by M J Lee
A sound on his left. The door to the building site was being scraped against the ground.
‘Hello, Sam, are you there, Sam?’
A man’s voice.
He picked up his bag and ducked behind the large bin, pulling out his ball-peen hammer.
If he came too close that would be the end of him. Shame, he didn’t like killing people. That wasn’t part of the plan.
The sound of footsteps. Slow, dragging footsteps.
‘Sam, I know you’re here. You gonna share your gear?’
The footsteps stopped.
He raised the hammer and was about to jump out and bring it down on whoever was standing there.
But all he heard was a long drawn-out ‘Nooooooo’, followed by footsteps running away, the feet no longer dragging.
Time to get back to work before the hue and cry was raised. He could come back and finish the job later.
He had to leave the message, didn’t he?
Chapter Sixteen
It was well past noon before they reached the doctor’s surgery.
‘We’re here to see a Dr Marshall.’ Ridpath and Pleasance stood in front of the reception desk. Behind them a row of seats held three patients, two of them coughing.
God, Ridpath hated going to these places. Nine months of traipsing in and out of them had put him off for life. He would have to go back soon, though, for another check-up.
The receptionist looked up from her computer. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘My name is Ridpath, I’m from the coroner’s office. This is Detective Constable Pleasance. We’re here about one of Dr Marshall’s patients, a Mr Joseph Brennan.’
The receptionist tapped her computer. ‘He’s just come in, so he’s very busy at the moment, but I’ll try to squeeze you in before the next appointment. If you’d like to take a seat…’
Ridpath looked back again at the row of chairs and chose one that was as far away from the coughing people as possible. The last thing he needed at the moment was a lung infection. If he caught something, he would have to go back to hospital once again. It was one of the complications of having a cancer like myeloma. Doctors were always scared a minor infection might develop into something far more serious. Even if he had a cold, he was supposed to go running back to Christies.
Pleasance sat down next to him. ‘Thanks for all the help yesterday. It was the first time Wharton hadn’t bollocked me since I went to work at Cheadle Hulme.’
‘Thanks for the credit.’
Pleasance looked shocked. ‘You told me not to give you any credit. Remember?’
‘I liked the line about “being informed of the enquiries”.’
‘I thought it was good too. Do you and Wharton have history?’
‘You could say that.’
Pleasance stared at him. ‘Well?’
‘You can go in now, gentlemen.’ The receptionist spoke before Ridpath could answer. She pointed at a door at the end of the corridor. Ridpath knocked on it, heard someone say ‘Enter’ and went in.
Dr Marshall was standing in front of his desk. He was a tall, elegant man in his late thirties, with salt and pepper hair extending past the collar of his white lab coat, a stethoscope hanging out of his pocket. ‘You’re from the police? Please sit down.’
Out of habit, Ridpath stuck out his hand.
The doctor stared down at it. ‘Sorry, I never shake hands. You never know where they’ve been.’ His voice was sharp and cutting, a voice lacking warmth. He walked behind his desk, stopping for a moment to depress the top of an antimicrobial hand gel standing next to some football trophies. As he rubbed the white foam into his hands, he said, ‘What can I do for you?’
Ridpath sat down while Pleasance took out his notebook. ‘My name is Ridpath, I’m from the coroner’s office, and this is DC Pleasance. We’re here about one of your patients. A Mr Joseph Brennan.’
‘Coroner’s office? I don’t remember signing a notice of death form for a Mr Brennan.’
‘You didn’t. He died last night and we are trying to determine if the death was suicide or a possible murder.’
He swivelled round to his computer and tapped a name into it, scanning the screen. ‘And how can I help you?’
‘We’d like to know what you were treating him for.’
‘How do you know I was treating him?’
Pleasance brought out his phone and showed the doctor the picture of the medicine bottle with the pharmacy’s name on it. ‘Did you prescribe these tablets for him?’
He smiled. ‘As you well know, patient medical records are confidential. If you’d like to see them, you need to get a court order.’
Pleasance leant forward. ‘Actually, that’s not true. Under Section 29 of the Data Protection Act 2018, Mr Brennan is supposed to give his consent, but as he is deceased, I am informing you that disclosure of his medical records is in the public interest.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. ‘I am providing you with written confirmation of this request and, as we are on the premises of your practice, there will be no fee for viewing the records.’ He handed the envelope to Dr Marshall.
Ridpath was staring at him.
‘What?’
‘That was almost intelligent,’ he whispered.
‘Learnt it on a Data Protection Course. You should keep up to date, Ridpath.’
The doctor read the letter. ‘OK, what do you want to know?’
‘What were you treating Mr Brennan for?’
He scanned his notes. ‘General depression. He’d lost his job…’
‘When was that?’
He checked his computer again. ‘The last time I saw him was just over three years ago. April 9, 2016, to be precise.’
‘He hasn’t seen you since?’
He shook his head. ‘It would be on here if he had.’
‘Could another doctor have seen him?’
‘Perhaps, but not at this practice. I didn’t refer him to a specialist at that time. Just prescribed Valium and an antidepressant.’
‘If he saw a psychiatrist, would you know?’
‘I should know. If the psychiatrist was in the NHS, he would request a copy of the medical records from me. But there’s no note to that effect in my records.’
‘Can you tell us anything about him?’
He stared at his screen. ‘Not a lot really. I’ve been here twelve years and I saw him twice in that time.’ He scratched his nose with his right hand. ‘To be honest with you, I can’t even remember what he looks like. Too many patients.’ He carried on scrolling through his records on the computer.
Ridpath could imagine the footfall at a busy GP’s surgery would be horrendous. But he also knew enough about body language to recognise the doctor had just lied to him. The scratch of the nose and the words ‘to be honest’ were such a giveaway.
Then the doctor stopped scrolling. ‘That’s interesting. Now I remember him.’
‘What is it?’
‘He had an accident when he was young, extensive scarring on his body. I remember him telling me, spent two months in hospital…’
Ridpath knew what spending a long time in hospital felt like, and there was only one word to describe it. Hell. ‘Anything else?’
Dr Marshall finally looked at him. ‘No, that’s it, nothing more.’
‘Was he disabled in any way?’
The doctor went back to his notes. ‘No. In his case, there was no permanent disability. Other than the scarring, he was a perfectly normal adult suffering from depression after losing his job. Half my patients are the same.’
‘Thanks for your time, Doctor. If you could print out his records, we would be grateful.’
He frowned for a moment. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I’m afraid so…’ Ridpath glanced across at Pleasance before continuing. ‘In the public interest, you know.’
Dr Marshall sat silently for a second before tapping on his keyboard. ‘You said this man has passed away?�
�
Ridpath nodded.
‘Can you send me a copy of the death certificate?’
‘No problem, once we’ve completed the post-mortem.’
‘Thanks. The receptionist will give you his records. There isn’t much, I’m afraid.’
‘Thank you once again for your time.’ Ridpath reached out once again to shake the doctor’s hand and then withdrew his arm quickly.
The man smiled and immediately went back to the soap dispenser, as if merely being offered a handshake would contaminate him.
Outside, Ridpath and Pleasance collected the printouts and then walked out together to their cars. ‘That was a waste of time,’ said the detective constable, lighting a cigarette.
Ridpath smelled the aroma of a Marlboro waft across his nostrils. The smell brought an instant hit of nostalgia combined with a quick flash of good times stood outside a pub with a pint in one hand and a cigarette in another. Despite not having smoked since his bout of pneumonia, the desire for a cigarette never left Ridpath, like a cat prowling in a corner of his mind.
He coughed and checked his watch. Should he tell Pleasance the doctor had lied about something? No point, and he might be wrong anyway. Perhaps the doctor had seen something in the records that shouldn’t have been there. Never mind, he should head back to the coroner’s office.
‘I wonder what he was doing for the three years since he left his job.’
‘I’ve got an appointment with the DWP at two o’clock. Perhaps they found him work.’
‘Any luck finding relatives?’
Pleasance shook his head. ‘Nothing so far.’ He checked the medical file. ‘And there’s no next of kin on these. Perhaps DWP will have a name.’
‘Aye, and pigs might fly. How long has Wharton given you on this?’
‘Till the end of today, and then he wants me looking for the missing postman.’
‘Perhaps the postie’s done a runner with a parcel.’
They reached Ridpath’s car. Pleasance paused for a moment before asking, ‘What do you think the verdict will be?’
‘About Joseph Brennan?’
Pleasance nodded.
‘We’ll have to wait on the post-mortem, but at the moment it looks like the coroner would probably return an open verdict. We can’t prove or disprove it was suicide. It may even have been an accident.’
‘And murder?’
‘Doesn’t look like it, unless the forensics reveal something. No suspects. No history of visitors to the flat. No reason for a murder.’ Ridpath opened his car door. ‘You coming to the post-mortem?’
‘Dead bodies? Bits of liver? A heart on a tray? No thanks, it’d put me off my dinner.’
‘OK, if he finds anything I’ll let you and Wharton know.’
‘Thanks, Ridpath. Fancy some lunch? There’s a great little chippy round the corner.’
‘Nah, I’d better get back, too much to do.’ He went to shake hands and then pulled his hand back. ‘As the good doctor said, I don’t know where you’ve been, Ron.’
Chapter Seventeen
Sergeant John Bohannon wasn’t having the best of days. His back was killing him, his feet hurt, his left knee was giving him gyp again, and he had a headache the size of Moss Side.
Not only that, but he was stuck with Bruce Connor as his partner. Now Bruce was a good copper and a great mate, but on a bad day they could bottle his farts and sell them to British Gas.
Today was a bad day.
Bohannon had told him not to have the curry for lunch, but did he listen? Did he buggery. And now Bohannon was suffering the consequences.
But despite this, it was about to get much worse.
They were cruising down London Road, heading away from the city centre, and had just passed Piccadilly Station. His shift had just seventy minutes left. He was planning to go straight home, take a handful of Nurofen, close the curtains and spend the rest of the day in bed, when the call came through on the radio.
‘Incident reported at Back Piccadilly. Two-three-five, please respond. Over.’
‘OK, Dispatch. What is the nature of the incident?’
‘Unknown, over. Woman screaming, corner of Back Piccadilly and China Lane. Over.’
‘We’re off duty soon, Dispatch.’
‘I am aware, two-three-five. Nobody else available.’
‘OK, ETA five minutes. Over.’ He switched the sirens on and swung the car into the outside lane.
‘We got a job, Bruce.’
‘But we’re off soon.’
Bohannon shrugged. ‘Sod’s law.’ He moved the car across the traffic, ignoring the large ‘no U-turn’ sign under the flyover. One of the perks of having the blues and twos blaring like a banshee was the rules no longer applied. Within reason, of course.
Bohannon was far too old a hand to get caught out breaking them now. Not when a comfortable retirement and pension after thirty years’ service was just two years away.
He accelerated back towards town. The bloody one-way system changed every five minutes these days and the roadworks on Oxford Road had screwed things up even more.
Left along Aytoun Street, bending round to Auburn Street, cars pulling to one side to get out of his way, except for one stupid bugger in a Toyota who thought he owned the road. Bohannon gave the siren an extra buzz to wake the dozy bugger up.
Left on Piccadilly, heading towards the Gardens, picking up speed now, people stopping to watch the car as it sped past. Right along Lena Road? No, Paton Road was closer. He accelerated again, signalled right and stopped. Some stupid planner had put up two large ‘no entry’ signs.
‘What the…’ he shouted, checking his rear-view mirror. He put the gears in reverse and began accelerating back to Lena Road.
‘Bloody hell, Sarge, what’s got into you?’
Luckily nothing was coming the other way. He skidded to a halt and swung the car down Lena Road, turning left into Back Piccadilly. Across Paton Street to Back Piccadilly again. More bloody ‘no entry’ signs.
‘Bugger it,’ he said out loud, accelerating down the lane, hoping nothing was coming the other way.
The lane was narrow, room for only one car. A small crowd was up ahead.
He parked the car on the pavement next to a graffitied hoarding covered in posters displaying the latest acts coming to Manchester and the various DJ nights at clubs across the city: Creamfields, Fat Freddy’s Drop, Juicy at the Black Dog Ballroom, Relapse at Rebellion, and even an Anarchy night at Percy Pig’s, whatever one of those was. He was a Smiths man himself. Proper music, none of this drum and bass druggie stuff.
Time to be calm, take control.
‘You block the road, Bruce, while I go and see what this is all about.’
‘Right-o, Sarge.’
Bohannon slowly stepped out of the car, taking his time to put on his cap as he assessed the situation. The crowd, just six people actually, parted to let him see the woman in their midst, standing next to a PCSO. Her shoulders heaved as sobs racked her body. Her eyes were rimmed red and black mascara streaked her face.
‘Can we stand back, please, give the lady some room,’ he ordered.
The people shuffled backwards but still kept close enough to hear what was going on.
Bohannon spoke to the woman directly. ‘What’s up, love? What happened?’
She shuffled once more, pushing her fringe away from her eyes. ‘I… I…’
‘It’s all right, take your time.’
‘She saw something in there.’ The PCSO pointed to the building site hidden by the hoardings.
‘And you are?’
‘PCSO Clive Tennant. I was just passing when I heard her screaming as she ran out of the alley.’ The PCSO put his arm around the woman’s shoulder. Bohannon was about to comment on it when she began to speak again.
‘I… I…’ The words seemed to catch in her throat.
‘You saw something in there?’
She nodded – it was easier than speaking.
‘And w
hat’s your name?’
The woman’s chest heaved for a few moments as she caught her breath. ‘It’s… Cathy, Cathy Newman.’
Bohannon glanced down the road. Another squad car had arrived and Dave was helping them set up a row of orange-and-white traffic cones to block the entrance. He could wait or he could check it out himself.
‘What did you see?’ he asked the woman.
She shook her head and began to cry once more.
He tried to peer over the hoardings but they were just a bit taller than him. The gate on the left was still open. He walked over to it, trying to be deliberate and controlled in his movements. He stopped at the gate. Everybody was looking at him.
He peered in.
Nothing but a few bins overflowing with rubbish. On the right, a pile of old bathroom tiles, some rotting carpets, and weeds growing in profusion.
He leant forward. What was that smell? Like a kebab shop on a busy Friday night.
He stepped into the building site to get a better look.
Still nothing.
‘I think it’s beside the bins. That’s what she told me earlier.’ The PCSO’s voice. Clive Tennant.
Bohannon stepped forward towards a pile of dirty clothes. A thin trail of grey smoke was rising from them.
‘What the hell?’
He went forward one more step and then stopped. He coughed and tried to cover his nose, swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat.
A blackened body lay on its side, the flesh still smoking slightly, like a black polystyrene mannequin in a department store. A foot away, an empty bottle lay next to the blackened feet.
He knew then that he wouldn’t be having a quiet nap this afternoon.
‘Dispatch. Over.’
The Airwave crackled. ‘Come in, two-three-five.’
‘There’s a dead body. Looks like a dosser has set fire to himself while drinking meths. Requesting assistance ASAP to keep the crowds away, and we have a highly distressed woman. Over.’
‘Is he dead? Over.’
Bohannon checked out the body again. He couldn’t help but notice the cigarette was still clamped between the blackened fingers of the right hand. A charred corpse of a cigarette.
