“How very strange,” said John.
Mrs Bryant sniffed and sipped her water. “According to the duty physician it’s quite common, just not the kind of thing people like to talk about. They always say ‘he died peacefully in his sleep’.”
“Yes, I suppose they would. Now is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, thank you. My brother’s coming down from Orton Goldhay. He’ll sort out the funeral arrangements. I may move back up there.”
“I’ll miss you,” said John.
“And I shall worry about you. Get yourself a good woman, John. Sort your life out.”
“I’ll try.” John Omally kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Oh, just one thing,” he said. “Can I have that history book back? I left it here on the table.”
“History book?” Mrs Bryant stiffened. “It’s hardly a history book, is it? What is sacofricosis anyway?”
“You really wouldn’t want to know.”
“No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”
“So, can I have it back?”
“Well, you could,” said Mrs Bryant, “but I’m afraid I don’t have it any more.”
“What?”
“I must have left it in the waiting room at the Cottage Hospital.”
When John left Mrs Bryant’s he caught the 8.15 bus. Bill got thrown off again for fondling a schoolgirl and a lady in a straw hat told John all about her husband, who had once sprayed deodorant on his beard and gone to a fancy dress party as an armpit.
Omally got off at the Cottage Hospital. More bad thoughts were now being sucked into the black vortex in his head.
A very pretty nurse stood at the reception desk.
“Good morning, ms,” said John. “I wonder if you might help me?”
“Are you ill?”
“No. My name is,” John paused, “John Bryant.”
“Oh yes? How’s Fergie doing?”
“Sorry, I don’t quite understand.”
“Sorry, it just slipped out.” The nurse gave a Sid James chuckle.
John made a mental note to return at a later date and ask her out. “My brother was brought here last night,” he said. “Jack Bryant. He died.”
“Oh yes, Mr Bryant. Tragic way to go.”
“But just like the King.”
“I thought the king said ‘bugger Bognor’ and died in his bed.”
“I wonder if I might have a word with the doctor who was on duty at the time.”
“I’m afraid not,” said the nurse. “He’s not here at the moment, and I can’t give out any information at all.”
“I see. It was Dr Pooley, wasn’t it?”
“Dr Malone.”
“Ah yes, old Jim Malone.”
“Dr Steven Malone.”
“Of course. Does he still live in Hanwell?”
“No, he lives in Brentford now.”
“That’s right, in Mafeking Avenue.”
“In Kether House on the Butts Estate.”
“Won’t be the same chap, then. I’m sorry you couldn’t help me. Oh, just one other thing: my sister-in-law left a book of mine in the waiting room. Brentford: A Study of its People and History.”
“Oh, that book,” said the nurse, giving out with another Sid James.
Oh dear, thought John. “Might I have it back?”
“The doctor on duty took it home with him.”
Dr Steven Malone was enjoying his breakfast. He was also enjoying Jim’s book. “Well, well, well,” he went, as he munched on kedgeree and swallowed orange juice. “Whoever would have thought it? Whoever would have thought that a Brentford corner shopkeeper would be the first man to wade across the Channel?” He turned another page and glanced at a photograph. “And whoever would have thought that?”
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came a knock-knock-knocking.
Dr Malone got up and answered the door. Upon the step stood John Omally, notebook and biro in hand.
“Dr Malone?” he asked. “Dr Steven Malone?”
“I am he.”
Omally viewed the monochrome medic. “Has anyone ever told you that you bear an uncanny resemblance to…”
“Many times,” said Dr Steven. “And although it has never been a curse, it’s never been a big bird-puller.”
“Well, my name’s Molloy,” said John. “Scoop Molloy of the Brentford Mercury. I came as soon as I could.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tip-off,” said John. “From an inside source at the Cottage Hospital.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Would you kindly leave?”
“Be pleased to, as soon as you give me a quote. We don’t get a story as big as this very often.”
Dr Malone began to close the door. John stuck his foot in the gap. “‘VAMPIKE CLAIMS FIRST VICTIM’,” he said in a very loud voice. “‘ALL BLOOD DRAINED’.”
“You’d better come in,” said Dr Malone.
“Ah, come in, Jim,” said Professor Slocombe, looking up from his desk. “And how are you feeling this morning?”
“Still a bit shaky, sir, as it happens. My head aches something wicked.”
“That might perhaps have something to do with the half a bottle of brandy you consumed.”
“No, it will be the concussion.”
“Breakfast?”
“Oh yes please.”
Professor Slocombe rang his small brass bell.
“Would you care for some breakfast?” asked Dr Malone.
“No thanks,” said John. “Deadlines to keep, you know how it is.”
“Indeed I do,” the doctor smiled.
John Omally didn’t like that smile. In fact he didn’t like anything about Dr Steven Malone. With his pale gaunt features he looked every bit the vampire. Such a brazen approach, although calculated to gain entry, had not perhaps been the wisest of moves. If he was now inside the lair of a genuine undead, was he all that likely to get out again?
“Did you come alone?” asked the doctor.
“Ah, no,” said John. “Three of my colleagues are waiting outside in the car.”
“Well, I’m sure we can clear this up between the two of us.”
“I’m sure we can.” Omally sat down in a chair with his back to the wall and placed his notebook on the dining table. “Between you and me,” he said, “I think this whole thing probably has a simple explanation.”
“It certainly does.”
“But who cares about that, eh? Give the readers what they want, blood and guts. This one should run and run.”
Dr Steven’s pale gaunt features turned a whiter shade. “Listen,” he said. “There is no story here. Jack Bryant died from a haemorrhage whilst evacuating his bowels.”
“I heard he was naked,” said John. “And the words NUMBER ONE were written in his blood on the wall.”
“He was not naked and there were no words on the wall.”
“So you were there, then? You can swear to that?”
“I was there. I arranged for the removal of the body. He was sitting on the toilet with his trousers down.”
“Trousers down you say?” John made a note. “Just the trousers?”
“Just the trousers.”
“And no holes in the neck?”
“No.”
“What about holes anywhere else?”
“What?”
“Just trying to keep one step ahead of the Sunday Sport.”
“Newspaper, Jim?” asked the Professor, across the breakfast table.
“No thanks, I never read them.”
“You’re probably wise.”
“Probably. Oh, see if there’s anything in there about Mr Compton-Cummings.”
“A book review? I think that most unlikely.”
“No, about his death.”
“His what?”
“His willy,” said John. “No holes in his willy?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Well, it looks as if I have no story here at all. What a shame.”
“You have my sympathy.”
“No, I mean, what a shame I’ll have to write it up anyway.”
“What?”
“My bonus depends on it. If I don’t hand in a story today, I won’t get my bonus. And if I don’t get my bonus, I won’t have enough to buy my dear little white-haired old mother her stairlift.”
“And how much is this bonus of yours worth?”
“How does fifty quid sound?”
“You sound shocked,” said Jim. “But then I suppose you are.”
“Compton-Cummings dead and you didn’t think to mention it?”
“It somehow slipped my mind. I’d had a rough evening.”
“Compton-Cummings dead,” said the Professor. “Compton-Cummings dead.”
“Just one more thing before I go,” said John Omally, turning at the open front door. “There was another chap died yesterday, a Mr Compton-Cummings. His body must have been brought into the Cottage Hospital. Did you examine it?”