The Kate Fletcher Series

by Heleyne Hammersley

  ‘There is one anomaly in her phone history,’ Sam continued. ‘There’s a number that I haven’t been able to trace.’

  ‘How come?’ Barratt asked. Sam’s forensic IT skills were legendary and it was rare to hear her admit defeat.

  ‘It’s an unregistered mobile.’

  ‘Have you tried ringing it?’ Hollis suggested. Cooper gave him a duh! look.

  ‘It’s switched off, goes to generic voicemail. I haven’t left a message, just in case.’

  Cooper had done exactly the right thing. If this number was connected to Melissa’s killer it would be unwise to let him know that he was the focus of police attention.

  ‘Okay, we need to ask Ryan and Melissa’s friends and family if they recognise the number. What about CCTV from the hospital on the day Melissa went missing? Anything?’

  Sam shook her head. ‘The DRI won’t release footage from inside the hospital, we might have to get a warrant. There’s a camera in the car park which shows part of the path to the main entrance and a traffic camera a bit further along Thorne Road that shows part of the pavement leading to the hospital. O’Connor looked at the first and I did the second. Nothing there. If she went to the hospital that morning then she dodged both of those but there are a couple of other ways she could have approached so this isn’t conclusive.’

  ‘Have you rung the IVF clinic to see whether she had an appointment that day? Are they even open on a Saturday?’

  ‘They are – ten till three. They won’t tell me, at least not over the phone. Patient confidentiality. Again, we might need a warrant to access her records.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Kate said, stating the blatantly obvious. ‘They should co-operate. I think I’d better get over there. Face-to-face might yield better results.’

  She looked around at her team. Melissa Buckley had been dead for three days and they were no nearer to finding out what had happened to her. Spirits were still fairly high though, despite their lack of progress.

  ‘Barratt, with me to the DRI. Sam, ring round Melissa’s friends and family and see if anybody knows who that phone number belongs to. And keep digging into her financials. There might have been another account, try under her maiden name.’

  ‘What about me?’ Hollis asked.

  ‘Go back to Town Fields. Have a look around. You’ve got a good eye for anything unusual. See what strikes you.’

  Frowns of bewilderment all round from her team. She hadn’t admitted as much but Kate had effectively given Hollis the afternoon off.

  Kate dropped Barratt off at the main hospital entrance, sending him inside to pursue CCTV footage from Saturday morning in the hope that whoever was in charge might be more open to persuasion face-to face. The Doncaster Fertility Clinic was situated in the grounds of the Doncaster Royal Infirmary but was separate from the main hospital and had its own parking area. A red-brick building, it looked like it owed more to Doncaster’s Victorian industrial heritage than to the utilitarian 1960s concrete structure that was its neighbour.

  Kate parked as close to the entrance as she could and tried to imagine what brought people like Ryan and Melissa Buckley here. It wasn’t something that she had experienced personally. She’d always been sure that she wanted children but, after Ben’s birth, Garry, her ex-husband had seemed disinterested and distant. Kate had made the decision for both of them that one child was enough and, in retrospect, it had been a sound choice. Garry had had his first affair when Ben was three years old. Blaming the pressures of work, parenthood and Kate’s long hours with Cumbria Police he’d begged for forgiveness without really accepting responsibility. Kate had tried to forgive but the trust was broken and she could never quite manage to forget the brutal impact of such a betrayal. The second affair was with a teaching assistant at the school where Garry worked as a PE teacher. This one had been short-lived and apparently traumatic for Garry. Kate had listened to his sob story with antagonism rather than sympathy but had stayed in the family home for her son who idolised his father.

  Garry was now living with a woman half his age and they had a toddler. Kate couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for the woman but, in a way, she was grateful that Garry had been taken off her hands. And she would always be glad that they hadn’t tried for more children in an attempt to paper over the cracks in their marriage. Ben had a baby brother and Kate was free to get on with her own life. She regretted the years when that life barely included her son but now, about to finish his second year at Sheffield University, Ben was closer to her – literally and emotionally.

  The building looked even more like a Victorian mansion as Kate approached and trotted up three gritstone steps to a porch tiled in terracotta and black chevrons. She studied the door, half expecting to see a bell pull next to it but, instead, a handwritten sign told her that the ‘Door sticks – push hard’. She smiled at the irony of the instruction on the door of a fertility clinic before placing her hand on the brass door knob and giving a firm shove.

  She’d overestimated the amount of force needed to open the door and almost stumbled as she tripped across the threshold, much to the amusement of a receptionist who smirked at Kate’s dramatic entrance.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the receptionist asked, trying to hide her smile.

  ‘Yes,’ Kate said with a grin. ‘I’m looking for my dignity.’

  The receptionist shook her head. ‘Sorry about that. A lot of people read the sign and end up coming in like a SWAT team. Do you have an appointment?’

  Kate reached into her pocket for her warrant card. ‘I don’t. But I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge, if that’s possible.’

  The smile disappeared as the woman studied Kate’s ID. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’

  She looked up at Kate, obviously trained to put clients at ease but clearly uncomfortable with the situation. She was young, probably mid-twenties with long blonde hair swept back into a tidy pony tail. Her make-up was slightly overdone for work but Kate could see the tiny crater marks of teenage acne beneath her foundation, perhaps explaining the excessive coverage. Her green eyes were curious but wary as her hand hovered over the telephone next to the keyboard on her desk.

  ‘I’d like some information about a couple who were patients here. It’s in regard to an ongoing investigation so I really can’t discuss the details.’

  ‘I’m not sure that anybody would be able to help,’ the woman said. ‘All our client information is strictly private.’

  ‘If I could just speak to whoever is in charge,’ Kate persisted, ‘I’m sure that I could get the information that I need and be on my way.’

  The receptionist glanced at her computer screen and tapped her keyboard. ‘The centre director, Mr Beresford, is in a meeting at the moment. If you could come back later…’

  Kate had had enough. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her tone contradicting her words. ‘You obviously don’t understand. I’m involved in a murder enquiry and there may be a connection to this facility. If you could inform Mr Beresford that I’m here I’m sure that he’d rather answer my questions than be faced with three members of my team and a warrant to search each and every file in the building.’

  She wasn’t sure that she’d be able to get a warrant that quickly but it sounded impressive and the receptionist obviously agreed because she’d picked up the phone and started to frantically punch in numbers. Kate stepped away from the desk, pretending not to listen as the woman apologised to whoever was on the other end of the phone and then dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. The words ‘police’, ‘murder’ and ‘warrant’ were clearly audible and Kate allowed herself a smug smirk – her bluster seemed to have worked.

  ‘Mr Beresford will be with you shortly,’ the receptionist said, coldly. She was obviously irritated that her authority had been undermined. ‘If you’d like to take a seat…’

  The woman pointed to a huddle of chairs grouped around a bay window, intimate and unobtrusive. Kate plonked herself down on the seat closes
t to the reception desk, stretched out her legs and crossed them at the ankles, hoping to give the impression that she was willing to wait, but not for too long.

  Less than five minutes later, a door to her left opened and a figure stepped through. Over six feet tall, lean but muscular like a marathon runner, Beresford was an imposing figure. His dark hair was smoothed back from his forehead revealing a prominent widow’s peak and his face was clean shaven. He raised perfectly shaped eyebrows at the receptionist who inclined her head in Kate’s direction. Beresford extended one improbably long arm as he approached, hand fully extended to shake Kate’s.

  ‘Edward Beresford. I manage the facility. I understand you’d like to speak to me.’ His tone and expression were as formal as a character from a Georgian period drama. Kate tried not to wince as her fingers were crushed in an excessively hard grip which told her exactly how much he didn’t appreciate being dragged from his meeting. Beresford’s dark suit and crisp white shirt oozed stature and authority; he was clearly a man used to being in charge.

  ‘Could we go somewhere private to talk?’ Kate asked.

  Beresford studied her for a second as though her request was the most outlandish thing he’d ever heard, then his face creased into a smile which failed to reach his eyes. ‘Of course,’ he said and led the way into a short hallway and then up a flight of steps. The Victorian mansion theme didn’t extend beyond the reception area, Kate noticed. The carpet in the hallway and on the stairs was industrial grey and the walls were white – obviously intended to scream ‘clinic!’ at clients who might have been duped into thinking that they were in a plush hotel. The only indication of the building’s former glory was the highly polished dark-wood banister which flanked the main staircase.

  ‘In here,’ Beresford said, holding a door open and ushering Kate inside. ‘Please excuse the mess.’

  The room was obviously Beresford’s office. A smoked-glass computer desk dominated one corner, complete with an ergonomic chair which wouldn’t have looked out of place on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. Two walls were shelved and the shelves were stacked with books from floor to ceiling. Kate couldn’t read many of the titles on the spines but she could see enough to realise that they were organised carefully into some sort of filing system. They were all upright, nothing out of place.

  Under the window, a low table and three easy chairs provided an informal seating area, which Beresford indicated with an outstretched hand.

  ‘Please, sit,’ he said, perching on the chair furthest from the door. Kate sat opposite him trying to rid herself of the image of a praying mantis as he leaned closer.

  ‘I’m sure your receptionist explained why I’m here,’ Kate said. ‘I’m investigating a murder and there appears to be a connection between the victim and your clinic.’

  ‘A connection?’ Beresford tilted his head suggesting disbelief.

  ‘The victim and her husband had been undergoing fertility treatment here. It’s possible that she may have had an appointment on the day her husband reported her missing.’

  ‘Surely her husband would be aware of such an appointment.’ Beresford looked sceptical. ‘The vast majority of our clients come in with their spouses. And, even if this woman did have an individual appointment, I fail to see how I can help you.’

  He obviously isn’t going to make this easy, Kate thought. ‘I’m trying to track her movements and it’s possible that she came here. If you can confirm that she had an appointment, then I can fill in another gap in the timeline.’

  ‘But you understand that client records are confidential?’ Beresford said with a regretful smile. ‘It would be a breach of trust, not to mention my ethics, to break that confidentiality. The work we do here is very sensitive and it is important that our clients are guaranteed privacy.’

  Kate felt like she was playing chess with a grand master. She made a move and he countered, she tried again and he blocked her. He didn’t seem to realise that she had the power to knock all the pieces off the board and declare a win if she chose to.

  ‘Mr Beresford,’ she said, struggling to keep her tone of voice as non-threatening as possible. ‘I can guarantee you that, in the circumstances, a simple confirmation would neither compromise your ethics nor break the trust of a dead woman. But it might help us to solve a brutal murder.’

  Beresford’s face contorted with distaste at Kate’s bluntness.

  ‘But her husband is still alive, I presume, and I have to respect his—’

  ‘Her husband is distraught. He’s the one who told us about their fertility issues, he’s the one who led me to this clinic. All I need to know is whether the dead woman had an appointment here on Saturday. It’s obvious that you feel unable to help so, as I explained to your receptionist, I’ll come back tomorrow with a warrant and a colleague who can get all the information that I need from your IT system in about thirty seconds.’

  She stood up and strode across the room to the door. Checkmate.

  ‘Wait,’ Beresford said.

  She turned round and saw that he’d moved over to his desk.

  ‘Give me a name.’

  ‘Melissa Buckley.’

  He tapped three keys and leaned in to peer more closely at the screen. ‘No. Nothing for Saturday. At least nothing medical.’

  ‘Medical?’

  ‘We have a fully integrated service here,’ Beresford explained. ‘Our clients receive medical treatment and counselling. We treat NHS and private clients in exactly the same way and offer exactly the same level of care.’

  The keyboard rattled as he typed something else.

  ‘The Buckleys had completed three cycles of IVF treatment. The Doncaster Hospital Trust won’t fund any more for a couple their age and with their issues. We are one of the most generous trusts in the north of England. Many will only fund a single cycle. The Buckleys would probably have been advised to have further counselling to enable them to consider their options for the future, but no such appointment has been made for either party.’

  ‘Either party?’ Kate asked, surprised. ‘Couples have separate counselling sessions?’

  Beresford looked up at her. ‘Occasionally. It can be beneficial for one partner to talk freely without having to consider the needs and opinions of the other.’

  This was becoming much more complicated than Kate had anticipated. She should have done some research before blundering in like the new sheriff in a Wild West town.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, sitting down again. ‘You could talk me through the process. It might help the investigation if I can understand what the Buckleys were going through.’

  ‘I don’t see how,’ Beresford said. ‘I thought you only needed to know whether Mrs Buckley had an appointment. You’ve had your answer.’

  Kate sighed. ‘It’s more complex than that,’ she admitted. ‘Without going into detail I can inform you that there were certain irregularities discovered during the post-mortem which suggest a link between Melissa’s murder and her fertility issues. If I can understand the process it might help me to understand how and why she was murdered.’

  Beresford’s eyes were bright with curiosity and he licked his lips quickly, lizard-like, as he leaned forward. ‘Irregularities?’

  ‘That’s all I can say. I’m sure that I can find somebody to explain IVF to me in simple terms but, as I’m here, and you’re an expert…’ she held her hands out, palms up as if to suggest that it would be foolish of her to squander this opportunity.

  Beresford stared at her, frowning slightly as though trying to work out if Kate was trying to trick him. ‘All right,’ he said, finally. ‘Where would you like to start?’

  Forty minutes later Kate felt as if she knew everything she’d ever need to know about hormone injections, sperm washing and intra-vaginal egg harvesting. After a lengthy explanation of the process, she’d been able to persuade Beresford to provide a list of people who the Buckleys would have dealt with on their many visits to the clinic. This consisted of Beres
ford, a counsellor and two nurse clinicians. There were obviously reception staff and technicians but Ryan and Melissa’s dealings with those would have been on a much less personal level and Beresford had assured her that, beyond collecting samples, the role of most of the staff would have been minimal. Kate had insisted that he include these ‘minor players’ on the list, just in case.

  She took a picture of the names with her phone and emailed it to Cooper along with an instruction to go home and get some rest. For once she chose to take her own advice, and decided to head back to her flat and, hopefully, Nick.

  Chapter 10

  ‘Right, that’s your last one,’ Dan said, placing the two drinks on the table. The woman sitting in the corner of the booth gave him a bleary grin as she grabbed for the drink and took a big gulp.

  ‘That’s what you said last time,’ she said, lips loosened with drink, spraying tiny droplets of Bacardi and Coke onto the grimy table top.

  He slid onto the bench seat opposite her and took a swig of his pint. They’d been here for nearly two hours and she was no closer to giving him the information he wanted. He’d spent a good part of his afternoon tracking her down – time that he should have been spending on the murder of Melissa Buckley – and he was starting to regret his decision. The boss had as good as given him the afternoon off but he still felt bad about using police resources to find an address and phone number. He’d even had a quick peek at her criminal record. Not as extensive as his mother’s but there were two old convictions for shoplifting and three for soliciting. She’d managed to stay out of prison though, which was more than he could say for her sister. She bore a striking resemblance to Suzanne: similar age, similar haggard features, similarly inappropriate clothes, but, where Suzanne was blonde, Michelle was chestnut brown. They shared the same fortnight’s growth of grey roots though.

  Dan couldn’t quite believe that the woman across the table from him was his auntie. He had other aunties – his adoptive mum had two sisters – and they were nothing like Michelle. He remembered her vaguely from his childhood as a woman in her twenties with a big laugh and a nasty temper. He had an especially vivid memory of being marched home by Auntie Michelle when he was six years old and had been caught stealing a handful of bubble-gum from the local shop. The shopkeeper had rung home and Michelle had been there. She’d grabbed him by the neck and pushed him in front of her all the way, her foot making occasional contact with his backside as she screeched at him for being stupid enough to get caught. He had no concept of morality at that age but he knew that most people thought stealing was the crime – not getting caught for it.