by Rob McCarthy
‘That’s one of the things the internal investigation is looking at,’ Harry said.
‘Who’s conducting that?’ Noble said.
‘Helen Liu, our Director of Patient Safety,’ said Harry. ‘She’s thorough. If there’s something going on, she’ll find it.’
‘No she won’t,’ said Noble. ‘You don’t believe that any more than I do.’
Harry took a deep breath.
‘It just makes me uneasy,’ he said. ‘That gunshot outside the Chicken Hut last night. So it’s not actively a threat to Solomon, but it causes Trojan to almost kill him. And then an allergy disappears from his notes, and once again he’s at death’s door. Now, that’s either two episodes of incredibly bad luck, or someone’s out to get him.’
Noble leant forward over the handbrake, her face unreadable. Harry had no idea whether she was taking him seriously or merely indulging him. ‘So let’s run with it,’ she said. ‘If someone wanted to do that, how would they? Make an allergy disappear?’
‘Easily, if they were on the system at the Ruskin,’ said Harry. ‘It’s a computer system like any other. Probably about ten thousand staff have log-ins.’
‘Who?’
‘Doctors, nurses, ward clerks, pharmacists, physios. Even medical students. Practically anyone who comes into contact with patients.’
‘Surely an allergy would be in the paper notes as well?’ said Noble.
‘It would, yeah,’ said Harry. ‘But in the ICU everything’s digitalised. The patient’s paper notes aren’t by their beds, and the nurses just check on the computer. In theory, you can only access the patient records from a hospital trust computer, but I guess there’s probably a way to get into the system from off-site.’
‘There will be,’ said Noble. ‘No computer system’s totally safe.’
She said nothing else, but reached into her pocket to look at her phone.
‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you?’ Harry said.
Noble laughed. ‘Hey, I’d rather be listening to your crazy theories than having some jumped-up DS from the Sweeney ordering me around like I’m his PA.’
Harry watched her stare out of the windscreen, flicking the wipers on to remove the snow, imagining the cogs ticking in her brain. He’d seen the night before that the detective had a low tolerance for bullshit, and the fact that she’d agreed to meet him at the very least implied that she gave his opinion some weight. He reckoned he might as well play all his cards at once.
‘There’s more. I had a coffee with the pathologist who did the post-mortem on Keisha Best, too.’
‘Oh, right?’ said Noble. ‘Go on.’
Tapping at the windscreen and Harry jumped in his seat, turning to see an older man in plain clothes. Noble flicked a switch and Harry’s window came down, the cold air rushing in. He leant backwards as Noble leant forward to address the visitor.
‘Everything alright, Derek?’ she said.
‘DS Alcock wants to know if any of the witnesses we interviewed reported hearing gunfire. Forensics recovered this.’
The detective held up a clear plastic evidence bag with a bullet inside. Harry couldn’t stop himself thinking about the one they’d taken out of Idris. What was it Gunther had said? Two inches higher, it would have been his heart. Three inches to the right, his aorta.
‘Tell Alcock he’s a fucking idiot,’ said Noble.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am?’
‘That’s an unfired round. You can see the bullet’s still in its casing. Go through the tape again, at some point our friend with the gun pulls back the slide to look cool.’
The detective turned and shuffled back towards the high street. Noble shook her head.
‘Kids these days,’ she muttered. ‘They learn that on TV. Pull the slide back when it’s loaded, all it does is eject a perfectly good round. You probably know that, though, don’t you? Anyway, tell me about Keisha Best.’
‘Well, she was HIV-positive. And recently infected, too.’
‘What’s recently?’ said Noble.
‘Less than a year, probably less than six months. She probably didn’t even know about it. But that’s not the interesting bit.’
‘Tell me the interesting bit, then,’ Noble said.
‘She’d been pregnant, very recently,’ Harry continued. ‘Second trimester. Between one and two weeks prior to her death, she either miscarried or had an abortion. Dr Wynn-Jones thinks it was the second one, and I’m inclined to agree with her.’
‘So what?’ said Noble. ‘It’s Southwark. Eighteen-year-olds have abortions all the time.’
Harry felt his face burn red.
‘So what?’ he repeated. ‘The thing is, she was at least twenty weeks gone. So if she miscarried, she would have needed medical help. And she doesn’t show up on records for any hospital, clinic or GP’s office south of the river, not even any of the confidential ones. So if she miscarried, she didn’t go and see anyone about it. And if she did get an abortion, who performed it?’
Noble opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with an outstretched palm.
‘I’m not finished. Your friend DC Kepler and his team searched her bedroom, and they found a blister pack with just two pills. That’s exactly the packaging that the abortion pill would come in.’
‘CID didn’t investigate?’ said Noble.
‘Kepler said it could have been the morning-after pill, apparently. The pathologist gave the impression that CID were fairly snowed under, and they didn’t see much point,’ said Harry.
‘Bloody hell,’ Noble said.
‘What if that abortion was against her will, illegally procured?’ Harry said. ‘She was forced into it, and that pushed her over the edge and she killed herself. That’d be reason enough for Solomon Idris to get angry, wouldn’t it? If he cared about her. If he knew what happened to her, and that the police hadn’t investigated it. Blamed himself for her suicide.’
‘Do you think it was his kid?’ said Noble.
‘I’ve got no idea,’ Harry said. ‘The way he spoke about her, it was obvious that she meant something to him, at least. Enough to do what he did last night.’
‘They were both HIV-positive,’ said Noble. ‘I don’t buy that’s coincidence. They must have been sexually involved.’
‘We need to talk to someone who knows them,’ Harry said. ‘They must have friends, surely?’
‘That’s Mo’s department,’ Noble said, clarifying after seeing Harry’s puzzled expression: ‘DS Wilson. Moses, Mo. He should be round here in a bit. He’s got lots of friends in very low places.’
‘I’m working on that, too,’ Harry said.
‘And how are you doing that? Going undercover on the estate tonight, are you?’
‘James Lahiri, Solomon Idris’s GP, is an old friend of mine,’ Harry said, trying not to choke on the word ‘friend’. ‘He mentored Idris as part of the Saviour Project.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a public health initiative, treating victims of gang violence with therapy. To try and reduce recurrence rates. I’m seeing him once we’re done here. Who knows, maybe he can shed some light on it.’
‘Hopefully,’ Noble said. Her face seemed unimpressed.
‘Come on,’ Harry said, pissed off. ‘You guys are hardly pulling out all the stops, are you? You should have seen that kid last night; he was on the edge. Seemed like he didn’t care whether he lived or died. And someone wants him dead. And what did you say? We can sweep this one under the carpet. Bullshit.’
‘Harry, I don’t think—’
But he was riled now, and cut her off. ‘There are people like him all over this city, Frankie. Lost causes. People like Solomon Idris have no one to fight their corner. I don’t mean to patronise you, but I know what that’s like. And if someone hadn’t fought for me, I don’t know where I’d have ended up. It sure as hell wouldn’t have been medical school. So if we don’t advocate for him, no one will!’
They lapsed into silence again, the on
ly sounds the wipers clearing sleet from the windscreen and the static on the radio. Outside, two ambulances raced down the high street in tandem, blue lights scattering over the dashboard, heading for the Ruskin, followed by a third in quick succession. Busy night for A&E, he thought.
‘What about the wristband?’ Noble said after a while.
‘What?’
‘Back to our little thought experiment earlier. You want to get that allergy off the computer system, so Idris gets his bad medicine and doesn’t wake up. How do you get rid of the wristband?’
Harry started thinking. It was a bizarre experience, picturing himself wandering through the hospital, working out how to get a patient killed.
‘Assuming that we didn’t fuck up and forget to give him one,’ said Harry, ‘then you’d have to go right up to him, and take it off.’
‘That changes everything.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know. But it could have happened any time from when he came into A&E, went to theatre, the CT scanner, or back to the ICU.’
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ Noble said, throwing herself back in her seat. Maybe it was what she was wearing, but Harry had a sudden episode of déjà vu. Noble was sitting exactly how the shrinks had done when they’d been assessing him after he’d got back from Afghanistan. Waiting to see how he’d react.
‘Harry!’ said Noble. He realised he’d been staring into the darkness. His heavy, quick breaths had left a disc of condensation on the windscreen.
‘You won’t say it, will you?’ Noble continued. ‘The obvious implication of everything you just told me. Even though you’ve already figured it out. You won’t say it, because you don’t like where it goes.’
Harry said nothing. After looking at him for ten seconds or so, Noble went on.
‘Somebody with access to Solomon Idris in the hospital. And who could provide Keisha Best with the means for an abortion.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Harry. ‘It’s one theory, I guess.’
‘You think we’re looking for a doctor,’ said Noble. ‘And it’s obviously been weighing on your mind, with what you’ve raised about this allergic reaction. The only person who’d be able to orchestrate that would be someone in the NHS.’
‘I’ve got no proof of anything,’ said Harry.
‘I know,’ said Noble. ‘Believe me, I know.’
Another tap on Harry’s window. This time he was ready to see the old detective again, the one with the scarred face, but instead was met with the sight of the giant DS Wilson, wearing the same street attire as he had on the Camberwell Road: jeans riding low, a camouflage-pattern hoodie and a puffa jacket.
‘They said you’d be here,’ Wilson said. ‘Can we get some food, guv? I’m starving.’
‘You can go get dinner, Mo. Some of us are working.’
DS Wilson advanced his huge frame through Harry’s window, waving a sheaf of papers.
‘I got something you’ll want to read,’ Wilson said.
Noble moved to get out and Harry did the same, Wilson retreating from his side of the car.
‘Go on, then,’ Noble said. ‘Dr Kent will join us, if that’s OK.’
‘PFC?’ Wilson suggested as Noble locked her car. ‘Or are we banned from chicken shops after last night?’
He laughed at his own joke and Noble joined him, and Harry followed them out into the snow in silence.
It wasn’t a fried chicken shop, but the yellow light of the Burger King they found themselves in was far too reminiscent of the previous evening for Harry’s liking. At least it wasn’t cold in here.
He looked at his watch. Seven-fifteen. Twenty-four hours ago, he’d walked into the Chicken Hut and seen Solomon Idris for the first time. The teenager now felt like his charge, despite the fact he knew very little about him. He recognised the similarity with the girl with the pink hair, a different story perhaps, but the same themes. Somehow, Harry felt responsible. In both cases, no one else was there to speak for them, and so maybe he filled that void. Or maybe that was just his attempt to rationalise it. Because thinking about it like that was better than trying to track down her identity just so he had something to do, something that kept him from staring out of the window wishing he could sleep.
It was the eyes, Harry decided as Noble and Wilson returned from the counter, trays piled with food and coffee. He needed to know what had given Solomon Idris that look in his eyes.
‘Ketchup,’ said Wilson, and headed back to the counter.
‘Does he always dress like that?’ Harry said.
‘He used to be Trident,’ Noble explained. ‘Just been seconded to CID ’cause so much of what we see is gang-related. Runs about thirty CIs in this borough, maybe five or six in Lambeth, too.’
‘CIs?’ Harry asked. Even though he’d been working with the police for a few months, the jargon went over his head now and then.
‘Confidential Informants,’ Noble said. ‘Grasses, to you and me. Mo’s basically spent the afternoon talking to his friends, and finding out if they know anything or heard anything about Solomon Idris. Anyway, this one’s yours.’
Harry graciously took the burger from her and started unwrapping it as Wilson returned from the counter. Once he was done showering his fries with sauce, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out three A4 files, each in its own plastic wallet, with a photograph paperclipped to the first page. Though it was an old photo, Harry recognised the top one immediately as Solomon Idris.
‘Here’s our mate Sol,’ Wilson said. Then he pulled off the top file to reveal a school picture of a mixed-race girl, hair braided either side of her face, tie loose, embarrassed smile on her face.
Harry knew who he was looking at before he saw the name typed on the file beneath it.
‘Keisha was his girlfriend,’ Wilson said.
‘For sure?’ said Harry.
‘Well, for some time at least. I had a couple of sources on these two. The first one’s a housing officer who’s based on their estate, not sure if it’s because she’s a masochist or what. She said that Solomon spoke to her about trying to get a council house, because Keisha was pregnant, but they were too young, and anyway they both had suitable housing with their parents.’
‘When was this?’ said Noble.
‘First week of October.’
‘So both of them knew that Keisha was pregnant at least six weeks before she killed herself,’ said Harry. ‘Did your source know whether it was planned?’
‘Idris didn’t discuss it much,’ Wilson said. ‘He got angry when she said they wouldn’t qualify for council housing, and left.’
‘At least we know they were together,’ Harry said. ‘That’s something.’
‘Don’t speak too soon,’ said Wilson. ‘Princess had plenty to say about the both of them.’
‘Princess?’ said Noble.
‘I can’t tell you his real name,’ Wilson said. ‘But let’s just say he makes me look like a ballerina. His information’s the only reason he’s not inside for GBH. Anyway, he works as an enforcer for a local piece of work called Martin Santos. He’s a mid-level dealer for the TPB. That’s the—’
‘I’ve introduced Harry to the Boys,’ Noble said. ‘Go on.’
‘Anyway, the Albany is Santos’s ends, so it’s his business to know the local faces,’ Wilson continued. ‘He said Idris and his best mate, Shaquille Dawson, used to be fairly high up in a small crew called the Wooly OC. Wooly’s Walworth, and OC means they were affiliated with the Organised Criminals, a big Brixton outfit that got broken up around 2009.’
‘Used to be high up?’ Harry said. ‘And then Idris got stabbed and went straight?’
‘Well, kind of. You have to realise that these crews aren’t big operations. Most street gangs in London are comprised of maybe six, seven key members who control a small area, and then you get allegiances formed between the local groups, which means lots of affiliated street crews but no central leadership. Two years ago, the Wooly decided to switch camps and
ally themselves to the TPB, the OC’s main rivals. Some boys in one of the Brixton crews took it on themselves to teach Idris and Dawson a lesson.’
DS Wilson paused to remove the lid from his coffee and blow on it. Noble was still chewing down on her burger, and Harry took a bite of his and tried to put that information together in his head.
‘Idris got attacked in July 2011,’ Harry said. ‘He’d have been sixteen. So these days you can be high up in one of these gangs and still be in secondary school?’
Harry hadn’t grown up too far from the Albany estate, in terms of both geography and deprivation, and a few of his contempories had been mixed up in the local gangs. But back then it had been the Yardies who’d run the streets, and teenagers were only the foot soldiers, peddling weed on street corners.
‘It’s a fucked-up world,’ said Noble. ‘We know he was involved when he was fourteen, ’cause of that A&E visit in 2009.’
Perhaps it should have been less surprising – the youngest kid Harry had ever treated for a gang-related attack had been a nine-year-old boy who’d been acting as a mule for a gang in Lewisham, too young to be stopped and searched by police. A rival crew had caved in his skull with a cricket bat and left him to die on the street in order to rob him of his stash. The kid was walking now, but not talking much.
‘If there’s only ten key members to a gang, then yeah,’ Wilson said. ‘The Wooly OC was formed out of kids from the Albany, who went to the same school. The leaders were a trio of nineteen-year-olds, three years ahead of Idris and Dawson. One of them was Dawson’s cousin, Burke.’
‘I remember them,’ said Noble, slurping at her own coffee.
‘What happened?’ Harry said, though he regretted asking almost before the words left his mouth. He didn’t imagine it involved a happy retirement to the countryside.
‘Two weeks after the Brixton crew shanked Idris and Shaquille Dawson in 2011, they came for the big dogs,’ Wilson said. ‘About twenty of them found Burke and his two mates at a house party in Camberwell, dragged them out onto the street and beat them to death. The poor lads didn’t have a chance.’
‘Fucking hell,’ said Harry. If almost dying wasn’t reason enough to agree to some lifestyle counselling, then your mate’s cousin being killed on the street had to be.
