by ML Rose
Sandra said, "Drink some tea, darling. Have some food."
Rochelle remained silent. Sandra reached forward and held her daughter's hand.
"Don't give up hope, Rochelle. Things will change."
Slowly, Rochelle turned her head to stare at Sandra. Her lips were cracked, and her voice was a whisper. "No, it won't." She turned her head back to the window.
"It will. I promise you. One day you will look back and wonder what all the fuss was about."
Rochelle squeezed her eyes shut stop she was getting a headache. Sandra's words were like cannonballs, exploding against her skull.
"Please leave me alone mother. Please."
CHAPTER 15
Five years ago
Sandra Pitt hovered anxiously inside the labour ward waiting room. It was four in the afternoon, and Rochelle had been in labour for the last 10 hours.
Sandra had been unable to sleep since she heard the news. At 7 AM she had driven into the private hospital, whose antenatal suite was more like a hotel. Nice apartments were available to rent for the families of expectant mothers.
Sandra had checked herself in, and had set up her temporary office there. Sandra was the Undersecretary to the Home Secretary, and she was a member of the parliamentary intelligence select committee. She had to be at work. With her laptop, headphones and fax machine she had joined the meeting remotely and was taking calls till she got an update from the gynaecologist.
Rochelle was dilating, and the birth could be imminent. Terence was at Rochelle's bedside. Sandra had also requested to be present, but Rochelle had refused. Sandra didn't argue. The last thing she wanted was to cause her daughter stress. This was Rochelle's seventh pregnancy. Finally, she had carried a baby through to term.
Sandra had been praying, like the rest of her extended family, at the local Anglican Church in Sloane Square. Every Sunday for the last nine months she had been there, and she wasn't a religious person normally. Sure, she went to church on Sundays occasionally. But for most of this year, she had become more devout. It seemed as if her prayers were now being answered.
Her mobile phone rang with a shrill buzz and she had to answer. It was her secretary. She had the Home Secretary on the line. Sandra spoke to him, and her head jerked in the direction of the landline phone that also rang. She excused herself and picked up the landline, it was the gynaecologist. Sandra spoke to the doctor quickly, then ran out of the apartment, and took the elevator down to the main hospital building.
The gynaecologist was waiting for her. As they strode down the hallway towards the Labour suit, he explained the situation.
Inside the labour ward, the gynaecologist left Sandra in the waiting room. Sandra bit her nails, drummed her fingers. She clasped her hands together, and bowed her head, muttering a prayer she had learned in childhood.
It was odd, she thought, how people thought of God when they had no control over a situation. At the Foreign and Commonwealth office, she had faced multiple crises. God had never come into the equation. The use of diplomacy, and occasionally military force, had solved all problems. But now, she had no one to ask for help. Tears prickled the back of her eyes as she prayed. All she wanted was for Rochelle to be okay, and same for the baby. It happened naturally to billions of women all over the world. Was it too much to ask for?
The door flung open and the gynaecologist poked his head in. His face was ruddy, sweat glistening on his forehead.
"Come on" he panted. "It's all done."
Sandra rushed out, running to keep pace with the gynaecologist. His sleeves were rolled up, showing his hairy forearms. His tie was tucked inside his shirt. He opened the door of the room and ushered Sandra inside. The air inside was stuffy, suffused with the smell of afterbirth.
Rochelle lay on the bed, her head rolling to one side, face smothered in sweat. She was exhausted, but her eyes were fixed at the incubator opposite her, where the baby was being checked over by a neonatal paediatrician. Terence was next to the baby's cot, staring at it with a mixture of pride and admiration. He glanced up as Sandra walked in.
"It's a boy!"
Tears budded in Sandra's eyes. She rushed to her daughter's side, and touched her forehead to Rochelle's. Her tears mingled with her daughters sweat, and she felt Rochelle's hand come up to grip her own.
"I told you," Sandra whispered in a voice cracked with emotion. "I told you it was going to be okay."
CHAPTER 16
Harry was driving the black CID BMW. The 3 litre, 16 valve engine purred smoothly, as Harry found an open stretch of road. They were driving past the edges of Clapham common, it's dense greenery a contrast to the handsome bricks and mortar Victorian mansions lining the road, mixed in with boutique shops and restaurants.
"Back to the nick?" Harry asked. Arla shook her head. She was deep in thought, and she often felt most relaxed when Harry was driving her around. The summer breeze played with her hair, bringing with it the smell of sunshine and damp earth, coalescing with the usual diesel smoke.
"No. Did Rob go with Mrs Farquharson to get a list of the patients?"
"Yes."
"Let's have a look at his private clinic. Then I want to check out Chelsea Cross Hospital, where Stephen was an honorary consultant."
"His website says he was a full-time consultant there for the last 20 years. After his retirement, he stayed on as an honorary."
She smiled at him approvingly, then lifted a hand, and stroked his high cheekbone. He took one hand off the steering wheel and held her hand, then kissed it, and rubbed it gently on his chin.
"Well done for checking his website. Any other information?"
"He graduated from Cambridge University's Addenbrooke's Hospital in 1982. Started working in London, 1986. He’s written a couple of gynaecology textbooks, and published lots of papers. Wasn't an academic though, mostly in clinical practice. But he was well regarded, in both academia and clinical practice. That's what his website says, anyway."
"I'm sure that's true, because he still had a flourishing private practice. I wonder how many patients he saw at Prince Edward hospital. Worth giving them a call?"
"Let's call the Chelsea Cross Hospital first. He was there for 20 years."
Arla picked up the phone from the dashboard and rang the south-west London Metropolitan force command switchboard. She gave her name and title. When she was put through to the hospital switchboard, she asked to speak to the consultant gynaecologist on call. The consultant was surprised to be speaking to a detective inspector, and was incredulous when she learned the reason why. Her name was Maureen Lawson.
"Dead? Did you say Stephen was dead?" Miss Lawson exclaimed.
"I'm afraid so." Arla didn't elaborate much further, but she made an appointment to see Miss Lawson in the afternoon. Miss Lawson promised she would tell everyone, and get as many of the hospital staff ready for statements.
Harry drove into a tree-lined, wide avenue that was only a stone’s throw away from Clapham High Street, but it ran along the westerly side of the common. The lucky houses looked onto the green expanses, and the white church in the distance, today shining in the sunlight. Harry stretched out his hand through the open window. "That's the address of his private clinic."
They got out of the car. A warm, rushing breeze was bending the full branches of the large oak and birch trees above. The breeze murmured in Arla's ears, bringing promises of sunshine and laughter. She wanted to be in the park with Nicole. She missed her daughter, and the usual guilt returned.
Arla checked her watch. It was almost 3 PM. It would be close to 6 by the time she got back home. Harry had walked up ahead. Arla sent a quick text to Rita asking about Nicole. Rita answered back almost immediately, with a couple of photos of Nicole eating her lunch, then watching TV. Arla smiled, then put the phone back in her pocket.
Harry walked to the end of the road and then turned right to walk down to the rear of the building. He pointed to the cameras focused on the rear parking lot. The boundary walls were h
igh, almost a metre above Harry's head. Harry could potentially climb that wall, but with some help.
"We need the CCTV feeds of those cameras. Rob is going to ask Mrs Farquharson, correct?"
"No, that's the caretakers job. He acts as security as well, and Mrs Farquharson will give Rob his details. There’s CCTV at the front entrance as well, with the doorbell."
Arla stopped at the gates of the rear parking lot. The gate had tall spikes at the top, and she could see through the gaps. Two cars were parked there, and she wondered if the caretaker was present. She spoke to Harry, and they walked back to the front and pressed the doorbell. After a while, a middle-aged Afro-Caribbean man opened the door. He looked at Arla's warrant card and nodded. His face was sombre.
"My name is Marlon Samuels. I’m the caretaker. I heard. One of your detective sergeants called. But if you're here, I can show you the CCTV feeds right now."
"Thank you, that would be great."
Arla followed Harry as they stepped into the lobby.
Photos of the doctors who did clinics here were stuck on the wall. Arla read the names of GPs, cardiologists, dermatologists and Dr Vaughan. He seemed to be the only gynaecologist practising from the premises. She wondered if a nurse worked with him. It would be unusual for a male doctor to be conducting intimate examinations without a female chaperone. However, maybe his private patients didn't want a nurse to be present. Arla decided to ask Marlon. The man spoke over his back as he walked down the corridor.
"No. His secretary was here, if he needed a chaperone. He didn't carry out any procedures here, apart from doing ultrasound scans, and examinations. He didn't need a helper for that."
Marlon showed them into a room which had a number of TV screens above a big table. He sat down, offering Harry and Arla chairs. Both of them decided to stand. Marlon clicked on the keyboard and the screens flickered to life.
"Can we please see last night’s footage," Arla asked.
The black-and-white grainy images appeared one by one on four TV screens at their eye level. The timestamp said 6:30 PM. Marlon hit play and the video rolled. He fast forwarded it till they saw the cars. A number of cars drove in through the gates which opened automatically. Marlon pointed at a black Maserati Coupe. "That's Dr Vaughan's car."
The car entered the gates at 6:45 PM. Arla saw Dr Vaughan get out of the car. She asked Marlon to freeze the frame. She leaned in for a closer look. Dr Vaughan was a good-looking man. Despite being in his 60s he was trim, and in good shape.
He was almost bald, and a light beard on his face. His eyes were large, and the jawline strong. Marlon rolled the film again, and fast forwarded it till darkness fell, and the lights glowed. Unfortunately, most of the parking lot was now in darkness, apart from the three halogen bulbs which were motion sensitive.
"I've not looked through these yet myself," Marlon said.
"Please slow them down," Harry instructed. “We need to make sure we’re not missing anything. He pulled up a chair for Arla, who accepted it with a murmur of thanks. Then Harry sat down himself, and put his elbow on the table.
For the next half an hour they went through the feed painstakingly. A couple of cars left, and soon it was only the Maserati left, apart from Marlon’s own car, and Mrs Farquharson's Ford Escort.
Arla rubbed her eyes and focused on the screen. She asked Marlon to fast forward to the closing time. Her patience was rewarded when the lights suddenly came on at 945.
"There," she exclaimed, pointing at the screen to her right, in front of Harry's face. All three heads swivelled in that direction. A black shape appeared over the parapet of the boundary wall. It was a man's head, and they watched the figure, dressed in all black, jump nimbly over the wall. He pulled his rope down and crouched behind a car. Marlon switched to another camera, and they had a view from the rear angle. The man could clearly be seen crouched behind Dr Vaughan's car.
"Can you zoom in?" Harry asked. Marlon shook his head.
"Not very well, but I can try." He zoomed in, but the image became pixelated quickly. He adjusted the camera till they had a view of the man's face. There wasn't a great deal to see. He wore a black mask that covered his face and a hood over his head. Only his dark eyes were visible, and they gave nothing away. He was wearing gloves, and no part of his body was visible, Arla realised with disappointment.
They watched as Mrs Farquharson drove off. Dr Vaughan appeared, and got into his car. The man got in from the other side, and they could make out a struggle taking place inside the car. Then Dr Vaughan's car reversed and drove out of the parking lot.
Arla knew there was no CCTV outside. Once again, they would be reliant on the cameras on the main road. At least, they could track Dr Vaughan's car, but it would take some effort. She rubbed her hands in anticipation, this was a real breakthrough.
"Good work, Marlon. Can we please have the tapes? Anything else you can remember, please get in touch."
CHAPTER 17
Chelsea Cross Hospital was on the bank of the River Thames. It used to be a First World War army barracks, complete with its own hospital and gymnasium. The entire compound had been converted into an NHS hospital, after the National Health Service came into being in 1947.
Unlike many NHS hospitals, the centuries old building had been lovingly maintained. The brown brickwork appeared polished next to the white eaves and the long white frames of the Georgian floor to ceiling windows. The green lawns at the front had been recently trimmed, and the hedges looked pristine.
Sunlight glistened on the main clock tower, which had a white dome. The entire structure seemed like a page out of history, and for a while Arla had trouble of conceiving it as a hospital. She gazed at the view with Harry, as she spoke rapidly on the phone. They had parked opposite, and could see a steady stream of cars, people going in and out of the broad main gates, which had security.
"Check the CCTV on the A3. Chances are, we have the killer on tape already. Send the tapes to the media lab, and see what they can do. I want a search of the Clapham common area around the private chambers. First thing tomorrow morning, get three uniformed units out there." Arla finished giving directions to Rob, and hung up.
"Nice place this," Harry said. "The Royal family are treated in the private wing of Chelsea Cross Hospital."
Arla had read that in the papers as well. "Got your tie on, Harry? I hope it's not one of the cheap ones.”
She batted her eyelids at the shocked expression on his face. Harry took more time to get dressed than a prima donna.
Arla flipped open her pocket mirror and dabbed on a touch of lipstick. Her hair was in a ponytail, unimaginative as usual. But she wasn't here to look good. It helped actually, if the men she interviewed didn't focus on her looks.
And yet, some of Harry's narcissism must be rubbing off on her. As a DCI, she had to look the part as well. Men who were senior police officers wore nice suits, why shouldn't she? She stuffed her handbag in the glove compartment and got out.
Her black work suit was a few years old now, and she needed a new one. Harry got a new suit every year. She didn't like to admit it made him look handsome, because the praise would go straight to Harry's head. If his ego inflated any more, the man would actually float away like a balloon.
"You look nice," Harry remarked.
She rolled her eyes at him, then grinned. "Thanks Harry. Come on."
They left the car at the roadside, with the police sign clearly displayed. They showed their warrant cards at the gates and security called Dr Lawson. They were advised where to go, and follow the signs to the obstetrics and gynaecology unit, which had a separate building to itself.
There were shown into a reception room by a secretary. Apart from them, the room was empty. Magazines on pregnancy and assisted fertility were stacked on a tabletop. Arla was flicking through the pages of one when the door opened and a woman stepped in. She was attractive, in her forties, with dark hair sprayed and dried, curling at the shoulders. She wore a navy-blue skirt suit, an
d matching shoes.
She stared at Arla with interest, then her eyes flicked towards Harry, who stood. Her attention remained on Harry for longer than Arla cared for. She strode forward briskly, extending her hand.
"DCI Baker. You must be Maureen Lawson. We spoke earlier."
They shook hands, and Arla introduced Harry. They followed Miss Lawson out into the corridor. They walked through a hallway with windows on both sides which made the place light and airy. Ms Lawson went inside an office and held the door open from them. It was clearly her office, and her name was on the certificates hung on the walls.
The desktop was littered with papers, medical magazines and a laptop. Ms Lawson hastily gathered the papers to one side, organising the tabletop. Then she sat down on a high-backed chair and gazed at Arla. Her cheeks were red, and her lips quivered.
"Is it true? Stephen is actually dead?"
Arla nodded, and gave her some information. The shock on Ms Lawson's face was genuine. Either that, or she was putting on a performance worthy of an Oscar.
"But I saw him two days ago! He seemed like his usual self."
"At what time did you see him?"
"On Tuesday mornings he does a day case list. Which means operations with a general anaesthetic, but patients can go home the same day."
"He did this every month, is that correct?" Arla remembered what Mrs Farquharson had said.
"Yes, that's true. I do a list as well, in the next operating theatre. That's why we met in the surgical theatres common room. We had a coffee and chatted."
Harry asked, "Did you know him well?"
Ms Lawson shrugged. "He's been here for donkeys’ years. He was part of the regional interview committee that selected me for this job. We got on well."
Arla asked, "Did he have any professional rivalry with anyone here?"
Ms Lawson frowned, and tucked her bottom lip below the upper one. Arla caught the hesitation. Ms Lawson was considering telling her the truth. She decided to prod gently.
