‘Oh, it’s just a thought. Look, never mind, Monty. I’ll get back to you if I need to. I’m sorry to bother you on your day off.’

‘I’m not concerned about that. But if you have worries, Christopher, you really should voice them to the police. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

Christopher put down the phone and reasoned with himself. Randall Cummings might be greedy. He might be lining his pockets more than he should, but there would be no way he would actually have brought about Reggie’s death. He told himself he was overreacting. It was time he stopped.

It occurred to Christopher that he had not spoken to Betty Silverwood since Reggie’s death. He called her to offer his condolences. She was, as she had always been, a stoic doctor’s wife who faced up to life’s vicissitudes with sanguine acceptance. Like Reggie, she preferred their private life to be private, but Christopher had met her on a number of occasions over the years–when the practice had organized a dinner, or occasionally when she came to pick Reggie up from the surgery.

He wondered whether it would be better to write or to call on her, but a phone call seemed to be preferable. Then at least he could be both personal and brief, without the distance of a letter or the imposition of a house call.

‘It was a bit of a shock,’ she admitted. Reggie’s customary capacity for understatement and calmness in the face of all difficulties was clearly a characteristic shared by his wife. But her voice wavered a little, and Christopher hoped she would not mind if he asked a few more questions.

‘He’d seemed fine,’ she continued. ‘A bit more thoughtful than usual. A bit preoccupied. But then you’re all like that from time to time, aren’t you?’

Christopher voiced his agreement, then asked, ‘But he’d not said anything? Said that he was worried about anything in particular?’

‘No. Not at all. No more than usual.’

‘So have you set a date for the funeral?’

‘No. Not yet. Anyway, it’ll be a service of thanksgiving rather than a funeral.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Yes. Seems a bit pointless having a funeral when there’s no body. Reggie left his body to science, you see. Once his organs had been donated. He was very keen on that.’

Chapter 16

Who shall decide, when doctors disagree?

‘Epistles to Several Persons’, Alexander Pope, 1688–1744

‘I really can get myself on to a train, you know,’ said Sarah.

‘Yes, but I want to make sure.’

‘Why? Can’t wait to get me out of your hair?’ She looked at the top of his head. ‘Not that there is much of it.’

‘Are you complaining?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not.’