‘Hey, Tommy, bugger the Calvert case, what about our case?’
‘Tom?’
‘Right . . . sorry, Nick. Have you got a copy of the Leicester/London matches handy?’
Tughan grunted, scrolled and double clicked. The printer on the far side of the office began to hum. Thorne had actually been hoping that Tughan might have had a hard copy lying about. It would have been quicker to walk across to his own little goldfish bowl and fetch the copy on his desk, but he couldn’t begrudge Tughan his little triumphs of efficiency. He begrudged him virtually everything else, and the feeling was entirely mutual.
Thorne stared at the list. Half a dozen doctors who had been on rotation at Leicester Royal Infirmary at the time of the Midazolam theft and now worked in local hospitals. Anne Coburn’s information about the significance of the date had somewhat dampened any enthusiasm for this line of enquiry, and the discovery of Helen Doyle’s body had rightly demanded everybody’s attention, but Thorne still sensed that it might be important. It was possible to look at the date of the drugs theft as significant in quite the opposite way. Might not the killer (if indeed it was the killer) have chosen that date to make it look as if he might have come from anywhere when in fact he was working at the hospital? Besides, they were still working through the far bigger list of all doctors currently on rotation locally so they’d have to get round to this lot eventually.
Jeremy Bishop’s name was second on the list.
Thorne was aware of what could only be described as a smirk on Holland’s face as they rode the lift down to the car park. ‘Isn’t he Dr Coburn’s friend?’
‘She knows him, yes. And his alibi certainly checks out theoretically, yes.’
Jeremy Bishop had unquestionably been responsible for treating Alison Willetts in A and E.
‘But Alison Willetts was taken to the Royal London for a reason,’ Thorne explained, as if talking to a child. ‘I want to check exactly when Bishop came on duty in relation to when she was brought in.’
The smirk stayed on Holland’s face. He knew all about Thorne’s visit to Queen Square. Was he visiting Alison Willetts or the doctor who was treating her? He was well aware that they could have checked out Bishop with a phone call or, at the very least, sent somebody else.
Thorne felt no compulsion to explain himself to Holland any further. As they stepped out at the ground floor and walked towards the car, he tried to convince himself that Bishop’s friendship with Anne Coburn, about whom he was thinking more than he should, wasn’t the main reason he was keen to eliminate him from the enquiry as quickly as possible.
As he tucked into a late breakfast, he thought about how tired Thorne had looked at eight o’clock that morning arriving at work. He’d watched him from the greasy spoon opposite as the policeman leaned against his car for a moment before plodding towards the door. He hadn’t considered Thorne the plodding type at all. That was why he’d been so delighted when he discovered that he was on the case. That, and the other obvious reason. Thorne, he’d decided, was definitely dogged. And stubborn. These were qualities he required. Plus, of course, the capacity for being too clever for his own good. He certainly needed that. All in all, Thorne was perfect. But it had troubled him to see Thorne looking so worn out. He hoped that the fatigue was just physical and that the detective inspector wasn’t burning out. No, he was justifiably exhausted after the . . . demands of the night before. They’d found her quickly. He was impressed. So Thorne had had a rough night. That made two of them.
One out of five. Down from twenty-five to twenty per cent. He’d known straight away, of course. He’d made the necessary phone call then gone about his business, but it was obvious within a minute or two that she’d let him down. Stupid drunken sow. His heart, which had been pounding with the oncoming rush of the dash to hospital with another one for the machines, had quickly slowed to its habitual steady thump. Her useless, cholesterol-soaked heart couldn’t be bothered to thump at all. What an opportunity he’d given her. But she’d let her sad, silly little life ebb away. Oh, he’d almost certainly have been seen getting rid. They’d have a description of sorts by now. So what? They might even have seen the car. So much the better.
He chewed his toast and stared out of the window at the view across London. The mist was starting to lift. It would be another glorious day. Helen had been just as easy as the others to prepare. Easier. He was getting better at it. There had been those couple of disastrous attempts earlier on, but he was more relaxed about it these days.
Christine and Madeleine had been cautious at first. They were naturally reluctant to let him in but they were lonely women and he was an attractive man. They wanted to talk. And more. And he was very persuasive. Susan and Alison had both invited him in almost instantly and happily drunk themselves into oblivion. Literally. He giggled to himself. The champagne had been an inspired idea. He’d thought about a jab but it would have been messy and he didn’t want any sort of struggle. The wait was a little longer with the champagne, naturally, but he liked watching them go slowly. He savoured the frisson of their impending malleability. The other one – the one whose name he hadn’t had time to find out – had positively guzzled it down. But then he’d had to leave because the timing had not been . . . judicious. Still, he felt sure that she’d said nothing about it. She would have had a hard enough time explaining to her husband or boyfriend or girlfriend why she was so utterly out of it when they got home. She certainly wouldn’t have mentioned inviting a strange man into the house.
It had been such a relief to be able to work on Helen in his own home. He so hated dissembling. He’d hated creeping about in those dreary houses. It had made his flesh crawl to leave the bars of soap and bottles of pills in those dirty, greasy bathrooms. Rolled-up tights and shit stripes in the lavatory bowls. He hated putting his hands on them. On their heads. Even through the gloves he could feel the dirt and grease in their hair. He could swear he almost felt things . . . moving. But now he could work in clean, comfortable surroundings. Now he knew that they knew that he knew that . . .
He whistled his own invented melody to accompany this comforting refrain as he tried his best to stay awake. Thorne wasn’t the only one feeling the strain. He needed more coffee. For a moment he closed his eyes and thought about Alison. She hadn’t let him down. She’d wanted to live. He thought about going to visit her again, but it was perhaps a little risky. Security in ITUs was fairly tight, these days. The flood had been an inspired idea but could only be a one-off. He began to drift away. Yes, he’d need to think of something else if he wanted to go and see Alison again without getting caught.
Without bumping into Anne Coburn.
‘Are you in any pain, Alison?’ Doctors Anne Coburn and Steve Clark watched the pallid, peaceful face intently. There was no response. Anne tried again. ‘Blink once for yes, Alison.’ After a moment there was the tiniest movement – the ghost of a twitch around Alison’s left eye. Anne looked across at the occupational therapist who scribbled notes on his clipboard. He nodded at her. She carried on. ‘Yes, you are in pain? Was that a yes, Alison?’ Nothing. ‘Alison?’ Steve Clark put his pen away. Alison’s left eyelid fluttered three times in rapid succession. ‘OK, Alison.’
‘Maybe she’s just tired, Anne. I’m sure you’re right. It’s just a question of her gaining sufficient control.’
Anne Coburn had a lot of time for Steve Clark. He was a brilliant therapist and a nice man, but he lied very badly. He wasn’t at all convinced. But she was. ‘I feel like somebody who’s called out the TV repairman and then there’s nothing the matter, only the other way round . . . oh shit, you know what I mean, Steve.’
‘I just think that maybe you’re rushing things a bit.’
‘I’m following well-established guidelines, Steve. The ECG shows normal brain activity.’
‘Nobody’s arguing with that but it doesn’t mean she’s got the ab
ility to communicate. I agree that there is movement but I’ve seen nothing to convince me that it isn’t involuntary.’
‘This isn’t just me, Steve. You can talk to the nursing staff. I’m sure she’s ready to communicate.’
‘She might be ready—’
‘And she’s able. I’ve seen it. She indicated to me that she was in pain, that she was tired. She . . . greets me, Steve.’
Clark opened the door. He was eager to be on his way. ‘Maybe she’s not comfortable with the pressure of . . . performing.’
Later, when she felt calmer, Anne would realise that he’d been trying to be genuinely sympathetic. At that moment she was angry and frustrated, for herself and for Alison. ‘She isn’t a performer and these are not cheap theatrics . . .’
But that’s exactly what it felt like.
As Holland steered the unmarked Rover into a quiet tree-lined street in Battersea, he took a deceptively vicious speed bump just fast enough to take several layers off the underside of the car and to awaken his boss somewhat rudely.
‘Jesus, Holland . . .’
‘Sorry sir . . .’
‘I know it’s only a company car, but for Christ’s sake!’
The sunshine was dazzling and Thorne felt every one of the twenty-eight hours since he’d last slept. Holland actually held the car door open for him! Thorne felt that it wasn’t so much in deference to his rank as a subtle reminder that the fifteen years he had on the younger man were starting to show.
Jeremy Bishop lived in an elegant three-storey house with a small but well-maintained front garden. Probably four bedrooms. Probably tastefully decorated Thorne guessed, and crammed with what the slimier estate agents, if you could quantify slime, would refer to as ‘periods’. Probably worth a piffling half a million. All this, and a nice Volvo parked outside. Clearly Bishop was not struggling.
Holland rang the bell. Thorne looked up at the windows. The curtains were still drawn. After a minute or two the door was opened, Holland made the introductions and he and Thorne were ushered into the house by a sleepy-looking Jeremy Bishop.
While Holland stood efficiently with his notebook at the ready, Thorne slumped into a chair, gratefully accepted a cup of coffee and racked his brain as to why Jeremy Bishop looked so familiar. He was, Thorne guessed, in his mid- to late-forties and, despite the stubble and redness round the eyes, looked ten years younger. He was tall, six two or three, and he reminded Thorne of Dr Richard Kimble, the character played by Harrison Ford in The Fugitive. There was plenty of grey in the short hair, but along with the wire-rimmed glasses, it served only to make him look ‘distinguished’. This irritated Thorne enormously: his own grey hair simply made him look ‘old’. Bugger probably didn’t even have grey pubes. Bishop would, without question, be a regular performer in student nurse fantasies – ‘Oh, Doctor! Here in the sluice room!?’ He thought about Anne Coburn. He tried not to think about her stripping in the sluice room. Weren’t doctors ugly any more? He remembered the rancid old GP he’d been dragged to see regularly as a boy: a hideous crone with a man’s haircut and moustache, who smelt of cheese and always had a Craven A dangling from the corner of her mouth as she mumbled in an incomprehensible eastern-European accent. No such worries with Jeremy Bishop. His modulated tones would have calmed a thrashing epileptic in an instant.
‘I presume this is about Alison Willetts,’ he said.
Holland looked at Thorne, who sipped his coffee. Let the constable handle it.
‘And why would you presume that, sir?’
Thorne stared at Holland through the steam from his coffee-cup. Nice start: sarcasm, superiority and a hint of aggression. Make your subject feel at ease.
Bishop wasn’t fazed at all. ‘Alison Willetts was attacked and seriously injured. I treated her, and they don’t send detective inspectors round when you haven’t paid your parking fines.’ He smiled at Holland who could do little else but move on to item two in the do-it-yourself guide to interviews.
‘We are investigating a very serious crime, which—’
‘Has he done it again?’
Thorne almost spilt his coffee as he sat bolt upright in his chair. Holland looked across at him, thoroughly nonplussed. Bishop’s amusement at the look on Holland’s face was not lost on Thorne. He guessed that Bishop had seen that look many times as a junior doctor found themselves suddenly out of their depth and sought reassurance, or preferably hands-on assistance, from a senior colleague. Thorne decided that the hands-on approach was best. ‘Done what again, sir?’
‘Look, I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to know about the other victims. As far as I’m concerned it’s simply a question of putting my patient’s condition in context. I was informed that there had been other attacks. Anne Coburn and I are very old friends, Inspector, as I’m sure you’re well aware.’
Thorne was very well aware that, despite Frank Keable’s best intentions, the lid was not going to stay on this case for very long. Not that he ever really thought of cases as having lids . . . saucepans had lids . . . cases had . . . what? . . . locks? . . . well, only open and shut ones. Mind you, was there any point in a case that didn’t open and shut. God he was tired . . .
‘I’m sorry if we got you out of bed, sir.’
Bishop spread his arms across the back of the sofa. ‘Oh, well, I obviously look as rough as you, Inspector.’ Thorne raised an eyebrow. ‘I spend a lot of time with people who don’t get much sleep for one reason or another. The eyes give it away instantly. I’ve been on call all night. What’s your excuse?’ His laugh was somewhere between a chuckle and a snort.
Thorne laughed back at him through a good impression of a yawn. ‘Yep . . . busy night. What about you, sir?’
Bishop stared at him. ‘Oh . . . no, not really. Went in to treat an overdose at about three o’clock and got home about five thirty. But even when you’re not called in, it’s hard to relax when you’re bleeper-watching. Thank God for cable TV.’
‘Anything good on?’
‘I’m a confirmed channel-hopper, I’m afraid. A lot of old sitcoms, the odd black-and-white film and a fair bit of smut.’ He looked up and grinned in disbelief at Holland. ‘Are you actually writing all that down, Constable?’
Thorne had been asking himself the same question. ‘Only the bit about smut. Detective Constable Holland’s life lacks excitement.’ Thorne was astonished to see Holland actually blush.
Bishop stood up and stretched. ‘I’m going to get another coffee. Anybody else?’
Thorne followed him into the kitchen and they chatted over the growing grumble of the kettle.
‘So what time did you go in the night you treated Alison Willetts?’
‘I was bleeped at about three o’clock, I think. One sugar, wasn’t it?’ Thorne nodded and waited for Bishop to continue. ‘The patient was found outside by a service entrance . . . I’m sure you know all this . . . and brought straight into A and E.’
‘Did you call in when you were bleeped?’
‘No need. It was a message saying red trauma. You just go. Sometimes you might get an extension number to ring, or sometimes it’s just a message to phone in, but with a trauma call you just get in the car.’
‘And when Alison Willetts was brought in, you were the first person to treat her?’
‘That’s correct. I checked her pupils – they were reacting. I bagged and masked her, intubated her, Midazolam to sedate her, ordered a CT of her head and an ECG, and handed it over to the junior anaesthetist.’ Bishop took a sip of his coffee. ‘Sorry, I must sound like an episode of Casualty.’
Thorne smiled. ‘More like ER. On Casualty it’s usually a cup of sweet tea and a couple of aspirin.’
Bishop laughed. ‘Absolutely right. And the nursing staff aren’t quite so attractive.’
‘So if you were bleeped at three o’clock you go
t there, what, about half past?’
‘Something like that, I suppose.’
‘And Alison, the patient, was brought in about quarter to four?’ Bishop sipped and nodded. ‘So why were you bleeped in the first place?’
‘I really couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid. It isn’t unusual – sometimes you can spend ages trying to find out why you’ve been called in. I’ve been bleeped before when I shouldn’t have been. As for that particular night, I’ve never really thought about it. I mean, if I’d known exactly what had happened – or, rather, what we’d later discover – I might have a better grasp of the sequence of events that night. It was just a routine emergency at the time. Sorry.’
Thorne put down his coffee-cup. ‘Not to worry, sir. I’m sure we can find out.’
Bishop smiled as he picked up Thorne’s cup, poured the unfinished coffee into the sink and opened the door of the dishwasher. ‘Why I might have been bleeped four Tuesdays ago? Good luck, Inspector.’
As the car moved slowly through the traffic on Albert Bridge, Holland chose not to ask his superior officer a number of questions. Why did we bother driving all that way? Do you think Jeremy Bishop is giving Anne Coburn one? Why do you take the piss out of me all the time? Why do you think you’re so much better than everybody else?
He looked across at Thorne, who was slumped in the passenger seat with his eyes shut. He was wide awake.
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