A Fatal Cut

by Priscilla Masters

  Shaw nodded solemnly. The girl was curious. Of course. Curious but not frightened. She wanted to talk. He didn’t. At least, not to her. Brusquely he asked her to direct him towards the hospital manager’s office. She half stood in her eagerness. ‘I’ll get someone to show you the way.’

  Shaw lounged against the desk as he waited for her to use the telephone, delighting in a sense of poetic justice.

  His gran had come here to Queen’s Hospital six months ago, for a ‘few tests’, her GP had said. Shaw winced. He was a policeman, not a doctor. He knew absolutely nothing about illness and disease, but he could have told the lot of them his gran would die. It did not matter what of. She had looked like death already.

  ‘Make her comfortable. Don’t let her suffer.’ That was what he had wanted to say then, to this blonde who had been sitting at the same reception desk. But he hadn’t had an ID card then. He had been brushed aside – merely an anxious relative. His lip curled as he recalled all his emotions of the time, all the things he wished he had said, not simply thought.

  The doctors had crowded round, murmured something about a rare condition. New treatments. He had grown to mistrust them all, sensed accolade via medical articles and observations. Not one of them had shown a spark of humanity. Especially that pompous surgeon. The one who always wore a navy-blue suit with flashy ties, and had sat, patronizingly, on the bed, embarrassing his gran. Spoke to her as though she was a two-year-old, holding her hand as though they were old friends. But they weren’t. He was her doctor, and he had bad news to break to her. The old lady had wanted to preserve her dignity, had stared straight ahead, proudly, waiting for this man to get off her bed. Then they had talked, the old lady and her grandson, her claw-hand patting his as though he was the one with the terminal illness. Despite himself Shaw smiled. Funny phrase, he’d always thought it, terminal illness. Reminded him of bus routes. But then that was what it had been for his gran. The end of the line.

  Someone was walking towards him. Grey-suited. With a red tie. Thick brown hair and a wide, wolfish smile. The wolf held out his hand. ‘Detective Sergeant Shaw?’ A heavy, confident shake. ‘I’m Jonathan Deanfield, the hospital manager here at Queen’s. Sorry, I’ve been in a meeting.’ He wafted a hand along the corridor. ‘Shall we talk in my office? Along here.’

  Feeling as though he was being shuffled away from the public view, Shaw followed him along corridors of pale grey lino, round a corner past a spiralling staircase and through a set of double doors.

  Deanfield said little until the door was closed behind them and they were sitting in a large, light room scattered with tall pot plants, padded green chairs and a low wooden coffee table. Shaw sat facing a high, arched window, which overlooked the medical school. Kingfisher-blue curtains completed the colourful, luxurious ambience of the room. It had an atmosphere at variance with the teeming hospital outside.

  Deanfield sat opposite him, crossed his legs and frowned. ‘I don’t see how on earth we can help you. I am sure this unfortunate man’s murder has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Queen’s Hospital.’ When Shaw made no comment he added quickly, ‘I mean it has to be pure chance that the man’s body was dumped here, actually on the hospital site’

  Shaw could have responded to this statement with the indisputable facts: the wound, the sutures, the clinical waste bag, but he didn’t bother. He had a warrant which gave him the power to spend as much time as he wanted in Deanfield’s office, rifling through staff records and asking questions. Whatever Deanfield’s objections he had no choice.

  Shaw smiled.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  Shaw decided to be honest. ‘We don’t really know. At the moment we’re pursuing the line of questioning that the killer could be an ex-member of staff.’

  Deanfield gave a sickly smile. ‘That’s ridiculous. I mean...’

  Shaw could read his mind, ‘The publicity,’ was what he meant.

  He felt he should placate Deanfield. ‘We do have our reasons. And it shouldn’t take long.’ A swift, friendly grin. ‘You don’t know how many blind alleys of enquiry we’re forced to pursue.’

  Deanfield looked slightly mollified.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right and Wilson’s murder will prove to have nothing whatsoever to do with the hospital.’ He jerked his head towards a side door. ‘Would it be OK if I worked in there?’

  Deanfield nodded. ‘It’s where we keep the old staff records anyway. Paper files for more than five years ago, since then on disk.’ He followed Shaw through into a small room packed with filing cabinets, a desk, and a computer terminal which he switched on and logged into. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’

  Shaw settled in front of the blank screen. It was going to be a long job.

  • • • •

  It was the next day before Forrest had time to work on an idea that had been going round his head. He took some coffee and sandwiches into the main office and linked into HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, the police database on serious crime. It was possible that the ‘surgeon’ had operated before. There was something organized about the murder, and he didn’t want to find that Wilson was the eighth victim of some potty serial killer who’d been hacking people about up and down the country. It would make bad headlines, lose him some useful facts, and delay chummy collaboration between forces. Besides, it was easy, and quick. Simply run through a list of major incidents in, say, the last couple of years. Start in January 1997. He munched his way through two slices of brown bread wrapped around a wedge of the strongest cheddar cheese the local deli supplied and stared at the screen.

  The first fact he gleaned surprised him. There hadn’t been as many killings as he would have thought. On average fifty-three a year. He homed in on the last year. Forty-seven had been solved quickly, within a day or two. Hand on the collar of the obvious suspect. Never mind the crime writers’ favourite ploy of the least obvious suspect, the little parlourmaid who’d served up sandwiches in chapter one. Forrest grinned and chewed his food at the same time. Killers were so bloody obvious, for goodness’ sake. Fake alibis: ‘Down the pub with a couple of mates – can’t remember their names,’ or ‘My husband went out. He didn’t say where, or with whom.’ It was all so naive. What wife would fail to ask such questions unless she already knew the answers? Killers. They all thought they were the only one, didn’t realize the police had seen it all before. Forrest almost yawned. They were all so very unsubtle.

  Unsubtle in a way that the ‘surgeon’ was not.

  Out of these killings not one shared any similarities to the ‘surgeon’s’ work. True, there were eight stunnings with a blunt instrument, but six of these had been gangland bashings, crude bludgeonings, quarrels over the two necessities of life: women and drugs. Never any witnesses, of course. Like Wilson’s killing. But that was where the similarity stopped. Forrest was sure Wilson’s murder had not been witnessed by folk too frightened to talk. It had no hallmarks of a gangland execution. And the other two blunt-instrument killings had also been crude, not followed by throttling with hands – or a tie.

  Forrest turned back to the computer. There had been stranglings in the last year. Husband of wife almost exclusively. One wife of husband. With a tie. But Wilson’s wife was not even a suspect.

  Forrest did the same research into the two previous years before turning away from the screen. The ‘surgeon’s’ absence was unmistakable in the killers’ gallery. There was nothing in any previous murder that bore even the vaguest suggestion of surgical mutilation. No murder weapon had ever been listed as a scalpel, let alone any mention of that distinctive line of subsequent stitching. The other indicators were also absent – no clinical waste bag, no dumping of a body on a hospital site – anywhere in the UK.

  Interesting.

  Forrest switched the computer off. He knew now that Colin Wilson, plumber, had been the ‘surgeon’s’ first victim. What he was worried about was that he would not be his last.

  Half an
hour later he was in conference with Chief Superintendent Farley Waterman, facing his superior with the usual feeling of inadequacy. Waterman was a perfectionist, an exacting man. Six feet four inches tall with piercing blue eyes, a luxurious head of steel-grey hair and a brisk, military manner, his was an imposing presence. Forrest stood smartly to attention without speaking or moving as Waterman slowly read through his preliminary notes. At last he looked up and Forrest felt the full force of his gaze. ‘You have a problem here, Forrest,’ Waterman said crisply.

  Forrest shifted his numbing leg. ‘Yes, sir.’ He wished he had been invited to sit down. The man was a sadist to keep him on his feet.

  Waterman stared straight ahead. ‘I see no motive.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not the usual one, anyway. No robbery?’ He looked up for confirmation.

  Forrest gave it. ‘No, sir. His wallet was found in his shirt pocket, credit cards and ten pounds cash.’

  ‘No sexual attack?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And I take it the victim’s wife wasn’t having an affair?’

  ‘She appears devoted, sir. And there is a baby a few months old. We’ve gone into both his personal and his professional life.’ A pause. ‘As far as we can tell, sir, this was an assault by a stranger.’

  The statement earned him a hard stare from beneath the bushy eyebrows and Forrest felt his face flush. But he was not being naive. The description DS Fielding had given of Colin Wilson’s home life had been one of simple domestic harmony. She certainly had not cast Mrs Wilson in the role of femme fatale, responsible for her husband’s murder – even indirectly. And Colin Wilson had worked alone – there had been no envious colleagues. Neither had there been any complaints from the customers they had so far tracked down.

  Waterman folded his arms and continued to stare straight ahead. ‘So we’re left with the ugliest motive of all. Someone who kills because they like to.’

  ‘It would seem so,’ Forrest said cautiously.

  ‘And what did the pathologist think of the groin wound?’

  ‘She was puzzled by it, sir.’

  ‘Did she think it could have been accidental?’

  ‘It could have been.’

  Waterman’s eyes swivelled round to meet his. ‘And the stitches?’

  ‘Again, sir, she was puzzled by them.’

  ‘So...’ Waterman stroked his chin. ‘No motive and the pathologist is – puzzled.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Waterman was silent for a moment. When he spoke again it was with the vaguest hint of embarrassment. ‘Forrest,’ he barked. ‘I’ve been approached by someone who claims to be able to help us.’

  ‘Sir?’ Forrest was curious.

  ‘I heard about this man a while ago at one of these...’ Waterman cleared his throat ‘...police conferences.’

  He pulled a card from the top pocket of his jacket and flipped it on to the desk. Forrest picked it up. It was white, boldly printed in black letters: Doctor Barney Lewisham Consultant Forensic Psychiatrist. And below, a mobile phone number. There was no address.

  Not even the geographical clue of a direct-dial code. It made the psychiatrist appear curiously insubstantial, disembodied even, which in turn made Forrest feel dis-advantaged. ‘We haven’t used one before,’ he said.

  Waterman lifted his hand. ‘I think you will agree, Forrest,’ he said in his clipped voice, ‘that this is an unusual, if not unique, case’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Dangerous too. I don’t want unsolved murders on my patch.’ He leant across the desk. ‘The man might strike again.’

  He stood up and Forrest suppressed the temptation to salute. Waterman moved towards the door and held it open. For a brief moment their eyes met, then Waterman focused, as usual at a point above Forrest’s shoulder. ‘Other forces seem impressed by this process. Man’s a doctor,’ he finished unnecessarily and closed the door.

  Forrest glanced again at the card. He had read about many cases where a forensic psychiatrist had helped towards a solution. He had also read in the police journals, of cases where the intervention of a psychiatrist had hampered proceedings. Misdirected them even. Cases had been thrown out of court through the efforts of forensic psychiatrists. He wondered into which category Dr Barney Lewisham would fall.

  There was one sure way to find out.

  As soon as he was back in his own office he dialled the mobile phone number. It was answered after one ring as though Lewisham had been poised, waiting for the call. Still wondering where in the country he was phoning Forrest gave his name and a brief introduction. Lewisham listened without comment until he had stopped speaking.

  ‘An interesting case,’ he said. ‘That’s why I came forward. I heard something of it on the radio. Only the bare bones of the facts, of course, but I suspected there was more. Much more. Huh.’ He gave a dry croak of a laugh. ‘Dumping the body on hospital grounds for a start. And wasn’t there mention of a yellow plastic bag? Wouldn’t happen to have been a clinical waste bag, would it?’ he asked shrewdly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see,’ Lewisham was silent for a moment. ‘Even I hadn’t guessed all this. And what exactly do you want me to do?’

  ‘Work with us.’ Forrest knew he sounded humble. ‘Just point us in the right direction so we don’t waste too much time.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Forrest was trying to form a mental impression of the man. He sounded an intelligent eccentric. There was an energy about him, a sort of vibrant dominance. Each word was measured and careful, decisive yet at the same time defensive. The thought wormed its way into Forrest’s brain that it was almost as though the psychiatrist expected the psychoanalysis to be turned on himself. On the other end of the phone Forrest felt himself grow increasingly self-conscious. He had little experience of forensic psychiatrists. The title alone had an effect on him and plenty of his colleagues. Worried about the impression he might be giving he found himself considering and rejecting words to answer Lewisham’s questions.

  ‘Umm...we found the umm...’

  ‘Corpse?’

  It sounded too cold, lacked involvement. ‘Body...down a small bank between the medical school and the —’

  He was relieved when Lewisham’s voice cut in. ‘And the victim? What sort of man was he?’

  ‘A plumber.’ And even in that simple description Forrest found himself criticizing his choice of words, as though describing Colin Wilson merely as ‘a plumber’ was a condescension, categorizing the dead man without any appreciation of who and what he had really been. So he added quickly, ‘A family man with a young—’

  Lewisham’s voice interrupted again. ‘And the post-mortem findings?’

  Forrest outlined Wilson’s injuries with an equal amount of discomfort. ‘Hacked, sewn up, gift wrapped.’ Would this Lewisham man decide he was taking sadistic delight in the victim’s suffering?

  ‘A stunning blow to the back of the head, strangulation, a groin wound.’

  As he had expected, Lewisham gave a long, ‘Aha,’ and homed in on the groin wound.

  ‘The pathologist was of the opinion that it had been done with something very sharp. Possibly a Stanley knife or a scalpel. It had been inflicted and sewn up after death.’

  Another ‘Aha?’ To his surprise Forrest could even hear brisk enthusiasm behind it. Maybe he had a lot to learn about the preoccupations of a forensic psychiatrist.

  ‘Sewn up, you say?’

  ‘With silk.’ Self-consciousness made Forrest fumble for words. ‘The kind a surgeon would use. But more untidy.’

  ‘Really?’

  Forrest gained the impression that the psychiatrist was smiling as he said the next sentence. ‘And you say the stitches were,’ a pause ‘...untidily inserted?’

  Forrest frowned. ‘Yes.’

  Lewisham went silent. Forrest restrained the temptation to ask him if he was still there or if the phone had suddenly gone out of range, he could hear the man breathing, hard. Had Lewisham
not been a psychiatrist Forrest might have wondered about his reaction to a murder case. Was it normal to get so turned on by detail? Or was this healthy, professional curiosity? Forrest shrugged. Everyone knew psychiatrists were — unusual people.

  ‘So,’ Lewisham finally spoke again. ‘We need to know what moved this man to commit his crime.’

  ‘You think it was a man?’

  Lewisham’s voice came back hard and precise. ‘Statistically it’s more likely. Violent crime is, even today, less likely to be committed by a female.’ There was a half-crazy chuckle. ‘Despite growing aggression in the fair sex.’

  Forrest said nothing. What could he say?

  ‘And there are questions, aren’t there? Interesting questions. Such as, why perform such an unnecessary procedure? From what you say, not for purposes of torture or sadism. You tell me the victim was already dead before the incision?’ Lewisham didn’t even wait for confirmation of the statement but hurried on, excitedly. ‘Why waste time sewing him up? Risking discovery. A dead man’s wounds will never heal, Detective Inspector Forrest.’ The enthusiasm in the doctor’s voice was making him speak quickly. ‘This case smacks of some deep, psychological obsession with the workings of an operating theatre. More precisely with the skill of a surgeon. I have to say, Detective Inspector, that I am extremely interested in the killer of Colin Wilson. He promises to reveal a fascinating psychological profile. Besides which he will — I believe — kill again. You realize he has the hallmarks of a serial killer.’

  ‘He hasn’t killed before, sir. I’ve checked.’

  ‘Well, I believe he will kill again, Inspector, and for that reason alone I could not refuse this case. I owe my services both to you and to future intended victims,’ he said grandly. ‘I shall solve it, you know.’

  For the first time, Forrest felt a prickling of unease. Was it sensible to call in a clinical psychiatrist who had such a monumental ego? Or might it prove a weak point in the solution to the case? To put it bluntly, and in police jargon, might Lewisham trip over his own head?

  He waited a long time for Lewisham to speak again. He heard pages being flipped. A filofax?