The Truth About Murder

by Chris Collett

  ‘Do you believe they were serious enough to tip her over the edge?’

  ‘I think all they prove is that someone had it in for Mum at the hospital and was trying to force her out. See for yourself. Take it,’ she added, as I fumbled to try and take it out of the envelope. ‘You can let me have it back whenever. What I really can’t understand is how Mum had got herself into such a mess. She wouldn’t deliberately harm those children. But it’s made me think. We never talked much about Martin, but when we did, I always got the impression that Mum felt, awful as it was, that it was for the best. It’s made me wonder if she was trying to save other parents the trauma of having to make the same appalling decision that she and Dad were forced to make.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, it looks as if your mum had gone back to the church for help, too,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t think she’d got as far as recovering her faith, but she had been going to see the local priest in the evenings. Clearly there were things bothering her.’

  ‘Something else I didn’t know,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘God, I wish she’d been straight with me . . . and you. Anyway, none of it really matters now, does it? Did you get to speak to Delores?’ she asked, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘She’s in Jamaica,’ I reminded her.

  She handed me a slip of paper with a phone number on it.

  ‘She came back two days ago.’

  * * *

  When I returned to the office at lunchtime, I had to let myself in. Everyone else appeared to be using their midday break to catch up on errands. I slumped down at my desk and picked up the envelope Andrea had given me. Grappling with it, I managed to slide out the concertina of paperwork.

  The covering letter was addressed to Rita and dated three weeks ago, though the postmark indicated that it had been franked only a few days previously. From the Royal College of Nursing, it confirmed that Rita was suspended from her job as a senior paediatric nurse, with full pay, pending a disciplinary hearing to investigate several alleged counts of misconduct. These were detailed in bullet points on a separate sheet and appeared to have varying degrees of seriousness: two counts of administering the incorrect dosage of medication to a patient, two counts (presumably relating to the first) of doctoring records to indicate that the correct dosage of medication had been given, and one count each of behaving in an unprofessional manner and compromising patient confidentiality.

  At first glance this was pretty straightforward. Either Rita had or hadn’t done what was alleged. The only charge that could be subject to interpretation was ‘behaving in an unprofessional manner’, and it was likely that there would be guidelines to clarify that one.

  I was studying it when Plum returned from lunch.

  ‘How did it go this morning?’ she asked.

  ‘Death by misadventure. And listening to the evidence, the coroner didn’t have much choice.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘Not really, but it’s better than a definite verdict of suicide.’

  Plum spotted the address on the envelope. ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘The reasons Rita was suspended from her job.’ I didn’t see what harm it could do, so I passed it to her to read herself.

  ‘Not good, is it?’ said Plum, after a few minutes’ silence.

  ‘It’s not,’ I agreed. ‘My first thought was that Andrea might be right. None of that adds up with what we know about Rita’s professional commitment.’

  ‘She’s biased, though,’ Plum pointed out.

  ‘True. But all those thank you cards we saw at her house can’t be exceptions.’

  ‘Ellen Campbell said that Rita was “brilliant at her job”, too.’

  ‘These allegations don’t make sense, unless, for some reason, Rita’s mind wasn’t really on her job. I mean, this first thing — giving the wrong dose of medication — could have just been a mistake, a lapse of concentration, the sort of thing you might do if your mind is elsewhere. But to do it twice, and to each time cover her tracks?’

  ‘What do you think was the distraction?’

  I sighed. ‘We’re not likely to find out now, are we?’

  ‘So that’s it then,’ said Plum. ‘Case closed.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  It wasn’t until I was driving into work on Tuesday morning that it came to me. I’d knelt next to Denny in much the same way as Keeley Moynihan must have knelt beside Stefan Greaves. I remembered the sticky mess I’d assumed to be dog crap that had turned out to be Denny’s blood. If Greaves had, as I thought, been peed on, then Keeley might have knelt or stood in something too, something that could give us a DNA profile. Denny would probably have noticed it, but of course he’d have said nothing as part of the big cover-up. I still had Keeley’s card in my pocket, so pulled over where I was and gave her a call. It took a while for her to answer and when she did, she sounded groggy. But she agreed to see me.

  She lived in a modern flat in a good part of town. I hadn’t expected that she’d be able to see me during the day. The company on her business card sounded like a lawyer’s and I’d surmised that work was what had brought her and Stefan Greaves together. But maybe it was her day off or, given how rough she sounded, maybe she was off sick. The ring on the doorbell didn’t produce an encouraging response and I was getting my phone out when the door opened. She looked different from the last time we’d met, less polished. The vague expression and messy hair suggested I’d got her out of bed. She squinted at me, trying to work out who I was.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ The recognition wasn’t entirely convincing, but it was enough for her to allow me in. ‘I need coffee,’ she said. She led the way down a stripped pine hallway and into a glossy kitchen that was all stainless steel and black granite. ‘Want some?’

  The coffee brewed, she handed me a mug and we went through to the lounge, which was dominated by cream leather recliners and a fifty-inch plasma screen that was tuned to a twenty-four-hour news channel, where we could sit in comfort and talk. She flicked off the TV.

  ‘Actually, I’d been thinking about getting in touch with you. The police, that is. I’ve had some not very polite letters,’ she said, sipping from the mug clasped in her hands.

  ‘Do you want to show me?’

  She went over to a white cabinet and rummaged around in a drawer for a couple of minutes, before passing me an envelope containing a folded sheet of paper onto which had been typed in a large font: TAKES A SICK BITCH TO FUCK A SPAZ.

  ‘How many of these have you had?’

  ‘Three. The first one came just after Stefan was mugged, the last one on Tuesday. I’ve never had anything like this before.’

  ‘All saying the same thing?’ I studied her, but she seemed relaxed about it.

  ‘More or less.’ She flashed a weak smile. ‘Not much imagination.’

  ‘You mind if I keep this?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  I pocketed the letter. ‘It’s Stefan I came to talk to you about,’ I said. ‘I wanted to ask you something about the night he was attacked. When you went out and found him on the ground, did you notice anything else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I know this sounds like a weird question, but was he wet at all?’

  There was a pause. ‘Actually, yes, he was. I’d forgotten that. It must have rained. I got my knees wet when I first knelt down to him. And when I stroked his hair, it was damp from it. There was an unpleasant smell too, kind of ammonia-like.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve washed the clothes you were wearing that night.’

  She flashed an apologetic smile. ‘I have. Is it important?’

  I grimaced in anticipation of Keeley’s reaction.

  ‘It hadn’t rained for hours by that time,’ I told her.

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I think one of his assailants may have peed on him.’

  ‘Ugh! Oh God. That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Maybe, but if we could get hold of some DNA,
we might make some progress. What about your shoes?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I suppose it’s possible. I crouched down right beside him.’

  ‘It’s worth a try. Could I borrow them for a couple of days?’

  ‘Sure.’ She disappeared into the bedroom and there followed the distant sound of light swearing and the clomp of footwear being discarded onto the wooden floor. Eventually she returned bearing a pair of heeled ankle boots. They just about fit in the brown paper evidence bag.

  ‘How’s Stefan doing?’ she asked, manipulating the boots into the bag.

  ‘How do you mean?’ It seemed an odd question coming from her, and I wondered for a moment if she was asking me about the progress we’d made on the case.

  ‘Well it’s a while since I’ve seen him.’ She looked up. ‘The hospital, in fact. I thought you might have . . .’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  I was treading personal territory here.

  ‘Between the two of you. Have you split up or something?’

  ‘Split up?’ Suddenly she laughed. ‘My relationship with Stefan isn’t like that.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Stefan is a client. Ours is a professional arrangement.’

  Shit. Why the hell hadn’t I seen that?

  ‘It’s true, we’ve got quite close over time,’ she went on. ‘I’d say that I’m more of a “friend with benefits” these days. But I’m hoping it’s good news that he hasn’t been in touch,’ said Keeley. ‘Makes me think he might have someone else. I hope he has. He’s a good guy and he deserves it.’ She clicked her fingers, remembering something. ‘Oh, by the way, I remembered where I’d seen that boy.’

  It took me a moment to figure out who she meant.

  ‘Evan Phelps?’

  ‘I’m sure he used to be a waiter at the restaurant Stef and I often go to — the Thai place just off the high street.’

  As soon as I got back to the station, I sent Keeley’s boots off to the lab, with a note for Natalie that emphasised the urgency. Sharon wasn’t about so I dropped her a text too, telling her what I’d done. After that, all I could do was wait.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  It was the evening of Laura and Simon’s antenatal class and I’d agreed to collect Grace from nursery and take her home. I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious waiting with all the other parents (largely mums) outside the school gates, at the same time wishing, not for the first time, that the child I was meeting was mine.

  The air was fresh and breezy, so it didn’t take much persuasion from Grace to stop off at the park on the way home. As we walked, Grace grabbed my good hand and swung it, skipping along beside me, while I limped along beside her. We must have made a cockeyed sight, but Grace is the one girl in my life who remains oblivious to my differences and who makes no judgements at all. That would change, of course. It was just a question of when. Zoe, her older sister, had gone through that tough stage of being embarrassed to introduce me to her friends. I’d mentioned it to Laura once.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she’d retorted. ‘She’s thirteen. We’re all an embarrassment.’

  The phase hadn’t lasted long and Zoe had emerged on the other side an independent and broad-minded young woman, but it had happened, nonetheless. She’d simply succumbed to that primal biological need, common to so many teenagers, to conform and be part of the tribe. I wondered which Grace would outgrow first, the park or me.

  At the adventure playground, she dashed from one piece of equipment to another without stopping.

  She yelled to me from the monkey bars. ‘Look at me, Uncle Stefan, look at what I can do!’

  ‘Clever girl,’ I said. ‘Wish I could do that.’ I pushed her on the swing a bit and she shrieked as it wobbled from side to side. ‘Now you do it,’ I said. ‘Got to build up those muscles.’

  * * *

  We got home shortly before Laura and Simon.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Good,’ Laura said. ‘Everything’s in order. How’s it going with you and Cate?’ she asked, a glint in her eye.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Fine? I spoke to her yesterday. She thinks you’re wonderful. And all you can say is “fine”?’

  ‘But that’s what it is. What do you want me to say?’

  She gave me a look. ‘I might have hoped for a little more enthusiasm, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, sorry I can’t manage to live up to your expectations either.’ The bitterness erupted with more bile than I had intended.

  ‘OK, spit it out. What’s going on?’

  I told her what had happened.

  ‘The truth is that now I don’t know what to think. It’s always been my rule that I will only go out with someone who accepts me for what I am.’

  Laura laughed. ‘What a prima donna! Didn’t you know it’s every woman’s duty to change her man? Think yourself lucky it’s the cerebral palsy, otherwise it’d be something else, believe me.’

  Was it so different, then, with Cate and me? Were Laura and Fraser right, and I was making too much of this? It was time to change the subject.

  ‘When I was last round at yours, you and Cate were discussing the priest up at St Barnabas, Father Adrian.’

  ‘Hmm, we were, weren’t we?’

  ‘Do you really think the rumours about him are unfounded?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, just something that came up at work.’ Laura waited me out. ‘A client,’ I said. ‘A nurse who died shortly after I saw her — committed suicide. It seems she’d spent a lot of time at St Barnabas recently.’

  ‘Perhaps she needed to if she was suicidal,’ said Laura. ‘Really, I’m sure there’s no credence to the gossip at all. Idle staff room chit-chat, that’s all. I mean, there was one of the mums. But that was just people drawing their own conclusions simply because the whole family is blonde and Scandinavian-looking, while the new baby has jet black hair and olive skin. It’s a joke.’

  * * *

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Plum announced the following morning. ‘What if this distraction of Rita Todd’s wasn’t a what, but a who? What if Rita and Father Adrian were doing more in the church in the late evenings than just talking . . .’ She tailed off. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering the same thing,’ I admitted.

  ‘I mean I know it’s not allowed—’

  ‘It’s not against the law,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s just not compatible with his calling. Doesn’t mean it never happens, though.’

  ‘It does happen,’ said Plum, with some satisfaction. ‘I looked it up. There are support groups and everything, for women who, like, fall in love with their priest. It happens all the time. Perhaps Rita did. I wouldn’t blame her. He’s lush, for a vicar.’ Her brow creased. ‘What I don’t get is, if they were, you know . . . why would she kill herself?’

  If nothing else, that at least was obvious.

  ‘Because unless Father Adrian was willing to give up his vocation, there was never going to be in any future in it, was there? That could explain why he felt he’d let her down. It’s more likely that Rita had just developed an infatuation, one that was, and would always be, unrequited.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He didn’t feel the same way. Andrea said her mum had a knack of choosing unsuitable partners. Maybe this time it was one who was unattainable. Perhaps, with everything else going on in her life, it was enough to tip Rita over the edge. Maybe when she came to see us here, she’d already decided, but she couldn’t come out and tell me why because she didn’t want to drop Father Adrian in it. Ellen Campbell told us how loyal she was.’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s a nuts idea?’ said Plum.

  ‘Not entirely,’ I said. ‘We should go and talk to Father Adrian again.’

  ‘What, and ask him if he’s been shagging one of his . . .’

  ‘Flock? We might need a bit more evidence first.’
/>   But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that so far all we were doing was speculating. Father Adrian was the only person who could confirm or deny it, even if that was simply through his behaviour. Sounding him out was the only sensible thing to do.

  * * *

  This time, when I attempted to push open the heavy, wood-panelled door, it flew back to reveal a tall, gangling man, with dull, reddish hair, a long, thin face, and the kind of complexion that usually comes twinned with an inhaler.

  ‘Oh, I do apologise,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘We were looking for Father Adrian,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, I’m afraid you’ve missed him. I’m Dean Robert. Can I help at all?’

  ‘What time will he be back?’ I wasn’t really up for a lengthy wait.

  ‘No, you misunderstand.’ The curate wrung his hands together in a very priestlike gesture. ‘Father Adrian has left the parish. He was recalled to Rome.’ His smile was fleeting and didn’t reach his eyes, which blinked rapidly. ‘It all happened quite quickly, in the event, but . . . um . . .’

  ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ said Plum.

  ‘Quite,’ said the curate, clearly, like me, trying to judge whether Plum was taking the piss.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why did he go?’

  ‘Oh. I’m not sure that . . .’

  ‘Was it anything to do with Rita Todd?’ I persevered. ‘It’s just that I understand she had been spending a lot of time with Father Adrian. When we told him that she had passed away — killed herself — he seemed to take it very . . . personally.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . . Oh.’ And then, even though it seemed impossible, his skin paled even further. ‘No. I’m certain you’re mistaken about that. Father Adrian would never . . . He is absolutely devoted to the Church. Naturally, he would be upset to lose a parishioner, especially like that. But he would never exploit such vulnerability. It would be immoral.’