Troubled Blood

“Now, Margot didn’t like hearing the truth about partition,” said Dr. Gupta. “We all wanted independence, naturally, but the transition was handled very badly, very badly indeed. Nearly three million went missing. Rapes. Mutilation. Families torn asunder. Dreadful mistakes made. Appalling acts committed.

“Margot and I had an argument about it. A friendly argument, of course,” he added, smiling. “But Margot romanticized uprisings of people in distant lands. She didn’t judge brown rapists and torturers by the same standards she would have applied to white men who drowned children for being the wrong religion. She believed, I think, like Suhrawardy, that ‘bloodshed and disorder are not necessarily evil in themselves, if resorted to for a noble cause.’”

Dr. Gupta swallowed his biscuit and added,

“It was Suhrawardy, of course, who incited the Great Calcutta Killings. Four thousand dead in a single day.”

Strike allowed a respectful pause to fill the room, broken only by the distant sound of Escape to the Country. When no further mention of bloodshed and terror was forthcoming, he took the opening that had been offered to him.

“Did you like Margot?”

“Oh yes,” said Dinesh Gupta, still smiling. “Although I found some of her beliefs and her attitudes shocking. I was born into a traditional, though Westernized, family. Before Margot and I went into practice together, I had never been in daily proximity to a self-proclaimed liberated lady. My friends at medical school, and the partners in my previous practice, had all been men.”

“A feminist, was she?”

“Oh, very much so,” said Gupta, smiling. “She would tease me about what she thought were my regressive attitudes. She was a great improver of people, Margot—whether they wished to be improved or not,” said Gupta, with a little laugh. “She volunteered at the WEA, too. The Workers’ Educational Association, you know? She’d come from a poor family, and she was a great proponent of adult education, especially for women.

“She would certainly have approved of my girls,” said Dinesh Gupta, turning in his armchair to point at the four graduation photographs behind him. “Jheel still laments that we had no son, but I have no complaints. No complaints,” he repeated, turning back to face Strike.

“I understand from the General Medical Council records,” said Strike, “that there was a third GP at the St. John’s practice, a Dr. Joseph Brenner. Is that right?”

“Dr. Brenner, yes, quite right,” said Gupta. “I doubt he’s still alive, poor fellow. He’d be over a hundred now. He’d worked alone in the area for many years before he came in with us at the new practice. He brought with him Dorothy Oakden, who’d done his typing for twenty-odd years. She became our practice secretary. An older lady—or so she seemed to me at the time,” said Gupta, with another small chuckle. “I don’t suppose she was more than fifty. Married late and widowed not long afterward. I have no idea what became of her.”

“Who else worked at the practice?”

“Well, let’s see… there was Janice Beattie, the district nurse, who was the best nurse I ever worked with. An Eastender by birth. Like Margot, she understood the privations of poverty from personal experience. Clerkenwell at that time was by no means as smart as it’s become since. I still receive Christmas cards from Janice.”

“I don’t suppose you have her address?” asked Strike.

“It’s possible,” said Dr. Gupta. “I’ll ask Jheel.”

He made to get up.

“Later, after we’ve talked, will be fine,” said Strike, afraid to break the chain of reminiscence. “Please, go on. Who else worked at St. John’s?”

“Let’s see, let’s see,” said Dr. Gupta again, sinking slowly back into his chair. “We had two receptionists, young women, but I’m afraid I’ve lost touch with both of them… now, what were their names…”

“Would that be Gloria Conti and Irene Bull?” asked Strike, who’d found both names in old press reports. A blurry photograph of both young women had shown a slight, dark girl and what he thought was probably a peroxide blonde, both of them looking distressed to be photographed as they entered the practice. The accompanying art-icle in the Daily Express quoted “Irene Bull, receptionist, aged 25,” as saying “It’s terrible. We don’t know anything. We’re still hoping she’ll come back. Maybe she’s lost her memory or something.” Gloria was mentioned in every press report he’d read, because she’d been the last known person to see Margot alive. “She just said ‘Night, Gloria, see you tomorrow.’ She seemed normal, well, a bit tired, it was the end of the day and we’d had an emergency patient who’d kept her longer than she expected. She was a bit late to meet her friend. She put up her umbrella in the doorway and left.”

“Gloria and Irene,” said Dr. Gupta, nodding. “Yes, that’s right. They were both young, so they should still be with us, but I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea where they are now.”

“Is that everyone?” asked Strike.

“Yes, I think so. No, wait,” said Gupta, holding up a hand. “There was the cleaner. A West Indian lady. What was her name, now?”

He screwed up his face.

“I’m afraid I can’t remember.”

The existence of a practice cleaner was new information to Strike. His own office had always been cleaned by him or by Robin, although lately, Pat had pitched in. He wrote down “Cleaner, West Indian.”

“How old was she, can you remember?”

“I really couldn’t tell you,” said Gupta. He added delicately, “Black ladies—they are much harder to age, aren’t they? They look younger for longer. But I think she had several children, so not very young. Mid-thirties?” he suggested hopefully.

“So, three doctors, a secretary, two receptionists, a practice nurse and a cleaner?” Strike summarized.

“That’s right. We had,” said Dr. Gupta, “all the ingredients of a successful business—but it was an unhappy practice, I’m afraid. Unhappy from the start.”

“Really?” said Strike, interested. “Why was that?”

“Personal chemistry,” said Gupta promptly. “The older I’ve grown, the more I’ve realized that the team is everything. Qualifications and experience are important, but if the team doesn’t gel…” He interlocked his bony fingers, “… forget it! You’ll never achieve what you should. And so it was at St. John’s.

“Which was a pity, a very great pity, because we had potential. The practice was popular with ladies, who usually prefer consulting members of their own sex. Margot and Janice were both well liked.

“But there were internal divisions from the beginning. Dr. Brenner joined us for the conveniences of a newer practice building, but he never acted as though he was part of the team. In fact, over time he became openly hostile to some of us.”

“Specifically, who was he hostile to?” asked Strike, guessing the answer.

“I’m afraid,” said Dr. Gupta, sadly, “he didn’t like Margot. To be quite frank, I don’t think Joseph Brenner liked ladies. He was rude to the girls on reception, as well. Of course, they were easier to bully than Margot. I think he respected Janice—she was very efficient, you know, and less combative than Margot—and he was always polite to Dorothy, who was fiercely loyal to him. But he took against Margot from the start.”

“Why was that, do you think?”

“Oh,” said Dr. Gupta, raising his hands and letting them fall in a gesture of hopelessness, “the truth is that Margot—now, I liked her, you understand, our discussions were always good-humored—but she was a Marmite sort of person. Dr. Brenner was no feminist. He thought a woman’s place was at home with her children, and Margot leaving a baby at home and coming back out to work full time, he disapproved of that. Team meetings were very uncomfortable. He’d wait for Margot to start talking and then talk over her, very loudly.

“He was something of a bully, Brenner. He thought our receptionists were no better than they should be. Complained about their skirt lengths, their hairstyles.

“But actually, although he was especially rude to ladies, it’s my opinion that he didn’t really like people.”

“Odd,” said Strike. “For a doctor.”

“Oh,” said Gupta, with a chuckle, “that’s by no means as unusual as you might think, Mr. Strike. We doctors are like everybody else. It is a popular myth that all of us must love humanity in the round. The irony is that our biggest liability as a practice was Brenner himself. He was an addict!”

“Really?”

“Barbiturates,” said Gupta. “Barbiturates, yes. A doctor couldn’t get away with it these days, but he over-ordered them in massive quantities. Kept them in a locked cupboard in his consulting room. He was a very difficult man. Emotionally shut down. Unmarried. And this secret addiction.”

“Did you talk to him about it?” asked Strike.