Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(75)

Jessop gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I generally find the colonial sense of humour quite amusing, but it so quickly and predictably descends to the lowest level.’ He was looking at the phone on his desk now, as if working out if he should reach for it.

‘No point going for the phone,’ Berlin told him. ‘Stansfield is out of action for the long term, and the other blokes are currently trying to figure out how to break through the door of your dissecting room. And even if they somehow manage to get through it, I reckon that door yonder is going to take a good five minutes to break down. And a lot can happen in five minutes, believe me.’

Jessop nodded in the direction of his desk drawer. ‘In that case, may I offer you a whisky, DS Berlin?’

Berlin shook his head. ‘Help yourself, though.’

Jessop reached towards the desk drawer but Berlin got there first. He grabbed Jessop’s wrist with his left hand and the two men slowly pulled the drawer open together. The doctor’s hand was shaking Berlin noticed.

‘You must want the next one down, Doc,’ Berlin said. ‘Easy enough mistake to make, I suppose.’ The pistol was an Enfield .38, military issue. He let go of the doctor’s wrist and lifted the revolver from the drawer. He checked the chambers – all six were loaded.

Berlin dropped the gun into his coat pocket. If Blue and his mates ever got out of the dissecting room, at least the odds would be a little more in Berlin’s favour.

He reached down and slid the second drawer open. It was an odd thing, he mused, the second drawer down in the average kitchen was where all the odd bits of hard-to-classify cooking paraphernalia seemed to end up, and in offices it was always the place you found the whisky.

‘There you go, Dr Jessop, something to steady the nerves.’ Berlin studied the bottle. ‘Johnnie Walker red eh? I imagined you to be a little more top-shelf.’

He put the bottle on the desk. Jessop pulled the cork and poured a good measure into a glass. Berlin’s stomach turned at the smell of the whisky. The neck of the bottle rattled against the lip of the glass and whisky splashed onto the desktop. Jessop might have been trying to appear calm but the doctor obviously needed that drink. He took a solid swig before he spoke.

‘Exactly what do you want this time, OS Berlin?’

What do I want? Berlin had to ask himself. ‘To tell you the truth, Dr Jessop, I’m not really sure. Possibly an explanation – but the last one you gave me was total bullshit so I’m not listing you under people I can trust.’

Jessop topped up his glass. ‘I’m not sure I understand your accusation. Why would I lie?’

The shot of whisky seemed to have steadied him a bit but the conciliatory tone was getting up Berlin’s nose.

‘For the greater good, which I figure is what you’re going to say in the next few minutes and I’d advise against it. I’m really not in the mood.’

‘It would seem so.’

‘I just had a quick look in the buckets in your furnace room.’

Jessop swirled the whisky around in his glass before he spoke. ‘Mr Berlin, I can understand the squeamishness of the layman, but people leave their bodies to science all the time. How do you imagine medical students would learn about human anatomy if they couldn’t dissect cadavers?’

‘But we’re not talking about that, are we? We’re not talking about anybody giving consent. What’s under discussion here is pre-emptive grave robbing.’

‘Mr Berlin, we discussed this at our last meeting, as I’m sure you recall, and while your outrage then, as now, was perfectly understandable and even possibly commendable, sometimes –’

‘Remember what I said about bringing up the greater good,’ Berlin cautioned.

‘The facts are,’ Jessop went on, ignoring him, ‘simply that there was an unfortunate, and unforeseen and regrettable accident. And it is something we have to deal with.’

‘The mushroom cloud with the strontium-90 lining? That’s actually what I’m here to talk to you about. That and the distance from London to Edinburgh, which it turns out isn’t the same as Maralinga to Melbourne. And we need to have a chat about a windsock. Do you know what a windsock is, Dr Jessop?’

Jessop seemed confused by the question. ‘I’m sorry … a windsock? You mean those things on poles at aerodromes? The things that blow in the wind?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean. I was talking to a bloke yesterday, a Vulcan bomber pilot, a bloke who was intimately involved in that little accident with the mushroom cloud. He’s not around anymore to tell his story, seems like he had a very short half-life. Same goes for the girl he was with. It seems they were a problem that someone solved with a couple of bullets.’

Jessop stood up suddenly. ‘Mr Berlin, I am simply … part of a larger organisation and I resent any implication I have had any personal involvement in incidents where people were harmed. I strongly resent it.’

‘Resent away, Doc. Like I said, just before his sudden and unexpected demise, this bloke was telling me a story about your little accident and a windsock.’

‘I still don’t follow.’

‘Then why don’t you sit down and shut up and listen?’

Berlin had spoken softly but from his tone there was no mistaking it was more of an order than a suggestion. Jessop sat down.