“Yes,” Smith said to her.
“Detective,” she said, “Moira Dempsey, Daily mail. Do you mind if I come straight to the point?”
“Fire away,” Smith said although he had a feeling he did not want to hear what she had to say.
“Detective Smith,” she said, “surely you must realise that these cash machine robberies are a thing of the past. They are old news; they’ve been covered to death. Nobody wants to read about them any more. What people want to know about are the ladybird murders.”
Smith did not know what to say. He had been warned not to disclose anything other than details of the cash machine robberies.
“What do you want to know?” he said anyway.
Smyth stared at him with his mouth wide open.
“Are you any closer to catching this psychopath?” the woman asked. “He’s killed four people now hasn’t he?”
“Five,” Smith said, “and we have a few new leads to go on. All I can say at this moment is we are working on it twenty four seven. If I had my way I wouldn’t even be here talking to you lot right now, I’d be out there trying to catch this maniac before she strikes again.”
“She?” the woman said.
“Did I say she?” Smith tried to hide his mistake but the damage was already done.
“Are you telling us this killer is a woman?” a man with blonde hair asked him.
“We have reason to believe it is,” Smith said.
“Do you think she’ll kill again?” the man asked.
“We don’t know,” Smith said.
“Can you tell us anything else about the murders?” a bald man with a huge wart on his nose asked.
“Not at the moment,” Smith was feeling dizzy. “I promise you that when we do have any new information, you’ll be the first to know.”
He turned off the microphone, walked towards the door and left the room.
TWENTY EIGHT
Smith was about to leave the station when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Where are you off to?” it was Chalmers.
“Where I should have ended up a long time ago,” Smith said, “in a loony bin. I need to check something out.”
“You nearly gave old Smyth a bloody heart attack in there,” Chalmers said, “I thought he was going to crap in his pants right there in front of those journos. That would have given them a good story.”
“I didn’t give those leeches anything,” Smith insisted.
“Apart from the fact that you think our killer is a woman,” Chalmers said, “what’s the story with the loony bin?”
Smith told him what Doctor Phillipa Bryce had let slip about Karen Wood.
“Christ,” Chalmers said, “she was taking a bloody chance. She could lose her license for this.”
“I have a way with women,” Smith said, “Nobody has to know about it anyway. She’s helping us out.”
“Take Whitton with you,” Chalmers said, “I don’t like the thought of you alone in a mental hospital. They might just commit you on the spot.”
“Thanks for the concern sir,” Smith said, “she’s meeting me in the car park in five minutes.”
He walked out of the station.
The sun was beating down as Smith waited for Whitton in his car. He opened every window in the car but it did not help. There were no clouds in the sky and he was starting to sweat. He thought about whether he ought to buy a car with air conditioning but his car had never been in such good shape after the trip to the panel beaters and the few weeks of hot weather York experienced every year did not justify it. He was now sweating badly and his mouth was incredibly dry. He took out his phone and dialled Whitton’s number.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said before he had time to talk.
“Bring some bottles of water from the canteen,” he said, “it’s hotter than Bondi Beach on Christmas Day in here.”
He rang off.
Whitton arrived two minutes later. She got in the passenger side and handed Smith a bottle of water. He opened it and drank it in one go.
“Thanks Whitton,” he said, “I needed that.”
He started the engine and drove out of the car park just in time. A group of journalists were emerging from the entrance to the station.
“You handled that quite well sir,” Whitton said, “you were very diplomatic.”
“I couldn’t wait to get out of there,” Smith said, “I hate Journos. Do you have any idea where this nut house is?”
“Sir,” Whitton said, “that’s terrible. I take it all back. Diplomacy isn’t your best quality.”
“Saint Barts,” Smith said, “I looked it up. It’s outside the city on the old Pocklington road.”
“Then it’s close to the prison,” Whitton said.
“Prison?” Smith said, “What prison?”
“Full Sutton. Remember the place where John Fulton was being held while he was pretending to be his twin brother?”
“How could I forget?” Smith sighed.
John Fulton had tricked the whole police force into believing he was his twin brother Jimmy earlier that year. That had given Jimmy Fulton the opportunity to kill more people in a killing spree that had shocked the whole country.
“Sounds about right,” Smith said, “a mad house next to a prison. I suppose it saves on transport costs between the two.”
“You’re impossible sir,” Whitton said, “You can’t say stuff like that any more.”
“Why not?” Smith said, “It’s the truth. Prisoners these days are treated more and more like patients anyway. We bust our balls to catch the bastards and then some do-gooder in a suit decides they have an illness and must be treated like any other human being. The whole worlds gone soft.”
They drove in silence for a while. The sun was now high in the sky. Smith was starting to get a headache from the glare.
“We’ve just passed a sign,” Whitton said, “Saint Barts is a mile up ahead on the left. Do you think Karen Wood is the one that killed all those men?”
“There are too many coincidences here,” Smith said, “I hate coincidences. She always seemed to be around at the right time and she was always missing when the murders were carried out. Let’s hope we can find something useful at this place.”
He turned off into a side road.
“Nice setting for a lunatic asylum,” he said as he drove towards the hospital. The road was lined with larch trees. The hospital itself stood in huge grounds. The gardens were meticulously maintained.
“Please don’t mention the word asylum,” Whitton said, “they’ll kick you out on the spot.”
“The worlds gone soft Whitton,” Smith said.
He parked the car in the large car park in front of the hospital. The building looked very old but some effort had been made to make it look more modern. The walls had been painted a light green colour and the roof had obviously been replaced recently.
“Let’s see if we can find out about the mysterious Doctor Karen Wood shall we?” Smith said.
He got out of the car. They followed a sign that pointed to the entrance of the building. Smith went in first.
Inside, the hospital was not what either of them had expected. The reception area looked more like the lobby of a hotel than a hospital reception. It was very bright and various pot plants were scattered randomly around the floor. There was a large area set aside for visitors’ seating. Smith walked up to the front desk. Two men in dark blue coats were laughing at something on a computer screen. They looked up when they saw Smith standing there. From the expressions on their faces it was clear that whatever they were laughing at on the computer had nothing to do with mental health.
“Good afternoon,” Smith said, “could we speak to whoever’s in charge please?”
One of the men, a man with scraggy hair in his late twenties, eyed Smith with suspicion. He was clearly used to being on his guard.
“Good afternoon,” he said, “who might you be then?”
“Police,” S
mith said, “DS Smith and this is DC Whitton. We need to talk to somebody who might have been a patient here once.”
“Do you have any ID?” the other man asked. He had a very high pitched voice. “You don’t look like police.”
“I get that a lot,” Smith took out his ID and placed it in front of both men.
“What’s this all about?” the man with the scruffy hair asked.
“Please can we just speak to somebody in charge?” Whitton said, “It’s very important.”
The man with the high pitched voice smiled at her.
“Of course,” he said.
He picked up the phone.
“Doctor Mathers,” he said into the handset, “there are two police officers here in reception. They need to speak with you.”
Smith could hear a woman’s voice on the other end of the line. The man replaced the handset.
“Doctor Mathers will be here in a few minutes,” he said, “please take a seat.”
He pointed to the large seating area by the entrance.
“We’re fine,” Smith said, “how long have you worked here?”
“Too long,” the man replied, “I trained as a nurse for a while but when they put up the tuition fees I took a part time job here just to make ends meet. Do you know that a receptionist here makes more money than a nurse who’s been in the job for three years? It’s disgusting really.”
“So they pay well here do they?” Smith said.
“This isn’t exactly the National Health,” the man smiled, “I know of upmarket hotels where they charge less per night. I shouldn’t really say this but you need to be reasonably well off to be a mental patient here.”
Smith was confused.
“I thought all mental hospitals were run by the state,” he said.
“Not anymore,” the man said, “don’t you ever read the papers? Most of our guests here, they like us to call them guests, are wealthy normal people with drug addiction problems, alcohol problems or depression. Money seems to bring with it all kinds of problems.”
Smith smiled at Whitton. He was about to say something when a tall thin woman with grey hair walked up to them.
“Good afternoon,” she said to Smith, “sorry to have kept you waiting but we had a bit of an incident in the common room. I’m Doctor Sarah Mathers. How can I help you?”
“We need to ask you some questions about a woman who may have been a patient here.”
“I don’t think that will be possible,” she said, “and we prefer to use the term guest here. Patient has something of a stigma attached to it don’t you think?”
“Please,” Smith said, “this could be very important. Could we just have a few words in private?”
Doctor Mathers looked him in the eye. Smith smiled at her.
“Come this way,” she said eventually, “I’m extremely busy but a few minutes won’t hurt.”
She walked off down a corridor behind the reception desk. Smith and Whitton followed her. She stopped at a door, took out a card and pressed the card against a panel next to the door. The door opened and she went inside.
Doctor Mathers’ office was surprisingly bare. There was a desk with a chair behind it and two in front. The only other objects in the room were a computer and a telephone.
“Please sit,” she said, “what seems to be the problem? It’s not often that we get a visit from the police. I have to warn you in advance that I probably will not be able to help you much. Here at Saint Barts we pride ourselves on our discretion. Goodness knows what would happen if the press found out about some of our more distinguished guests.”
“I hate the press,” Smith said, “and we’re only interested in one particular guest. We need to find out a Doctor of entomology. Doctor Karen Wood. I believe she spent some time here?”
“I have an unfortunate memory for names detective,” Doctor Mathers said, “and I can tell you that the name Karen Wood does not ring any bells.”
Smith could tell at once that she was lying.
“What are you like with faces?” Whitton asked.
Doctor Mathers looked at her as if she had said something offensive. Whitton took out her phone and brought up a photograph of Karen Wood.
“Do you recognise this woman?” she showed Doctor Mathers the photograph.
Doctor Mathers could not hide the fact that she recognised the woman in the photograph.
“So she was here?” Whitton said.
“I’m afraid I cannot help you,” Doctor Mathers said, “even in private hospitals such as this we have a thing called doctor patient confidentiality.”
Smith realised they were getting nowhere. He had been in this position many times before.
“We appreciate that,” he said, “but can you please just tell us, in your professional opinion, is this woman dangerous?”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say,” Doctor Mathers said, “I’ve got much more important matters to attend to.”
“What is it exactly you do here Doctor Mathers?” Whitton said.
Smith stared at her in disbelief.
“What do I do here?” Doctor Mathers was clearly annoyed, “what I do here is oversee a hospital that helps people in need; people at the lowest point in their lives. That’s what I do here detective. When people arrive here they are invariably in a state of despair with nowhere else to turn. Whether it be alcohol or drug related or simply a feeling of having nothing else to live for, people come here to get better. They are treated with respect and dignity. I believe if it were not for the time spent in this hospital many of these people would no longer be alive. As I have pointed out already what we value most is the privacy of these individuals. Confidentiality is paramount to our philosophy. Without confidentiality we have nothing.”
“So you’re here to help people?” Whitton said.
“Of course,” Doctor Mathers said, “and I don’t very much appreciate your impudence.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Whitton said, “and I didn’t mean to come across as impudent but five men are dead. Five men have been brutally murdered and we have reason to believe there will be more unless we find out who did this. We also believe it was a woman who killed these men and this woman may have been a patient of yours. If you really want to help people, please tell us if this Karen Wood or whoever she is was a patient in your care.”
Doctor Mathers looked at Whitton and then at Smith.
“She was here for six months,” she sighed.
“Thank you,” Whitton said, “why was she admitted here?”
“I could get into serious trouble for this,” Doctor Mathers said.
“Whatever you say will not leave these four walls,” Smith assured her, “we just need to know if we’re looking in the right direction.”
“She came here just under a year ago,” Doctor Mathers said, “when she was admitted, she was delusional.”
“Delusional?” Smith repeated.
“If I remember, she was convinced that she was a member of some royal family or other. She really believed it. We determined very quickly that she was suffering from schizophrenia.”
“Schizophrenia?” Whitton said, “Isn’t that a split personality?”
“That’s a common belief,” Doctor Mathers said, “but it’s totally misguided. Schizophrenia is more of a split mind; the splitting of the mental functions. She was diagnosed and treated accordingly. She was prescribed a series of antipsychotic medications and for a while she showed signs of improvement but the delusional behaviour kept rearing its ugly head.”
“What do you mean?” Smith said.
“She sometimes refused to take her medication and the delusions got worse. One day she could be a high court judge and the next a sky diving instructor. If I remember correctly, she was a very intelligent woman and she had no problem fooling the staff here about whether she’d taken her medicine.”
“She pretended to be a doctor of entomology,” Whitton said.
“That fits her personality,” Do
ctor Mathers said, “and I bet she was very convincing too.”
“Do you think she could be dangerous?” Smith said, “All of the men that were killed had their throats cut in various ways.”
“That depends,” Doctor Mathers said, “when she was discharged from here she seemed to accept her condition and agreed to continue to take her medication but if she decided to stop taking the antipsychotics anything could happen.”
“What do you mean?” Whitton said.
“Like I said, one day she could be a sheep farmer but she could just as easily believe she was a ninja assassin.”
“This is ridiculous,” Whitton said.
“You asked me for my opinion,” Doctor Mathers said, “while she was a guest here she showed no violent tendencies but the mind of a schizophrenic is a complicated thing. Something could have happened in her life that triggered a response in her. That response could be violence.”
“What’s her real name?” Smith asked.
“Karen Wood is her real name,” Doctor Mathers replied, “she always used her real name.”
“Does she have any family that you know about?”
“She had a husband,” Doctor Mathers said, “he used to visit her quite often in the beginning but after the first two months his visits became less and less frequent and then they stopped altogether. I believe he divorced her quite recently.”
“She told me about the divorce,” Smith said, “does her husband live in Durham?”
“That’s right,” Doctor Mathers said.
“I don’t understand,” Whitton said, “one minute she’s thinks she’s a doctor and then she talks about things that are actually true.”
“That’s the nature of schizophrenia detective,” Doctor Mathers said, “with the correct medication, most schizophrenics can lead perfectly normal lives.”
“We need to find her,” Smith said, “do you have an address for this husband of hers?”
“I’ve said enough,” Doctor Mathers said, “his address will be on file but I’m afraid I can’t give you that kind of information without a court order.”
“That will take too long,” Smith said, “we need to find her before anybody else gets hurt.”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 77
