Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  “I don't think I've ever known you to scrub your keyboard,” she said.

  “Me neither. But I seem to be on a bit of a bacteria-fest at the moment. I keep washing my hands too. Maybe I'm coming down with OCD,” he said, smiling.

  “I don’t think you ‘come down’ with OCD.”

  “I read somewhere that when you've got something whizzing around your head and you’re trying to work it out, a mundane task, like tidying something away or clearing a cupboard out, for instance, gives your brain something else to chew on and the answer will spring forward on its own. So, I thought I'd give it a try. That and a little inspiration from Marie Kondo.”

  Amanda raised an eyebrow. “And did it work? Did it bring you joy?” Her lips twitched in a quick smile, and she began fiddling with the package of wet wipes. Jack watched, mesmerised. Perhaps he’d do the windows next.

  “Do you know,” he said, “watching your fingers fiddling with that green packet, I think it just has.”

  “So, what shook loose?”

  “I was wondering who told Dupin about my visit to McAllister and the prison, and I just realised,” he said, nodding at the green packet. “It will be Kyle Greenly.”

  “Now where do I know the name Greenly from?” said Amanda, looking up at the ceiling as if hoping the answer would be written on the water-stained tiles.

  “Well, you know the name because Max Greenly is a local businessman, but he’s also the father of Kyle Greenly, who is also the nephew of one DI Lawrence Dupin.”

  “He grassed you up,” said Amanda.

  “He certainly did,” said Jack resignedly. “He must think I’m as green as grass.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Satisfied with his newly cleaned and Kondo-ized desk that now smelled of newborn babies, Jack picked up the file that was on the top—the Hardesty case. He knew every piece of paper that was in it, he’d been through it so many times, but he pulled out the autopsy photographs again and spread them out on his clear desk. They had been taken almost 15 years ago and the quality was poor compared to what he was used to seeing now—grainy and hard to discern.

  He picked up the autopsy report again. Again, he knew most of the wording by heart now, and he also knew the pathologist who had performed the procedure—Charles Winstanley. He'd worked with him on many cases in the past; the old man had only recently semi-retired. He was one of those characters who, even when he had been 40 years old, looked like he should have been in retirement. He was famous for his wispy white hair that stood straight up like Don King’s. Jack had always found him a decent person, talented, accurate and inquisitive, but looking at the photos now, he wondered if there was any chance of a mistake in Winstanley’s work on the case.

  There was only one way to find out and that was to ask Faye Mitchell if she’d be willing to take a second look. He picked up the phone, selected her number and waited for it to connect. When she answered, it was obvious she wasn't in her office. He could hear traffic close by. Maybe she was out grabbing a bite to eat for lunch and walking back to the lab.

  “Yes, Jack?” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I'm hoping I can ask a favour, actually, Faye,” Jack said.

  “You can always ask. Can’t promise I can do, though.”

  Jack was used to the woman’s occasional abruptness, and as usual he ignored it. She was wired differently to him, and that was fine. He carried on, “You’re obviously familiar with Dupin's case and your findings, and I just wondered what the possibility was of you looking at some photos from a cold case that might be related. Actually, it’s not strictly a cold case—it's more of an old case, but it's the same sort of setup.”

  “What happened in that case, Jack? Why the interest now?”

  “Well, a chap is in prison—he was charged with murder, actually—but I'm just curious. Given the recent experience with Dupin, I wondered if the same thing might have happened with this man, Michael Hardesty?”

  “It’s not like you to get involved in old solved cases, Jack. Are you underworked at the moment?” She tittered lightly; it was her way of being amusing.

  Jack wasn't sure how to answer, so he stayed silent, pondering his next move. But Faye realised what he was doing and filled in the gap anyway. She knew Jack well enough; they'd been on too many cases in the past together, and she respected his judgement.

  “Why don't you bring the photos over,” she said. “I'm just headed back to the lab now. Who did the original autopsy?”

  “It was Charles Winstanley, actually,” said Jack. “Fifteen years ago.”

  Jack heard her sharp intake of breath. The man had a reputation, and a good one.

  “The revered Dr Charles Winstanley,” she said, putting emphasis on each word. “I spent time training under him myself, and I guess you know his daughter works in the lab here too.”

  “Yes, I do know, so I guess if there's any way of keeping this between you and me that would be best. I'd appreciate it.”

  “I hear you,” she said.

  “I'll bring in them round now,” said Jack. “I'll be over in twenty.”

  Jack hung up, pushed all the photos back into the folder and hurriedly left the squad room before anybody could ask questions, Amanda included. At least Dupin was out, wherever he’d gone, and as he pulled out of the car park and the electric gates closed behind him, he wondered what Faye would make of this. As she’d said, Charles Winstanley was a practised pathologist and wouldn't appreciate having his work mulled over by a former student. But getting a second opinion was a common part of the job these days, and Winstanley would no doubt know that, and so be it. It had to be done.

  The lab reception area air-conditioning always seeming to be just one degree too cold for Jack's liking. He approached the young woman on the desk and told her that Faye was expecting him, then waited by the lift doors, knowing that she would come out through them shortly. When they eventually pinged open, he stepped straight in to greet her and they headed back upstairs to her office, via the fish tank and her PA, who glanced at Jack disapprovingly. She’d remembered his belching from his last visit.

  They were sat at her desk.

  “So, what have you got, then, Jack?” asked Faye.

  “Take a look at these, if you wouldn't mind, and see what you make of them,” he said, handing her the file. “I know they're a bit grainy, but obviously you're the expert here, not me and I've no idea what I'm looking for. But you might see it, whatever ‘it’ might be.”

  Faye lifted her eyes to Jack as if to say ‘no shit, Sherlock,’ but the twinkle in her eyes told him she wasn't offended. He smiled, though he wasn't sure if it was an apology smile or an ‘I'm sucking up to you’ smile. Jack watched the top of her head as she perused the photos in turn, studying each one intently. When she got the image of a section from the man's neck, she removed a magnifying glass from a drawer and took a closer look.

  “They aren't terribly clear, are they, Jack?” she said, sounding disappointed.

  Jack kept quiet; he didn't want to agree with her in case she gave up too soon.

  “I wonder if the original files are still with Winstanley,” she mused. “He might have the master copy that we can get better copies off?” She was thinking out loud.

  Jack didn't need to reply, and the silence went on for what felt like a couple of minutes but was probably only seconds in reality. He felt like he was sitting on the edge of his chair, eagerly waiting for good news about test results.

  Finally, Faye put the magnifying glass down and looked straight at Jack.

  “Tell you what I'll do,” she said. “I'll contact Charles Winstanley's office, and when we've had the second autopsy on Callum Parker later on, I'll ask the pathologist to see what he thinks. How does that sound?”

  “I can't say fairer than that, can I? Thanks.”

  “If we can get a better resolution of the photos, we might see things a bit clearer,” she said, pointing to a particular one. “For instance, in this
area, that would be where I would be looking at if it was the same sort of event, but there isn’t enough detail visible. It’s too grainy.” She picked the photos up and put them back in the folder. “Can I keep these for now?”

  “Please, yes,” said Jack. “Any help you can give me would be appreciated.” He rose to leave, not wishing to take any more of her valuable time.

  Shortly after Jack had left, Faye made the call to Charles Winstanley's office. It seemed they did have the original masters, so she asked for the higher-resolution image files to be emailed on to her as soon as possible.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  In high-profile cases, it’s not unusual for there to be a second autopsy. Often lawyers defending clients on murder charges call for another one just to be doubly sure of the facts, and many pathologists have their work re-examined in this way. Anyone who finds themselves accused of murder, for instance, would want a second opinion too. Nonetheless, this is never pleasant for the pathologist—one never liked being second-guessed, and Dr Faye Mitchell was no different. She’d met the second pathologist many times at conferences and medical get-togethers, and though she wouldn't exactly have referred to him as a friend, she certainly regarded him as a colleague, though not from the same team.

  Dr Kevin Douglas worked in Surrey and had a solid reputation; he was a regular in courtrooms and in the expert witness box. It helped to know who was going to be rechecking your work, and the fact that it was Dr Kevin Douglas gave Faye some heart. While it wasn’t required for the first pathologist to be witness to the second autopsy, it was normal procedure. And Faye was interested in his findings as well as wanting to see how the man worked.

  There was little sense in moving the body to another venue across town; it was much easier for Douglas to go where he was needed. Faye had already sent specimen samples and photos across to him and given him a heads-up about what they were looking at. She could do no more at this stage apart from wait for Dr Douglas to arrive and try to steady her nerves. Everything was ready and waiting to be confirmed.

  Dr Kevin Douglas was a distinctive man to look at—tall and dark, though not particularly attractive. She’d heard colleagues politely refer to him as having a face for radio. Standing at around 6 ft 6 in height, he had dark hair that started from his temples and hung down to touch his collar. The dome of his head, however, was as shiny as a new coin. He reminded Faye of Herman Munster.

  He smiled directly at her as he entered the office, and once again, she was struck by how slim he was; he looked like he could snap at the waist at any moment. She stood and greeted him with her outstretched hand, which he took gently; his was almost twice the size of her own. His fingers were so long and thin they resembled the plastic skeleton’s that hung on a stand in the corner of her office. She wondered if he played the piano.

  “Dr Douglas, it's good to see you again,” she said, tilting her head back to connect her eyes to his. He stood nearly a foot taller than her.

  “Please, just call me Kevin,” he said, smiling. His eyes were an intense hazel and reminded Faye of the glass bead eyes on a teddy bear she’d had as a youngster. Clear and wonderfully warm.

  “And obviously I'm Faye Mitchell.”

  “It's good to see you again, too. How have you been keeping?”

  “Well, apart from being second-guessed in this case, I've been great, thank you. And you?” She wasn’t trying to sound smart, and instantly regretted voicing her nerves at Douglas.

  “The same here, thanks. And I wouldn't worry about being second-guessed, Faye, because from those photos and samples you’ve sent me already, I can see what the outcome will be. But I have been tasked with performing a second autopsy, so that's what I'm here to do, and it's good to have you alongside me.”

  You can tell so much about a man by the way he speaks, Faye thought, and Dr Kevin Douglas was a gentleman. He might not be a poster boy, but he was warm, friendly and well mannered. She felt herself relax; her shoulders settled back at their normal angle. Somehow, she felt reassured that the work she’d already completed and the conclusion she’d come to would not be disputed.

  “Shall we?”

  Faye couldn't help smiling; it felt like he was asking her to dance. He led her out into her own autopsy suite, where she grabbed disposable aprons and gloves and passed a set to him.

  For Faye, it was always a pleasant experience to see another pathologist at work, particularly someone as esteemed as Kevin Douglas. As the body of Callum Parker was examined once again from head to foot, all Faye could do was stand back and watch and answer any questions he had of her and her findings. When it came to the main areas of concern—the brain and the neck bones—he referred back to the photographs and the reports that she had already given him.

  “You've done a very thorough job, Faye, and from what I've seen so far I'm inclined to agree with your results. I see no congenital aneurysm that could have caused the haemorrhage, and when I look at the vertebral arteries, I can clearly see a rupture. Obviously, I'm going to have to write up a full report, but your summation is correct—that it wasn't the sudden braking but rather the forced turning of the steering wheel so frantically that dislocated his spine, which in turn ruptured the artery, resulting in the haemorrhage.” He turned and smiled at Faye reassuringly, knowing himself how unpleasant it was to be second-guessed.

  “Well, I am relieved that you agree. I was certain of my findings, of course, and it's unfortunate that the family wanted this, but I can understand why.”

  “Oh, me too. Like I say, I'll write up a report saying that I concur with what you have found, and add in the fact that all the smoking and arguing and fighting could well have accelerated it. We’ll never know for certain if it could have been avoided.”

  “I wonder what the family will do next. Will they let this go now?”

  “Faye, your guess is as good as mine,” Kevin said. “In my experience, many are satisfied, but others just won't let it lie. The Parkers may file a civil case against the officer involved, but the evidence is clear, Faye. You and I both arrived at the same conclusion; there would be little point in a third autopsy. It’s one of those freaky things that happened. The human body is a complex machine, and sometimes we have no control over what it can do. In this case, Callum Parker died from his own actions and nobody else was to blame.”

  “I agree.”

  “I think we’re done here,” he said, checking the clock on the wall and pulling his gloves and plastic apron off at the same time. “I don't know about you, Faye, but I'm rather peckish. Have you got time for coffee somewhere? I saw a small café not far away from here, on the way in.”

  “I know the one, and they bake the best muffins if you fancy one.” His smile told her he was interested. “And I also have something else for you to take a look at, if you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. I am at your disposal,” he said, smiling down at her.

  Faye felt herself get a little warm around her face and neck.

  She was blushing.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  While she'd been in with Kevin Douglas doing the second autopsy on Callum Parker, better copies of the files had landed. And because her PA knew she was waiting for them, she had printed them out and placed them on her desk ready. Faye eyed them as she and Kevin passed by.

  “Just give me a minute, would you Kevin? I'll be right with you.” Gathering up the photos, she glanced at them quickly, noting that they were in fact somewhat clearer. She stuffed them into a nearby folder to take with her. When being asked for a second opinion, or asking someone else for one, Faye liked to have her own already established first, but in this instance, there hadn't been time—she'd explain along the way.

  The two doctors walked the short distance to the café around the corner. The smell of freshly roasted coffee beans and warm muffins hung on the air.

  By way of conversation, Faye said, “This is my favourite café, so I'm very lucky it's so close to work.” Kevin held the door ope
n for her and she slipped inside. It was modern in décor—glass, slate, concrete, tiled floors, bare walls—but filled with local artists’ depictions of trendy local scenes in various muted shades. She noticed Kevin glancing around the walls, looking at the various pieces.

  “They look quite good to me,” she commented. “I've often thought about buying one myself.” Kevin was gazing at one in particular, an impression of the old asylum that had been knocked down to make way for the prison. “It looks a bit creepy, don't you think?” said Faye. “It was knocked down only fairly recently. The local loony bin, as it would have been called years ago, though you wouldn't get away with calling it that these days. And not everybody that got locked up in there was officially loony.” Kevin raised his eyebrows in agreement. “Medicine has come a long way in a very short space of time, don't you think? And we’re much more open to discussing some illnesses. It’s okay to talk about mental health and depression, for instance, but certainly not back then. It was easier to medicate and hibernate. Except they didn't wake up again in the spring.”

  Kevin gave her his strange, sad smile again. “I often wonder what happened to all those people,” he mused. “Sad, really. I guess they are out in the community somewhere, struggling.”

  They placed their order and took seats at a small table by the window. It was always busy there, with mainly local workers buying food to go. It was a bit far out for local shoppers, so people tended to pop in grab what they needed and dash off again. It was good business for the café owners. No one sat lingering with laptops, making a single coffee last all day.

  Faye pulled the file out while they waited for their drinks to arrive. “If I could impose on your brain a while longer?” she enquired.

  “Absolutely. What is it?”

  “I haven't seen these new photos myself yet, but I'd be interested in your opinion anyway. So I'm not going to say anything, but I’ll hand them over and let you peruse them, tell me what you think.” She nudged them towards him across the table and watched Kevin pull his reading glasses out of the top pocket of his jacket and slip them on the end of his nose. The brown tortoiseshell rims made the honey of his eyes look even richer. She felt herself blushing slightly again at the thought of what she just envisaged. While Kevin wasn't the most attractive oil painting in the world, she found herself drawn to him for some reason, and in particular his honey-coloured eyes. She pulled her gaze away quickly before he noticed—she hoped he hadn't done so already.