A Fatal Cut

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘At ten.’ The girl was incurious. Flat.

  ‘Had she ever noticed anyone following her?’

  Cassie shook her head. ‘Not that she mentioned.’

  There seemed to be nothing she could add to the already scanty facts they knew. Forrest tried again, patiently. ‘Had she ever mentioned any unpleasant incident that happened to her as a nurse?’

  Cassie Stevens’s face jerked upwards. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Trouble, maybe with a patient, a relative, perhaps a court case?’ Did he have to spell it out? ‘Someone who had a grudge against her?’

  ‘Nothing recently.’ The girl’s face flushed. The two bright spots stood out against her pallor. ‘I mean — I think there was a spot of bother when she was a student nurse. But that happens to us all.’

  Maybe it was the first true clue. Forrest felt his interest quickening. ‘What sort of bother?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably somebody died or something.’ The girl’s eyes met his for the first time. ‘People do die, you know, in hospital.’

  ‘But that wouldn’t be classed as a spot of bother, would it?’

  ‘An unexpected death might.’

  ‘So it was an unexpected death?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The girl was obviously harassed by the questions. ‘I mean, I really don’t. It was simply something she said to me once when I’d tried to resuscitate a patient and failed. I hadn’t called the crash team quick enough. I was upset. She was cheering me up.’

  ‘So what did she say?’

  ‘Just something about a patient of hers once when she was a student who’d died.’ Cassie Stevens stopped for a moment. ‘Said something about resuscitation not always working anyway. ‘There must have been something a bit peculiar about the incident for her to mention it at all. We see more deaths than we’d like. We don’t really talk about them.’ She shrugged. ‘Occupational hazard.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look, I said, it was when she was a student nurse.’

  ‘And she qualified when?’

  ‘About six years ago.’

  That narrowed the field to between six and nine years ago. ‘You don’t remember anything more?’

  The girl shook her head.

  Forrest tried a different tack. ‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No. She was divorced a few years ago. Her husband was a nasty piece of work. Brought his girlfriends home and all that. She was well rid of him.’

  Had it not been for the murder of Colin Wilson Forrest might have pursued the ex-husband with a little more vigour. As it was he felt he could afford to discount him.

  ‘Did she have any...’ Forrest tried to choose his words with care ‘...friends who were specially interested in operating theatres or hospitals. Perhaps a failed medical student, an ex-nurse. Something like that. A connection.’

  Cassie thought about his question for a few seconds before answering. ‘Not that I can think of. I mean we didn’t go out that much. We were quite happy here, just the pair of us. And we don’t know anybody weird.’

  Nobody ever does.

  After a few more questions that also led nowhere he stood up to leave but was briefly delayed by concern for the girl. ‘You don’t have another friend you could go and stay with?’

  Cassie Stevens’s eyes filled with tears. ‘We lived quietly,’ she said. ‘There was just the two of us. We kept ourselves to ourselves. Both Rosemary and I had had bad experiences with the opposite sex. I was badly and humiliatingly let down once. It made us careful. Wary.’

  Once in the car he invited Shaw for his observations. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I suppose it’s back to the records department.’

  ‘My thoughts precisely. I think, Shaw,’ Forrest tried to make a joke of it, ‘that you’re going to be tied up at the hospital for a while.’

  Shaw groaned.

  Forrest drove on in silence, trying to conjure up some solid image of the killer. But he still appeared a shadowy figure. All they knew had been fed to them by Lewisham. In fact Forrest was beginning to realize just how directed they were by the forensic psychiatrist. It was as though, having called in the professional, the police team had ceased to think for themselves.

  But what if Barney Lewisham was misleading them? Surely not. Lewisham was a professional. Not some medical student wanting to play tricks. Or would it pander to his ego to watch the police flounder, and then to enlighten them. Forrest suddenly felt vulnerable. Lewisham was not the person he would have chosen to control the investigation.

  • • • •

  The ‘surgeon’ was proud of his operating theatre. It had taken a great deal of careful planning. He had done it all himself, cleaned the place out, whitewashed the walls, fixed the lights up and put a board across an old bed to use as an operating table. He had draped the table with a white sheet for clinical effect, and hygiene. When one was soiled he would change it. He had his standards. And then he had to launder the soiled one. Himself of course. A proper laundry might have asked awkward questions. He moved his eyes from the operating table to the instrument trolley, a tea trolley adapted to provide a mobile surface. He had cut white formica to fit the tops which he scrubbed scrupulously after each operation ready for the next case.

  He felt very pleased with his professionalism. His skill was still developing, of course, but there was no doubt his standards were high. He could have been a real surgeon. It was just a shame that his patients were unable to appreciate the effort made on their behalf. Such a shame. Especially when his next patient was in a prime position to realize the trouble he was taking for her. She would have appreciated both his skill and his commitment. He stopped still for a moment, the embryo of an idea beginning to take shape. The trouble was that anyone who had witnessed his skill, like those who had seen the face of God, could not live. Although he knew that what he was doing was right and proper the euphoria he had felt after Colin Wilson’s surgery had not quite been repeated after Rosemary Shearer’s death even though her operation had been much more major. He needed more. A greater challenge. His eyes drifted blankly round the white-painted room silently waiting his next patient. He sat down at his desk. And carefully spelt out another name.

  Brenda.

  He didn’t need the surname.

  Chapter Twelve

  29 December 1999

  Rupert Shaw was sick of sitting in the hospital manager’s office and reading through staff records. He felt right out of the investigation — sidelined — not out on the street as he liked to be, interviewing suspects, chasing up leads. Frustrated, he kicked the edge of the desk. He was too perceptive not to realize his senior officer didn’t have much time for him. Unenthusiastically he flipped through the records, his mind only half on the job.

  Deanfield stuck his head round the door. ‘Getting on all right, are you?’ There was a tinge of malice in his voice that didn’t improve Shaw’s mood.

  He grunted and forced himself to concentrate.

  He was surprised at how petty the records could be — odd reports from sisters towards junior nurses, especially. Complaints about lateness, too much make-up, ‘attitude problems’. All logged down on file, ready to be drawn on when the nurse wanted a reference.

  Three years ago Rosemary Baring had put in her request for a reference. It must have been about the time she had moved from Queen’s to the Cater Clinic. Shaw scanned the letter. It told him nothing. Why had she moved? In a larger hospital she would have had a better chance of promotion and DS Fielding had reported that the move had not been for financial gain. Had there been a negative report on the nurse? Had she been unsatisfactory in some way? But glancing through the reference for a second time he picked up nothing. There seemed no reason for her move. And surely a private clinic that specialized in cosmetic surgery was a less rewarding and prestigious post than a staff nurse in a teaching hospital.

  The ring of the phone interrupted his train of thought.

  ‘Sha
w?’ It was Forrest. ‘Found anything in Baring’s records?’

  ‘No, sir. She did apply for a reference when she left but there’s no mention of a problem.’

  So what was the incident Cassie Stevens had referred to? Whatever it was there was no mention of it here. Maybe it hadn’t been important. Or, Shaw frowned, had the hospital covered the event up?

  Forrest sighed. He had hoped for something. ‘OK, Shaw,’ he said wearily. ‘Keep looking. There’s a good chap.’

  Rupert Shaw flicked the button off and returned to his task, wondering if he had imagined an overture of friendliness in his superior officer’s voice.

  At the Incident Centre Forrest was feeling fidgety. All morning he had sat and stared at the Police National Computer 2 screens in front of him as they flashed up case after case of serious assault or murder countrywide in the last two years. He knew it was a waste of time. The ‘surgeon’ had not struck before this. Had never struck before. Once heard, the details were too grisly ever to have been forgotten. The forensic details were headline grabbers. So why was he checking for the second time? Because he had so little to go on. Because a previous case might give him a valuable clue.

  The two crimes had been planned, maybe months ahead of the attack on Wilson. The ‘surgeon’ must work somewhere undisturbed. He must have time to make the incision, insert those stitches. In fact he must have light, quiet, and privacy. And cleanliness? Forrest rubbed the thinning patch on his head. Karys hadn’t mentioned any debris in the wound. So did he work under sterile conditions? For one pulse-stopping moment Forrest held his breath. Surely he was not murdering his victims before taking them to a real operating theatre? That had to be impossible. How would he do it?

  Back came the answer. On a mortuary trolley. The image was nightmarish. A serial killer calmly walking through the hospital, wheeling his victim on a mortuary trolley.’

  Forrest switched the computer off. He’d just sat for two whole hours in front of the screen and moved not one step forward. More time wasted in this frustrating investigation. Forrest knew he didn’t have much time before the responsibility of another life lay at the door of his floundering investigations.

  He stood up wearily. He had no option but to speak again to Lewisham. Round and round his head the facts spun: why Colin Wilson; and why Rosemary Baring? Neither of them worked at Queen’s. Had they been randomly picked? His thoughts moved back an inch. While Baring had once worked at Queen’s, Colin Wilson never had.

  A glimmer of light shone through. According to his wife. But he had only been married for...Forrest searched frantically through the notes on Wilson. Three years. And Rosemary Baring had left the hospital three years ago. Coincidence?

  Forrest sat very still. He didn’t believe in coincidence — not in murder cases.

  Three years ago, 1996, seemed a good time to start.

  Maybe Shaw should be concentrating his efforts prior to three years ago when they knew little about Wilson and Rosemary had still been working at Queen’s.

  But if the incident which had triggered the murders had happened three or more years ago, why had the ‘surgeon’ waited until now to act? He had to speak to Lewisham himself.

  Again Lewisham answered on the first ring, and managed to get his questions in first. ‘So what have you unearthed for me so far, Inspector?’

  Forrest stifled his dislike. ‘Not a lot, Doctor.’ He gained the impression that Lewisham was waiting for him to proceed. ‘Nothing really except questions.’

  ‘Ah.’

  But even in the short reply he felt that Lewisham was not displeased at the lack of police progress, rather the opposite. The psychiatrist didn’t mind that the police had no information to give him, that they were consulting him all the time. It gave him status, power, ascendancy. The realization didn’t make it any easier for Forrest to eat humble pie.

  ‘I’ve been wondering. What kind of event triggered off this man’s crimes, sir?’

  ‘Oh, I would say some sort of surgical accident.’

  ‘To him or to a relative?’

  ‘I think he was witness to it.’ A pause. ‘Have you any idea of the shocking events that can go on in an operating theatre?’

  Forrest frowned. ‘No. Are you suggesting that he is a doctor, a porter, a nurse who saw something happen and—’

  ‘Decides to mimic it,’ Lewisham finished the sentence for him.

  ‘Well in that case all our investigating officers should be speaking to hospital staff.’

  ‘Not necessarily at Queen’s. Look for someone with a medical connection. That’s all.’

  Forrest felt chastened.

  Lewisham was waiting for the next question.

  ‘This event. Would it have taken place in the last few months?’

  ‘About a year ago — unless—’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless our friend only learned of it six months to a year ago. Then he began his preparations.’

  ‘What kind of surgical accident?’

  ‘You should concentrate on cases in which botched surgery resulted either in death, serious brain damage, paralysis. That sort of thing.’

  All Forrest could think was, like my father. Why hadn’t Lewisham told him this before? He must have known how these facts would further the inquiry. Yet he had — deliberately it seemed to Forrest — held them back as though he was happy not to do the job he had been hired to do. Or had he been fearful of misdirecting the police enquiries? Recalling the psychiatrist’s inflated ego he doubted it. Fear didn’t seem part of Lewisham’s make-up.

  Forrest phrased his next question carefully. ‘Were Wilson and Baring picked at random? Or deliberately?’

  ‘Deliberately.’ Lewisham sounded annoyed. ‘I thought I had made myself quite clear. This man might to all intents and purposes be insane, Inspector, but he has, I can assure you, a reason for all he does. Selecting victims randomly, like the winning numbers of the lottery, is not quite in his line. Investigate Wilson’s past life a little more thoroughly and you may unearth a few answers. Add to that a peep into your nurse’s past professional life and you might actually get somewhere in your investigations.’

  Forrest felt chastened. Maybe he should have paid more attention to Lewisham from the start.

  He dialled another number and spoke to DC Shaw again.

  ‘I want you to move along and concentrate on the last two years. Look for surgical accidents. Get hold of Rosemary Baring’s personal file and scrutinize it. Again. And when you’ve done that you might as well wander along to the Cater Clinic and see if you can unearth anything there.’

  Shaw mumbled his reply.

  When he’d put the phone down Forrest thought for a moment. The Cater Clinic specialized in plastic surgery. What better feeding ground for complaints from embittered people who were still alive but scarred, not as beautiful as they had thought they would be.

  The more he thought about this idea the better he liked it.

  Then he picked up his coat and car keys. He had a perfectly legitimate excuse for calling on Karys.

  • • • •

  Malcolm had cut himself. He had been lining up the scalpel blades, laying them out in order of size and one had got stuck in the box. He’d tried to pick it up. The next thing he knew his finger was bleeding — badly. Malcolm stuck it in his mouth and was too frightened to take it out. He knew that scalpel blades were sharp, the cut could be deep. And Malcolm didn’t like the sight of blood, particularly his own. Brenda had warned him about playing with the blades, about how they were designed to cut through skin and flesh easily, like butter, she had said. That was why he collected them. Their very sharpness was the reason for his fascination. And now the blade had got its own back on him, taught him a lesson for using it as a plaything. After all, they were not toys but designed for serious work.

  He ran to the bathroom and stood in front of the sink, looking into the mirror. His eyes were wide, staring and frightened, his finger still inside his mouth. H
e pulled it out. Immediately it started bleeding again. The blood dripped into the sink, pinking the bowl. Malcolm gave the whimper of a kicked dog. He would have to go to the hospital.

  But he hated hospitals. They were dangerous places. He, of all people, knew that. That was where his mother had learned she had the cancer that had eaten her from the inside out. And then she had died. Hospitals were cruel places. He did not want to go there however much his finger bled. He looked at the wound again. Perhaps if he bound it really tightly it would be all right.

  Everything would be all right.

  • • • •

  Forrest took great comfort from the fact that Karys had looked pleased to see him. Even her friendship meant something to him.

  ‘How are you, David?’

  ‘Not good,’ he admitted. ‘We’re nowhere near an arrest.’ He rubbed the top of his head. ‘I feel—’ He began again. ‘I’m reduced to waiting. Simply waiting for him to murder again.’

  She gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Sometimes being a pathologist seems an easy task compared with...’

  He put a hand on her arm. ‘I’d never call your work easy,’ he said. ‘But I have to admit recently — since these killings began — I’m finding being a policeman a difficult option.’

  ‘Stressful, too.’

  ‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘Time for a coffee?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come in.’

  Once inside he began to apologize for being there at all. ‘I’m sorry to offload on to you,’ he began.

  Swiftly she stopped him. ‘It’s all right, David.’

  ‘It’s just that—’

  She stopped him. ‘Hasn’t Barney Lewisham helped at all?’

  ‘A bit. Not much. It’s all right getting an offender profile but the trouble is that we can’t haul in all the adult males with a fetish for surgeon’s gowns. He thinks it’s an employee of Queen’s.’

  ‘I’m an employee of Queen’s,’ Karys said lightly.