Call It Pretending (#3 - D.I. Paolo Storey Crime Series)

by Frances di Plino

  “Paolo!”

  Startled, he turned back to find Barbara glaring at him.

  “I’ve spoken to you three times, but you seem to be more interested in the coffee machine than this case. What is it? Withdrawal? Not getting enough caffeine?”

  “Sorry, Barbara, I was miles away. Admiring your machine and wishing I had one in my office. Now, what is it you wanted to tell us?”

  The scathing look she gave him clearly showed that she hadn’t believed a word he’d said.

  “From my examination and the evidence the body presented at the scene, I would stake my reputation that he died as a result of insulin overdose. He wasn’t diabetic, so the overdose was probably administered by his mystery visitor. What I don’t understand is why the killer drew attention to the fact by leaving the note.”

  Paolo sat forward. “But wouldn’t it have been obvious even without that?”

  “No,” said Barbara, “and that’s what makes it so odd. Insulin overdose is the easiest way of killing someone with a better than average chance of it going undetected.”

  Dave stopped writing. “I don’t follow,” he said.

  “Because it’s a naturally occurring substance it is difficult to spot, unless the forensic pathologist is specifically looking for it in overdose, as I was today. Your killer knocked the professor out with an anaesthetic, so he could have injected him somewhere hidden, such as between the toes. It’s highly likely he could have tidied up the room and made it look like a natural death, but he didn’t go that route. He made sure you knew it was murder by leaving the chaos behind, not to mention the note. What I don’t understand is: why? Why use something that is often overlooked in autopsy and then draw attention to it?”

  “Because he is sending out a message,” Paolo said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense. What the message is and whether it is intended for us, or to the other five he has on his list, we’ll only know in due course. The most important thing right now is to work out who the other five might be.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “So does the fact that he used something to knock him out and insulin point to a doctor, or at least someone in the medical profession? That would narrow it down a bit.”

  Barbara shook her head. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no. Insulin is freely available on the internet. It shouldn’t be, in my opinion, but it is. Chloroform, on the other hand, isn’t so easy to get hold of. It used to be, but it is fairly tightly controlled now. I’ve run a tox screen and I’m fairly sure it will come back with something easily accessible to the general public via one of those online medical supply sites. Good luck with trying to find out which site sold the insulin. There are hundreds of them and they are situated all around the globe. It’s something that really worries the medical profession here, but we are powerless to do anything about the situation.”

  “Bloody internet causes more problems than it solves,” Paolo said. “When someone is targeted through twitter or Facebook, the public gets up in arms, screaming something should be done, but as soon as a solution is suggested and they realise it will impact on their own use of social media, it suddenly becomes fascist to suggest putting curbs on what can and cannot be done online.”

  Paolo stopped and glanced across at Barbara. She was grinning at him.

  “Want a soapbox?” she asked.

  He heard Dave give a snort of laughter, then cover it up by turning it into a coughing fit.

  “Sorry,” Paolo said. “Katy says the same thing to me when I get into one of my rants. Anyway, that’s not what we’re here to discuss. When do you expect to get the tox screen back?”

  “Not for a couple of days yet. I’ve put it down as urgent, but that’s not saying it will get done any quicker. The lab is overworked and understaffed. Too many cuts—” She broke off, laughing. “Now you’ve got me started on my pet peeve.”

  Paolo turned to Dave. “Your turn. You want to have a quick rant about anything?”

  “No, thank you, sir. Happy and contented soul, that’s me.”

  “Right, in that case, go on back to the station and bring CC and the others up to date. I want to have a word with Barbara about Katy.”

  Dave stood up and said his goodbyes. As the door closed behind him, Barbara turned to Paolo with a questioning look.

  “What’s wrong with Katy? How can I help?”

  Paolo smiled. “Nothing’s wrong. I wanted an excuse to stay behind and talk to you without Dave knowing what it was about. I knew he’d accept it if I said it was to do with Katy.”

  “Sounds ominous, but I’m glad Katy is okay. So, what do you want to talk about? If it’s marital advice, you’ve come to the wrong person.” She softened the words with a smile. “How are things at home?”

  Paolo shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not living with Lydia. We decided it wasn’t working out and I moved into a place of my own on Saturday. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you, either.”

  “Okay, not Katy, not your marriage, what then?”

  “It’s you, Barbara. I’m worried about you.” She opened her mouth to speak, but Paolo put up a hand to stop her. “Hear me out, please. We haven’t been involved on a case together for a couple of months and I was surprised at how much weight you’ve lost since I last saw you. You look sad and drawn and I’m concerned.”

  Barbara stood up. “Well thank you for telling me I look a mess.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Paolo spluttered.

  “Not in those words, but yes, you did say it. I may not look my best at the moment, but the reason why is none of your business.”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  Barbara laughed, it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Did you? Did you really? Paolo, friends keep in touch outside of work hours, or didn’t you know that? As you say, we haven’t seen each other since the last case we worked on together. That doesn’t sound like friendship to me. I like you, Paolo. I used to like you in a different way, but that passed. Now I just like you and would love to be friends with you, but at the moment that’s not what we are.”

  Paolo felt like he’d been drenched in a bucket of water. “Then what are we?”

  “We are friendly working colleagues. Friends have the right to ask personal questions. Friendly working colleagues don’t. Was there anything else you wanted to ask about the case?”

  Feeling like a four-year-old caught stealing another child’s chocolate, Paolo shook his head and stood up.

  “Sorry, Barbara, you’re right. I overstepped the line. But I don’t look on you as a friendly working colleague. I honestly think of you as a friend. If you change your mind and need someone to talk to, call me. I’ll come over like a shot.”

  He leaned down and lightly kissed her cheek, then turned and walked to the door. When he looked back, she hadn’t moved and seemed to be staring into some distant space. He went out, gently closing the door behind him. As the lock clicked, he heard the sound of sobbing. He opened the door again.

  “Barbara, I…”

  “Go away,” she hissed. “I need to be on my own.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jon hated Thursdays. Nothing good ever happened on a Thursday. The day always seemed to drag, with Friday and the weekend to follow just out of reach. He pulled up his jeans and slipped on a tee shirt. At least the weather was still good. Better than usual for July. Maybe he could convince Andy to get out a bit more. If he had something to occupy his mind he might not be so ready to moan all the time.

  “Jon! Jon! Come here. Quickly, you’ll miss it.”

  Now what, Jon thought, walking through to the lounge where Andy was already stretched out in front of the television.

  “Quickly, for fuck’s sake. It’ll be gone by the time you get here.”

  “What will?” Jon asked, but fell silent as the screen filled with Professor Edwards’s face, then panned back to the newsreader.

  “A police spokesperson says the professor was murdered last Friday afternoon. No reason has been given f
or why the announcement of the professor’s death has been held back until today. However, the police are now appealing for anyone with information to call the number at the bottom of the screen. Professor Edwards, a respected member of the psychiatric profession, was last seen alive by his housekeeper…”

  The television presenter’s voice fell silent. Jon realised Andy had switched the set to mute.

  “Turn the sound back on. I want to hear this,” Jon said.

  Andy grinned at him. “No way. Did you do it? Is that where you went on Friday? Is that why you won’t tell me what you were up to?”

  “What? Me? Don’t be bloody daft. Why would I do something so stupid?”

  “Because he fucked up our lives, that’s why,” Andy snarled. “If I could walk, I’d have gone round there and killed the prick long ago.”

  “It wasn’t him that gave me the wrong drug. It was the doctor taking over while Professor Edwards was away.”

  Andy snorted. “You’ve always believed that, but that woman at your trial, she didn’t sound so sure, did she?”

  “What woman? What are you on about, Andy?”

  “The woman who worked with Professor Edwards and the bloke who gave you the wrong drugs. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t mind betting you’d have been put away. I mean, you killed that woman and look at me, stuck in this chair—”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Andy, not again. Please, can’t we get through one day without you going on and on and on about the accident?”

  Andy held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, fair enough. I’m just saying, like, you should be glad the bastard’s dead. I am. Whoever did him in deserves a fucking medal as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Yeah, right, maybe so, but I didn’t do it. I’m off to work.”

  “What about my breakfast?” Andy said. “You haven’t left anything out for me.”

  Jon forced himself to stay calm. “All the cupboards in the kitchen are at wheelchair height. There’s nothing to stop you from getting your own breakfast ready for a change. In fact, why don’t you get dressed, get in your chair and go out for breakfast? It would do you good to start getting out and about a bit more.”

  “Really? You think it would do me good to drag my useless body outside? It’s fine for you; you can walk, can’t you! You don’t know what it feels like, stuck in a chair—”

  Jon banged his hand on the wall. “Enough! Andy, you’re like a stuck bloody record! I…what’s the use? Fuck you! I’m out of here.”

  Jon stormed out without looking back. He knew exactly what expression he’d see on Andy’s face if he did – it was the one that would trigger his guilt complex all over again. He patted his pockets as he reached the front door to make sure he had his medication for the day ahead. No way was he coming back at lunchtime today. Andy could stew in his resentment, or get over it. Enough was enough. Jon swore as he slammed the door behind him that he wasn’t going to wear sackcloth and ashes any longer. Ten years he’d carried the guilt. Well, not any more. He’d show Andy and everyone else who thought he should still be paying for the fallout from that accident that he was ready to move on and they needed to move with him, or be put to one side.

  He reached the bus stop just as his bus pulled in and jumped on, barely acknowledging the driver as he flashed the man his pass. His mind was boiling over with fury. He’d show them. He’d show them all.

  By the time he reached the hospital, he’d managed to calm down a bit, but his rage exploded again when he went into the changing room and found his locker door open.

  “Who the fuck’s been in my locker?” he yelled at the other porters.

  No one answered, but a couple of the men briefly glanced in Iain’s direction. Jon hesitated. Iain had been picking on him for a few months and the only time he’d squared up to him had ended in a reprimand for Jon. Their boss, bloody Michael Montague, thought the sun shone out of Iain’s arse.

  “Iain, any idea who opened my locker?”

  “How should I know?” Iain answered, stepping forward and towering over Jon. “You’re not accusing me, I hope. I see your padlock is open. Maybe you forgot to lock it when you left yesterday.”

  From the smile on Iain’s face, Jon knew the bastard had somehow worked out the combination. He vowed to buy a new padlock at lunchtime, but there wasn’t much he could do right now other than accuse Iain outright. None of the others would get involved. Iain held too much power with Montague and none of them could afford to lose their jobs. Not that he picked on anyone else. He saved his spite for Jon.

  “What have you got in there to get all protective over?” Iain asked. “You’re only supposed to use it for work stuff. Got any good porn tucked away at the back?”

  “No, I bloody haven’t. There’s sod all in there to interest you.”

  Iain laughed. “I didn’t say I was interested. Keep your grubby mags private; we don’t want them flashed around in here, do we boys?”

  No one answered. Jon could see a few of them were squirming with embarrassment, but most of them looked more amused than anything else.

  “I don’t have any porn mags in my locker,” Jon said. “I don’t need to look at them.”

  “Why not?” Iain asked. “Fancy little boys, do you? No taste for tits?”

  Jon snatched his porter’s jacket from the locker and walked out without answering. Whatever he said, Iain would twist it into something disgusting.

  Jon got off the bus at the stop outside the White Horse and hesitated. He should go straight home, but that would mean walking into a barrage of moans from Andy and the day had been crap enough as it was. Iain had seen him replace the padlock after lunch and made a big thing out of Jon not trusting his workmates. A few of the blokes in the locker room, the ones who hadn’t been there to see the morning spat, started giving Jon evil looks. He’d tried to explain, but no matter what he said, Iain put a different spin on it. Jon had long since given up trying to find out what it was that set Iain off. All he could do was stay out of the bastard’s way as much as possible.

  He looked at the sign gently swinging in the warm evening breeze and made up his mind. One quick pint before going home. Pushing open the door, he peered inside. The place was almost empty. There were a couple of old men nursing half pints in the table nearest the door to the garden. A workman with less expression than a zombie was feeding pound coins into the machine on the opposite side of the room. Apart from the low murmur from the television above the bar, occasional jingling noises from the machine and the thwack of the man’s hands slapping at the controls, it was quiet. It couldn’t be better. He’d be able to relax and calm down a bit.

  Making his way between tables to get to the bar area where Bradley was wiping down the surface, Jon looked up as the television news came on. Professor Edwards’s death seemed to be the main feature on the local news. He wondered it if would make the national programme. Was he a big enough name? Maybe he was, but only if nothing major came up to occupy air time. Jon smiled. He hadn’t wanted to get into it with Andy, but the professor getting murdered was justice, pure and simple.

  Brad smiled as Jon settled himself on one of the stools.

  “Usual?”

  Jon nodded and pulled out the right money to give Brad when he’d finished pouring the pint of lager. The barman took the coins and dropped them in the till. As Brad closed the drawer, he looked over at Jon.

  “Bad day?”

  Jon laughed. “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “So offload. I’ve been told that bar staff and hairdressers were put on this earth for that very reason. We get special training for it you know. Learn how to pull a pint with one part of the brain and listen to the woes of the world with the rest of it.”

  “I don’t suppose you do a side-line in murder, do you?”

  Brad looked horrified. “What, like poisoned pints? Razor blades in the pork pie? We’d be out of business in no time. To say nothing of the extra work cleaning up the dead bodies. That’s better,” h
e said, as Jon laughed. “Come on, then, what’s got you so down tonight?”

  “Where to start?” Jon said.

  “Is it to do with your secret mission on Friday?”

  “No, that worked out all right, but you mustn’t say anything to Andy when he comes in next.”

  Brad laughed. “Did I not just say secret mission? So it went okay, then?”

  “Sort of. When I got there someone had cocked up the interview time and I ended up hanging around for four hours before they could fit me in, but other than that, I think it went well.”

  “When will you find out?” Brad asked.

  Jon shrugged. “They didn’t say. Just that they would be in touch.”

  “So, if it’s not that, what’s rattled your cage?”

  “It’s just some arsehole at work making my life a misery and then Andy at home doing the same. Sometimes I feel as if my head is going to explode with all the shit that goes on inside.”

  He looked up to see Brad looking shocked.

  “What?” Jon asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Nothing. I mean, no reason. It’s just that you looked as if you’d like to kill both of them.”

  Jon smiled. “Believe me, Brad, if I thought I could get away with it, I’d wipe both of them out without even thinking about it.”

  “What about guilt? Wouldn’t that eat you up afterwards?”

  Jon swallowed the last of his pint and stood up. “Guilt? Fuck that. I’ve put up with Andy ramming guilt down my throat for years. No more guilt for me,” he said. “Whatever I do from now on, I couldn’t give a shit what effect it has on anyone else.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Paolo sat at his desk and glared at the papers on it, trying to make sense of the few facts they had in the Professor Edwards case. That old saw about the first forty-eight hours being crucial was actually true. The more time that passed between the crime and following up on leads, the less likelihood there was of solving the case. The professor had died last Friday and it was now Thursday. They were well outside the magic forty-eight hours and were still no nearer to a possible suspect. The most promising, Conrad Stormont, appeared to have disappeared without a trace seven years back. CC had managed to track down a photo of the man from that time. Paolo had also downloaded an image of the real Seth Buchanan of the New York Times. Looking at the two men side by side, it was possible to see a slight likeness between them. He tried to picture Conrad a few years older than he was in the photograph and with a light brown wig. Did that make them look more alike? Maybe a little, but not enough. There was only one way to find out for certain and that was to show both images to Mary Prentice. She might see a connection that was eluding him.