by Keith Nixon
Hamson’s phone rang and Gray lost her attention. “Underwood wants to see you as soon as possible.”
“I can’t right now, I was literally leaving for the hospital when you called,” lied Gray.
“Speak with her at your earliest opportunity then, all right?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Hamson merely raised an eyebrow, picked up the phone. Gray got out while the going was good.
Six
The QEQM, less than a mile and a half and six minutes’ drive from the station, took up a large plot of land between two thoroughfares which ran roughly parallel to each other – St. Peter’s Road and Ramsgate Road. The rear entrance and maternity wards were off the former, the main entrance and Accident and Emergency off the latter. The original building opened in 1930 then was added to and extended multiple times over the years until it developed into a sprawling site with all manner of facilities of differing vintages organized to make the best of what they had.
Gray pulled into the Ramsgate Road car park then found an empty spot in a small area reserved for the Spencer Private Hospital, a separate wing, where patients coughed up for the privilege (and speed) of treatment but got free parking. He hated paying fees to use a public facility; it was simply wrong.
He walked up the shallow incline towards the entrance. As he got near a taxi pulled up out front and a passenger, a black guy holding a bloody rag to his forehead, exited from the rear.
Large glass doors slid apart. Inside, Gray found himself faced by more doors, which didn’t open. He paused. Behind him the taxi passenger sighed, stepped past Gray and nudged a large button off to one side at waist height. Now they opened.
“Go in front of me,” said Gray.
“Thanks.” Foreign inflection.
Within was the lobby area. It had altered since Gray was last here. Previously it had been decorated in muted colours. Blue, he thought, but wasn’t sure. Now it was painted a garish red. To one side remained several rows of seats for waiting patients. Most of the spaces were occupied. The reception area had been screened off by plate glass, reaching up to meet the ceiling, behind which two administrators worked the queue of walking wounded.
Now, though the desk was still present, the glass was gone, and a nurse stationed by the door provided triage. Three patients stood in a line ahead of Gray, waiting for the nurse’s attention. He reckoned it wouldn’t be long. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings properly. He didn’t like the new look. It was too bold.
It actually took five minutes for the people to be dealt with. Meanwhile more walk-ins arrived and stood behind Gray. Two of the queue in front ended up in the seating area, the third, the man with the bleeding head, was taken straight through wooden doors and into the A&E suite to Gray’s right. Finally, he reached the front. The uniformed nurse, a dark-haired woman with pale skin and brown eyes focused on him, her expression neutral.
Gray showed his warrant card. “I’m here to see Doctor Maltby.”
“Talk to reception, please.” The nurse hiked a thumb over her shoulder, shifted her focus to the mother and child behind him. If he’d realised, Gray could have saved himself the effort of standing around in the queue.
At reception Gray repeated his request, presented his warrant card once more.
“What is it about?” asked the receptionist. Her accent was Eastern European. Gray had no idea what country she hailed from. They all sounded the same to him. Her face was pockmarked with acne scars, her hair bi-coloured – the tips dyed red.
“Police business.” About as generic as you could get.
“One moment.” The receptionist picked up an internal phone, tapped in a few numbers. He wondered why she’d bothered asking.
“Doctor, there is a policeman here to see you.” She paused. “No, I do not know what it is about.” Pause. “He just said police business.” She listened again. “Okay. Doctor Maltby will be available in a few minutes, if you go to the door on the right,” she pointed, “I will meet you there.”
“Thanks.” But she was already up and turning away.
Gray pulled at the door; however it was didn’t budge. There was a click and the receptionist pushed the door open. A magnetic lock, then. Gray passed through. Within was a well-lit area, white painted walls, beds behind green curtains, lots of medical machinery and uniformed staff moving about with purpose.
He was led through the first room into a second, narrower area. More medical devices, a couple of computers at a workstation, several further beds in a row behind curtains. Standing in the centre was a woman in a white lab coat, an expression of concentration on her face. Her blonde hair was tied up and held in place by a large plastic grip. She wore no make-up, no jewelry. She stared at a document in her hands.
“This is Doctor Maltby,” said the receptionist then left. Maltby shifted her focus away from the paper.
“You seem surprised,” said Dr Maltby.
“You’re not what I expected.” Gray blinked. “I understood you were male.”
Maltby laughed, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “As you can see, I’m absolutely not.” She held out a hand for Gray to shake. Her grip was strong. “How can I help?”
“We received a call earlier from you reporting a nasty dog bite.”
Maltby pursed her lips. “Now you have my attention. Perhaps we should go somewhere more private and talk properly.” She led Gray into a small room nearby and closed the door. She put the document down on a table and crossed her arms. “It wasn’t me who called you.”
“Then who did?”
“One of my colleagues, I would assume.”
“Why pretend to be you?”
She sighed. “Fear of reprisal, perhaps.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s these latest proposals by the Government, they have people rattled. If a law compelling medical professionals to report any incidents resulting from violent crime does pass then it puts at risk the Hippocratic Oath we all took.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” But not the only one. “The objective is to tackle the knife epidemic.”
“I know.”
“And it wouldn’t just affect the medical profession. Anyone in public service would be duty bound. Charities too.”
“It’s ridiculous. How are we supposed to be held responsible for this stuff, isn’t that your job?”
“Yes, however, we can’t be everywhere these days.” There just weren’t enough cops anymore. 10,000 officers lost in the last five years.
“The staff is upset about it all to be honest.”
“But it’s just a suggestion right now.”
“Agreed. Though we could be prosecuted if we don’t report issues which subsequently come to light.”
The concern seemed somewhat excessive to Gray. “And if a new law helped even just a single child that wouldn’t have been helped previously doesn’t that make it worthwhile?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And Governments never move quickly. By the time a law came into force it might barely resemble the original plan.”
Maltby raised her hands in surrender, waved Gray’s arguments away. “Anyway, I was simply explaining why someone may have impersonated me.”
“So, what about this dog bite?”
“There’s little I can say beyond he was a teenager and pretty badly roughed up. He came in through the front entrance, meaning he hadn’t called an ambulance. He had bite marks on his arms and legs. The wounds weren’t fresh, probably a couple of days old. I patched him up.”
“Where is he now? I’d like to speak with him.”
“Against my advice, he discharged himself. He was really reluctant to be here. He only came in because the cuts got infected.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know, I’m afraid.”
“If there’s a dangerous dog out there and it attacks another child how would you feel, Doctor Maltby?”
“That’s not fair.” Gray shrugged. �
��Anyway, I don’t think it was a stray. The lad said the dog had been set on him by somebody, deliberately.”
“Deliberately?”
“That’s what he told me. And he didn’t give me his name. It’s not a necessity to obtain treatment. This is a hospital.”
“What time did he arrive?”
“Midway through my shift, say around 10am.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Ginger hair, average height, freckles.” Maltby’s mobile bleeped. She checked the message. “Look, I really must be getting back to work. I’ve spent more than enough time on this.”
“Is there anything else you can say?”
“I don’t think so.”
“The caller led us to believe this is the second attack you’ve had in during the week.”
“I’m not aware of another, Inspector. Although it sometimes feels as if I work 24/7, I actually don’t.” Maltby went to the door, opened it. “I’ll show you back to reception.”
***
Gray stood outside the A&E entrance. The glass doors slid closed behind him, then parted again as he was within range of the sensor. He moved out of the way. While he was inside it had begun to rain lightly. He remembered the taxi which had pulled up as he was arriving. Everybody who entered A&E had to do so through here.
Above Gray the lens of a CCTV camera stared down at him. Somewhere within the depths of the hospital the footage would have been captured and stored. Gray just had to find out where.
It took him a couple of questions of the staff before he found the place. The security suite was located in the estate offices, to the south of the site, beneath a chimney which towered over the building.
Gray handed over his warrant card once more. The rail thin security guard stood up from the desk where he was sitting, a good six inches taller than Gray. “Ray Pickersgill,” he said, “a proud Yorkshireman.” Like that was very important. “What can I do for you, son?” Gray reckoned they were about the same age.
“I’d like to access your CCTV footage. Specifically, the camera over A&E at about 10am this morning.” Maltby had at least told Gray what time the kid had arrived.
He stared at Gray a long moment. “I assume you’ve got a warrant?”
“I don’t.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you, officer.”
“Look…”
Pickersgill broke into laughter. “You should see your face, Inspector Gray! Of course, I’ll help. I’m just joking with you. It’s a Yorkshire thing.”
“I’m cracking up inside,” lied Gray.
“Come on through.” Pickersgill crooked a finger. He led Gray into a small room dominated by a bank of screens. “We’ll have to be fast, though. I’m due to finish my shift soon. I’ve a meeting this evening.”
Pickersgill clearly wanted to be asked about it. “Meeting?”
“Alcoholics Anonymous.” He burst out laughing. “Just joking! Model train club.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Why do you think I tell people I go to AA?” Pickersgill sat. “10am you said?”
“That’s right.”
He leaned over the controls, focused on the feed he wanted and wound back the recording to 9.30am. “Just to be on the safe side,” before allowing the recording to play. “Who are you looking for?”
“Male, mid-teens, ginger haired.”
“Not much, but it’s better than nothing. And ginger, the poor sod.”
Pickersgill ran the footage. Patients turned up regularly, but after nearly a quarter of an hour and a couple of hours of elapsed footage nobody matching Maltby’s description had walked through the doors. Pickersgill checked his watch. “I’m done in a few minutes and there’s no overtime. They don’t pay me enough to get my time for free. Can you come back tomorrow?”
“Really?”
Pickersgill laughed once more. “How about I transfer the recording onto a USB stick?”
“That works for me,” said Gray through gritted teeth.
“I’ll download the last twenty-four hours, then you’re covered.”
“Wonderful.”
Pickersgill rooted around in a desk drawer, pulling out paperwork, Sellotape, pens and a stapler before he brandished a stick at Gray and grinned, like it was some trophy. Pickersgill slid the USB into a port on the front of the computer, dragged and dropped the file, waited for the transfer before ejecting the stick and handing it to Gray. “I hope you track down what you want.”
“Me too.”
“I’ll come and find you if I get a parking ticket or something. To repay the favour, like.”
“You can try.”
Pickersgill laughed. “Just—”
“Joking,” cut in Gray. “I know. Enjoy your train spotting.”
“It’s construction, Inspector.”
Outside, Gray slid the stick into his pocket then made his way back across the hospital complex to his car, jacket collar turned up against the winter weather.
“Railway models, Jesus.”
Seven
Gray lived on the fourth floor of an apartment block in Broadstairs above Louisa Bay. He had a sea view and no garden, two bedrooms in case anybody wanted to visit (which happened only rarely) and an allocated parking space underground.
He sat at the dining table, that was never used for such, in front of his laptop and sipped a cup of tea. He liked it hot. In the past he’d have drunk an espresso, but the caffeine kick kept him awake these days. He skipped through the footage Pickersgill had handed over. Eventually, with the time stamp saying 11.39, Gray found what he wanted.
The overhead shot showed a ginger-haired youth getting out of a taxi. A few moments later a woman carrying a toddler got out too before they walked inside. He seemed unmarked. No blood, no torn clothes, but he moved with difficulty, hobbling. Gray didn’t recognise him.
Later in the morning, at 2.03am, the same kid came out of the hospital, accompanied by the same woman moving with the same difficulty. Now there were bandages on his arms, sleeves rolled up. They waited for a few minutes, the kid leaning against the wall, before a taxi turned up. All the while he appeared furtive, constantly casting glances in each direction. He checked his phone, tapping on the screen several times before putting it away.
Gray made a note of the vehicle licence numbers before he shut down the laptop. Tomorrow he’d find out where the passenger had been picked up and run the kid’s face to see if they got any hits on his identity.
Gray’s mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number, answered anyway.
“Inspector Gray?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Hi, it’s Polly Draper. From St. Peter’s.” He wasn’t about to forget any time soon. “I’ve got a bit of a problem. With Mack. Mum’s wire fox.” A pause. “The dog.”
“Oh. What’s the issue?”
“It isn’t Mack specifically. Well, it is.”
“You’re not making a great deal of sense, Mrs Draper.”
“Okay, that constable of yours, who was sat with us when you came into the kitchen?”
“Worthington?”
“Yes, him. After you left he tried to kick Mack. He denied it, of course, but I saw him do it.”
“Is Mack okay?”
“Fortunately, he dodged out of the way. I don’t think that kind of behaviour is acceptable.”
“I agree and I’ll have a talk with DC Worthington in the morning.”
“Thank you, I’m not keen on people who are cruel to animals. I think it shows a weak side.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“You don’t though. Seem harsh, that is.”
“I try not to be.” Except for when it came to Worthington.
“Good, Mack should be with someone who cares about him.”
“I can understand that.”
“I need to home him somewhere. Mum’s house on his own isn’t an option. Philip hates Mack and I’ve got children so I don’t have the time
for Mack; he can’t stay with me.”
“Do you need the name of a shelter or something?”
“That’s the last thing Mum would have wanted.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“He liked you. Normally he’s quite standoffish, doesn’t enjoy people’s company.” Gray got that, he didn’t either. “But he was different with you.”
“Maybe I am a dog whisperer after all.”
Draper didn’t laugh, but to be fair it was a poor joke. She said, “So, I wanted to see if you’d have him.”
“Have him?”
“Like look after him. Permanently.”
“I’m flattered, but I can’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never owned a dog so I wouldn’t know where to start. And I live in an apartment without a garden.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“Sorry, I hope you find a good home for him.”
“Me too.” And then Draper was gone.
Gray was still holding his phone when it rang again. “Inspector Gray? It’s Doctor Maltby from A&E. Apologies for calling so late.”
“No problem. How can I help?”
“When you were here you mentioned a second dog attack. I’ve been asking around; it seems you were right. Somebody else was in a week or two ago. I was on holiday so didn’t see them, but a colleague did.”
“Do you have any details?”
“Like my patient, my colleague was extremely reluctant to talk in an official capacity. All I know is the victim was a male teenager.”
Eight
Gray slept badly and woke later than usual. He grabbed a brief shower and left his flat chewing on a breakfast of plain toast. He’d run out of butter and marmite and what remained in the honey jar was mainly crumbs.
The traffic out of Broadstairs towards Margate was the usual stop / start affair. Once he hit St. Peter’s Road, which ran past the edge of the graveyard and then the QEQM on the other side, the cars in front moved a little faster.
He managed to find a rare space on the road near the hospital entrance meaning avoiding paying the hospital car park fee again. While he waited for a gap to appear in the steadily flowing traffic so he could exit without getting run over, he smoothed his damp hair down with greasy fingers.
