Jack stood up and took in the man walking towards him.
Leacock was tall, greying, in a checked shirt and maroon v-neck jumper. A broad smile, warm eyes and a firm handshake — followed by a sociable pat on the shoulder.
“Unforgivable of me — conference call, I’m afraid, simply had to take it. Would you like more coffee? Wonderful biscuits, aren’t they? Home-made, right here in our kitchen, cook’s a marvel …”
Jack watched as Leacock settled himself into an armchair by the fire and gestured for him to sit back in the sofa too.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, Mr. Brennan,” said Leacock.
“Oh really?”
“Absolutely. I assume you are here to talk about Broadmead?”
“Broadmead, yes. And the death of Mr. Archy Fleming.”
“Mr. Fleming, yes, of course. God. Terrible. Tragic. Awful — we were all so upset to hear about that …”
“I bet.”
Jack watched Richard Leacock as he finally picked up on Jack’s attitude.
A little light bulb going off.
“Mr. Brennan — am I right in thinking that you hold me — or perhaps my company — in some way accountable for the desperately sad events of the last few days?”
Jack shrugged.
“You’re the boss of Hearthstone. Hearthstone owns Broadmead. Broadmead is so badly staffed and resourced that a vulnerable old man was allowed to leave the house in the middle of a blizzard, and his absence was only noticed when police reported they’d found his body.” Jack shook his head. “And you don’t feel responsible, Mr. Leacock?”
“I feel desperately sorry, of course. And angry about the death—”
“But not responsible?”
Jack watched Leacock get up from the sofa and walk to the windows, where he stood for a few seconds, then turned.
“I hadn’t expected you to be so hostile, Mr. Brennan.”
“Are you kidding me? You living up here, like this — and the people in that home in the cold, the dark, no heating, no light …”
“I had no idea — no one told me that they lost power. I pay people—”
“Pay them a ton, do you?”
Again Leacock stopped. “I … did not … know.”
“You know, if I hear that one more time — ‘had no idea,’ ‘not my responsibility.’”
Jack was getting angry.
He’d like to deck the guy, right here in his cosy living room.
Instead, he took a breath. Anger would not be helpful here.
“Okay, Mr. Leacock — you said you were glad to see me. Now why would that be?”
Jack watched Leacock as he walked back to the armchair and sat down.
“Well, to be honest, I thought you were here to help me.”
“Help? Interesting. Why the hell should I help you?”“Perhaps if I explain the … architecture … of all this, it might be clearer?”
“Architecture? Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“I own Hearthstone — right? Or rather, there’s a trust in my name which owns Hearthstone—”
“In the Cayman Islands, let me guess …”
“Channel Islands, actually, but yes — anyway that’s a side issue — so Hearthstone has a portfolio of investments and one family of those is healthcare — expanding sector you know, very good yields — and a small part of that family is Broadmead Grange.”
Leacock now sounded like he was sitting in a board meeting somewhere, rattling off information.
“Broadmead is one of ten homes across the UK all owned and run by Broadmead Enterprises which has its own management structure, or rather it did until half way through last year when the homes were split into two smaller groups under different management teams—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa — Mr. Leacock, you’re losing me with the ‘who owns what’. Just what is your point?”
“Sorry, sorry. Okay, here’s the point. Theoretically, I own Broadmead. But I have no involvement. I’ve never even been there. There’s supposed to be a management team — but half of them were … asked to resign about six months ago and apparently they’ve not been replaced.”
“So you’re telling me that nobody’s running the place?”
“As far as I know, the senior nurse—”
“Shirley Woods?”
“Yes, that’s her. Though apparently she is also taking legal action against Broadmead on various counts—”
“What? The person running things is suing the people who own it?”
“Least that’s what I hear from the board of Broadmead.”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s probably in her interest if the place gets into trouble again with the CQC.”
“Care Quality Commission? The regulators?”
“They were all over Broadmead last year. Pages of recommendations and warnings.”
Jack thought about Shirley Woods. Maybe she was letting things slide to punch up her case against the Home, force a good settlement? Was she one of the bad guys in this after all?
“Thing is, Mr. Brennan,” said Leacock, “this is all very bad for business.”
“Right. Guessing also that it’s not so good for the residents, you never thought of that?”
“No, no, you’re absolutely right; that’s terrible of me to put it like that. But at heart — if the business is doing well, the staff are happy and so are the residents. It ‘cascades’ — that’s the word.”
“Okay. Now, why did you think I could help?”
“Obviously I need to know what’s going on in that place. I don’t want people suffering. I need somebody inside who can find the bad apples. Weed them out. Someone who can tell me what to do — because right now I’m at a loss …”
Does this guy actually want … sympathy? Jack thought.
He sat back in the deep sofa.
This wasn’t what he’d expected. Was Leacock sincere? If so then the mess at Broadmead was just that. Not some kind of conspiracy, cover-up, exploitation.
Just a screw-up, understaffed, bad security, unlocked doors. Bad business, run by people who’d taken their eye of the ball.
And poor old Archy had died because nobody was really in charge.
Jack stood up.
“I’m not for hire, Mr. Leacock. And you don’t need a detective. What you need is a manager.”
“But don’t you see — the way this is structured, I can’t just hire a manager, that has to be done by the Broadmead board—”
Jack didn’t want to hear more about the complicated architecture of Richard Leacock’s world that somehow prevented him from accepting or understanding responsibility.
“Thanks for the coffee, I’ll make my own way out,” said Jack. “No need for the butler.”
Jack watched Leacock stand as if to shake hands, but Jack just turned and went out into the hallway. The butler was waiting anyway with his hat and coat and the front door already open.
Jack left without a word, and stepped out into the snow-covered drive towards his car.
He took a deep breath and looked around.
The sun had come out and the perfect white vista of English countryside looked pure and clean.
Felt good after all that … garbage inside.
His whole life as a cop hinged on the good moments when he could in some small way right a wrong, find a killer, bring a felon to justice.
But cases like this — where people died because of sloppy thinking, laziness, weakness, moral cowardice?
Cases like this angered him, making him want to bring down whatever system — and whatever people — were responsible.
His phone rang — he saw it was Sarah. He put it to his ear.
“Hi Sarah.”
“Hi Jack — can you talk?”
“Sure.”
“Couple of things.”
“Go ahead.”
“Alan rang — says the post mortem on Archy came up as expected. Hypothermia and he
art failure.”
“Figures.”
“And Ellie rang me from the Ploughman’s — said they found an old bag of clothes where Reg was hiding in their car park. She thinks maybe it was his; can you drop by if you’re passing and pick it up? Could be something.”
Strange, Jack thought. What could an old bag of clothes have to do with any of this …?
Still — worth a look.
“Sure, will do.”
“You okay, Jack?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Didn’t come up with anything here. Unless you can factor in nobody really running the place.”
“Oh. So where are we?”
“We’re at a dead end, Sarah. For now. No crime. Nothing to investigate. Nada.”
“Really?” said Sarah. “I still think there’s something wrong up at the home, Jack.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s time for us to move on. Hey — there’s still snow, take the kids tobogganing again, have some fun. Let the — Quality … what is it called?”
“Quality Care Commission.”
“Right. Maybe they know how to do their job.”
“So let it go, hmm?”
“Think so.”
“Sure. Maybe see you at the weekend if it clears, yeah?”
“Be great. Come on over to the Goose, have some supper.”
“Right. Bye Jack.”
“See you …”
Jack put his phone away and climbed into the little Sprite. His breath misted the windshield and he wiped it with his gloved hand.
Come on spring, he thought as he started the engine and drove away down the elegant drive.
13. A Chat in the Church
Sarah tried to focus on work. If Jack thought that there was nothing they could do, no crime committed, he was probably right.
And yet — as she stared at the big screen in front of her, the layout for the Cherringham Children’s Summer Play Scheme in progress — she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong with all of it.
Archy dying in the blizzard, Reg wandering about, Nurse Woods about as defensive as they come.
Could Jack be wrong?
Whatever — now distracted, she certainly wasn’t doing her best work.
The office phone rang, and Grace picked it up with a cheery “hello”.
Sarah kept moving images around: a child smiling in swimming trunks, swings in motion, toddlers on a field attempting to kick a football.
“Right,” Grace said. “Yes, she’s here. And who shall I—?”
Sarah turned. Call obviously for her, someone who did not have her mobile.
“Okay, I can check — please hold a moment.”
Grace hit a button on the desk phone.
“Sarah, someone for you. A woman, bit of an accent. Says she needs to speak to you?”
“Who is it?”
“That’s the thing. She won’t say. Just wants to talk.”
“Hope they don’t want me to refinance my home, or buy a time share. I’ll take it here.”
Sarah hit the blinking button on her own desk phone.
She recognised the voice immediately.
Ania.
And even on the phone, Sarah could feel the nurse’s fear, the voice halting, a near-whisper.
“Sarah — I have things to tell you.”
Just when she and Jack thought it was all over.
This detective thing could be pretty amazing.
“Yes, Ania — what is it?”
“No. I can’t, not now, not over the phone.”
“Okay,”
She saw Grace looking over, a quizzical look on her face.
“Um. How about we meet at the Ploughman’s, or Huffington’s—”
The “no” came fast.
“It must be someplace where we can be alone.”
Sarah knew that with the snowdrifts outside, a walk in the park wouldn’t be an option.
“You could come to my office, it’s just—”
Another quick no.
“Anybody might see. You’re right in the village square.”
And at that moment, Sarah felt some of Ania’s fear. For the woman to be that nervous, that scared … maybe there were things for Sarah to be scared of as well.
So she thought of where they might meet, where they would in all likelihood not be seen.
She only came up with one candidate.
“Ania — how about in the church, a pew at the back? Should be empty this time of day.”
The woman hesitated.
Then: “Yes. I can meet you there. When?”
Sarah looked at Grace. “You okay holding down things here?”
“Sure.”
Back to Ania: “In ten minutes?”
The woman on the other end of the line took a deep breath.
“Yes. I will see you there.”
“Bye,” Sarah said.
She put the phone down and got up from her desk and the now jumbled images of kids in summer.
Summer.
Cannot come soon enough, she thought.
‘Everything okay?” Grace said.
Her assistant had been so great about not asking questions when she and Jack got ‘into’ things. Most people would be dying of curiosity — Grace was just supportive, and waited …
And when it was all over, Sarah would tell her all about it.
“Be gone for a bit. Not too sure how—”
“No worries. You okay, Sarah?”
Interesting.
That thought hadn’t occurred to her, about any possibility of danger.
‘I … think so. Got my phone. Just need to have a chat with someone.”
Grace nodded. “Be careful.”
“Always,” Sarah said.
Though she knew that wasn’t quite true.
Grabbing her parka and wool hat, she hurried out of the office to still-snowy streets outside.
Ania was sitting in the back row of pews, to the right, almost hidden by the font.
A few candles flickered in the racks at the front of the church; sunlight came through the stained-glass windows over the altar. But the rows of pews were dark and shadowy.
And apart from Ania — sitting there, seeing Sarah rush in — the place was empty.
Sarah walked to the right, and Ania slid in to make room for her.
When they spoke, both their voices were low.
Because they were in a church … or more from the fear in Ania’s voice?
“Sarah, thank you for coming. I had to tell you. I just couldn’t—”
The nurse turned away, looked to the front of the church.
Could be … she was someone who believed in the power of church, of a god, of prayer and the holiness of a place such as this?
In which case, this might be even harder for her to do.
“Ania — there’s something you couldn’t tell us, back at the home?”
Ania nodded. “No, someone might hear. Even now, I’m not sure.”
Sarah reached out and patted the woman’s hand. Cold. Sarah gave it a small squeeze.
“I only want to help the people in the home, I’m sure you do too,” Sarah said.
Another nod. Ania again glanced at the pulpit, then turned back to Sarah.
“Yes. I know that, I can feel that. So, I will trust you … and tell you.”
Another deep breath. And she began.
“It’s Craig.”
Bingo, thought Sarah
“He knew about me, about my … problem.”
“What problem is that?”
“My status. I’m not here legally, no work permit. I mean, I’m a fully certified nurse, but—”
“You don’t have a permit from the government?”
Ania nodded.
“And Broadmead hired you anyway?”
“You’ve seen that place? They need people and they could get me cheap. That Miss Woods — she knew I would take the job and keep quiet. And I love the work, I love the people …”
/> And Craig? Sarah wondered.
“But not everyone you worked with.”
“Him? Craig. I know he doesn’t have healthcare certification. But what does Woods care? No one is in charge in that place.”
She looked away again.
Even though they both whispered, it still felt loud in the stillness of the quiet church, where there was not a sound.
“But he found out about me. That I have no permit.”
A singe tear in Ania’s right eye. She dabbed at it with the back of her hand.
This was hard for her.
Ania turned back to Sarah.
“He told me … that if I didn’t just let him do things, that he would tell the authorities about me. That I’d lose my job, be kicked out of the country.”
Another dab.
“It’s okay,” Sarah said, feeling the words to be empty when things were quite clearly not okay. “What did he want Ania?”
“When we did the rounds and gave the residents their drugs, he would take some. Sometimes the resident didn’t get all they were supposed to; other times he just made sure that we had more on the trolley than we needed.”
“He needed you to … look the other way?”
A nod. “‘Just be quiet,’” he told me. “Be quiet, and he would stay quiet as well.”
“You let him steal drugs?” Sarah said.
“Yes. He made me, threatened me. You understand, don’t you?”
“Drugs like?”
“Benzodiazepine … ‘benzos,’ he called them. Said he could always sell them. And the pain-killers, the Percocet, hydrocodone.”
Now both eyes welled with tears, Ania’s shame and fear immense in the quiet of the dark church.
Sarah put an arm on the woman’s shoulder, and that was all Ania needed to begin crying full out … shaking as Sarah held her close.
Until: “Ania, that was blackmail. It was Craig who stole the drugs, not you.”
But Sarah also knew that in any investigation, Ania would indeed lose more than her job.
And Sarah didn’t want that to happen.
But now they had the evidence that something criminal was going on in that place. The big question, did it have something to do with Archy’s death?
For now, Sarah didn’t see a connection.
Ania’s sobs had quietened a bit, though she still had to wipe away the tears.
“Look, Ania, I will need to share this with my friend.”
A worried look crossed the nurse’s face, a headshake.
Cherringham--Snowblind Page 7
