Page 71 of Dead Serious Case 5 Madame Vivienne

“Whatever.” Harrison scowls. “I have to go.”

He brushes Sam off and yanks the door open, slamming it behind him as he stalks out.

I shake my head. “I don’t know how you always manage to rub him up the wrong way.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam growls. He rakes his hand through his dark hair in frustration.

“What’s the lead?” I ask to distract him.

“I’ve tracked down one of the senior nurses from the maternity unit at the hospital. She worked there for over forty years, retired about six months ago. She would’ve been therewhen Dr Stanford was, so I’m hoping she knows what happened to him.”

“It’s worth a shot.” I nod. “Where’s she now?”

“Lives in Stepney Green, so not far. I figured you might want to come with me, get out of the flat for a bit.” His gaze drifts back towards the bedroom door. “Trust me, he’ll come out of this when he’s ready.”

Releasing a slow breath, I nod. “Okay. Let me tell him I’ll be out for a bit.”

When we pullup to a narrow terrace house, I climb out and look at the tidy, uniform homes along the street. Letting ourselves through a black metal gate, we step up to the door and ring the bell.

“What’s her name?” I ask.

“Mabel Price. Seventy-one, widowed, one child, a daughter, and three grandchildren. Stayed on with the hospital after retirement age and, according to her coworkers, was well-loved by patients and staff.”

The door opens and we find a small, thin woman with short grey hair and blue eyes. Although her face is wrinkled with age, she seems fairly spry for seventy-one; then again, she’d have to be to stay on working at a hospital at her age.

“Mrs Price.” Sam holds out his hand and gives her a smile. Despite the scar running from the corner of his eye down his cheek, he’s still a good-looking son of a bitch and instead of coming across as threatening, he has her eyeing him curiously. “I’m Sam Stone and this is Danny Hayes from Scotland Yard. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Oh, the private investigator,” she says, her eyes lighting in realisation. “Well, this certainly breaks up the monotony of my day. Come in, come in.” She shuffles back on slippered feet and allows us to enter her home.

Like a lot of London homes built around the Victorian era—those that haven’t been demolished and replaced with fancy apartments anyway—the front door opens into a narrow hallway.

“Come through to the kitchen, lads, and I’ll pop the kettle on.” She sets off down the hallway and towards the back of the house, leaving us to follow. “Cuppa tea? Or would you prefer coffee?”

“Tea’s fine,” Sam says as we enter the kitchen.

“Tea would be great,” I chime in when she looks at me expectantly.

“Take a seat.” She points to the small kitchen table and chairs.

“You have a lovely home,” I say politely, sliding onto one of the seats as she potters around the kitchen.

“Thank you, Mr Hayes.” She smiles and I don’t correct her. I may usually be referred to as Detective or Inspector Hayes, but I’m still on suspension right now. “It’s been a great family home over the years, but since my daughter left home and my husband passed away, it’s quiet with just me rattling around. I’ve been trying different hobbies since I left work, but so far nothing’s stuck.”

“You worked at the hospital for a long time,” Sam says, segueing perfectly into the topic we want to discuss.

“Yes. Over forty years, like I said on the phone.” She sets our mugs of tea in front of us, then turns back to the counter and grabs a small sugar bowl and spoon to set between us. “Saw a lot of changes, not all of them good. In the end, it was more than frustrating and I’d had enough. I loved my patients andcoworkers, but I didn’t like the policies.” She takes her own mug and joins us at the table. “Now, what did you want to know?”

“We’re trying to track down a doctor that used to work at the hospital about thirty years ago.”

“Thirty years?” Her brows rise as she lifts her mug to her lips and sips. “That’s a long time. Seen a lot of doctors come and go in that time.”

“He delivered our friend’s baby. She would have only been seventeen at the time,” I explain.

She shakes her head and gives a resigned little sigh. “I’ve seen a lot of teenage mothers over the years, some a lot younger than that. Some things never change.” She frowns. “Although he wouldn’t have done a lot of the deliveries himself. The midwives mostly handled the birth.”

“It’s in her notes that he delivered her baby,” Sam offers.

“You’re lucky you found her notes if it was over thirty years ago,” Mabel says in surprise. “Did she keep them?”