He donned the mask after placing the whistle between his lips. Putting on the latex gloves, he then slid on the butcher’s glove before lodging the phial firmly within its palm. In his left hand he held the warning note; his sand-clock and his scythe were prepared. He smiled beneath the mask.
The gate to the property was open and a concrete path led the way to the off-white, plastic, front door. The house had been pebble-dashed, probably in the sixties, an improvement that did little cosmetically, but contrasted starkly with the houses on either side. Washing hung limply on the line that crossed over the small, wilderness of lawn. He knocked loudly on the door and noticed, in his peripheral vision, the net curtains twitch in the window to his right.
There was no safety latch or chain and the door opened fully. Before him stood a small, rotund woman who looked quizzically straight at him. She was not what he had imagined. He didn’t have time for deliberation, he just blew the whistle loudly before crushing the phial onto her head and placing the warning card in her hand. She started to scream but he immediately pushed her backwards as hard as he could. He saw her tumble and trip, her hands flailing in the air as he made a grab for the door handle and slammed it closed, muffling the scream. He turned and moved quickly round the back of the Social Club and onto waste land that he knew would lead him past an empty Primary School building, and then to open farm land. He was heading for Station Road, Heddon-on-the Wall. He must reach the church yard quickly. There he could rest and recoup.
As he walked, he removed the butcher’s glove and doubled sealed it in plastic along with his mask. The whistle went back into his pocket. The pathway through the fields was a safe route and he saw nobody until he started walking along Station Road. The large dog startled him, its deep, angry bark both frightening and focussing. The owner, however, soon reigned in the long leash and quietened it, apologised and bid him good morning. It was then that he heard the first siren, quickly followed by a second.
Once in Towne Gate, he saw the pub that he was expecting and turned right up to the churchyard. He stopped and took a breath before checking his timetable. The X85 from Newcastle was due in fifteen minutes and once safely on that, he had twenty five minutes before arriving at Hexham Bus Station. He considered alighting at the stop before, just to ensure that he was clear of the cameras he assumed would be at the bus station.
He left the church via a meandering footpath that brought him to the war memorial and he paused. Two battered wreaths remained from the previous Remembrance Day and he thought of the faces in the Hammerton volume. One particular face on the page brought a smile: even though the future was uncertain... He crossed to the empty bus stop and waited. By now, the sirens had gone but he knew there would be a search. As the bus pulled up at the stop, a police car drove past at some speed. He kept his head down.
***
Cyril’s mobile rang just as he was about to collect Owen to interview Phillip Jarvis, who had been anxiously waiting in a holding cell.
“Bennett!”
“Sir, we have another one, this time up in the North East. Same pattern, disgraced care worker, sulphur mustard, whistle, the works.”
“I’ll be there in ten. Get as many of your team in as possible and be ready to go up there!”
Liz was looking at the board on which a large, interactive screen allowed her to view and read relevant documents. She had allocated some tasks as officers had arrived and she was reading through the statement taken from Jane Ashcroft, looking for the connection thrown up by the computer.
“There’s our Dr. Young, again. Popped up out of the blue!” She looked across at the scrawled name in red on another board.
“Talking to me or yourself? Where is everybody?” Cyril’s voice boomed across from the open door. He felt as though he were pulled in two.
“Dr. Young’s name keeps cropping up, often on the periphery of the investigation, but it’s there and for some reason, I scribbled it onto the board. Don’t ask me for firm evidence because I have none, but it’s there and, lo and behold, today it gets thrown up again. Turns out our previous victim looked after his mother. Strangely, there’s no case against her officially but you might like to take a butcher’s at her statement. Proctor, Smirthwaite, Ryan and Nixon have been sent out to collect some vital information.”
Liz flicked the screen electronically, turning the pages of the statement back to the beginning. Cyril moved towards it. This technology still fascinated him. It was like magic.
“Your face is improving, Sir.”
“Couldn’t get worse, Sergeant, couldn’t get...”
“Do you interpret what I do? That there’s been a bit of a cover up and that possibly more has gone on that meets the eye?”
“Ashcroft clearly states that Dr. Young’s mother had fallen and was seen by a Doctor.” “Surely that wasn’t Young?”
“No, the home uses a local Doctors’ Practice. Jayne Ashcroft was extremely anxious on two counts; she was nervous about coming here and she also told a WPC that she was frightened of Doctor Young, particularly when she spotted him in the ICU when she was visiting Paula. She didn’t say why she was frightened.”
“Did you ask?” He surmised from her expression that she had failed to follow up this lead. Cyril shook his head as he gathered as much from the statement. “If you want something doing...Have you seen the accident forms and checked with the staff present at the time?”
“We won’t get anything from Paula, and Jane was the only other witness.”
“Check the home staff records, all of them, and interview other staff either at home or here. I don’t want them interviewed at work. If there’s been a cover-up they’ll clam up. What’s happening in...Throckley? It is Throckley?”
“Yes, Throckley, it’s just outside Newcastle...” then she saw Cyril’s look. “I’ve already sent two officers to the Home, Nixon and Smirthwaite. Concerning the Throckley incident, we have three carers awaiting trial for unprofessional conduct, read into that, sadistic bullying. The attack targeted the most senior.”
“So what’s in place and who’s investigating?”
“House to house, CCTV from railways, taxis and buses. Dogs can’t be used because of the chemical danger. Helicopter’s been up, but nothing, and local TV and news have been approached for assistance.”
“Is Dr. Young at work?”
“Day off and there’s no one at home. One person saw him leave the house early this morning. That’s it. Ryan spoke with neighbours who’ve said that he keeps himself to himself, a bit stuck up were their words. The house belongs to his parents, or did. His father had a workshop not far from the house. The next door neighbour mentioned her husband visited once.”
“Address?” asked Cyril, impatiently.
“No idea, Sir. She didn’t know and her husband passed away last year.”
“Does the Doctor have friends, colleagues he goes for a beer with, plays squash with, sleeps with, maybe?”
“He doesn’t use any Social Networking sites. I didn’t want to make enquiries at work in case someone tipped him the wink.”
“OK, you’re right. Well done! You’ve covered routes to and from the scene of the incident, yes?”
Liz tapped the screen and brought up Google Earth, showing Throckley and squeezed her fingers together zooming in on the satellite image.
“Here’s the house where the attack took place. You can see...” she moved her fingers apart to show more of the area. “There are several routes he could’ve taken, from the easiest which would mean back to the main road, to car parks here and here. We’ve called in CCTV from this supermarket and this Social Club here, just next to the house but he could’ve gone anywhere.”
Cyril put his electronic cigarette between his lips and Liz could visualise Maigret wrestling with a case.
“We have extra patrols at bus and rail stations and we’re getting photo ID now to distribute.”
“What other routes back to Harrogate are there, discounting the fact
that he might be using a car or motorcycle? Where can he go from Throckley? Look at every possibility. I want a car outside his house until he returns, and Liz, I want the reports from the Nursing Home in here within the hour...and keep an open mind, we won’t be keeping all our eggs in one basket. Make enquiries and eliminate all other potential suspects. Well don’t just stand there, girl! ”
“Yes, Sir. The car’s already in situ.”
“Good, good. Who’s in charge in Newcastle? I want his number ASAP.” He smiled and the tension that had built in her shoulders dissipated and she felt herself relax a little. “We’re getting close, but I suspect he’s feeding information rather than being careless, so we need to remain vigilant and not underestimate this character.”
Cyril swept from the incident room to his office, not stopping at Owen’s desk and avoiding the bucket that was catching the occasional, dripping water. He looked up and watched a droplet splash into the small reservoir. As far as he remembered it wasn’t raining! Owen was on the phone but Cyril mouthed, My office, as soon as. He didn’t smile and left it clear that it was an order.
A few minutes later, Owen blocked the door for a moment and then came towards Cyril who was now on his mobile. He waved a pencil, Moses-like, as if parting the Red Sea, instructing Owen to move away from the window and to sit down. Like Moses, the waving brought obedience.
Owen glanced at his boss and was still amazed at how immaculate his hair, suit and shoes were considering the hours he was putting in. He looked at his own shoes and felt as though he were letting the side down. He ignored the embarrassing soup stain on his tie.
***
Janet heard the bell as she was waiting for the tea to brew in the pot. She moved down the corridor and looked at the security screen. Two Police Officers stood outside the gate. She pressed the button to open it and they headed up the drive.
Although she had reported Peter’s disappearance early in the morning, it had taken four hours to get two Officers to attend. She opened the front door and welcomed them in. Both Officers spoke English and removed their caps.
The questions were both routine and somewhat patronising, a result of their seeing that there was no damage from a break in nor evidence of any violence They noted that two cars had been driven away; one of these had been accounted for, found in his lover’s garage and was now safely in the Police garage with Forensics; the other, a blue, Renault Alpine, was gone. There was no sign of damage evident in the garage itself, so the vehicle had clearly been opened and started using a key, before being driven away.
They drank their coffee and suggested that they would put out a call to trace the car and the driver, assuring her that with the marvels of French technology, it shouldn’t take too long for them to find it, particularly considering the rarity of such a motor.
As they left, Janet knew in her own mind, after reading their body language and their more than relaxed attitude, that there would be little they would do, just as she had hoped. She had worked hard at achieving the correct balance between concern and anger, as if this were not the first occasion on which he had gone missing. The important thing was that it had been reported and that was all she could do, was all she had to do. She went through to the bedroom and started to pack.
***
The black Jaguar stopped just past the pink, concrete lions and Charles watched the gates close behind him. He would not be returning for some time. The twins were happy in the back, headphones clamped to their ears, watching cartoons on the screens set into the headrests of the front passenger seats, Penny sat in the front.
“Been to Gstaad before Pen?” He smiled and looked at her before pulling onto the road.
“No, but I believe it’s beautiful and expensive.”
“Correct and correct,” he said. His voice was warm, gentle and feminine. He asked the twins if they were comfortable, but realised that they could hear nothing other than what came from the screens. They were too engrossed even to see him turn his head.
“We’re not stopping other than for fuel and a roadside pee. It’s eleven hours, 587km of a run, no tolls and no motorways. The adventure begins.” He turned to her and smiled but inside Penny couldn’t remove the thought of a spider welcoming a fly and a cold shiver ran through her.
He pulled onto the road and within minutes the car phone rang. He answered immediately.
“Safe, sound and set, you lovely bully. I’ll await the package.” It was a familiar voice that was short, sharp and to the point.
“It’s in the post.” The line went dead before Charles could say anymore.
Penny looked at Charles but said nothing, feeling that it was the wiser option; she’d witnessed his swift, irrational mood changes in the past and felt slightly more comfortable with his present state of mind. She settled back and looked across at the sea.
Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly echoed in her head again and again, until the coastline slowly diminished and the car turned through the twisting roads, up towards Grasse. Glancing through the window as the car turned off to the right at a large round-a-bout, she read the road name. They were heading along the Avenue de la Libération, an irony for the two girls in the back and a screaming alarm to herself; suddenly the sign helped to determine what she needed to do, and do it soon, if she dared.
***
Lawrence left the bus at the stop by the hospital, not his planned stop, but his gut feeling told him it was the right thing to do. The sky had clouded over but it was still warm. He crossed the road before turning onto a short, downhill stretch of road that would bring him to Hexham Station. As he approached, and before crossing the road in front of the station building, he checked to see if there were any Police cars parked outside; to his relief, he could see none. He walked across a small courtyard, checking the ‘Information’ sign before progressing onto the platform. His eyes were everywhere as his senses were on full alert. The ticket machine was on the other platform so he crossed the bridge over the twin lines and walked to the self-serve ticket machine. He tapped in the details. He then moved back over the Victorian, iron bridge and sat on a bench on platform two, his face hidden by the well- read paper. He had precisely eleven minutes to wait.
From his bag he produced a chocolate bar and a bottle of water. Until he sat, he had felt like neither, but suddenly he was both hungry and thirsty. He also felt more nervous than he had since leaving that morning, but he knew it to be his adrenalin production returning to near normal.
The train’s stopping squeal made Lawrence cringe, it reminded him of nails running down a blackboard. Within minutes, he was on the train and sitting looking out towards the seat he had just vacated on the platform. He removed his spectacles and breathed on each lens before polishing them.
It was an unsuspected, sudden movement that caught his eye and made his pulse rate rise. A Police Officer moved onto the platform and looked up and down. Lawrence quickly fumbled his glasses back into place. Trying to watch the Police Officer’s movements, Lawrence pushed his head as closely to the window as he dared, in an effort to look back down the platform. He saw him approach the guard, show him something and chat, before watching him turn and begin walking quickly back up the platform. He was looking into each carriage window, not for long, just a quick glance before moving closer. Two other passengers were sitting in his carriage. He felt as though he dare not risk staying. He stood and went towards the toilet. Luckily, the bar next to the door handle showed green. He opened it and entered.
After only a minute, the train made a small lurch forward as Lawrence heard the faint but unmistakable sound of a whistle. Foolishly it made his heart race again and he instinctively felt in his pocket. His hand rested on his Hudson and Co whistle and he relaxed. He waited a full five minutes before leaving the toilet but he was now uncertain as to whether the Officer had boarded the train or not. It would be an anxious journey to Carlisle.
***
Liz was sitting with Nixon and Smirthwaite. On the de
sk were spread pieces of paper, the occasional file and books. Smirthwaite spoke first.
“It doesn’t tally, Ma’am, it’s just so simple. Accident time here, those attending patient clearly states Jones and Ashcroft, but you can see from the signing in that one of the times has been changed. We can find the original time as it was written in ink. It’s not the only occasion either that she failed to get in, or that she was very late. Jones has had two warnings, official that is, for tardy time-keeping and one for inappropriate handling of a patient but it appears that no further action was taken. The Doctor called on a number of occasions to visit Mrs Young and the records seem accurate. Did Dr. Young have an idea that something was amiss? Was this the possible catalyst of this bizarre crime?”
“I’ve interviewed Jane Ashcroft again and she admits that Jones wasn’t there the morning of the initial fall. It’s my gut feeling that with a degree of either softly, softly or a hard word, she will tell all. I’ve three staff from the Home in for interview later today.”
“Is there a coroner’s report for Mrs. Young?”
Nixon and Smirthwaite nodded their heads, it was like watching a double act.
“Death certificate shows cause of death as pneumonia and we all know that can hide anything. Strangely, Dr. Young didn’t question it.” Nixon moved some paper and produced a copy. “Maybe the Doctor was grieving the loss too deeply to challenge anything at the time, he was a bit of a mummy’s boy from all accounts, took her death very heavily, possibly there’s some guilt for not looking after her at home, but that’s only my opinion, having had a similar personal experience.”
Only The Dead: an explosive new detective series Page 20
