by Ellis, Tim
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but someone performed a lobotomy on Dr Altamirano yesterday . . .’
‘A lobotomy? I don’t understand. Lobotomies are rarely . . . Dear Lord! It’s Mr Pitt’s Killer, isn’t it?’
‘We think so.’
‘How is she?’
‘Not good, I’m afraid. Dr Jodh . . .’
‘Yes, I know Bernadette.’
‘Well, she told us that Dr Altamirano is in a vegetative state that she’s unlikely to recover from.’
‘I feel sick.’
‘Can you tell us the names of the students Dr Altamirano has recently assessed?’
‘Arthur Winchell!’
Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m sorry?’
She stood up. ‘Follow me,’ and she set off at a rate of knots towards the lift.
The doors opened. All three stepped in. The professor pressed the button for the second floor.
On the second floor they entered an office with the name “William Pitt” in gold lettering stencilled onto a wooden plaque screwed on the door.
A woman was sitting at the desk nearly hidden by mounds of paper.
‘Oh! Hello, Professor.’
‘This is Sue Longson,’ she said to Stick and Koll. ‘Sue is filling in for Mr Pitt. Sue, I need the student practical assessment allocation book.’
Sue’s head swivelled left and right. ‘Yes, here it is,’ she said leaning down to pick something up off the floor. ‘Excuse the mess. I’m trying to get to grips with Mr Pitt’s way of working.’
The Professor took the book to a side table and opened it up. ‘Yes, here we are.’ She turned to look at them. ‘Dr Arthur Winchell has not reported in for work this morning.’
‘And you think . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
‘Marie Altamirano has assessed and failed fifteen students over the previous three months. She doesn’t do it alone though. There are always three doctors who carry out the assessments together. And remember, we have a number of doctors who assess on a rotational basis. There are only three occasions where she has failed a student with Dr Winchell and one other doctor. I suggest that you focus on those three students first, Sergeant. If that doesn’t work, you can look at the other twelve.’
‘Seems logical,’ Stick said.
Professor Cornell wrote down the three names. ‘Let’s go and see June Croft on the ground floor, she’ll be able to give you their addresses and which hospital they’re working in.’
While they were in June Croft’s office Judy Moody rang. ‘Okay, I have the print-out.’
‘How many names are on the list?’
‘Seven.’
‘Have you . . . ?’
‘You didn’t ask me to do anything else.’
‘No, but . . .’
‘It’s my lunch now. My therapist . . .’
He sighed. ‘Okay, on your way to lunch could you give the list to Inspector Threadneedle?’
‘I don’t like her.’
‘She probably doesn’t like you either, but you could hand her the list. I’ll give her a ring now and let her know you’re on your way. You won’t even have to speak to her.’
‘I’ll do it for you, DS Gilbert. I won’t even talk to my union rep.’
‘Very kind, Judy.’
Once they had everything they needed and they were outside in the April sunshine Stick rang Inspector Threadneedle.
‘Judy Moody is on her way down with a list of seven people, Ma’am.’
‘Got it.’
‘We’re a bit thin on the ground in the MIT squad room. You couldn’t ask someone to run the names through CrimInt could you?’
‘You’re right – I couldn’t.’
‘Please, Ma’am,’ he said with as much pleading as he could muster. He knew he was in for a battle. Inspector Threadneedle hated detectives and she hated helping people. ‘I’m stuck in Colchester, but on that list is the A406 gunman who could kill again in the time it would take me to travel back to Hoddesdon.’
‘You think I have a heart?’
‘No, but if you arrested him it would improve your statistics.’
‘DI Blake has taught you well.’
‘We’re looking for a man with a blue Vauxhall Astra who is a member of a shooting club and owns a Remington 700 target rifle. Richard Buswell in forensics has a copy of the list.’
‘You’re happy for me to arrest him?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. Although you’ll probably need to call CO19 . . .’
‘I see – a sergeant telling an inspector how to arrest someone with a weapon.’
‘Sorry, Ma’am.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘Also . . .’
‘Something else, Sergeant?’
‘I need three people brought in for questioning.’
‘I see. You think my uniformed officers are your personal army?’
‘I never would.’
‘Why can’t you bring them in?’
‘It would take far too long, and I only have room . . .’
‘I add them to my numbers?’
‘The least I can do.’
‘Yes, it is the least you can do. There’ll come a time when I’ll ask you for more than your least – you’d better deliver.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Give me the names and addresses.’
He read them out.
‘You’re on your way back?’
‘Of course.’
The line went dead.
‘You should have been a politician,’ Koll said.
‘I still might.’
***
The trip to the retail park in Hackney cost him ninety pounds – it was nothing compared to Jerry’s life.
Two coppers – a male and a female – were leaning on a police car chatting.
He showed them his warrant card.
The doors were locked on Jerry’s car.
‘Can you pop the driver’s door?’ he asked.
They glanced at each other.
‘Don’t worry, there’ll be no comeback.’
The female took a thin piece of metal with a hook on one end from the boot of the police car and had the door open before the taxi driver had reached the exit to the retail park.
There was nothing of interest inside the car. He flicked the lever for the boot, where he found Jerry’s handbag containing her keys, her mobile and her purse. In the purse – besides seventy-five pounds in notes – were all her identity documents: driving licence, library card, NHS number, student card.
He had a terrible thought then. Was it possible that she had simply left Jerry Kowalski’s life behind to become someone else? No – he couldn’t believe that. Even if she was prepared to leave him, she would never leave her children. And it was more likely that she would have thrown him out of the house than walk out herself. She’d been kidnapped – but why?
‘Do you want us to do anything else, Sir?’ the female officer asked.
‘No. Thanks for your help. You can go now.’
Watching them drive off, he was in two minds about whether to get forensics to come down and dust the car for fingerprints, go through it with a magnifying glass and look for fibres, hairs and bodily fluids, but he knew it would be a pointless exercise. Toady might have done it as a favour, but he was sunning himself in Cyprus with Parish and Richards.
He was just about to climb in the car when his mobile vibrated.
‘Kowalski?’
‘It’s Carrie.’
‘Hi, Carrie. What have you got for me?’
‘Julie Wilkinson is studying law at King’s College. Both of her parents died in a car crash in November, just after she arrived back from New Zealand and she has no other relatives.’
‘Okay.’ Nothing he didn’t already know. ‘Anything else?’
‘No. Except . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘A picture of Julie Wilkinson has been sent to your phone, and the Chief Constable is getting ext
remely agitated that you haven’t contacted him.’
‘I’ll phone him now.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Thanks for your help, Carrie.’
‘That’s what I’m here for, but I appreciate you saying it. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’
‘Jerry’s gone missing.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m trying find her.’
‘I hope you do, Sir. Will I see you on Monday?’
‘I’ll be in Monday morning, if only to clear my desk.’
‘That’s not funny, Sir.’
‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’
He ended the call and phoned the Chief Constable.
‘Kowalski! You’re trying to give me a heart attack, aren’t you?’
‘I sincerely hope not, Sir. I’ve had a couple of those and they’re not to be recommended.’
‘I’ve had the Assistant Commissioner on the phone – he said: “Bring me the head of DCI Kowalski”. What’s going on, Kowalski?’
‘I’ve seen that film, and I didn’t get his daughter pregnant.’ He told the Chief Constable the story of Tug Muleford and Jerry’s attempt to rescue Leanne Pettigrew and the baby from a violent relationship. Of his fear that she was being held hostage by Muleford and his frustration at the lack of action by Lindsey Hillyard.
‘And you took over?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Professional Standards will need to investigate.’
‘I understand.’
‘By rights I should suspend you until they’ve completed their investigation.’
‘Or I could take some leave.’
‘That’s certainly an option. What about Jerry?’
‘She’s still missing. I’ve taken today off to try and track her down.’
‘Has she left you?’
‘No. As far as I can determine, she’s been kidnapped.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not sure of anything really. At the moment, I’m standing in a car park in Hackney where Jerry’s car has been left.’
‘Have you received a ransom?’
‘No – nothing so far. I’m just following the breadcrumbs at the moment. I’ve got a picture of a student my wife befriended called Julie Wilkinson driving Jerry’s car into London last night. I checked her flat in Whitechapel, but she’s moved out.’
‘What can I do to help?’
‘I don’t know yet, Sir. I’ll give you a ring later when I know a bit more.’
‘I’ll wait for your call, Kowalski.’
He wasn’t worried about the outcome of the investigation – he’d probably get a slapped wrist.
When he ended the call, a picture of a young woman jumped onto the screen.
‘Oh shit!’ he said out loud. Julie Wilkinson wasn’t Julie Wilkinson. Now, he had no idea who the hell he was looking for.
***
‘It’s good to see you awake, Dr Winchell,’ Viktor said. ‘Remember me? I’m sure you do. You failed me on one of my practical assessments . . . Ah, there you are. I see the light of recognition in your eyes.’
‘What are you doing here? That’s a very good question. Well, Arthur . . . I can call you Arthur, can’t I?’
‘Excellent. You’re lying on the table where Mr Pitt and Dr Altamirano have lain before. Because you failed me, I obviously need to practise, and who better to practise on than the very people who failed me.’
‘You’ll be pleased to know that I am improving all the time. Of course, I’m not perfect like you yet, but I feel I am getting there.’
‘I see you’re wondering what I’ve got in store for you today, and wonder you might. If you look around this warehouse you’ll see medical instruments. I collect them, you see. These instruments take us back to the birth of surgery, medicine, physiology, psychiatry and so many other disciplines.’
‘For instance, take this Lancet . . .’ He held up a thin pen-like instrument with a sharpened clover-leaf tip. ‘This was used for bloodletting, or in today’s language – phlebotomy.’
He selected an instrument like a switchblade and held it up in front of Arthur. ‘A Thumb Lancet with tortoise shell covers.’ He picked up a brass instrument with three blades at right-angles to the handle. ‘I’m sure you recognise the multi-bladed Fleam, and then there’s the Spring Lancet with a depth adjuster, the Scarficator – this particular one is an original Tiemann from 1846 – it has twenty blades. Of course, I also have cups, bleeding bowls and . . . You’re not going to believe this . . .’ He picked up a glass jar with a number of black slimy things in the bottom. ‘. . . Leeches. Yes I know, how awesome is that? Don’t worry, I’ll let you have some to play with.’
‘I think you’ve probably guessed that I plan to open up your veins and let a tiny bit of blood flow out. As you very well know, Arthur, there are four main bodily humors: blood, phlegm, black bile and yellow bile. An imbalance in these humors requires a degree of bloodletting.’
‘But that’s not all. Oh no! While your life’s blood is drip-dripping into a couple of buckets, I plan to cut out your gall stones . . .’
‘You haven’t got gall stones?’
Viktor laughed. ‘I knew you were going to say that, but remember . . . I need to practise, to hone my surgical skill, so we’ll simply pretend you have gall stones. And . . . I’m going to do it the old-fashioned way. I’ll hang you upside down so that your arse is pointing upwards. I’ll push down with my left fist into your testicles to force your bladder into place, and then I’ll push my right hand into your anus. Once inside, I’ll have a feel around until I find the stones. Then, I’ll make an incision two fingers above your anus, free the stones and pull them out either through the incision I’ve made or through your anus.’
‘No, I’m sorry. We’re not doing this under general anaesthesia. It’s a simple operation that won’t take long at all.’
‘Survival rates?’
‘Ah! Not very good I’m afraid, but it’s not about you, is it, Arthur? It’s about me passing my next practical assessment, and I’m sure you want me to pass, don’t you?’
‘So, are you ready, Arthur?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
They knocked on the front door of Jackson Wyberg’s three-bedroom villa, which was situated at the top of a long winding road. It had a large swimming pool, a tall chimney and a breathtaking view of the sea.
Parish hoped Maddie hadn’t come fully armed today with a skimpy bikini under her uniform. A man could only take so much temptation.
The door opened. A short man with brown wiry hair and eyes that were far too close together stood there.
‘Hello?’
The first thing that jumped into Parish’s head when he saw Jackson Wyberg was that the man standing before him didn’t match his own name. Some people looked like a George, a Wayne or a Mary. Others looked as though they were wearing someone else’s name, and Jackson Wyberg was one of those people.
Parish showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Jed Parish from Hoddesdon in Essex, and this is Sergeant Madison with the Royal Military Police here in Cyprus.’
Beads of sweat appeared on Wyberg’s forehead. ‘What do you want?’
‘Do you think we could come in and talk to you?’
‘If you must.’
He stood to one side to let them in.
With the exception of the front door, all the other doors and windows were open. A sea breeze fluttered in through the drapes. The floor was tiled, and matched the neutral colours of the decor and the furnishings.
‘Come through to the patio, it’s cooler out there.’
They followed him outside and seated themselves at a white plastic table.
‘It’s about Caterina, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought Major Durrell had been charged with her murder.’
Parish nodded. ‘You thought right, Mr Wyberg.’
‘Do you live here on your own?’ Maddie asked.
&
nbsp; ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but neither of you have any authority on the island.’
‘Can you tell us why you left the amateur dramatic group?’ Parish asked.
‘You’re asking something you already know the answer to. Dixie and Gerald pointed you in my direction, didn’t they?’
‘How long have you been living on the island, Mr Wyberg?’ Maddie asked.
‘Long enough. My business is none of your business. You’re treating me like a suspect . . .’
Parish’s phone vibrated. ‘Excuse me.’ He walked around the side of the villa. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s me.’
‘I know it’s you. Well?’
‘Jackson Wyberg.’
‘Yes?’
‘He died in 1985.’
‘I thought as much. Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Thanks.’
He ended the call.
While he’d been talking he’d also been walking, and had ended up at a set of steps that led down to an open door. He wondered whether he should take a quick look, but decided against it.
As he turned round to go back, he saw Wyberg come into view with Maddie in front of him. Her hands were secured behind her back and he had a large knife pressed to her throat.
Maddie mouthed, ‘Sorry.’
‘Yes, walk down those steps, Inspector Parish. Let’s see if what you’ve come to find is down there. And I needn’t tell you what will happen to the young lady should you try anything stupid.’
‘You touch her, and you’re a dead man, Wyberg – or whatever your name is.’
Wyberg gave a nervous laugh. ‘You’re in no position to make threats, Inspector.’
He began walking slowly down the steps. ‘Well, I think we’ve established that you’re not Jackson Wyberg. So, who are you?’
‘That’s something you don’t need to know.’
He noticed a dial – like a thermostat – on the outside wall as he walked through the open doorway.
‘Put the light on. The switch is on your right, and move into the centre of the room.’
He did as he was ordered. What else could he do? He kept looking for an opportunity to turn the tables on Wyberg, but he couldn’t do anything while there was a knife at Maddie’s throat. As usual, he should have seen it coming. In the back of his mind he was merely going through the motions. Half of him believed that Durrell was guilty, and it was simply a case of eliminating all the other possibilities before going home – obviously he’d been wrong.
