Primal Cut

by Ed O'Connor

  ‘J__16__’

  If, he reasoned, the car was new in September 1969, he would be able to identify the last letter. He had searched carefully on the Internet and eventually discovered that the year suffix for new cars registered between August 1969 and July 1970 had been ‘H’.

  ‘J__16_H’

  The next step would be to identify the two missing letters. An hour of research produced good news and bad news. The second and third letters on the suffix-style plates denoted the original registration office. That was the good news. The bad news was that Underwood had no idea where the original registration office was. If he did, he would have had an almost complete registration number. He had called DVLA in Swansea early the following morning and had them fax over a list of registration office identity codes from the 1960s.

  He then remembered that the car was a Ford Cortina. In the 1960s, the Ford production plant in Dagenham was at the peak of its output. That increased the likelihood that the car was originally registered in London.

  To his dismay, he discovered that there were eight codes listed for the North London registration office near Stanmore. It seemed hopeless. Or did it? A single double letter combination was obscured on the plate as was a single number. If the combination was one of the London prefix codes, then there could only be a limited number of possibilities.

  He had tried an example. Say Gary Dexter’s car had originally been registered in London with the identity prefix ‘LK’. That would give Dexter’s plate as:

  ‘JLK 16_H’

  That would mean that the final plate could only be one of nine possible combinations. If there were eight North London prefix codes and nine numerical suffixes that meant that there were only seventy-two potential registrations for Gary Dexter’s car. Underwood had written them all out painstakingly on a piece of A4 paper then sent his finding by fax to a contact at the DVLA offices in Swansea. A fax came back the following afternoon. The key section was the second paragraph:

  ‘A Ford Cortina was registered on 16th September 1969 to Gary Dexter of 44a Churchill Terrace, Dagenham, London. Records show that Mr Dexter sold this car to a Mr Niraj Patel of Flat 19, Twyford House, Seven Sisters Road, Tottenham on 3rd January 1974. Subsequent to this, there is no evidence of any cars registered to Mr G Dexter of 44a Churchill Terrace, Dagenham. It should be noted that registration was computerised in the 1980s and many earlier records were either not transposed or lost.’

  He had made a start. He had found an address to work with in addition to a name.

  His next move had been to contact the Public Records Office and the Inland Revenue. If Gary Dexter had died, a death certificate would have been filed at the PRO. Alternatively, if he was still alive, he was almost certainly either paying taxes or receiving a pension. Underwood was confident that Inland Revenue records might provide him with a new opening.

  He had been half-correct. After an irritating week of silence, the Inland Revenue Service had contacted Underwood and informed him that they did have a record of a Gary Dexter at the said address, then at two subsequent London addresses. They also provided information on two companies that Gary Dexter worked for: Ford Motors at Dagenham and then at a garage called ‘Jowseys’ in Wanstead, London. Unfortunately for Underwood, they had no record of Gary Dexter since November 1994 when he had left Jowseys and a rented address in Wanstead. Since then, there had been no tax or National Insurance payments in his name. Gary Dexter had either vanished or died. However, there was no death certificate filed at the PRO.

  Underwood now had an address in Wanstead to look into: 9 Grove Gardens, Gosling Road. However, the last record of Gary Dexter at that address was eight years out of date. On a Tuesday, using up a day of his annual leave, Underwood had driven down to Wanstead himself.

  Grove Gardens was a small cul-de-sac. The houses were tiny bungalows. Some had football-related graffiti on the walls. Underwood knocked on the door of number nine to find that the house was now occupied by an old lady called Maud. She had never heard of Gary Dexter. Disappointed, Underwood tried a similar approach with the other houses in Grove Gardens. Those people who answered their doors were similarly unhelpful. Returning to his car, Underwood had felt a terrible sense of frustration.

  He sat behind the wheel of his car and stared out into the grey skies above East London. He was over eight years behind Gary Dexter. For some reason, the man had disappeared off the face of the earth in 1994. How could that have happened? Underwood wondered. If he were dead then a certificate would have been filed somewhere. If he had been imprisoned, then Gary Dexter would have appeared on the Police National Computer check that he had authorised.

  Irritated and on the verge of giving up hope, Underwood had eventually headed to the London Borough of Redbridge Library in Sprat Hall Road, Wanstead.

  Underwood flashed his police identification card on arrival and requested back copies of the local newspapers: the Ilford Leader and the Wanstead and Woodford Guardian. The librarian, Elizabeth, had shown him to an archive room where back copies of the paper were kept on microfilm.

  ‘The Wanstead Guardian has its own website,’ she had told him. ‘But they don’t keep papers from before 2001 online.’

  And so, Underwood settled himself down for an afternoon’s research. He found the microfilm viewer a cumbersome, annoying piece of equipment. He started with a September 1994 edition of the Ilford Leader and began to wind his way through local history. Hours slid away.

  The silence of the library began to chew at his conscience. What would Alison think if she knew what he was doing? Underwood could not imagine that she would be pleased. The reality was that his motives were muddled and contradictory. He was becoming an increasingly peripheral shape in the crystalline lattice of logic that was Alison Dexter’s mind. She was a conundrum to him: a seemingly straightforward person whose abilities constantly surprised and humbled him. Was this the riddle at the heart of Alison Dexter – the memory of a man who had deserted her?

  The complete quiet of the room was terrifying. Underwood knew that silence was dangerous to him. Stripping away the white noise in his mind left him only with the sound of his own emptiness. Underwood was trying to fill that emptiness now.

  He wondered desperately at his madness.

  Time was passing. Underwood found himself staring at a microfilm copy of the Ilford Leader from November 1994. A headline looked back at him through the viewer.

  ‘MAN DIES IN HORROR CRASH’

  Underwood wiped his eyes and tried to concentrate. His breakdown a couple of years previously had left his ability to focus in tatters.

  Concentrate.

  ‘MAN DIES IN HORROR CRASH’

  A man from Walthamstow died in a tragic car accident on Lea Bridge road. Another local man was seriously injured. Oliver Donovan’s Vauxhall Nova hit a lamppost on Lea Bridge Road at about 10.30 p.m. on Friday night.

  His passenger, Mr Gary Dexter, 58, of Grove Gardens, Wanstead, had to be cut from the wreckage by the rescue services. He was taken to Whipps Cross Hospital and is said to be in a stable but critical condition.

  The causes of the accident have not yet been established. The Lea Bridge road is a notorious accident black spot. There is no suggestion that the driver had been drinking. Police are appealing for witnesses to this incident.

  Sweat ran into Underwood’s eyes. There it was. Gary Dexter had been in a car accident in November 1994. He had survived at least in the short term. There would be records of his treatment at Whipps Cross Hospital. Underwood was unsure of the legal position with regard to accessing patient medical records. He suspected that he would need a court order.

  Underwood found a telephone number for the switchboard at Whipps Cross Hospital, Leytonstone. He called on his mobile. After a long delay while he was connected with the relevant department, Underwood was finally put through to Susan Bruce, the Medical Records Manager. He requested a meeting and, after much persuasion, she eventually agreed to see him at five-thirty that afternoon.<
br />
  Susan Bruce’s office was much tidier than Underwood had expected. He had imagined a frantic chaos of paperwork and aggression. Her manner on the phone had been curt to say the least: very much the no nonsense young NHS executive. As it happened, the office was extremely well appointed with a brand new flat screen computer, a stylish posture chair and some tasteful prints of King’s College Cambridge on the wall.

  After a minute of exchanging pleasantries, Underwood decided that, under different circumstances, he might rather like Susan Bruce. She was assertive, obviously intelligent and frank. Qualities he admired.

  And lacked.

  ‘I have an unusual request,’ Underwood said as she sat down behind her desk.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘At New Bolden CID we are currently conducting a murder investigation. Time is a factor. A name has cropped up. Someone we are trying to locate was treated here for serious injuries in November 1994 after a car accident. I need to see his medical record.’

  Susan Bruce shook her head. ‘That’s not possible. The police have no automatic right of access to clinical information.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that might be the case.’

  ‘This trust has a duty to protect the confidentiality of its patients. I’m sure you understand that.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Do you have a subpoena?’

  ‘No, I don’t. The person in question is not a suspect. We merely wish to question him.’

  ‘Why do you need to see his medical records then?’

  ‘I was hoping to find his current whereabouts.’

  ‘Mr Underwood, you can’t just charge in here and demand to see private clinical records. There are procedures. The police may only compel an NHS Trust to hand over such records after the receipt of a court order.’

  ‘Is it possible to make an exception?’ Underwood pleaded.

  ‘No. Exceptional disclosures can only be made to a court on receipt of a subpoena or to a coroner on receipt of a written request.’

  ‘If I had a fax from a coroner requesting information from a patient’s clinical records, could you provide it to me?’

  ‘No. I could provide it to the coroner in question.’ Susan Bruce seemed to be running out of patience with Underwood.

  ‘Is there somewhere I could make a phone call in private?’ Underwood asked.

  ‘Try the office next door. Mr Underwood, I’m very busy…’

  ‘I understand. Give me two minutes.’

  Underwood walked into the adjacent office and closed the connecting door. He found Roger Leach’s phone number on his mobile and called.

  ‘Leach.’

  ‘Roger, it’s John Underwood.’

  ‘Why are you whispering? I can hardly hear you old chap,’ Leach said.

  ‘What’s the name of your mate at the district coroner’s office?’

  ‘Chris Ball.’

  ‘Can you call him and ask him to fax a request for clinical record information to Whipps Cross Hospital in London?’

  ‘Why, may I ask?’

  ‘I need access to someone’s medical records. It’s for a case. The Medical Records Officer at Whipps Cross won’t let me.’

  ‘Quite right too. You should know better.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask unless it was urgent. All I need is an address.’

  ‘I dare say.’

  ‘Come on Roger,’ Underwood urged. ‘The woman here says she can release the information if she gets a fax from a coroner’s office.’

  ‘Yes, but she’ll only tell the coroner, not you.’

  ‘I thought you could find out from him and tell me.’

  ‘God help us,’ Leach exhaled loudly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  Underwood waited impatiently. His mobile rang five minutes later. It was Leach.

  ‘OK. He’ll do it. Give me the patient’s name and the fax number of the hospital.’

  ‘The name is Gary Dexter. He was admitted in November 1994 after a serious road crash.’

  ‘Dexter? Is he a relation of our esteemed leader?’

  ‘No,’ Underwood lied, ‘it’s a common name.’ He walked back into Susan Bruce’s office and asked her for her fax number.

  The fax from the Cambridge District Coroner’s Office came through fifteen minutes later. Susan Bruce entered Gary Dexter’s name into her computer and printed his details.

  ‘You realise that I can’t give you this information, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It goes directly back on the fax to the coroner.’

  ‘I appreciate everything you’ve done,’ Underwood gabbled back at her. ‘You have been a huge help to our enquiry.’

  Back inside his car a few minutes later, Underwood awaited the call from Leach. It came shortly before 6.45 p.m.

  ‘OK John, do you have a pen and paper?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Gary Dexter, formerly of 9 Grove Gardens, Wanstead. Admitted 9th November 1994 after road traffic accident. Discharged six months later to Beech View Care Centre, Wilding Road, Leytonstone, London. That’s all there is.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Roger. I owe you one.’

  ‘You owe me several. Don’t put me in a position like that again. Procedures exist for good reasons, John: to protect patients and to protect you. You could have got us all in serious trouble pissing about like that.’

  Underwood clicked off his phone and drove the short distance through rush hour traffic to Leytonstone.

  The Beech View Care Centre was located in a quiet residential street. Underwood parked on the road outside. A nurse sat at the reception desk in the entrance hall of the old building. She smiled.

  ‘Can I help?’ she asked.

  ‘Hello. I’m John Underwood. I’m a police officer.’ He showed her his identification card which she checked carefully. ‘I have an enquiry about someone who was a patient here about eight years ago. Can I speak to whoever’s in charge?’

  ‘The consultant won’t be back until the morning. What was the name of the patient?’

  ‘Gary Dexter.’

  ‘Oh. Mr Dexter is in room seven on the first floor.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Gary Dexter is in room seven on the first floor.’

  ‘He’s still here?’ Underwood was stunned.

  ‘He doesn’t have any choice, Inspector,’ the nurse continued. ‘I’m Hannah. Would you like me to take you up?’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s been paralysed since the accident.’

  ‘For eight years?’

  ‘Forever, I’m afraid. His neck was broken. I’ve been here for two years. You’re the first person that’s visited him. He’s got no living family apparently.’

  Hannah stepped out from behind the reception desk.

  ‘I’ll take you up.’

  Six months on from that day of uncomfortable revelations in East London, as rain spilled across his car windscreen and the grey sprawl of the North Sea stretched ahead of him, Underwood wondered if he could find the strength to carry on.

  47.

  Henry Braun left the Admiral pub at 11.30 p.m. The pub was located at the centre of a large sprawl of council housing south-west of Peterborough town centre. A young couple were having sex against the wall of the pub. Normally, Braun would have lit a cigarette and watched. However, tonight he was in no mood for jollities. Rain spread across the road in front of him. Braun folded up the collar of his jacket as he began to walk home. His thoughts – only partially stewed by export lager – focused on his brother. Nicholas had been given a sentence of twelve years. Already, his brother looked like a man broken by prison life. Henry Braun’s anger was mitigated only by the realisation that he had only narrowly escaped prosecution himself.

  He had visited Nicholas that afternoon in Bunden Prison, a dismal, grey sprawl in the Fens north of Cambridge. Nicholas had cried behind the glass that divided them. The sight had shocked
him. His brother was broken. Twelve years seemed like a lifetime.

  He tried not to let the memory upset him. Henry knew he had a job to do. He had moved into Nicholas Braun’s house in Gorton Row, Peterborough a couple of days previously. Ostensibly, this was to keep a close watch on Nicholas’s wife, Janice. He had already screwed her once that afternoon. As she had sat eating crisps in front of a chat show, he had dragged her onto the floor and pumped her next to the electric fire. Janice hadn’t taken her eyes off the television once. It had just made him pump harder. Henry didn’t feel any guilt. Nicholas had asked him to make sure that his wife was being taken care of. Henry knew it was always best to keep it in the family.

  As he turned into Gorton Row, Henry Braun became aware that a man was following him. Unafraid, grasping the kitchen knife that he always carried in his jacket pocket, he turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer.

  ‘Is there a problem mate?’ Henry snarled at the huge shape of Bartholomew Garrod.

  ‘Are you Henry Braun?’ came the reply.

  ‘What if I am?’ Henry took a half step back: the size of the man before him was instantly sobering.

  ‘I have a business proposition for you,’ Garrod replied.

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ Henry said sarcastically, ‘but seeing as I don’t know you, seeing as you do business by following people about in the dark, you’ll forgive me if I tell you to sod off.’

  ‘I saw your brother on television,’ Garrod said. ‘He was treated badly I hear.’

  ‘What is this?’ Braun snapped angrily, ‘are you a copper? Because if you are, you can tell DI bleeding Dexter that her time will come soon enough.’

  Garrod’s smile appeared under the yellow fuzz of a streetlight. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to talk with you about.’