“But?”
She looked from Waters to Smith, and then she shrugged.
Smith said, “Dr Tremewan, are you saying that something reminded you of the earlier death?”
“‘Reminded’ is too strong – it was almost subconscious. I’d only been here a matter of days before the first one, and afterwards I’d wondered if I should have done it differently. So the second time, I did.”
Smith nodded, considering his next question, but she spoke again before he could formulate it.
“And I do have to be aware of my position in cases like this, I know that.”
“What position is that?”
She looked suddenly very knowing, as if Smith had tried to catch her out in a lie.
“I’m not naïve enough to think that you won’t have looked me up, Sergeant. I don’t make any secret of the fact that I am an active member of CLARIFY.”
“Fair enough. As you’ve brought it up, could you explain to us how that has a bearing on the matter in hand?”
She certainly could. All its members were medical professionals, including a number of eminent consultants – she made that point more than once. Whilst some in the NHS were content with the vagueness of the law when it comes to the questions of assisted dying and assisted suicide, leaving it to the CPS to decide case by case whether a professional had stepped over a virtually invisible line, others were determined to have new laws that brought all the decision-making processes into the open. Dr Tremewan had joined as a student – her experiences since had only strengthened her belief in the cause.
At the end of it, Smith simply nodded and said, “Mrs Riley didn’t ask you to assist her in committing suicide, did she?”
“No.”
“And you never discussed the matter with her? You never mentioned CLARIFY or its aims?”
“Of course not.”
“Thank you. I never thought for a moment that you would have done so. I just have one other question, if you don’t mind?”
“Go on.”
“That first case at Rosemary House, a lady found in her bed. Do you happen to recall the name?”
The GP swivelled round in her chair to a second computer on the shelf behind her. The screen flickered into life and she began clicking through menus. Smith looked at Waters, held up one hand and then crossed the index and middle fingers.
“Here it is. Do you want me to print anything out?”
“No, not for now. Just the name will do.”
“Right. Her name was Elspeth Grey.”
As they passed the duty desk, Charlie called him over.
“Your phone off?”
Smith took out his mobile and found that this time it really was on silent. He had no idea how.
“What’s up, Charlie?”
“Ring her ladyship as soon as…”
He did, from the situation room. There had been a development with Mrs Bradley, who would be in the building any moment now. Smith gave a low whistle and said, “You’re bringing her in? What’s she said?”
“Nothing yet but I rang her and she asked to see me, virtually straight away. Something’s been on her mind since we were there this morning, I’d say.”
“Coming on her own, I hope.”
“Yes. This is how I want to play it, DC. As soon as she gets in I’ll ask her if she thinks she is going to say anything that could lead to charges for anyone. If it’s a yes, I’ll want you up here, a recording, the works. If it’s a no, and if I’m sure of that, I’ll talk to her informally and brief you afterwards. Whatever – stay in the building, OK?”
Amazing how a bit of practical could bring a decent copper back to life after all the management nonsense; it made him remember some of the reasons why he had climbed back down the ladder himself. Reeve was positively excited.
Waters was impressed by how Smith had used the web to get the background on Dr Tremewan and CLARIFY. When Smith confessed that he had never heard of said organization, Waters was even more impressed by the deception, and then Smith corrected him.
“No, that’s the point – I didn’t deceive her, did I? She made assumptions and then she deceived herself. As I’ve said before, people will often tell you more if you don’t ask them too many questions. And let them make assumptions about what we know; all but the real villains will assume that we know more than we do, and they give themselves away. My old PE teacher used to say ‘To assume makes an ass of you and me’. Mr Gudgeon, that was. First time he said it, I didn’t get it, not till hours later in Geography or something – the ‘u’ and the ‘me’. It still makes me smile. Coppers should have it tattooed on their left buttock.”
Waters took an image of Dr Tremewan from the surgery’s website and pinned it up on the board. It was Smith’s idea. The boards looked a bit sparse, and adding a few more pictures and lines might make it look as if they had been busy and were getting somewhere.
Waters said, “You don’t think she’s involved, do you?”
“Tell me what you think.”
He took his time.
“I didn’t get anything that made me suspicious. But I had a thought about that glass. If she had been involved, being seen handing it to a policeman was a good move. Prints, DNA, nothing would count then in court, would it?”
“No, you’re right. Anything else?”
“Well, there are precedents – Shipman? But then, why not just sign the certificate?”
“And why draw our attention to another death if she is an apprentice of Dr Harold? Why use heroin when she has access to other goodies? Unless that was a clever attempt to throw us off. And we only have her word for it that she never saw Joan alone. Is that worth checking out?”
They sat and stared at the board for half a minute before Smith continued.
“No… But she has to be up there, just in case. Can you imagine the fuss if we’re wrong and it turned out we knew all about CLARIFY? Write a bit about that up there, in the name of CMB.”
“CMB?”
“Cover my backside.”
“And mine?”
“I’d rather not think about that, thanks.”
He picked up another marker pen and joined Waters at the boards – they had two in operation now, so it was starting to look more convincing. Between the names of Irene Miller and Rita Sanchez, Maggie had drawn a line with a question mark at its centre; Smith rubbed out the question mark, joined the line together and wrote ‘Relationship’ above it. Not that it mattered – he was increasingly certain the answers to the puzzle lay in a quite different direction. Maggie? He had tried to call her mobile on the Sunday and there had been no answer, no message back, and it had gone out of his mind entirely today. No sign of John either… And then the realization that it must be something serious.
“But what we do need to think about is the name the good doctor gave us. Elspeth Grey – lovely name. Coincidence? The first death she dealt at the home was the first in this little group of friends, this tight little gang of grannies and grandpas, and it’s been niggling away at her ever since. Heart trouble, she said. Let’s have another look at Ms Grey’s files. Give me the general one and you take the medical.”
As he read, more carefully than the last time he looked at this, Smith’s mind was also simultaneously aware of other aspects of the case – no call from Alison Reeve must mean that the conversation with Sarah Bradley had taken an informal direction, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t important. Something told him that it was, just as something was now telling him that focusing back on the deceased Ms Grey, the lady with the lovely name who ran her own jewellery business, was the right way to go. Instinct, intuition or just long experience?
“Here we go, DC. There’s a bit of technical stuff about her heart problems. She had an examination at the General about two months before she died. Worsening condition, and they increased her medication. Notes about side effects.”
Smith considered it.
“So both old ladies had worsening medical complaints, serious
things, kidneys, hearts. But at their ages it’s what you’d expect, isn’t it? We probably couldn’t find two residents in there who didn’t have something similar.”
Waters continued leafing through the file until he reached the end. Then he held it up, open and towards Smith.
“Didn’t you say Joan Riley had one of these?”
“Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s a DNR notice.”
“Yes she did, then. Get the other three medical files, chuck one of them to me.”
Nancy Bishop and Martin Collins had similar notices.
“We didn’t spot that, even though I specifically asked Irene Miller how frequent they are. Bloody idiot – me, not Ms Miller.”
Waters didn’t look impressed.
“So? Are these unusual? I don’t see why.”
“Ms Miller reckoned only about ten per cent of her clientele would have these. She has about fifty residents – that makes five, by my reckoning. And we have four of them on this table.”
It was after five o’clock when Alison Reeve entered the incident room. She sat down with Smith, who waved Waters into the conversation; he explained that in the absence of the other two, Waters would need to take Maggie’s place.
Reeve said, “We should know something shortly – John’s in the building, he’s coming up to see me. Anyway, Mrs Bradley. Any guesses?”
“Well, as I’m still sitting here, I’m assuming” - with a glance at Waters - “that she has not confessed to everything. I’m also assuming that she knows something that she didn’t want to say in front of her husband.”
Not bad, said Reeve. Sarah Bradley had admitted that on the morning of the 6th of December when they had visited Joan, the old lady had not been herself for the whole of the visit. When the time came to say goodbye, at about half past twelve, her mother had taken her hand and held it for some time – a display of affection that was almost out of character. And she had said thank you several times in a way that had left an impression on her daughter for the rest of the day. Just ‘thank you’ even though nothing out of the ordinary had been done for her that day. To Waters it seemed rather slight but he could see that it interested Smith.
Reeve paused and then said, “There’s more. Two weeks before that visit, Mrs Riley had asked her daughter for a sum of money, cash for herself, not simply a top-up for her account. Sarah Bradley said that she couldn’t because of the home’s policy but her mother insisted and became upset about it.”
Smith said, “Mr Bradley not present?”
“No. He didn’t go every Saturday. Sarah gave her mother the money the following Saturday, a week before she died.”
“How much?”
“One hundred pounds in twenties.”
“Did she ask what her mother wanted it for?”
“Yes. All she said was ‘It’s not for me’. But having the money seemed to make her mother very happy. Sarah is now in a bit of a state – you can imagine what she’s thinking.”
Smith nodded and said, “She might be right. A hundred would do it unless I’m completely out of touch on street prices. But ‘It’s not for me’ is an odd thing to say, in the circumstances. All in a statement?”
“Signed and dated.”
“Great work, boss. There’s a place for you on my team whenever you want it.”
He was on the point of telling her about the discovery of the advance directives when the door opened and John Murray’s large frame filled the entrance to the room. He didn’t say anything but that in itself was not unusual – Smith tried to read the expression but it was an unfamiliar one.
Reeve said, “John, come in. How’s Maggie?”
He closed the door, walked towards the table where they were all seated but did not sit himself. With a closer view of it, Smith concluded that the expression on Murray’s face was actually bewilderment. Eventually, the new arrival answered the question.
“Well, she…had a lot of tests. They kept fetching different doctors but then yesterday afternoon they told us. They told us that she’s pregnant.”
Reeve was up with her arms around him immediately, while Smith stood and waited, watching the face, trying to guess if things were OK, whatever that meant in such circumstances. They seemed to be - John was smiling at Alison’s excitement, and he began to describe how odd Maggie had been feeling, how worried they had become, how the weekend had been an eternity.
Smith said, ‘I tried to ring but no-one answered.”
“Sorry, DC. It all got too much. We turned the phones off. And sorry about today. We had to go back for more tests because, well, she’s no spring chicken and-” – Reeve said ‘John!’ – “she’ll have to be careful. But they said she’s OK. They’re both OK.”
And when he said ‘both’ the flood-bank almost gave way.
Reeve said, “How far is she, John? I can’t believe it!”
“They reckon almost three months. I can’t believe it either. I mean, we’d sort of decided, and… I don’t know how it happened, really.”
Smith looked around at Waters and Reeve before turning back to John Murray.
“Well, John, for future reference, if you’ve got a piece of paper, I can draw you a picture…”
Chapter Thirteen
Kipras Kazlauskas was reading the New Scientist magazine. It was not yet nine in the morning but already he had studied articles about the interface between nature conservation in East Africa and satellite monitoring technology, and the biotechnology community growing up around Cambridge, which was not so very far away. Now he was engrossed in the item that had really caught his imagination when he saw the cover of the magazine on the table in the social area of Rosemary House – the future of transplant research. Always this had fascinated him; it had been one of his dreams when he first went to the medical school, a dream that had lasted just a few months. Even so, there was nothing to stop him reading and wondering about what might have been, what might yet still be. Who can tell?
He was not so foolish as to have asked Mrs Reed for the magazine but Ms Miller had said yes, he could take any that were of no interest to the residents – after all, they were donations in the first place and cost the home nothing. He turned the page and continued reading slowly and carefully. He might have done this – first the specialization in surgery, then extra work in the biochemistry of rejection. The article was technical in parts but he felt himself able to follow it still.
There was rarely a knock at his door, and at first he assumed that it must be at one of the other two bedsits on his landing. When it came again, louder and more persistent, he got up, folded the magazine so that he did not lose his place and went to the door. He could hear voices now, two men’s voices as he opened it.
“Mr Kipras Kazlauskas?”
The man who spoke was about his own age, tall and fair-haired, wearing a zipper jacket and casual trousers but behind him stood a large, stern-faced policeman in uniform. Kipras looked from one to the other and nodded.
“I am Detective Constable Waters, and this is Sergeant Hills. We’re both from Lake Central police station. Can we come in, sir? We’d like a word.”
The room was tidy; even the work-surface in the tiny kitchen was spotless. Waters thought ruefully about the flats he had shared in his student days, and then he turned back to the young Lithuanian man.
“I believe that you have already spoken to my colleague, Detective Sergeant Smith, Mr Kazlauskas.”
“Yes. At Rosemary House. What is the trouble?”
“No trouble, sir, but we’d like to ask you a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”
“It is OK. What do you wish to ask me?”
“We’d rather you came down to the station this time, Mr Kazlauskas.”
The sergeant’s gaze had been travelling slowly around the room – now it came to rest on the young foreigner’s face. The door to the bedsit was still ajar and Kipras looked in that direction involuntarily; it was a mistake, of course, and he knew that the u
niformed man was ready to bar his way if he moved towards it.
“You are arresting me?”
“Absolutely not, sir. But we would like to speak to you at the station.”
“I have work soon.”
“Yes, your shift begins at twelve o’clock today. If we can get on with things, I’m sure that we can give you a lift so that you aren’t late.”
Charlie Hills nodded, never taking his eyes from those of Kazlauskas – DC had asked him to accompany Waters on his first fetch and the boy was doing well, not threatening but quietly insistent.
Kipras picked up the magazine, closed it and placed it neatly on his table.
“You don’t mind if I call you Kip, do you?”
“It is OK.”
“Only I’ve been talking to some of the residents and that’s what they call you, isn’t it? You’ve got a bit of a fan club. You know who I mean – Nancy and Martin and Ralph. And I think that Elspeth and Joan were founder members too, before they passed away. I don’t think they want to be on first-name terms with all the carers, to be honest, but you’re the exception, Kip. It’s a bit of a compliment to you.”
The young man shrugged and raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t touched the mug of tea in front of him, and neither had Waters but Smith had drunk his and could do with another one. He fancied a cigarette, too, always did during interviews, especially when they got interesting; in the past you could play all sorts of psychological games with boxes of cigarettes, boxes of matches and lighters but now it was viewed as a health risk – heaven help us.
“Anyway, Kip, I haven’t turned this recorder on. This isn’t a formal interview but you are welcome to have a legal representative here, either your own or one that we’ll find for you. Got all that?”
Still just the nod and the wary look – there was nothing on his record but he seemed distinctly nervous.
“OK. We brought you here because we need to ask you some more questions about the night that Mrs Riley died. Remember what you told us before? You were second into the room after Kayleigh Greene. Then Ms Miller asked you to lock the door. She told you to stay outside the room, to keep the door locked until someone else came up to sort things out. You were present when the policeman and Ms Miller came up, and you saw the doctor arrive. I’m sure that you can remember all that clearly. Have I missed anything out?”
But For The Grace: A DC Smith Investigation Page 15
