Lewisham soon interrupted him. ‘I don’t think much of this is relevant at the moment.’ The strange marmalade-coloured eyes gleamed. ‘Tell me exactly how his body was found.’
So Forrest began again, with the story of the four medical students, the clinical waste bag that had drawn them from the short cut to the university.
Again Lewisham interrupted him. ‘Did they move the body?’
‘No.’
‘So it was found as your killer had placed it?’
‘We got the impression it had been rolled down the bank.’
‘Aha,’ Lewisham looked pleased with himself and leant forward, hands pressing on his chunky thighs. ‘Dumped, you say. Not laid with care. Significant. And how securely was the body fastened inside the bags?’
Forrest quickly had to think back. ‘Very,’ he said. ‘It was taped up. The pathologist had to slit the side of the bag open with a knife.’
‘Good.’ Lewisham really did look pleased.
Gaining confidence, Forrest continued to describe Wilson’s injuries but Lewisham interrupted him yet again, rudely. ‘I don’t think your observations will be of much value. What I need is a copy of the pathologist’s post-mortem report.’
Forrest felt deflated. He fumbled through the pile of papers; a couple slipped to the floor. Without moving Lewisham watched Forrest pick them up and waited for him to find the PM report. He didn’t even lean forward to take them from Forrest’s grasp. Forrest handed them to him with a touch of resentment.
Lewisham seemed able to read and absorb quickly, flipping through both text and photographs with barely a glance. Moments later he grunted and looked up. ‘This is a dangerous man, Inspector.’
Forrest found his resentment mounting. Stretching out his arm he shortened his shirt sleeve and peeped at his watch. It had taken him less than ten minutes to dislike Dr Lewisham. It would take him weeks to know how that dislike could grow.
Lewisham leant back and closed his eyes without speaking. Forrest suffered the silence. He felt a certain impotence in the presence of the psychiatrist. He had only ever met this sort of purposeful dominance in one person before — his junior-school headmistress. He had hated her for all the years he had attended primary school, for the way she had belittled him on the first day when he had accidentally wet his grey shorts. He didn’t mind that Lewisham was a control freak except for one aspect. It would be picked up by the junior officers — especially Shaw — and that would rob him of the authority necessary for the senior investigating officer on such a serious case. He was already on his guard and was relieved when Lewisham finally broke the silence, stood up and asked where the briefing room was.
• • • •
The thirty or more officers who sat, stood, or lounged against the wall, all gave Lewisham a fair hearing. Glancing around at their faces Forrest couldn’t read a trace of scepticism either for the psychiatrist’s message or the man himself. And yet Lewisham was talking down to them, addressing them like a maths teacher explaining a difficult concept to a class of remedials.
‘My name is Doctor Lewisham. I am a forensic psychiatrist. That is, I specialize in the study of the diseased and criminal mind.’ He scanned each face in the room to make sure they had understood and were being attentive. This further irritated Forrest. ‘My role in this particular case is to help you understand the type of person who would have committed this crime, what was in his mind as he mutilated the corpse, his undoubted pleasure at the activity and the motives for it. During your investigations I should be able to eliminate certain character types and illuminate groups of people you should be concentrating your attention on. Later, when you have a suspect, I will direct you in your choice of questions in order that you will have the best chance of obtaining a secure conviction.’
He paused before carrying on, in his over-loud, slightly nasal voice, which Forrest also found irritating. ‘What I cannot do is to walk the streets of Birmingham, put a hand on a man’s collar and tell you — this is your killer. This is not possible,’ he paused for a reaction to this statement before adding, ‘even for me.’ Another pause. ‘When I know more about the case I shall be able to fill in the details, narrowing the field of suspects considerably. But for the moment I want you to bear this in mind: the perpetrator of this heinous crime against Colin Wilson is aged between twenty-five and fifty. He is in good health, in fact relatively strong. He has a driving licence. He works alone, probably unsupervised, possibly as a self-employed person — if he works at all. He lacks close friends and he has some connection with the hospital, however tenuous. This man has studied a true surgeon work! Again Lewisham paused as though he expected someone in the room to challenge something he had said. Forrest watched him carefully, puzzled. Most of what the psychiatrist had said seemed logical enough. There wasn’t really anything to challenge. Surely? But someone did.
‘If he’s playing doctors, sir...’
Forrest craned his neck to see who had spoken. Shaw. Of course. Only he would have the arrogance to interrupt the psychiatrist.
But Lewisham seemed not to mind. In fact he gave Shaw an encouraging smile and prompted him. ‘Go on.’
‘Why does he kill his victims? I mean, doctors usually try to cure their patients. Not kill them.’
Lewisham’s strange, marmalade-coloured eyes peered over the gold-rimmed glasses and seemed to lock onto the young policeman’s face. ‘I’m not positive,’ he said, ‘but I think that without the benefit of modern anaesthetics it might be the only way he could be absolutely sure his patients would stay still.’
There was a ripple of distaste around the room.
Still Shaw persisted. ‘But if he’s got a doctor complex...?’
Lewisham glared at him. ‘He hasn’t got a doctor complex,’ he spat out, ‘he’s got a surgeon complex.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Shaw wasn’t the only one.
‘Look at the patients surgeons relate to,’ Lewisham said. ‘They lie passive, awaiting the knife, like lambs to the slaughter...and of course,’ Lewisham had waited for his words to take full effect, ‘he could never afford for his patients to speak.’
Now the entire room was silent. Senior officers, junior officers, CID and uniformed, male and female, were mesmerized by Lewisham’s words. Forrest watched from the side of the room with a growing sense of unease. They trusted him. Implicitly. Even Shaw.
Everyone except Forrest, whose dislike for the man was deepening into something much stronger. When the psychiatrist’s eyes searched him out he flushed. Lewisham had noticed his antagonism, but Forrest saw that it did not upset him, rather he seemed to revel in it. It pleased him. He wanted there to be antipathy between himself and the senior investigating officer on the case.
Why? A love of conflict?
Lewisham was still talking. ‘So how can we prevent another fatality? What groups of people are most at risk from him? We can best learn this by asking ourselves the question: why did our killer select Colin Wilson, a plumber with no obvious connection with the hospital?’ He looked up to address the officers almost severely. ‘Although I do have to say I am of the conviction that Wilson did have something to do with the hospital at some time, it is simply that your investigations have failed to unearth the connection.’ Again Forrest picked up a hint of the headmistress in his manner, of the hand being slapped by the ruler, of punishment. Forrest stared at the man. As a psychiatrist did he have no insight into the impression he made on people? Didn’t he realize how quickly he provoked dislike? Or was it all deliberate? Some people did provoke such a reaction purely to stimulate results. Forrest himself had worked with such people. But a swift glance round the room confirmed his earlier observation. He was the only one to feel this. The others were listening intently. Taken in. Lewisham carried on. ‘I believe our surgeon will attack again. Why do I believe this?’ He peered around the room, staring at each face for a second or two. When he had completed the circuit he smiled, in satisfaction. He was the only one with th
e answer. He spent a couple of seconds savouring this personal knowledge before throwing it before them. ‘Because this was a ritual killing. Each facet of Colin Wilson’s murder satisfied some deep need in the killer: the stunning, the killing, the maiming. This need will compound, become stronger. Have to be satisfied, again, and again, until he is stopped.’
Inappropriately he smiled. No one smiled back.
Lewisham continued. ‘So who should we be protecting? Doctors, nurses, ancillary staff? Or vagrants? Men? Women? Children? The easy targets?’ A shudder rippled round the room as though a window had been opened letting in a draught. The thought of a child being subjected to...Lewisham pursed his lips and lowered the half-moon glasses down his nose. ‘So let’s look closer at Colin Wilson. He is our only clue — so far. Was he an easy target? What do we know about him? That he was a family man, not a vagrant, and his connection with the hospital must be tenuous or you would have unearthed it by now. So, did the murderer select Wilson for a specific reason? If so what? Or was the killer driving along when he saw Wilson’s van in front of him displaying, of course, the mobile phone number. Was it painted on the side?’ There were a few nods. A common enough practice. This was how tradesmen advertised. Lewisham waited for them to work this out for themselves before putting further questions to them. ‘How was his killing planned? These are the questions we must ask ourselves. Constantly.’ Again Lewisham waited before dropping his next stone into the pond. ‘Have you thought anything about the “surgeon’s” premises?’
Judging from the blank faces no one had.
‘I have. Our killer is a neat man. Methodical. He likes to line things up, have rows of instruments in order. And his instruments are laid out — somewhere. He has some sort of a makeshift operating theatre, somewhere he won’t be disturbed, somewhere no one will ask questions about blood on the floor, strange comings and goings, the accumulation of hospital stores, suturing material, clinical waste bags, scissors, scalpels, forceps.’ Lewisham’s voice rose as the list grew longer. ‘He has all these things. Do you think he only intends to use them once?’
Forrest stared at him. How could he know this?
Surely someone would challenge his assumption. But no one answered. Not even Forrest himself. Even the usual mutterings were absent.
‘Think about it,’ Lewisham said. ‘Just keep thinking.’
He waited for the first person in the room to move before giving Forrest’s hand a firm shake. ‘I’ll be in touch, Inspector. In the meantime, keep me informed. You can reach me at any time on my mobile.’
• • • •
Brenda Watlow had got a lift to work in Terry’s van.
She glanced across at her son-in-law’s fleshy profile. He was a good lad, was Terry. She didn’t really deserve him. And Shani definitely didn’t. Her mouth twisted. Idle little cow, doing nothing all day except eat, smoke and get fat. Not like her mum. Brenda glanced down at a pair of shapely, plump thighs nicely exposed, she fondly thought, by the new bright red mini-skirt. She gave Terry another sly glance. He certainly appreciated the way she dressed. As they pulled up in front of the main doors of the hospital she smiled at him. He grinned back. ‘All right, Ma?’ It was a bit of a joke between them, the ‘Ma’ bit.
She leaned right back in her seat and stretched her arms above her head, yawning, knowing it showed her breasts off. Firm for a woman of forty. Again she mentally compared herself to her daughter’s generous form. Obese. That’s what Shani was. Slyly she answered Terry’s questions. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m all right,’ she crossed her legs and flashed him a warm smile. ‘Just wondering what Pinky’s got in store for me this afternoon, that’s all. Always tries to sneak in a couple of extra cases on the end of the list. He’s a crafty one. And half the time they’re private, people he’s doing for a backhander. You do have to watch these surgeons.’ She gave Terry’s shoulder a playful tap. ‘Not all they’re cracked up to be. Stories I’ve heard would make your hair curl.’
‘Huh. I’ll bet.’
She glanced reluctantly at her watch. ‘Well no time for gossipping now. I’d better be off. First patient’ll be having his pre-med by now and I’ve got plenty to do. Pinky doesn’t enjoy being kept waiting and there’s all them trolleys to set up. Still,’ she gave Terry another of the flirtatious smiles she fondly believed set his heart racing, ‘I’ll be scrubbed up before you can say...’
‘Intestine,’ Terry supplied.
Brenda giggled. ‘Well, intestinal obstruction anyway. Know that job so well I could do it blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back.’
Terry leaned towards her. ‘Don’t tempt me, Ma.’
For answer Brenda uncrossed her legs and swung them towards the passenger door, keeping her knees firmly clamped together. She flicked the handle open. Terry leant back in his seat, closing his eyes. Sometimes — only sometimes — Brenda’s teasing really got to him. Needled him.
She climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind her, and had crossed to his side by the time he opened them again. He caught a waft of cloying, rich perfume as she leant in at the window to give him an affectionate kiss. ‘Ta ta, my darling.’ But she was not fool enough to rumple his curly hair. Terry didn’t always like it. She had learnt to read the signs early on in their relationship when her daughter had first brought home the taciturn young man and Brenda had signalled her attraction to him — a signal she believed had been returned. But with Terry one could never be quite sure. Sometimes she knew she had overstepped the mark. His eyes would change, his forehead pucker. She read the signs very quickly. Terry had a nasty temper. More than once Shani had fallen prey to it and earned herself a black eye. But Brenda was older, wiser, a professional woman. She had no intention of misreading the auguries, and as fast as she read them she made excuses for Terry’s sudden bursts of temper. Difficult fancying his mother-in-law more than his wife. Brenda had decided, early on, that she could be both lover and mother-in-law to him, if that was what he wanted.
She shot him a swift glance and was reassured. There was no hint of that deeper, more complicated person as Terry returned her smile. ‘You be all right getting home tonight, Ma?’ He allowed his eyes to rove around her shapely form and she in turn allowed her mind to wander. There weren’t so many years between them. She’d had Shani when she was only sixteen, had brought her up virtually alone, thanks to Stuart, managed all her nurse training with the help of reliable friends to look after Shani all hours.
Her eyes darkened at the memory of Shani’s dad. A waster. That’s where her daughter had got all her obesity, laziness and slovenliness from. She shook herself free from the uncomfortable memory and returned to Terry. He was six years older than his wife. And Brenda consoled herself that she was only just forty — and didn’t look anything like it. More like twenty-five — or so she fondly thought without realizing that the student nurses, all under twenty-one, mocked her behind her back. Whereas Shani...Her face grew tight, hard, competitive, selfish. Shani deserved all she got, or didn’t get. And one of these days she would lose her Terry to an older woman. Brenda looked deep into her son-in-law’s melting brown eyes. That daughter of hers couldn’t appreciate a sexy, attractive man even when she slept beside him every night. Shani was blind whereas she was not. Still, she stopped leaning in at the window and stood up, there was no point pushing her luck, rushing things. Terry would speak — when he was ready.
So she weighed up very carefully whether to accept his offer of a lift after work and in the end declined it.
‘It’s OK, Terry, love. I’ll get a taxi. Don’t you worry about me.’
But Wilson’s murder had made him more assertive than usual. He put his hand on her arm. ‘Hang around for a taxi, after that bloke was murdered? Risk him getting hold of you next? You must be joking. I’ll be here. Now, what time?’
‘But, Terry, I don’t know when we’ll be finished. The list can go on. And then there’s the emergencies.’ Brenda loved to maximize the number of emergencies they had to
deal with. One a week — if that — but she’d never told Terry it was anything but ‘lots and lots’ or ‘snowed under’. The drama excited her and elevated her status in her son-in-law’s eyes.
Simply saying the word ‘emergencies’ made her feel important. ‘Emergencies’, she said again.
Terry took his hand off her arm and slipped the car into gear. ‘If you can’t give me a time then ring me,’ he said. ‘Just ring me. Otherwise I’ll come and sit in that ruddy operating theatre and wait for you there. I can’t risk anything happening to my best girl.’
‘But what about your work, Terry? I can’t have you losing...’ She hesitated, not quite sure whether to say time or money.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘The man’s body was dumped not two hundred yards from here. The newspaper said something about insider knowledge. They think someone from the hospital did it.’
Brenda watched him uneasily, vaguely aware of white-coated medics and nurses wrapped in navy capes going past them. From the centre of the campus Big Joe struck one. It shook Brenda out of her reverie. ‘I shall have to go, Terry,’ she said, her face whiter now than it had been. ‘Now I will be late. And Pinky likes to start dead on one thirty. I’ve got loads to do. Sterilize the instuments, set the trolleys.’
But Terry had that vacant look in his eyes again. ‘Funny isn’t it,’ he said, ‘the way we say things. And they get twisted.’
‘What sort of things?’
Terry gave a short, explosive laugh. ‘Dead on one thirty. I hope not.’
Brenda joined him in a weak, nervous giggle.
‘Right then,’ Terry said abruptly. ‘I’ll be seeing you later. All right? Ring me.’ He put his forefinger underneath her chin. ‘Promise? Your little boy’ll be cross and sulky if you don’t.’
Brenda was suddenly enormously fond of her son-in-law. The feeling of affection made her reckless. She leant in at the window and gave him a hard, uncompromising kiss on the mouth. The first ever.
‘Thanks, Terry,’ she said. ‘See you later.’
A Fatal Cut Page 6
