by LJ Ross
She nodded through the glass.
“Underneath the bravado, you can bet he’s scared. He’s shitting himself that he’ll find himself arrested and chucked behind bars, where everyone in this building will look at him like he’s something on the sole of their shoe. You can use that,” she said. “If he finds himself banged up, he’ll be surrounded by people his mother helped put away. They won’t give him an easy time. You might want to paint a picture of what it’s like to be a guest at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”
Lowerson nodded, lapping up the advice.
“He isn’t here because he wants to be,” MacKenzie continued. “But there’ll be part of him that knows he’s doing the right thing.”
“Could be, he’s mixed up in something big,” Lowerson put in. “Things might have got a bit out of control and he’s frightened that, if he blabs, he’ll be punished.”
“Yeah, there’s that too. What’re you going to do about it?”
“Convince him otherwise.”
MacKenzie smiled and shook her thumb towards the door.
“See? You’re all over this. Go get ’em, tiger.”
* * *
Beneath a layer of fake tan and a liberal coating of aftershave, Will Cooper was just a boy dressed up in his dad’s suit. That was MacKenzie’s impression as they entered the interview room and seated themselves at the small table, and she thought briefly of how Sharon would have felt to see her son in such a setting.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
“Detective Constable Jack Lowerson and Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie entering Interview Room C at”—Lowerson checked the time for the recording—“seven minutes past nine a.m. on Wednesday, 9th July 2014. Others present are William Cooper and his solicitor, Janet Smeaton. If you could please state your names for the record.”
He waited while they did so, recited the standard caution and then shuffled his papers to find the list of questions he wanted to cover.
He couldn’t find it.
MacKenzie’s face betrayed nothing at all as she continued to watch Cooper, thinking that Lowerson’s tactic of drawing things out seemed to be working because the man’s forehead was already showing signs of a light sweat.
“Uh, thank you for coming in voluntarily, Mr Cooper,” Lowerson began, a bit awkwardly.
“My client would like it noted for the record that he is here of his own volition to assist the police with their enquiries into the death of his mother, a decorated Chief Inspector—”
“We all knew Sharon,” MacKenzie interrupted, in a low tone. “We knew what a wonderful person she was. That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it, Will?”
He shifted uncomfortably beneath her penetrating green gaze.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Good, I’m glad we’re all on the same page,” Lowerson said. “Mr Cooper, I’d like to start by asking you about your relationship with your mum.”
Cooper shrugged.
“Same as most sons and mothers, I would guess. She nagged me, and I sometimes listened, sometimes didn’t.”
He smirked, clearly pleased with the answer he’d given.
“Same here,” Lowerson said, easily enough. “You must have been devastated when you heard the news of her death?”
“I thought it was a joke, at first. I thought it was somebody prank-calling me from the office. I didn’t believe it was true.”
His smile slipped, and he looked at his own reflection in the glass behind Lowerson’s head.
“Why did you tell DCI Ryan during a conversation on Monday 7th July and with your grandmother, Eileen Spruce, present, that you hadn’t seen your mother in a couple of weeks?”
The solicitor opened her mouth to say something about his overwhelming grief, but Cooper overrode it.
“I already told you and the sergeant—Phillips. I was embarrassed because we’d argued the night before she died, and I thought it looked bad. I panicked, okay?”
“Do you also remember telling us that you’d argued over the fact your mother refused to provide a false statement to your supervisor at the Dental Hospital, regarding your current suspension for alleged drugs offences?”
The solicitor leaned in to whisper something in Cooper’s ear.
“We argued about my suspension, but I would like it noted for the record that the investigation has not proven any of those alleged misdemeanours and no report has been made to the police.”
“Is that because your mum took care of it?” Lowerson shot back.
Cooper’s face reddened but he said nothing.
“Should charges be brought, the court may be entitled to draw adverse inferences regarding your refusal to answer these questions,” MacKenzie said.
Cooper looked sharply at his solicitor, who could do little to argue with the truth of it.
“Are you intending to bring charges against my client?” she asked. “If so, this interview will terminate.”
“That all depends on Will,” Lowerson said, reverting to first name terms. “Y’ know, Will, most people who peddle drugs don’t think about where those drugs end up. They just think about the cash in hand and what it can buy them. That’s a nice suit, by the way,” he threw in, and watched the solicitor rear up again.
“Are you suggesting that my client has used proceeds of crime to purchase his suit?”
“Did I give that impression? My apologies,” Lowerson said. “I thought I was complimenting his tailoring.”
“Let me sketch a hypothetical scenario for you, Will,” MacKenzie said, leaning forward. “In this scenario, we have a high-achieving young man who’s studying…let’s say veterinary science.”
Cooper rolled his eyes.
“At the university, he meets somebody—maybe more than one person—who tells him he can afford a few of the finer things in life if he nicks some drugs from the pharmacy or carries them from one place to the next. You know, like pass the parcel,” she drawled.
Cooper shifted in his seat again and they could smell his body odour wafting across the table.
“The thing is, this bloke didn’t know what he was really getting himself into.” Lowerson picked up the storyline like a pro. “When he wants to stop, he starts getting threats and maybe somebody roughs him up a bit on his way home or”—and this came to Lowerson in a sudden burst of inspiration—“or maybe, they threaten to hurt his mum.”
Cooper raised his eyes and they were dark pools of misery.
“That’s it, isn’t it, Will?” MacKenzie said gently. “Did they threaten your mum?”
“He said he’d kill her and make it look accidental,” he whispered and then, to their collective dismay, burst into tears. “It’s my fault she’s dead.”
The room was filled with the sound of his heart-rending sobs as he rested his head on his arms and let out all the grief and worry, all the lonely hours he’d spent contemplating ending it all.
“I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
Lowerson began to record the time and put a stop to the interview but MacKenzie stayed him with a subtle hand on his arm.
“Will, your mum’s death isn’t looking like a revenge kill,” she told him. “Whatever might have been threatened, whatever you think might have happened, might not be the case. We won’t know for sure until you give us some names and some dates.”
He swiped the sleeve of his jacket across his face, smearing mucus across his cheek.
“Put an end to this interview immediately, or I’ll advise my client to make a formal complaint of police harassment,” the solicitor stormed.
“Is that what you want, Will?” MacKenzie asked, very softly.
Two, maybe three seconds passed by before he drew himself up again and shook his head.
“I’m ready to talk.”
CHAPTER 25
After Will Cooper had purged himself, Ryan and Phillips went in search of the Head of Emergency Medicine. According to Cooper, he had never stolen any drugs, but he had ferried them from one pla
ce to the next. One time, he’d seen a man he recognised making the drop-off and that man was one of the pharmacists at the RVI hospital, located a stone’s throw from the Dental Hospital. If pharmaceutical products were going missing regularly, the hospital must be aware of it.
Furthermore, Sebastien Draycott was on the hospital committee, next in command after the Medical Director who was—maddeningly—still out of the country. If anyone was aware of a discrepancy in their logs, it ought to be Draycott. The fact that he hadn’t mentioned it when questioned was a black mark against him from the outset.
There was a slight chill in the air by the time they reached Draycott’s home on one of the city’s smartest roads. It was a towering feat of Art Deco architecture that spoke of wealth and taste, as well as extreme order. The gardens were exquisitely manicured, and a snazzy little Aston Martin was parked behind the tall security gates, polished to a high sheen.
“This is it,” Ryan said, executing a nifty parallel park on the kerb outside so that his car was sandwiched between two souped-up Range Rovers.
“It suits him,” Phillips remarked, and thought that he much preferred his little three-bed semi. “Looks like the doctor’s in residence, too.”
“Ah, but he’s a surgeon. We mustn’t forget that, must we?”
Phillips snorted.
“How d’ you want to play it?”
Ryan locked the car and looked up at the house.
“He gets one chance to come clean,” he said. “After that, it’s open season.”
Phillips rubbed his hands together, in anticipation.
“Ma—”
He was cut off by the sound of Ryan’s phone ringing.
“No caller ID,” Ryan said, then answered. “Hello?”
“H-hello? Is that Detective Chief Inspector Ryan?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“This is Eileen. Eileen Spruce, Sharon’s mum.”
Ryan held back a sigh, thinking that there was no time to spend consoling grieving relatives, much as he might want to.
“Hello, Mrs Spruce,” he said. “How can I help?”
“Yes, well, that is—I don’t know if it’s important or not. Only, I’ve found something that Sharon left at my house,” she said.
“What’s that, Mrs Spruce?”
“Well, Sharon had dinner at my house a few days before… It was the Friday night before she died.” He heard her take a deep breath as she tried to collect herself and remained silent while she waged her battle. “While she was here, she told me she was a bit worried about Will. To tell you the truth, Chief Inspector, he hasn’t been himself lately. He used to be such a kind boy,” she said.
“Did Sharon say why she was worried?” he pressed.
“She only said he’d got himself into a bit of trouble at the university. I assumed he’d cheated on one of his exams or something like that,” she said. “He hasn’t told me and, to be honest, I’m frightened to ask.”
Ryan shifted the phone to his other ear and thought that this was nothing they hadn’t already learned.
“I’m sure Will can get himself back on track,” he said, lamely.
“Yes, I hope so,” she said. “But that’s not really what I was ringing about. I’m sorry, I seem to have gone off on a tangent.”
“Take your time,” he said.
“Thank you,” she sniffled, and blew her nose loudly down the line. “It’s about the file.”
Ryan exchanged a look with Phillips and signalled for a notepad and pen.
“What file?”
“Well, it’s just that Sharon left a notebook and one of her files at my house. I mentioned it to her at the weekend and she said she’d come by and collect it but, of course…she never did.”
“Did you find something in the notebook that worried you, Mrs Spruce?”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” she said quickly. “I suppose it was just something Sharon had left behind, and it reminded me of her. I haven’t been able to go back to her home; the forensic people are still working there.”
“I understand, Mrs Spruce, don’t worry. As soon as they’ve finished, I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you. Well, I just thought I’d better let you know. It might be important, although I didn’t recognise any of the names.”
Ryan felt his heart begin to thud.
“What names were they, Mrs Spruce?”
“It was about somebody called Sebastien Draycott,” she said. “It looked like letters between a patient’s family and the hospital, agreeing to pay £250,000 if they dropped their complaint against him.”
Ryan closed his eyes and felt something click into place.
“What was the complaint about, Mrs Spruce?”
“Well, I didn’t like to read everything, you know. But I had a little look,” she confessed. “They thought it was his fault their dad had died. They said he seemed to be under the influence when they saw him after the surgery.”
Ryan made a scribbled note for Phillips’ benefit that simply read: ‘DRAYCOTT—DRUGS/ALCOHOL?’
She paused.
“Did I do the right thing, telling you?”
Ryan looked up at Draycott’s front door and smiled.
“Oh, yes, you did the right thing, Eileen. We’ll stop by and collect the file in about an hour, if that’s okay?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you,” she murmured.
“Take care, Mrs Spruce.”
Ryan slipped his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and nodded towards the surgeon’s security gates.
“Come on, Frank. Let’s go and surprise Mr Draycott.”
* * *
Draycott took his time answering the intercom but eventually the iron gates scraped open, dragging against the paved driveway as they went.
“Chief Inspector. I don’t expect to have my home and private life invaded at all hours of the day,” he said, at the front door. “I am happy to assist with your enquiries, but you might at least have made an appointment before turning up on my doorstep.”
And put you on notice? Ryan thought. Hardly.
“Sincere apologies,” he said, with what he hoped was the right amount of humility. “May we come in?”
Draycott threw his hand up to indicate that they should enter but did not invite them into one of the reception rooms.
It made no difference: Ryan took in the minimalist décor, the framed pictures of Michelangelo’s anatomical drawings, and the polished marble floor in a single glance.
He came straight to the point.
“Mr Draycott, am I correct in understanding that, aside from the Director, you have general oversight of not only the Emergency Medicine Department but the wider hospital thanks to your position on the management committee?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“I see. Therefore, you are aware of any and all complaints or internal investigations concerning the hospital pharmacy?”
Draycott’s eyes turned cool.
“Yes, I am. May I ask where these questions are going?”
“Certainly. I’m trying to understand why you didn’t see fit to tell us about the high level of drug theft the hospital is experiencing at the moment, including large quantities of sedatives, adrenaline and various other drugs with a morphine base.”
Draycott affected an air of surprise.
“Every hospital suffers a level of theft, as I’m sure you’re aware. It’s a sad fact of life but hardly worth mentioning and nothing to do with your investigation, in any event.”
Ryan was incredulous.
“I’ll be the judge of what is relevant to our investigation. Only yesterday, you were asked whether, to the best of your knowledge, there had been any recent theft of drugs from the Emergency Department or from the hospital pharmacy. You said there hadn’t. Would you like to amend your statement now, under caution?”
Draycott’s hands were beginning to shake and he clasped them behind his back, where they wouldn’t be seen.
“To my
knowledge, it’s not an unusual level of pilferage,” he blustered.
“If you fail to cooperate with us, we can do this another way,” Ryan said. “We can arrest the hospital pharmacists and compel disclosure of your records.”
“Aye, and you know what it can be like down at CID,” Phillips put in. “More leaks than a drippy tap. Wouldn’t be surprised if the papers got wind of all those drugs being stolen, and when they find out about how the killer’s victims were all drugged up before they died…well, that won’t go down well, will it? Can’t imagine what the hospital trust would have to say about it.”
“Or the General Medical Council,” Ryan added, ominously.
Draycott looked between them, trying to work out whether it was a bluff.
“Then, there’s the small matter of that complaint, Mr Draycott.” Ryan piled it on thick and watched his face drain of colour.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You should try telling the truth,” Ryan said, conversationally. “You might find it refreshing. However, let me jog your memory. I’m talking about the large pay-out made by the hospital recently in exchange for a family dropping their complaint against you, on grounds of negligence.”
Draycott relaxed again.
“Grieving families often make complaints,” he said, with a bored shrug. “They’re always looking for somebody to blame, to divert their anger onto something tangible rather than accepting that it was just their time.”
“That’s true enough,” Ryan agreed. “But the hospital seldom dishes out a quarter of a million just to make them feel better. That’d be a road to bankruptcy. No, Sebastien, I’m talking about the complaint made recently, the one where it’s alleged you were operating under the influence of drugs or alcohol.”
Draycott let out a nervous laugh and ran a trembling hand through his hair.
“I—I—”
“Is that why you won’t turn over your records, Mr Draycott? Is it because you’re part of the reason drugs are being skimmed off the top?”
The surgeon turned red and then white again. Unforgiving light filtered through the window and showed up every hollow on his face, every line around his mouth. Here, in his own home, Draycott was just another man and wielded no special power.
