by Damien Boyd
‘Yes, of course, follow me.’
Dixon and Jane followed her along the corridor into a large office with a bewildering array of certificates on the wall, in amongst the watercolours. Dr McConnell sat down at one of the desks and gestured to Jane to sit down at the vacant desk opposite.
‘Our PR consultant sits there when she’s in. Freelance, one day a week at the moment, unless we’ve got something on.’
Dixon was looking at the paintings on the wall.
‘When I was diagnosed with type 1, no one told me I had a choice of insulin . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but what has this got to do with the death of Elizabeth Perry? She was killed by a burglar. A robbery gone wrong, surely?’
Dixon turned slowly and fixed Dr McConnell in a stare Jane had seen only once before.
‘Was she?’
‘That’s . . .’ Dr McConnell hesitated, ‘what it said in the Telegraph.’
‘You shouldn’t believe what you read in the newspapers,’ said Dixon, turning back to the watercolour on the wall. ‘Dartmouth?’
‘Er, yes. We used to keep a boat on the River Dart.’
‘We?’
‘My husband and I. We divorced over twelve years ago now.’
Dixon nodded.
‘When I was diagnosed, I wasn’t told I had a choice of insulin. Why was that?’
‘It’s NHS policy to prescribe human insulin in the first instance.’
‘But the NHS Charter says that patients are to be consulted and given the choice about their treatment. How can we have a choice if no one tells us there is one?’
‘Well, I can’t comment on an individual case and I’m sure you’re not expecting me to, but human insulin is widely regarded as better at controlling blood sugars.’
‘Widely regarded by who?’ asked Dixon.
‘The doctors and consultants who prescribe it.’
‘But not the 2004 Cochrane Review. It said there was no evidence whatsoever that it was any better than animal insulin.’
‘Well, it . . .’
‘Why have there been no large scale clinical trials?’ Dixon had moved on to another painting of the River Dart.
‘That would have been taken into account by NICE before it was approved. Each new insulin has to . . .’
‘But weren’t you a director of the National Institute of Clinical Excellence?’ asked Dixon.
‘I’m not sure I like where this is going, Inspector.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Dixon. ‘I get a little carried away sometimes.’ He walked over to a larger watercolour above the fireplace.
‘How much does human insulin cost the NHS compared to animal?’
‘Animal is cheaper; about two thirds of the cost.’
‘And more expensive to produce?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, just to be clear, human insulin is cheaper to produce and you charge the NHS more for it?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘Which makes for a bigger profit margin?’
‘This is commercially sensitive information, Inspector.’
‘And politically, I should imagine?’
No reply.
‘How much money changes hands for each patient prescribed human insulin?’ continued Dixon.
‘I don’t . . .’
‘Do you pay more for a patient switched from animal to human?’
‘I’m going to have to . . .’
‘We’ve been told about little bonuses. Is that not right?’
‘No. We pay some consultants a retainer for research and . . .’
‘That’s what they call it these days, is it? A retainer.’
Dr McConnell stood up. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No,’ replied Dixon. ‘You’re helping us with our enquiries, and we are most grateful.’
Dr McConnell sat down again.
‘Tell me about the side effects of human insulin,’ said Dixon.
‘Some people report some minor side effects, but they’re usually due to them not managing their diabetes properly.’
‘And what about Elizabeth Perry?’
‘There was probably some underlying condition or allergy to it in her case. A few people have reported symptoms similar to hers, but only a handful.’
‘And what’s to happen to them if you stop producing animal insulin?’
‘DK Pharma will still be there. And they could try the analogues perhaps. We’ll give everyone eighteen months’ notice if we do stop production.’
‘Eighteen months’ notice or eighteen months to live?’
No reply.
‘And what if a member of parliament was actively campaigning to raise awareness of the side effects of human insulin, not to mention the cost to the NHS?’
‘I’m not sure I follow . . .’
‘Well, it’s hardly going to be good for business, is it?’
‘So, you think we had Elizabeth Perry killed, is that it?’
Dixon walked behind Dr McConnell, still sitting at her desk, and looked at the painting on the wall behind her. She turned her head to follow him.
‘Now that’s Haytor, isn’t it? On Dartmoor.’
‘Yes.’
‘Right, well, we’ll leave you to it, Dr McConnell, thank you very much for your time.’
‘Is that it?’
‘For now. You’ve been most helpful, thank you again,’ said Dixon, opening her office door. ‘We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.’
‘How did you know that was her car?’
‘I didn’t,’ replied Dixon, starting the old diesel engine. ‘What’s her home address?’
Jane took her notebook out of her handbag and flicked through the pages. ‘Tulkeley Cottage, Englefield Green.’
‘Find it on your phone, will you?’ asked Dixon, turning the pages of his map book. ‘We need to get there before she does.’
He turned out of the car park and headed east on the A329.
‘It’s right on the green,’ said Jane. ‘It’s not far off the A30, you can’t miss it.’
‘Good.’
‘Why don’t we just follow her?’
‘She’ll spot us in this old heap and the chances are we’d lose her anyway. Remember, I needed the helicopter last time.’
‘I’d rather not,’ said Jane, rolling her eyes. ‘We can park in the trees on the far side of the cricket pitch.’
They sped through the village and turned into Cricketers Lane.
‘That’s it there. Bloody hell. I thought cottages were supposed to be small,’ said Jane, turning in her seat and pointing to a large green house set back from the road. ‘The trees are over there.’
Dixon drove to the far end of the green and parked behind a small clump of trees. Despite the winter foliage it would be enough to hide them in the fading light. And he could make out Tulkeley Cottage in the far corner.
‘How d’you know she’s coming home?’ asked Jane.
‘She lied. And she’s sensible enough to know we’ll have spotted it, when she’s had five or ten minutes to reflect on what she said.’
‘Which is what she’s doing now?’
‘I should imagine she’s on her way by now,’ said Dixon, looking at his watch. ‘She’ll need her passport and . . .’
‘There she is,’ said Jane.
‘That was quick.’
‘Why aren’t we . . . ?’
‘We’ll give her a couple of minutes to get comfortable,’ said Dixon. ‘Get her suitcase down off the top of the wardrobe, find her passport.’ He was following the second hand ticking round. ‘That’s long enough.’
He spun the Land Rover around on the edge of the cricket pitch and raced back along Cricketers Lane, screeching to a halt across the drive, blocking in the white BMW. Then he ran up the gravel drive with Jane right behind him. The front door was ajar so he pushed it open and crept into the hall. He noticed a passport on the hall table, next to a brown leather handbag, so he picked it up. Then Jane nu
dged his elbow and pointed up the stairs. A light was on.
Dixon tiptoed up the stairs and peered into the bedroom, through the gap by the hinges. Dr McConnell was bending over a drawer and a suitcase was open on the bed. He turned to Jane and nodded, then he pushed open the door.
‘Last minute packing is a dangerous business,’ said Dixon, holding up the passport. ‘I always forget something.’
Dr McConnell dropped the pile of clothes on the floor.
‘Dr Ann McConnell, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Elizabeth Perry.’
She slumped back onto the bed, put her head in her hands and started to sob.
‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘I didn’t know she was pregnant. I swear I didn’t know she was pregnant.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Where are they taking her?’ asked Jane.
‘Staines. She’ll be transferred down to the custody centre at Express Park tomorrow morning,’ replied Dixon.
They were standing in the living room window of Tulkeley Cottage, watching a police van turning out of the drive.
‘And Dave and Mark?’
‘On the way.’
‘I should bloody well think so,’ said Jane. ‘What about forensics?’
‘They’re here, but they’re wasting their time. What we’re looking for will be on her computer, or in her bank statements. The Surrey lot are at her office now.’
‘I’ve got her phone,’ said Jane, holding up a clear plastic bag with a BlackBerry in it.
‘What about the other one?’
‘What other one?’
‘There were two on her desk.’
‘No sign of it,’ said Jane.
‘Muriel bloody Dummett,’ said Dixon grimacing. ‘Where does she live?’
‘Virginia Water.’
‘Get someone over there now and find out what happened to that phone.’
‘Will do,’ replied Jane. ‘Where are you going?’
‘It’s stopped raining so I’m gonna give Monty a run on the cricket pitch. Then we’ll have a look for her bank statements.’
It was just after 10 p.m. by the time that Dave Harding and Mark Pearce arrived. The search of Dr McConnell’s house had been completed and several boxes of papers had been catalogued and were in the back of a police van on their way to Express Park. Her computer, iPad and mobile phone had already arrived at the High Tech Unit.
‘We’ve finished here, Dave. Best get over to her office and sort that out,’ said Dixon. ‘You know what to look for?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. Stay over and follow her down in the morning. We’re gonna head back.’
‘What’s it all about, Sir?’
‘Money, Mark,’ replied Dixon. ‘Lots of money.’
‘Well done.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
DCI Lewis was waiting for Dixon and Jane on the landing when they arrived at Express Park just after 8 a.m. the following morning.
‘Did she confess?’
‘When I cautioned her she said she didn’t know Elizabeth had been pregnant.’
‘That’s near as damn it then, isn’t it?’
‘We’ll see when I interview her,’ replied Dixon. ‘But I’m not holding my breath. And we’ve got a lot of work to do before then too.’
‘What time did you arrest her?’ asked Lewis.
‘Twenty-five past four.’
‘Let me know if you need an extension.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Louise has been in since five. She’s made a start on the boxes that arrived last night. Room two.’
‘I’ll get some coffee and catch you up,’ said Jane.
‘What’ve you got?’ asked Dixon, opening the door of meeting room two. The empty boxes were lined up along the wall and all of the documents were laid out in piles, covering the table.
‘She’s got three bank and three building society accounts,’ replied Louise. ‘There are statements for them all going back four years or so, but they stop last September. Nothing after that.’
‘I wonder why,’ said Dixon.
‘Maybe she switched to online banking,’ said Louise.
‘Possibly. Or maybe she shredded them?’
Louise nodded.
‘You know what to do?’ asked Dixon.
‘The requests have already gone in, Sir.’
‘Well done.’
‘Dave rang,’ said Jane, from the doorway. She handed a mug of coffee to Dixon. ‘They’re about an hour away.’
‘Good.’
‘And Muriel Dummett’s in custody at Staines. They found the remains of a mobile phone in her wood burner.’
‘What about the SIM card?’
Jane shook her head.
‘Tell ’em to keep hold of her until we’ve interviewed Dr McConnell,’ said Dixon. ‘She may give us enough for a charge of perverting the course of justice to stick.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon spent the next hour thumbing through the bank statements that were neatly laid out on the meeting room table. There were also share certificates, dividend counterfoils, investment statements and a file marked ‘old tax’. None of it particularly enlightening, although it did confirm what he already knew. There was a lot of money to be made out of insulin.
‘Anything from High Tech, Jane?’ Dixon shouted across to the CID area on the other side of the atrium.
‘Just going through her phone numbers now. Nothing else yet.’
Then the lift doors opened and Dave stepped out with Mark right behind him, each carrying two archive boxes.
‘In here with those, Dave,’ said Dixon.
‘She’s downstairs, being processed. Her solicitor’s here too. Followed us down in his car.’
‘It’s amazing what they’ll do for a privately paying client, isn’t it?’
‘What’s in the boxes?’ asked Louise.
‘Company stuff.’
‘Nothing exciting, I don’t think,’ said Mark.
Dixon watched Louise check her phone and then run over to her computer.
‘Just put them on the floor here,’ said Dixon, gesturing to Dave and Mark to put the boxes against the wall behind the door.
When he looked back Louise was standing by a printer, picking sheets of paper off one by one as they came out. Then she ran over.
‘Lloyds Bank. We’ve got five separate one thousand pound cash withdrawals, each a few days apart, starting 6 September,’ she said, handing the copy statements to Dixon. He glanced down at the entries. The last withdrawal had been made on 25 September.
‘Get the serial numbers.’
‘Will do.’
‘And for any others that come in.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Anyone seen DCI Lewis?’ asked Dixon.
‘In the canteen,’ said Jane.
DCI Lewis was reading a newspaper when Dixon sat down opposite him.
‘What’ve you got?’ asked Lewis, lowering the paper.
‘Cash withdrawals. We’re getting the serial numbers now.’
‘And?’
‘We found over twenty grand in Torquay,’ said Dixon. ‘It was pinched by Collyer. I need the serial numbers.’
‘Leave it with me,’ said Lewis, folding up his newspaper.
He had been looking forward to this interview, although it would take him a while to get used to the new room layout. He was sitting next to Dr McConnell, with Hugo Waters, her solicitor, to Dr McConnell’s right. Louise was sitting to Dixon’s left. Very odd. In front of them, against the wall, was a table with the recorder on it.
It began just after 2 p.m. Dixon introduced those present for the tape with Louise, Dr McConnell and Waters each acknowledging their presence in turn. Then he reminded Dr McConnell that she was under caution.
‘Yesterday afternoon
you told me that you didn’t know Elizabeth Perry.’
‘That’s right. I don’t know her.’
‘Then, later in the same conversation, you told me about her symptoms, said she had some underlying condition or allergy.’
‘I was confused. That’s what’s usually behind those sort of complaints.’
‘What sort of complaints?’
‘Side effects.’
Dixon opened a file and took out a piece of paper, placing it on the table in front of Dr McConnell.
‘This is a printout of a newspaper article from the Surrey Comet in February of last year. In it Elizabeth Perry sets out her symptoms. Have you seen this before?’
‘No.’
‘But you gave a comment to the paper and it’s included in the article.’
‘I told you, I give lots of comments to journalists.’
‘And we found it in a lever arch file in your office, marked “Press Cuttings”.’
‘That’s maintained by Sarah, our PR consultant.’
‘And you never look at it?’
‘Rarely.’
‘OK, so, just to recap, you told me that human insulin is cheaper to produce and more expensive for the NHS to buy than animal insulin. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you mean when you said you didn’t know she was pregnant?’
Dr McConnell looked up and stared at Dixon.
‘It never mentioned that in the newspaper reports.’
‘The newspaper reports you’ve not seen before?’
Dr McConnell looked back down at her shoes.
‘And where were you going in such a hurry?’
‘Head office in Gothenburg.’
‘You had no flight booked.’
‘I was going to buy a ticket at the airport.’
‘Of course you were. Odd though. I’d have thought a secretary as efficient as Muriel would’ve had that organised well in advance.’
‘I forgot to tell her.’
‘But you didn’t forget to tell her to destroy your other phone.’
‘I don’t have another phone.’
‘I saw it on your desk and we found the remains of it in her wood burning stove.’
Dr McConnell glanced across at Waters.
‘She’s currently being held at Staines on suspicion of perverting the course of justice,’ continued Dixon.
