Yes.
I revved into gear and reversed rather spectacularly. It’s a shame no one was there to witness. Back on the winding road again, I was a bit suspect in an unmarked car.
What would a psychoanalyst think about Jack Harper? His house was dirty, as any heartbroken father’s house would be, festering in grief. He lived well below his means and didn’t have to shell out for anything, no overly expensive gadgets, nor suspicious items to add suspect Jack Harper was involved in dangerous activities. Maybe his house remained unkempt on purpose. To hide away from society, stay unnoticeable. Stay ghost-like.
What did Jack Harper subconsciously project? He took a while to answer the door. Scared, confused… or did he know what was going on, why we arrived to question him informally? My unmarked Volvo pulled up outside Dalgety Bay Medical Centre, where Jack Harper declared to work on our statements.
Inside, lights were starting to switch off. Damn it, I inwardly cursed, double-checking the time. Five twenty-five. Closing time. Gravel flicked randomly over my shins as I ran towards their entrance, knocking frantically. There were two people inside, one stern woman with a complicated updo sat typing away, chatting to the other young woman, probably no older than twenty. She hoovered their grubby carpet.
The updo woman answered first, showcasing a wardrobe of unique clothing as she slowly crept over hesitantly. I held my CID badge up to the glass, pressing it close enough for them to notice. Their expressions visibly changed to apologies before she fumbled to unlock all three locks. Serious security paranoia.
“Sorry to interrupt you, ladies, I’m sure you want to go home. DS Kirsty McCall. I’ve got some information which needs cross-referencing,” I explained slowly, not wanting to overwhelm them with too much information.
“Uh, sure.” One allowed me through, closing their doors behind us while the cleaner smiled politely, continuing with light duties. It was easy to see my rush, with my heavy breathing and flushed cheeks.
“Do you have the power to search employee records?” I asked.
“Why do you ask?” that stern lady wondered curiously, doubting why CID had shown up so late.
“I have to find out which shift one of your employees worked. Desperately.” My speech came out rushed, hurried. Too abruptly. A security camera zoomed across, hung up close to their desk. If DCI Campbell watched this over...
“Well, they’re all stored in our database. It’s a nightmare to search through them all,” she said hesitantly.
“No. Please,” I jumped in to their double surprise. An explanation was due. “I’m not supposed to be here. I really, really need this. I drove all the way here because we have to know.”
My desperation persuaded the woman, who threw me a worried look, probably worried for my sanity. She sat behind a giant, wooden desk, whilst I leaned over. Sparse taps emitted from her computer keyboard, the signs of a serious typist. Amazingly efficient.
“Date?”
“Eighth of December,” I recalled, and her cleaner faced us, excited to share some local gossip.
“That’s when that poor boy was found dead. Everyone was talking about it,” she casually rambled, attempting to kickstart her broken hoover. “What a terrible shame. It’s such a scary world out there.”
“It is,” I agreed. It was something we could all sullenly agree on.
“Cass, do be quiet.” The typist couldn’t believe how dim-witted her cleaner could be. “Sorry, Ma’am, she loves all that CSI stuff. We both do. Seen all the episodes about a hundred times. We can’t get enough of Gil Grissom, a right silver fox.” They excitedly matched squeals.
“Sex on legs, miss,” Cass laughed, causing me to crack a small smile. They were friendly enough, though perhaps not the brightest buttons. It’s easily forgotten, working for CID, that people have lives outside of our cases.
“Never seen it. Sorry.” I grinned back, then placed undivided attention back to her glowing computer screen. A whole spreadsheet pulled up, full of employee records and information. Brilliant. Bingo.
“They all clock in on a small machine over there.” The older woman pointed towards the login machine. “Name?” Her fingertips waited, poised and ready.
“Err, Jack Harper.”
“Jack Harper?”
“Uh-huh,” I finished the interaction.
She seemed confused but typed the name in anyway. Nothing showed up on the screen, just a blank page. “Sorry, ma’am, but our databases don’t go back that far. New systems, you see, we had to retype all the information.” The woman shrugged apologetically and eyed me curiously. Something lingered on her lips, though didn’t communicate out loud.
“Great,” I mumbled under my breath sarcastically.
I had risked my job for nothing. If DCI Campbell found out I’d done this instead of Finlay, my neck would be on the line. He would be furious, and I would have no further chances of applying for Detective Inspector. Or anything else. I could forget it now, go home and pretend nothing happened. Or I could take the second option and continue to dig up some dirt on my own. If Finlay were right, I would find something on Jack Harper. And if not, nobody could ever know where I had been.
“So he didn’t clock in or out on the 8th?” I double-checked, just to make sure. Both hands rested on my hips, thoughts flying through my head. The woman still seemed oddly confused, creased lips messing up her neatly applied lipstick.
“No, Ma’am.”
“Was he scheduled to work that day?” I fired back.
She clicked away again, bringing up a whole list of names. She moved back to let me scroll through them by myself. There were plenty of doctors, none of them by the name Jack Harper. Could he have a fake identity, or was he lying to everyone? I could think of one hundred criminal possibilities as to what Jack Harper could be up to. Names blurred into one with my continuous scrolling. Cass pretended she wasn’t listening to our banter, although anyone could blatantly see she was nosy. A sudden reminder popped back into my mind when observing Cass the cleaner.
“How come you have all these names listed and accounted for the 8th when you told me records don’t go back that far?” The older receptionist blinked slowly. Concerned, but not for her wellbeing or reputation as a liar.
“I was confused, ma’am. You told me the date clear enough, I know. But Jack Harper couldn’t have clocked in on the eighth, so I went back further to find the last time he clocked in for you,” she restated as she tucked part of her bob behind one ear. It revealed some dangly earrings which looked like they would get caught in the photocopier if she wasn’t careful. Cass stopped dusting the tables down. They were staring at me like I’d missed the obvious.
Had I?
“Why could he not have clocked in?” I asked them outright, needing to know what was going on. I was the detective in the room but felt like the idiot. It took them a while to spit out the facts I had so stupidly missed. Actually, two of us had missed. DCI Campbell didn’t think to question the information Jack Harper gave us.
“He hasn’t worked here for a couple of months now.” The older woman frowned, wizening her face years ahead of her age. My reaction was probably not what they’d expected. I stayed quiet, but my brain reeled. Jack Harper cried and repeated that information as fact. Finlay’s suspicions were correct. Jack Harper had spun us a reel, entrapping the Guv in a web of lies.
“What do you mean he hasn’t worked here? Did he get a transfer to somewhere else or are there any other hospitals or doctors in Dalgety Bay?” I asked in a rush. “This is the first place I thought of, but Jack Harper could’ve worked anywhere.”
“Oh no, he worked here, alright. Miserable bastard. Had an office always full of empty crisp packets and whatnot,” Cass began until a warning look from the receptionist cut her off, warning her to be polite when speaking to a CID detective. Her cursing was the last thing playing on my mind. “Sorry, Miss. It was a huge scandal when he left, though. Everyone talked for weeks. Even Mr Lang was gossiping about it, and he n
ever gets involved with us lot—”
“Cass,” My receptionist paused Cass mid-conversation. “Sorry about her. She doesn’t get much social interaction.” Standing up, the receptionist leaned against a doorway which led to a secretive back office. “Jack Harper was fired for stealing medical records. They managed to retrieve them back in the end, but we reckon he wrote down all the information he would’ve needed to know somewhere. Then there were the pills—”
“Don’t tell me,” I groaned rhetorically, already guessing what had happened. “He got caught stealing prescription drugs?” Cass giggled, surprised at how accurate I was. “And what? He got fired, and that was that?”
“Yeah,” the receptionist nodded regretfully. “They wanted to keep it away from papers and the press. I think Jack wanted that too, in all honesty. He wasn’t right in the head, not since his daughter died. Kept saying he wanted to save another girl's life, like he should have saved his own daughter.”
It was a first-hand quote which didn’t help Jack Harper’s deceiving lies. ‘He wasn’t right in the head.’ Enough to make him capable of murder? It seemed likely, looking back at all those facts recently coming to light. But who was he stealing prescription drugs for, and why did he so desperately want stolen medical documents?
“Do you know where I could find any record of Jack and his time he spent employed here?” That would be my most logical next step: uncovering some hard evidence. Hard enough to break with a hammer.
“Out back, ma’am. Not Australia, just out there. Every employee record stored properly, under lock and key, which I so happen to have.” Cass waggled a set of keys in the air enticingly. “Jack Harper’s is probably still in there for legal purposes, you know, in case the case comes back to haunt us all.” We unlocked their backroom excitedly, three young girls experiencing their first rule-breaking moment. Filing cabinets stood tall and proud, labelled, thankfully, for utmost convenience.
They pretty much left me to it, following my strict instructions to email me over the clock-in names from the eighth to prove Jack Harper's absence back at CID. We swapped email addresses, and she got right to business. Lovely jubbly. Cass continued cleaning for a few hours, chattering now and again to fill her time. I was grateful to them both for letting me stay, even though it was well past their home time. Duty called. They seemed just as invested in the case as CID, having heard all about it from the papers. Both of them swapped intriguing but frankly ridiculous theories, probably trying to help out.
It did the exact opposite.
I rifled through cabinet drawer after drawer, tons and tons of loose papers. They needed hired help to get on top of all their paperwork.
“H. H. H,” I repeatedly murmured, sounding delirious. Finally, I located the ‘H’ drawer and spent half an hour pulling out every brown envelope. It was all very seventies in taste. No one had updated this little nook past that particular era. All handheld and typed medical records were shoved inside each folder, containing facts on many people's personal, private lives.
Nobody should abuse their power to protect such sensitive information, I reminded myself ironically that I, myself, had stooped to Jack Harper’s level. Hypocritical, much?
“Here you go, ma’am,” Cass made me jump, suddenly appearing with a steaming mug of coffee on hand.
“Thanks, Cass, you’re a saviour.” I smiled gratefully, taking their warm and steaming cup away. A shockwave of relief overtook my body after one sip, rejuvenating me. It had all gotten dark recently, and harder to push through all those meticulous sheets of paper. It was exactly what I needed.
“Do you think you’ll find them, ma’am? The killer?” Cass stared down towards her ropey shoes nervously, her earlier confident demeanour melting away. “It’s just that… I’ve got a little boy. He’s all I have. I want him to grow up in a safe place, you know. Not one where people can get away with murder.”
My sometimes sensitive heart broke for her. People like Cass were the reason we continued working for CID. To protect those who can’t defend themselves, who are easily intimidated by evil.
“I hope,” I vowed out loud. If I wasn't fired by time I returned to the CID office tomorrow, that was. Relieved, Cass sighed, returning to her normal self once more.
“Thank you, ma’am. Drink up. Otherwise, your coffee will go cold, and I’ve still got the staff room to clean yet.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously, a ray of sunshine remaining through the darkness. I chuckled as Cass bustled away, lugging that great stinking hoover with her.
I pulled myself back to the folder, resting in my lap. I’d gotten tired of standing and filled the floor with an explosion of paperwork, like a bomb had gone off. I sat centre stage, at the eye of the storm, causing the never-ending explosion. Shaking from nerves, I opened Jack Harper’s folder and recognised a few confidentiality agreements and employment contracts. There had to be something else. Anything.
Aha. A typed up, formal note rustled the furthest back. This had to be promising? ‘Termination of employment’. Bingo. Documentation to prove Jack was indeed fired. It detailed a few notes which the receptionist already ran through briefly before. But names stood out against the grain. Jack Harper had been caught stealing medical records of himself and a girl called Catherine Jones.
Catherine Jones? Who is she and what would she have to do with Jack Harper? I went through the whole process again until I found her record. It was illegal to do that, which is the same grounds on which Jack Harper was fired. But this was an investigation, and surely any methods used to gain evidence were necessary ones?
Catherine’s medical records spoke of nothing much, until a few pages in. Jack Harper was treating her, and so far, that was all to link them together. My eyes were closing of their own accord no matter how hard I fought to keep them open.
“Ma’am?” Cass and the receptionist were both standing at the door frame, looking down at me. I jumped and lifted my head from the ransacked filing cabinets.
“You dozed off, ma’am,” Cass informed me.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Only about five minutes. We have to close now.” The receptionist hated to rush me, but it had to be done.
“Could I take this? I’ll need to have another look over it, and my DCI will need to see it tomorrow,” I explained as I clambered to my feet, brown folder still in hand. The receptionist seemed unsure whether to let me take the file. “I’ll bring it back as soon as possible and clear your name from any questions your boss may ask.”
It worked, for she agreed and let me out of the building, chattering away. Cass was telling us all about her little boy. His name was Freddie, a student at Dalgety Bay primary school. A smart, comical and exceptional character of a boy. I reached the Volvo, submerged in gossip. They were lovely people, after all.
“We hope you catch them,” the receptionist said grimly, as a form of goodbye. It was a strange situation, for we weren’t friends or anything but had spent an entire night together.
“I’ll try my best. Thank you for all your help,” I reminded them, waving the folder in the air.
“Thank you, ma’am. Good luck with everything. You’ll catch ‘em, I know it.” Cass bounded over and hugged me with relief. It was nice to feel appreciated for once, instead of the general public questioning every move we made and action we decided on.
“Thank you, Cass. Look after young Freddie.”
“That reminds me.” She raised her dark brows. “The school is doing a nativity play in two weeks. Come along and watch, Freddie would love it. He’s obsessed with police officers.” It was sweet, the amount of devotion Cass held for her son.
“If my schedule’s not too busy.” I smiled and hoped our working days would drastically shorten in time for Christmas. A nativity would be a perfect way to get into the Christmas spirit and see what our community had to offer. Maybe DC Taylor would like to come along. I’d have to drag Finlay down too, show him a nice night out for Christmas.
Cass waved, s
etting off home. I clambered into our vehicle, switched on the overhead light, and got stuck back into Catherine Jones’s file.
I had to squint in the faint light. Her recent place of address was visible on the sheet. Let’s see. Catherine had undergone tests for anxiety and depression after a recent loss, all brought on from grief. She’d been prescribed prescription pills by none other than Jack Harper himself. My phone buzzed, reminding me that I still had to travel home yet, without falling asleep at the wheel. A risk I was unwilling to take.
My drive took me the main route home, past restaurants containing their last straggles of customers. I stopped at a traffic light and happened to look into a restaurant window. There was a couple, holding hands and sipping glasses of white wine. They were in love, anybody could tell.
A horn blasted, warning me that I had stopped at a green traffic light. Yeah, alright, mate. Calm down.
A couple of men smoked outside the pub, jeering at another man puking his guts out against a wall. Positively nauseating. The man puking, stood up uneasily, holding his jacket in one arm. His hand wiped his mouth before he moved around to face the road. His face was concealed from view before, but now I knew exactly who that stranger was.
Finlay Cooper.
Thirteen
McCall
What was that man thinking? I made an angry u-turn, screeching up next to the curbside. Finlay didn’t even realise, having decided to start shouting at thin air. Drunk people were bad enough, but a drunk Finlay Cooper was worse. I had never seen him drink before tonight, but now I knew why. He couldn’t handle it. Lightweight.
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