by D. S. Butler
She shuffled through the papers on her desk, looking for the CCTV still she’d printed out earlier. The image Mackinnon had taken from the CCTV at the coffee shop was pretty good as security footage went.
She held it up to the screen, comparing it to her picture of Brendan Maynard. It was definitely the right guy.
She stood up and walked towards DI Tyler’s office, only to see when she was halfway across the open-plan area that he wasn’t at his desk.
She turned around, headed back to her own desk and picked up the phone, dialling DCI Brookbank’s extension.
Janice answered.
“Hi, Janice, it’s DC Brown. Could I be put through to the DCI please?”
“He’s in a meeting with DI Tyler at the moment. The door is closed, but if it’s important, I can interrupt him.”
Charlotte hesitated, looking down at the papers on her desk.
“It is important, Janice, but don’t worry. I’ll come up there and tell them the news in person.”
Charlotte hung up and pressed print on the screen to produce more copies of Brendan Maynard’s details. She collected them from the printer on her way to the DCI’s office.
Janice gave her a nervous smile as Charlotte entered the small room where DCI Brookbank’s assistant was stationed.
“Is everything all right?” Janice asked.
Charlotte nodded. “Yes, things are finally moving on this case, and I need to give the DCI an update.”
Janice got to her feet, rapped on the DCI’s door and then pushed it open. “Sorry to interrupt, DC Brown would like to have a word.”
“Come in,” Brookbank said in his usual deep, gruff voice.
Brookbank looked the same as he always did. A solid man, hunched over, reminding her of a grumpy bulldog. Tyler looked tired and stressed. As SIO, he had a lot on his plate. Hopefully her news would ease some of his worries. Now they finally had a breakthrough, things would start moving in a more positive direction.
Charlotte walked in and handed out the paperwork. “We’ve got him,” she said. “We have his address.”
Both men looked down, skimming the details on the printout.
Then a grin spread across DI Tyler’s face. “Excellent work, detective. We’ll arrange a little visit to 17, North Quay Rd.”
A smile even tugged the corners of DCI Brookbank’s lips. “Yes, very good work indeed, DC Brown.”
Brendan woke up, coughing and spluttering. What had that nasty cow done to him? He felt shaky, too unsure of the strength in his legs to stand up, so he flopped over onto his back and stared up at the roof.
He bit down on his lip. Why were his assistants always so ungrateful? He’d worked hard for them. Look at all the modifications he’d done on the loft. He’d added extra insulation to keep them warm, and installed the soundproofing so they could scream to their heart’s content without disturbing the neighbours.
He’d even put extra wooden boards down on the floor so they’d have more room to move about. Had they been grateful? Appreciated his kindness? No.
He’d been very considerate, taking into account their needs. And he’d even been understanding when they lashed out. He’d expected a period of adjustment would be required and knew it would take a while for them to come round to his point of view and understand the importance of his work, but the violence… He’d never expected that.
He reached up, gingerly touching the welts around his neck. She could have killed him. So irresponsible.
He took a shallow breath and sat up. It hurt to swallow.
His neck ached and felt stiff. Trying to loosen things up, he moved his neck from side to side, but that only made it worse.
He clenched his teeth.
How had he been so taken in? She’d seemed so genuine, like someone really in need of help. He’d been prepared to give his help freely, but the first time things got a little difficult, she’d lashed out. It wasn’t as though he wanted to tie them up. He didn’t have a choice. No one understood. He’d worked so hard on this.
Brendan shuffled over to the loft hatch feeling sorry for himself. At least she hadn’t bolted the hatch behind her. She must have left it open in her rush to get out when she left him there to die.
He felt a twinge of sympathy. He supposed it must be hard for them to understand at first. The truth always was, so perhaps he couldn’t really blame Tammy or Ashley for falling apart. They’d been destined to fail from the start. People like them didn’t have the tenacity and the intelligence to see this through. They were just normal young women. He scowled. Even so, there was no excuse for Tammy’s violence. First she’d given him a bruise on his face and now she’d almost choked him to death.
He made his way down the ladder and into the hall. Legs trembling, he steadied himself against the banister as he made his way to the bathroom.
When he looked in the mirror he let out a sharp gasp. He had bright pink welts around his neck caused by the strap on the bag Tammy had used to strangle him.
He reached up to touch the raised pink skin and winced. Staring forlornly at his reflection, he shook his head, hardly recognising himself. Gaunt cheekbones, bruises, even his eyes looked hollow. He looked lost.
Tears pricked the corner of his eyes. Why was everything going wrong?
“Because you’re a failure. You’re just a dirty boy who always ruins everything.”
Brendan closed his eyes and tried to tune out his mother’s voice. “You’re not really here,” he said. “You’re dead.”
“I’ll never die, not really. Not while you’re still alive, Brendan.”
He shook his head and ran out of the bathroom.
“You won’t get rid of me that easily.”
She cackled, and Brendan slapped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise.
He ran towards the stairs, wanting to get away from the haunting laughter, only to stub his toe on the corner of the banister.
He howled in anger and frustration and leaned down to check his toes for blood. There was none, but it hurt so much. Why did something as simple as stubbing a toe cause so much pain?
He limped away from the echoing laugh and then froze at the sound of another noise.
The new noise led to fear creeping around him, like a serpent constricting his chest.
Sirens.
Ashley hadn’t been able to talk. As fate would have it, when she’d finished her role in the project, she’d been silenced. Nothing to do with him, of course. He couldn’t be held responsible for that unfortunate incident, but Tammy? Would she go to the police?
He stood in the hallway shaking as the sirens got louder. No, surely she wouldn’t report him to the authorities. She’d be the one to get in trouble. She’d stayed with him for a couple of days, sure, but he hadn’t tried to murder her. He was the one with the wound around his neck from where she’d tried to throttle him.
He held his breath, ears straining. But eventually the sound of sirens faded. Thankfully, those sirens weren’t for him. At least not today.
He breathed a sigh of relief, but it had been a good reminder. He needed to protect himself. Tammy was out there now and could tell anyone about his project.
He tried to remember just how much he’d told her. Not much. Confiding in her hadn’t been possible in the hours they’d shared. Thanks to her prickly, difficult nature and violent tendencies, they hadn’t really had much opportunity to talk. Now he looked back and realised that was a good thing.
But he should protect himself from future problems. In time, the mark around his neck would fade, and it would be his word against Tammy’s. He needed evidence. He fumbled his way downstairs, looking for his mobile and eventually found it beneath a sofa cushion. He took it back to the bathroom and used the mirror to try to get a shot of his injury in the reflection. It wasn’t easy to get both his face and his neck in the photograph. He took a few pictures, one from the front and two from the side.
That was something at least, but photographs could b
e manipulated. Perhaps the police wouldn’t take them as evidence. He needed someone else to see his injury so they could confirm his story. Who could he trust? He needed to think about that.
First, a drink was in order.
He made his way downstairs, thankful that his mother disappeared quickly this time, and poured himself a large glass of whiskey.
His head was banging so alcohol probably wasn’t the wisest choice, but he needed it to calm his nerves. He lifted the glass of whiskey with a trembling hand.
Yet again his project had been wound back to zero. Why did things keep messing up? Although it might not be all his fault, he had to take some responsibility. He had picked the assistants after all.
He took another mouthful of whiskey and contemplated his failure.
He’d have a lot to write about in his journal tonight. Brendan’s usual daydream of someone discovering his journal in a few years from now and realising what a scientific genius he was, failed to comfort him today.
Tammy’s behaviour had really shaken him, mainly because he hadn’t expected it. It had come out of the blue and taken him completely off guard.
She’d seemed so nice.
He swallowed painfully and gritted his teeth. It was all so unfair. He hadn’t hurt her, had he? So why had she behaved so badly?
He sat down in his mother’s faded old chair, the one that looked like a normal armchair but moved like a rocker.
He rocked himself slowly, cradling his glass of whiskey and staring down into the amber liquid.
Then suddenly he smiled. It was obvious where he’d been going wrong.
He’d been dealing with amateurs, and he needed a professional.
Chapter Forty
Dr Wendy Willson, got up from her desk with a sigh. She’d been sitting in the same position all day, and her back was killing her.
She walked around her small room, thinking of the lectures she gave her patients on the dangers of a sedentary lifestyle. Being a GP, she didn’t find it easy to reach ten thousand steps in a day though she still tried.
A few months ago she’d taken to walking through to the waiting room and calling the next patient’s name in person, rather than using the intercom, but these days there didn’t seem to be time for that. Extra patients had been squeezed onto her list after one of the practice doctors had left to go and work in Australia.
Wendy had to say she was tempted to move abroad, too. The practice had been advertising for a replacement GP for six months without success. There simply weren’t enough GPs to go around.
She picked up her can of Diet Pepsi and looked at it miserably. This was another addiction she would have to quit. But the mid-afternoon caffeine fix helped her get through the afternoon appointments.
And she definitely needed it today. She was the GP working the late shift tonight.
A couple of years ago, the surgery had started opening earlier and closing later to accommodate people who had to work during the day and found it hard to get time off work, which was a high proportion of their patients.
The practice manager had also come up with some ridiculous ideas to increase efficiency. Now if patients wanted a doctor’s appointment, they had to call the surgery first thing on Monday morning. That was for both urgent and non-urgent appointments, so the amount of time they had to wait to get through on the phone was absurd.
That was the most common complaint she heard from patients these days. Most appointments started with patients grumbling about the time they’d spent on the phone trying to get a slot with the doctor. After apologising, Wendy would try to steer the conversation around to what was actually wrong with them.
Wendy had a lot of sympathy for their complaints. They were right. It was ridiculous. It meant people with urgent concerns had to wait on the phone line with those who just wanted to book a standard appointment for some point in the next two weeks.
Standard of care and efficiency had declined in GP practices— not just hers, but those all over the country. And it was devastating to be in the middle of it but not able to do anything about it. Doctors like Wendy wanted to spend time with their patients, get to know them and help them. That’s why she’d become a GP and not a registrar or surgeon.
When she’d first started medical school, Wendy had a romantic idea of living somewhere in the countryside, where everyone in the village knew her by name.
But now here she was, working in the City of London, with a comfortable salary, but a ridiculous number of patients, and she’d probably only recognise ten of them if she saw them in the street.
Patients rarely got an appointment with their named doctor. They were allocated to whoever was available. And as today was Dr Farquhar’s day off, it meant every other doctor had to pitch in and take a few more patients.
The extra patients made the GP surgery more profitable of course, which some patients didn’t realise. They assumed GPs were paid a standard salary by the NHS, but it wasn’t that simple.
GPs surgeries were independent contractors, and the NHS paid the practice a set amount per patient. So the more patients, the more profits for the practice. But with over forty appointments every day plus paperwork, Wendy had grown tired of the system. She didn’t see any of the extra profits but was expected to work longer hours. The partners benefited of course.
She’d never considered herself political, but had a sneaking respect for the senior oncologist who had voiced his opinion that the GP system was broken. He was coming from the other side of it, as the doctor GPs referred patients to, but she very much admired the man for having the bravery to come out and speak publicly on the subject, despite the backlash he’d received. He’d been due a lifetime achievement award, but that had been retracted. Wendy took a sip of her Pepsi and shook her head. Awful really. Just for voicing an opinion in a country where, supposedly, people could speak their mind freely as long as it didn’t hurt others.
Dr Farquhar was not someone she would socialise with after work, but he wasn’t bad as bosses went. For a while shortly after her son, Davey, was born, she’d worked as a locum and that had been a horrendous experience. The doctor in charge had managed multiple practices, and rumour had it he was one of the few GPs in the country earning over two hundred thousand pounds a year. He’d wanted her to use a five-minute timer to make sure she didn’t spend too long on each patient.
She hadn’t known quite what to say when he proudly presented the timer to her on her first day of work.
It was a large object, which looked very much like an over-sized egg timer—with coloured sand that trickled away as the seconds passed, but it lasted for five minutes rather than three.
She’d hardly ever met her five minute target. Mainly because you were supposed to review the notes and the patient details in the consulting time as well as ask questions and perform examinations. It was no wonder things got missed and the patients felt they weren’t getting the time and focus they deserved from their GPs when surgeries acted like that.
She was better now at multi-tasking, reading while talking to patients, and was quicker at dealing with them, but was that a good thing? In her heart of hearts, she didn’t believe so.
It wasn’t easy. There wasn’t the time to give everyone the standard of care they deserved, and it broke her heart when she allowed herself time to think about it.
Wealthy residents living in the City of London could afford to see private GPs. But poorer residents didn’t have a choice, they had to put up with the long waiting times if they wanted a non-urgent appointment, and people in other areas of the country didn’t even have the opportunity to go private unless they wanted to travel miles and miles. The whole country’s medical care had been set up to flow through the GP referral system, and in Wendy’s opinion, it was at breaking point. Something had to give. She wasn’t sure throwing more money at the matter would really solve the problem. Mismanagement was probably responsible for some of the issues, but not all.
She believed something needed to
change, but didn’t know what. It was easy to point out problems, not so easy to find solutions. Some of her colleagues supported the idea of super practices. If they had centres with x-ray facilities and minor injury units, that would ease some of the pressure on accident and emergency departments in hospitals.
There may be cracks and problems with the NHS system, but when she’d taken Davey to A&E a year ago when she feared he had meningitis, she couldn’t fault the system. The doctors and nurses had been wonderful.
There was a knock at the door, which made Wendy jump.
“Come in.”
The new receptionist entered tentatively. “I’m ever so sorry to bother you doctor.”
Anne had only been working at the practice for six weeks. She was quite unlike the other two receptionists they employed on a part-time basis. Timid, quiet and very polite, she had a kind nature when dealing with patients. Wendy liked her.
“Not at all. I’ve nearly finished my break. I’m just slurping down the rest of this. And before you say anything, yes, I’m a doctor, and yes, I should know better,” Wendy joked, holding up her half-finished Pepsi.
Anne didn’t smile. “The thing is, there’s a patient causing a terrible nuisance in the waiting room. I’ve asked him to sit down and he won’t. He hasn’t been violent, but he is scaring the other patients.”
Wendy set the can on her desk. “What’s his name? Does he have an appointment?”
“It’s Brendan Maynard. I saw there is a note on his file…”
Wendy felt a chill at the mention of Brendan’s name. She wasn’t normally like that. She’d seen all sorts in her time as a GP and had always managed to be compassionate rather than fearful, but for some reason, she found it hard with Brendan. There was something about him that made her want to run away and hide.
“I would have gone to Dr Farquhar, but he’s not here today,” Anne continued.
