possibly be the way it looks.’

  Lambert raised an eyebrow. ‘Because he was such a decent, upstanding chap? Take it from me, men like Trenchard, they’re good at hiding their . . . predilections. Year after year, up to all sorts, and nobody any the wiser. Even his wife probably had no idea. And then one day they get a bit cocky, if you’ll pardon the phrase, and hey presto, there’s their dirty washing for all the world to see.’

  Kash shook his head. ‘That’s not what I mean. I mean it doesn’t add up. Why not do it somewhere more private, for a start?’

  ‘For the thrill of it,’ Lambert said, happy to despatch that lazy full-toss to the boundary.

  Kash realized he’d strayed badly from the script he’d rehearsed on the way to the station. Lambert was now looking at him almost sadly, as if he was some kind of idiot. ‘Take it from me, Dr Devan, people like your Mr Trenchard always think they’re too clever to get caught.’ He spread his hands in a ‘who knows?’ gesture.

  ‘But the door was unlocked!’

  ‘Maybe part of him wanted to be caught? That’s not unusual, either. Trust me.’ He started putting the documents back in the file. ‘Was there anything else?’

  For the first time, Kash felt uncertain. What did he know about the world of sadomasochists, people who got pleasure from pain, from being humiliated, who put nooses round their own necks to enhance their orgasms? Nothing. He was a total innocent in such matters. So maybe Lambert was right. He’d obviously seen this kind of thing before. Maybe Mr Trenchard had got an extra kick out of thinking he might be discovered. It was all so utterly incomprehensible to Kash, perhaps he should just stop interfering and leave it to the professionals.

  Then he remembered the reason he’d finally summoned up the courage to come here. He was a professional, too. He might not be an expert on autoerotic asphyxiation, but he knew a thing or two about medical procedure.

  ‘Yes, there is something else, Inspector. The needle in his arm – the butterfly needle. It was in his left arm. Back of the left hand, in fact.’

  Lambert started toying with a pen, showing his impatience. ‘I’ve read the reports. So?’

  Kash leaned forward. ‘Putting a needle into yourself is a fiddly procedure at the best of times. Mr Trenchard was left-handed. That would take quite some dexterity. If he’d put the butterfly in himself, he’d have put it into his right hand.’

  Lambert raised an eyebrow.

  ‘ . . . which makes attaching a syringe of morphine to it really hard without dislodging it. Unless someone has two hands to hold it.’ Lambert put the pen down, as Kash continued. ‘But it’s more than that. Has anyone even asked who called the crash team? Mr Trenchard himself? Unable to release the noose, he makes the crash call . . . and crashes.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘It’s very unlikely, surely,’ Kash insisted.

  Lambert narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you suggesting someone else was involved?’

  Kash hesitated. He hadn’t worked it out. He just knew the evidence didn’t add up. It was up to the police to join the dots, wasn’t it? That’s what he’d imagined: he’d tell them what he’d seen, what it suggested to a doctor, and they’d just say, ‘Thank you very much, we’ll take it from here,’ and Kash would be done with it. But DI Lambert didn’t seem to be interested.

  ‘Look,’ Lambert said, placatingly. ‘I’d put it to you that this wasn’t the first time Mr Trenchard had indulged his baser instincts. Maybe Friday night was his special night, every week? We policemen are like you poor doctors – we only see it when it goes wrong. So maybe your Mr Trenchard liked a gamble. He’s that sort of man. He’s a surgeon. He’s in theatre every day. An ampoule of morphine is easy enough to lift from a hosp
ital theatre. And as for that needle in the left arm? Well, manual dexterity – isn’t that what makes a top surgeon? Who cares? Choose an arm, any arm!’

  ‘And the phone call?’ Kash insisted. ‘What about the crash team . . .’

  ‘Even you agreed that it was possible.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Unlikely in your eyes, but still possible. He’s gone too far. The noose is stuck. Faced with a choice of life or death, Doctor, most of us tend to opt for life, whatever the situation. That’s human nature. Trenchard was no different. His last conscious act was to dial 333.’ Lambert folded his hands in front of him. ‘I think you’ll find that all hangs together, to coin a phrase. Don’t you think, Dr Devan?’

  ‘No. No . . . I don’t,’ Kash said, surprised at how vehement he sounded. ‘I think’ – he swallowed hard – ‘he had help. He didn’t do this to himself. Someone did it to him!’

  There. He’d finally said it.

  Lambert just looked at him for a moment, then the corners of his mouth creased into a smile and he started to laugh.

  Kash felt his heart-rate rising, feeling utterly humiliated, as Lambert’s loud guffaws finally dwindled to a last little chuckle.

  ‘Forgive me, Dr Devan. I’m sure you were very devoted to Mr Trenchard. And it’s understandable you’re finding it hard to deal with what’s happened. But I think you need to face the facts. Nobody did this to Mr Trenchard except himself.’ He snapped the folder shut and put it down firmly on the table. ‘This case is closed, Dr Devan. Or, perhaps, Miss Marple?’

  20

  When he was drifting, he couldn’t really think, not properly, and he sometimes forgot who he was or what had happened to him. Mostly the blackness remained, but there would occasionally be a bright light at the end of the tunnel. The afterlife beckoning? More likely, something had happened to damage the occipital pole at the back of his brain where the ‘seeing centre’ sat. Generally, then, the sensation was of being no more than a speck of fragmenting effluent, flushed through an endless, and rarely illuminated, sewerage system. On and on, smaller and smaller until . . . eventually he would stop, the sense of buffeting would end, and he’d come back to himself. He could feel his body again, or bits of it. But more importantly he could think. And the first thought he had was, ah, so this must be waking up. When I’m suddenly small, a pinprick, no more, and weightless, and the currents carry me away, that must be when I’m sleeping. When I stop, then I’m awake. I’m myself again. And I can think.