by Paul Charles
Kennedy liked Rose. She’d long black hair which she wore up, in some contraption that looked like a large muffin, while on-duty at St. Pancras. Off-duty was another matter entirely. James Irvine, who had dated Rose for a few months, described her as, “a woman who believes in true love, Christian values, a little cannabis and a lot of sex”.
As Vange brought the tea Rose Butler entered the café. She nervously looked around the small café, spied Kennedy in his usual corner up by the counter and made her way to his table.
‘Coffee, large and black,’ Rose whispered.
‘Goodness Rose,’ Kennedy said, ‘you’re trembling. What on earth’s the matter?’
Rose didn’t reply. Kennedy noticed tears starting to form in her clear blue eyes. She was about to speak when Vange returned with the coffee. Rose immediately wrapped her hands around the mug for the comfort from the heat.
‘God, Christy,’ Rose whispered, ‘I don’t know where to start.’
Kennedy reached across the table and patted her arm, offering her comfort without the words.
‘Oh, Christy, we’ve had a non-accidental death on the wards…Ranjesus was having an affair…oh God, poor Sinead…it shouldn’t have gone this far…everyone knew he was cheating…but none of us ever dreamt this…that prize A shit…and now he’s going to get away with it,’ Rose spluttered in free-flow.
Kennedy knew how close she was to tears and felt a strong whiskey would have been better for her than a cup of coffee. He freed his hand and tore open three sachets of sugar, which he poured into her coffee.
‘Here,’ he began gently, ‘drink this down, it will make you feel better.’
‘Feel better, Christy. It’s worse I want to feel. This shouldn’t be allowed to happen to these young Irish nurses. Shouldn’t be allowed to happen to any nurse for that matter. But all these doctors, they all think they’re God’s gift to women, and they’re attracted to the Irish ones like bees to honey. The only doctors they’re safe from these days are the gay ones. Thankfully their numbers are growing.’
Okay, non-accidental death, smarmy doctors, Irish girls. They were getting somewhere slowly, Kennedy thought.
‘So, Sinead and Dr Ranjesus, they were operating on someone and something happened?’
‘No.’ A brief flicker of a smile quickly brushed Rose’s ghost-white cheeks. ‘Sorry. He’s Dr Ranjee Shareef. We call him Ranjesus because he thinks he’s God’s gift. No, that wasn’t what happened. God forgive me, but I wish it was as you describe it. No, it’s Sinead, Sinead Sullivan. She’s dead. God, Christy, she’s really dead and it’s Shareef’s fault.’
‘He killed her, Rose?’
‘I believe he did. But we’ll never be able to prove it, he’s going to get away with it, he’s going to get off scot-free and the slimy sod planned it all, I think. Devious isn’t the word for him. If he gets away with it…I’ll swing for him, Christy. I swear I’ll swing for him.’ Rose had her fists clenched on the table.
‘Let’s see if we can get Vange to do you one of his special Irish coffees, for medicinal purposes, and you can tell me the complete story right from the beginning,’ Kennedy offered and made his way over to the service counter.
‘Ah, I thought there was meant to be some coffee in an Irish coffee,’ Rose said a minute later, following her first generous gulp. ‘Sure he’s barely coloured the whiskey with the coffee.’
‘Irvine swears by them.’ The words were out of Kennedy’s lips before he’d realised, and regretted, what he’d said. Rose and James Irvine’s parting had not been an easy one and now probably wasn’t the best time to be reminding her about it.
‘Aye, well, he should know,’ she said, taking another sip. ‘So, Christy. Sinead Sullivan came over from Youghal in County Cork about four years ago. She was a great student nurse. The patients loved her, she was always very caring and compassionate with them. The Irish nurses always seem to get on better with the patients. I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s just they miss their families so much they pour their love out on to the patients.
‘It isn’t easy for them, Christy. For a lot of them it’s usually their first time away from home and the money isn’t great, but they’re dedicated. So, Sinead comes over here and she was getting on great. After four years she qualified as a staff nurse and met Dr Ranjee Shareef. You see Christy, one problem with these young girls is that they’re totally in awe of the doctors. The young nurses think the doctors are incapable of human weakness. But I can tell you these young girls were in nothing but danger in the hands of this shit. He’d a reputation for the young nurses. And sure, he’s married with two children and lives down on Ulster Terrace, you know the big white Nash houses overlooking Regent’s Park. Did that ever stop him? Did it feck.’
The staff nurse sighed and Kennedy considered he and all of mankind had been well and truly told off.
‘Sinead and myself became quite close. I warned her off Ranjesus but she wouldn’t listen and after a few expensive dinners he charmed her into bed. A suite in the White House Hotel, if you don’t mind. He kept saying, she told me, that she was his “First Lady”. Poor Sinead was in love with him. She’d never been with another man. He’d let her down all the time; call off dates at the last moment. She was the “other woman” and she probably received enough flowers to redo the rose gardens in Regent’s Park. He was always claiming he was going to leave his wife and children for her. They just had to pick the right moment, “it wasn’t fair that the children, who were innocent in all of this, should suffer”. That old chestnut. But we believe it, Christy,’ Rose confessed, perhaps giving away more than she had planned. She took another swig of her eighty per cent proof coffee.
‘Anyways, Sinead felt Ranjee was cooling down their relationship. This would have been around springtime and she was beside herself with anxiety. Sinead only saw him when that old lust bug bit. He would come calling and she’d always have him back. When I spoke with her about it once in September she had a bit of a twinkle in her eye. It was all sorted, she said. I was afraid she was pregnant. I asked her about it but she’d just smile and wouldn’t say one way or another. But I knew she was and I knew her game. Catch the seed, catch the man. Old as the hills. She never came right out and admitted it but if a nurse can’t tell, who can? She said she was being looked after; I assumed she meant your man, you know, Ranjee. He was a paediatrician after all. And if he did what I think he did he’s a disgrace to the name. I’m not kidding, hanging’s too good for him. He’s in cahoots with the devil.’
The whiskey had done the trick and Kennedy was wondering exactly what this doctor could have done. The detective leaned in closer over the table.
‘Yesterday morning, while working on the antenatal ward, Sinead Sullivan collapsed. She was bleeding profusely and died before they had a chance to operate on her.’
‘God Rose. I’m sorry,’ were the only words of comfort Kennedy could find.
‘I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I think she died due to a massive haemorrhage, which could have been the result of an undetected placenta praevia,’ Rose continued. ‘Say someone becomes pregnant. The first thing they do is go to their General Practitioner. The GP will then refer them to us, to a hospital. We will, amongst other things, give her an ultrasound scan to ascertain the condition of the baby. We can see, in advance, any possible complications and treat them accordingly. The ultrasound scan would show up a placenta praevia.’
Kennedy shook his head in confusion.
‘No, it’s simple Christy. It comes from the Latin root, “To come before”. That’s all it means. The baby comes too soon. If Ranjesus was looking after Sinead and he was scanning her, he would have seen, at about twenty weeks into her pregnancy, that she was suffering from this. Now, normally, if this condition is detected, we would advise the mother of the possibility of a massive haemorrhage. We would admit her to hospital early and, if there was no massive bleeding, maintain the pregnancy until about thirty-seven weeks’ gestation. Then the bab
y could be delivered by caesarean section. Still with me?’
‘Just about, Rose.’
‘I’m saying that Ranjesus noticed placenta praevia when he scanned her and chose not to treat it, knowing that eventually Sinead would suffer a massive haemorrhage and mother and child would both die. He got rid of two problems at once and no one was any the wiser,’ Rose sighed.
‘Hang on here a minute Rose, are we not putting two and two together and getting seven?’ Kennedy started. ‘What brings on placenta praa…’
‘Praevia. Placenta praevia, Christy.’
‘Yes, what brings on placenta praevia? Could it be brought on medically? How would he have known she was going to be suffering from it?’
‘Okay, one at a time. The clinical situations associated with placenta praevia include increasing maternal age.’
‘But Sinead was very young, you said,’ Kennedy cut in.
‘Yes, Christy, twenty-two. I’m giving you the full list,’ Rose chastised.
‘Sorry,’ Kennedy said and meant it.
‘Increasing parity, again probably not relevant. Previous abortions. Impossible, I’d have known about it. Caesarean sections or any other uterine incisions wouldn’t apply. Anaemia, perhaps a possibility. Closely-spaced pregnancies also ruled out. Tumours distorting the contours of the uterus, a possibility. And finally, uterine infections, again a possibility and could have been induced by a knowledgeable doctor. That, by the way, answers your second question.’ Rose drained the remainder of her Irish coffee before continuing. ‘Unless he induced it he wouldn’t have known about it. I just think that when he was monitoring Sinead, he became aware of her condition and took full advantage of it. He saw a way out of all his troubles by merely doing nothing to help her.’
‘A sin of omission,’ Kennedy said.
‘Sorry?’
‘A sin of omission. That’s what our American friends call it when a death occurs due to someone failing to help the victim,’ Kennedy replied.
‘Can you get him for it, Christy?’
‘Well, we have to prove it first. That’s the hard part. But let’s take it one step at a time. There’ll have to be an autopsy, I’ll make sure Dr Taylor performs it and not any of Ranjesus’s cronies and then I’ll interview Dr Shareef. In the meantime, if you could draw me up a list of Sinead’s friends; all of them. She must have confided in someone about her affair and the pregnancy.’
‘Okay,’ Rose replied.
‘I’m sorry about all of this, Rose, I really am,’ Kennedy offered. ‘Is there anyone…?’
‘No, no. I’ll be fine, Christy. I feel better now that you’re looking into it. I’ll be okay, truly,’ Rose answered as she got up to leave.
Kennedy wished he could believe her. He’d never seen her so utterly defeated before. He resolved to put his all into helping prove, or disprove, Rose’s theory. Rose Butler didn’t deserve to carry the pain of Sinead Sullivan’s death on her shoulders alone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As Kennedy walked along Parkway towards North Bridge House, he reflected on how different a place the district was on the weekends. Parkway was the link between the pastoral and peaceful Regent’s Park and the vibrant Camden Town with its colourful shops and bizarre emporia. Even Dickens would have had trouble coming up with a cast of characters like the citizens of Camden Town. He thought of KP. Now would be as good a time as any for a chat with another of Camden’s colourful characters.
Kennedy added an inch to his step, leaving behind the dark clouds of Parkway. On entering North Bridge House the detective rang Dr Taylor. He advised his friend about the Rose Butler conversation. Meeting with Rose had left Kennedy a bit morose. He was usually able to not get drawn into his cases personally. However, when a friend of his was so upset, he tended to ignore his rules of self-protection. Taylor confirmed that he would get on it immediately and they would compare notes towards the end of the day. Kennedy was particularly interested in any additional information Taylor could come up with on Dr Ranjee Shareef.
‘It’s a street vibe man. I’m on the street.’ Kennedy tracked down the Circles’ tour manager on his mobile phone. ‘I’m in the market, it’s truly wondrous, man. All the people, all the colours, all the wares…’
‘Good. Look, I’d like to have another chat. Would that be convenient?’ Kennedy enquired.
‘Cool, totally cool. Why don’t we meet in the market, at the Stables just by the main entrance. I can see you there in about fifteen minutes?’
‘Perfect. See you then,’ Kennedy confirmed and set the phone back in its rest. No sooner had he done so than it rang again.
‘Hello, Kennedy here.’
‘Hello to you, too. ann rea here.’
‘Hi,’ Kennedy replied.
‘You left quietly and quickly this morning.’
‘Well, you looked so peaceful I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘I suppose it would’ve depended on what kind of disturbing you did,’ ann rea replied coyly.
‘Well, maybe I was a tad hasty,’ he admitted.
‘That’s better. I was beginning to think you regretted—’
‘Look, ann, about last night—’ he cut in, only to be cut short himself.
‘Christy why don’t we meet later, I don’t like talking about this on the phone. Have you anything planned for this evening?’
‘No.’
‘Well?’
‘Sorry, yes, yes, of course. Brilliant, more like.’ Kennedy struggled for words.
‘You get the food, I’ll bring the wine and…possibly the dessert. See you eight-ish?’
‘Mmm, yes, of course,’ Kennedy replied, and before he’d a chance to wish her goodbye the phone went dead.
Here was the love of his life that he’d lost, thought he’d lost, appearing to come back into his life. Had he missed something? It was a bit like someone had skipped past a couple of chapters in a book. Last night was one thing. Pleasant evening, good food, some wine and then some more wine and one thing led to another and they’d ended up in bed; totally against the form. What was a poor Ulster boy to make of all of this?
The coldness of November did little to lessen the weekend crowds in Camden Market. KP was standing, at the agreed meeting point, hopping from foot to foot and blowing into his cupped hands. His clothes seemed altogether too light for a temperature fast approaching zero.
‘God bless you, man,’ KP offered as he recognised the approaching detective. ‘Bit of a brass-monkey vibe.’
‘Yeah, you’re not kidding,’ Kennedy replied, eyeballing KP’s black oriental outfit, as flimsy as a pair of pyjamas.
‘I know exactly what you’re thinking. It’s just that I still have to do some shopping for winter-wear. I keep thinking that I won’t need it if I’m going to go back to the States. The only problem is that I’ve been having the same thought for the past five years, yet I’m still here.’
‘Are you planning to return to American then?’ Kennedy enquired, steering KP in the direction of a tea and hot dog stall.
‘Everyone in the music business who has ever been to America is always fixing to go back. It’s a wonderful place. It’s just well, man, I don’t think I could ever adopt that phoney Brit accent all who move there seem to acquire.’ KP walked on the balls of his feet so it always appeared that he was creeping up on some unsuspecting person. He was obviously a popular market character and was continuously nodding to people, shouting to others and, at the same time, working his charm on the females. All these ladies, Kennedy noted, were beautiful new-age hippies, all in their early twenties and all enticed by KP.
Kennedy ordered a couple of teas and a veggie burger each. Generous dabs of sauce applied, they made their way across the market in the direction of the Roundhouse.
‘Why do you think Wilko returned to Circles?’ Kennedy enquired directly.
‘A difficult question, man,’ KP replied and paused for a swig of the steaming hot tea. ‘Very difficult indeed. Way up there. In fact, I�
��m still doing a bit of a Marlowe vibe on that one myself. From Wilko’s perspective, it’s an easy call. His career was growing like a cow’s tail. With Sean, well that’s another matter altogether. He claims it was because he wanted the band to have another go in America and felt he’d have a better chance with Wilko. But at the same time the band was doing perfectly well with Robert Clarke, Wilko’s replacement.’
‘Yeah,’ Kennedy acknowledged the name and then thought for a few seconds. ‘Could he have just brought him back for sentimental reasons?’
‘A bit of the old hippie vibe, you mean?’
‘Possibly,’ Kennedy said.
‘Nah. There was something in it for Sean. I just can’t really figure out what it was.’
‘You say it’s easier to see why Wilko would have wanted to be back in the band. But is that true? Wouldn’t it have been humiliating for him to come back like that, with his tail between his legs?’ Kennedy was now stabbing around in the dark.
‘Well, in Wilko’s eyes he would have been taking a step back up. The band he was rejoining was a lot bigger than the one he left. He was probably, in all honesty, missing the smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd. Whichever way Sean and Leslie Russell worked it out, Wilko seemed comfortable with it. I imagine Russell must have been working miracles in the background.’
By this point they’d reached the Roundhouse. KP looked up at the venue with awe in his eyes. He led Kennedy up the couple of dozen steps to the front door.
‘Great venue, absolutely a great venue. Love it to death. Loads of history in this venue. Paul McCartney used to come down here every weekend to the Implosion gigs and have the DJs play some of the Fabs’ works-in-progress. Most of the audience was too stoned to realise how privileged they were. Remember when the Beatles did that gig on the rooftop of the Apple building in Baker Street?’ KP asked, as they continued their climb.
