The Private Patient (10 page)

BOOK TWO

15
December
London, Dorset

1

At half past ten on that Saturday morning, Commander Adam Dalgliesh and Emma Lavenham had an appointment to meet her father. To meet a future father-in-law for the first time, especially with the purpose of informing him that one is shortly to marry his daughter, is seldom an enterprise undertaken without some misgivings. Dalgliesh, with a vague recollection of similar fictional encounters, had somehow envisaged that, as the suppliant, he was expected to see Professor Lavenham on his own, but was easily persuaded by Emma that they should visit her father together. “Otherwise, darling, he'll keep asking what my views are. After all, he's never yet seen you and I've hardly mentioned your name. If I'm not there I won't be sure he's taken it in. He does have a tendency to vagueness, although I'm never sure how much of that is genuine.”

“Are his vague moods frequent?”

“They are when I'm with him, but there's nothing wrong with his brain. He does rather like to tease.”

Dalgliesh thought that vagueness and teasing would be the least of his problems with his prospective father-in-law. He had noticed that men of distinction in old age were given to exaggerating the eccentricities of youth and the middle years, as if these self-defining quirks of personality were a defence against the draining away of physical and mental powers, the amorphous flattening of the self in its last years. He was uncertain what Emma and her father felt for each other, but surely there must have been love—in memory at least—and affection. Emma had told him that her younger sister, playful, biddable and prettier than she and killed in childhood by a speeding car, had been his favourite child, but she had spoken without a note of criticism or resentment. Resentment was not an emotion he associated with Emma. But however difficult the relationship, she would want this meeting between father and lover to be a success. It was his job to ensure that it was, that it didn't remain an embarrassment or a lasting disquietude in her memory.

All that Dalgliesh knew of Emma's childhood had been told in those desultory snatches of conversation in which each explored with tentative footsteps the hinterland of the other's past. On his retirement, Professor Lavenham had rejected Oxford in favour of London and lived in a spacious flat in one of Marylebone's Edwardian blocks dignified, as most of them were, by the description “mansions.” The block was not too distant from Paddington Station, with its regular train service to Oxford where the professor was a frequent—and, his daughter suspected, occasionally too frequent—diner at his college's high table. An ex–college servant and his wife, who had moved to Camden Town to live with a widowed daughter, came in daily to do the necessary cleaning and returned later to cook the professor's dinner. He had been over forty at the time of his marriage and, although now just over seventy, was perfectly competent to look after himself, at least in essentials. But the Sawyers had convinced themselves, with some conniving on his part, that they were devotedly caring for a helpless and distinguished old gentleman. Only the final adjective was appropriate. The view of his former colleagues visiting Calverton Mansions was that Henry Lavenham had done very well for himself.

Dalgliesh and Emma took a taxi to the Mansions, arriving, as arranged with the professor, at half past ten. The block had recently been repainted, the brickwork an unfortunate colour which Dalgliesh thought could most accurately be described as filet steak. The commodious lift, mirror-panelled and smelling strongly of furniture polish, took them up to the third floor.

The door to number
27
was opened so promptly that Dalgliesh suspected that their host had been watching for their cab from his windows. The man facing him was almost as tall as he, with a strong-boned handsome face under a thatch of steel-grey undisciplined hair. He was supported by a stick but his shoulders were only slightly bent, and the dark eyes, the only resemblance to his daughter, had lost their lustre but regarded Dalgliesh with a look that was surprisingly keen. He was slippered and informally dressed but looked immaculate. He said, “Come in, come in,” with an impatience which implied that they were lingering at the door.

They were led into a large front room with a bay window. It was obviously a library; indeed, given the fact that every wall was a mosaic of book spines and that the desktop and practically all other surfaces were heaped with journals and paperbacks, there was room for no other function than reading. An upright chair facing the desk had been cleared by piling the papers beneath it, giving it, in Dalgliesh's eyes, a naked and somehow ominous singularity.

Professor Lavenham, having pulled out his chair from the desk and seated himself, motioned Dalgliesh to take the one opposite. The dark eyes, under brows now grey but disconcertingly shaped like Emma's, stared at Dalgliesh over half-moon spectacles. Emma walked over to the window. Dalgliesh suspected that she was preparing to enjoy herself. After all, her father couldn't forbid the marriage. She would like his approval but had no intention of being influenced by either approbation or dissent. But it was right that they should be there. Dalgliesh had an uneasy awareness that he should have come earlier. The start was not propitious.

“Commander Dalgliesh—I hope I have your rank correctly.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I thought that was what Emma told me. I have guessed why you are making what, for a busy man like yourself, must be a somewhat inconveniently timed visit. I feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men. However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what an affectionate father requires.”

So they were to be indebted to Oscar Wilde for the dialogue of this personal inquisition. Dalgliesh felt grateful; the professor might well have dredged from his obviously still-lively memory some recondite passage from drama or fiction, probably in Latin. As it was, he thought he could keep his end up. He said nothing.

Professor Lavenham went on. “I think it is usual to enquire whether you have an income sufficient to keep my daughter in the manner to which she has become accustomed. Emma has supported herself since she got her Ph.D., apart from irregular and occasional generous subventions from myself, probably meant to compensate for previous delinquencies as a father. Should I take it you have sufficient money for the two of you to live comfortably?”

“I have my salary as a commander of the Metropolitan Police, and my aunt left me her considerable fortune.”

“In land or in investments?”

“In investments.”

“That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of one during one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one's death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position and prevents one from keeping it up. That's all that can be said about land. You have a house?”

“I have a flat overlooking the Thames at Queenhithe with a lease of over one hundred years. I have no house, not even on the unfashionable side of Belgrave Square.”

“Then I suggest you acquire one. A girl with a simple, unspoilt nature like Emma could hardly be expected to reside in a flat at Queenhithe, overlooking the Thames, even with a lease of over one hundred years.”

Emma said, “I love the flat, Papa.” The remark was ignored.

The professor had obviously decided that the effort to continue the tease was disproportionate to the pleasure it gave him. He said, “Well, that seems satisfactory. And now I believe it is customary to offer you both a drink. Personally I dislike champagne, and white wine disagrees with me, but there is a bottle of Burgundy on the kitchen table. Ten-forty in the morning is hardly an appropriate time to begin imbibing, so I suggest you take it with you. I don't suppose you'll be staying long. Or”—he said hopefully—“you could have coffee. Mrs. Sawyer tells me that she has left everything ready.”

Emma said firmly, “We'd like the wine, Papa.”

“Then perhaps you could see to it.”

They went together into the kitchen. It seemed discourteous to shut the door, so both managed to restrain an impulse to erupt into laughter. The wine was a bottle of Clos de Bèze

Dalgliesh said, “This is an impressive bottle.”

“Because he liked you. I wonder if a bottle of plonk is waiting in his desk drawer in case he didn't. I wouldn't put it past him.”

They returned to the library, Dalgliesh carrying the bottle. He said, “Thank you, sir. We'll save this for a special occasion, which we hope will be when you're able to join us.”

“Maybe, maybe. I don't often dine out except in college. Perhaps when the weather improves. The Sawyers don't like my venturing out on cold nights.”

Emma said, “We hope you'll come to the wedding, Papa. It will be in the spring, probably May in the College Chapel. I'll let you know as soon as we have a date.”

“Certainly I'll come, if I'm well enough. I regard it as my duty. I gather by referring to the Book of Common Prayer—not my customary reading—that I shall be expected to take some non-verbal and ill-defined part in the proceedings. That certainly was the case with my own father-in-law at our wedding, also in the College Chapel. He rushed your poor mother up the aisle as if afraid that I might change my mind if kept waiting. Should my participation be required, I hope to do better, but perhaps you will reject the idea of a daughter being formally handed over to the possession of another. I expect you are anxious to be on your way, Commander. Mrs. Sawyer said that she might arrive this morning with some things I need. She will be sorry to have missed you.”

At the door, Emma moved up to her father and kissed him on both cheeks. Suddenly he clutched her, and Dalgliesh saw his knuckles whiten. The grasp was so strong that it looked as if the old man needed support. In the seconds when they were clasped together, Dalgliesh's mobile phone rang. Not in any previous summons had its low but distinctive peal seemed more inappropriate.

Releasing his hold on Emma, her father said irritably, “I have a particular abhorrence of mobile telephones. Couldn't you have switched that thing off?”

“Not this one, sir. Will you excuse me?”

He moved towards the kitchen. The professor called, “You'd better close the door. As you've probably discovered, my hearing is still acute.”

Geoffrey Harkness, Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, was experienced in conveying information concisely and in terms designed to inhibit question or discussion. Now within six months of retirement, he relied on well-tested stratagems for ensuring that his professional life moved gently to its final celebrations without major disruption, public embarrassment or disaster. Dalgliesh knew that Harkness had his retirement job as security adviser to a large international corporation comfortably settled and at three times his present salary. Good luck to him. Between him and Dalgliesh there was respect—sometimes grudging on Harkness's part—but not friendship. His voice now sounded as it often did: abrupt, impatient but with its urgency controlled.

“A case for the Squad, Adam. The address is Cheverell Manor in Dorset, some ten miles west of Poole. It's run by a surgeon, George Chandler-Powell, as something between a clinic and a nursing home. Anyway, he operates on rich patients who want cosmetic surgery. One of them is dead, a Rhoda Gradwyn, apparently strangled.”

Dalgliesh asked the obvious question. It wasn't the first time he had had to ask it and it was never well received. “Why the Squad? Can't the local force take it on?”

“They could take it on, but we've been asked for you. Don't ask me why; it's come from Number Ten, not here. Look, Adam, you know how things are between us and Downing Street at present. It's not the time to start making difficulties. The Squad was set up to investigate cases of particular sensitivity, and Number Ten takes the view that this case falls into that category. The Chief Constable, Raymond Whitestaff—I think you know him—is reasonably happy about it, and he'll provide the SOCOs and the photographer, if you're happy with that. It will save time and money. It hardly warrants a helicopter, but it's urgent, of course.”

“It always is. What about the pathologist? I'd like Kynaston.”

“He's already on a case, but Edith Glenister is free. You had her for the Combe Island murder, remember?”

“I'm hardly likely to forget. I suppose the force can provide the incident room and some backup?”

“They've got a cottage free some hundred yards or so from the Manor. It used to be the house of the village constable, but they didn't replace him when he retired and at present it's empty, awaiting sale. There's a B and B further down the road, so I suppose Miskin and Benton-Smith can make themselves comfortable there. There'll be Chief Inspector Keith Whetstone from the local force to meet you at the scene. They're not removing the body until you and Doc Glenister arrive. Do you want me to do anything more this end?”

Dalgliesh said, “No. I'll get on to Inspector Miskin and Sergeant Benton-Smith. But it will save time if someone could speak to my secretary. There are meetings on Monday which I'll have to miss, and Tuesday's had better be cancelled. After that I'll be in touch.”

Harkness said, “Right, I'll see to it. Good luck,” and replaced the receiver.

Dalgliesh returned to the library. Professor Lavenham said, “Not bad news, I hope. Your parents are well?”

“Both have died, sir. That was an official call. I'm afraid that I shall have to leave urgently.”

“Then I mustn't keep you.”

They were being hastened to the door with what seemed unnecessary speed. Dalgliesh feared that the professor might comment that to lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune, but to lose both looked very like carelessness, but it was apparent that there were some remarks that even his future father-in-law baulked at.

They walked swiftly to the car. Dalgliesh knew that Emma, whatever her plans, wouldn't expect him to go out of his way to drop her. He needed to get to his office without a minute's delay. He didn't need to express his disappointment; Emma understood both its depth and its inevitability. As they walked together he asked about her plans for the next two days. Would she stay in London or return to Cambridge?