The Truth About Murder

by Chris Collett

  ‘And she didn’t think they were?’

  ‘All referrals go to the VPB.’ Delores saw my blank face. ‘The Vulnerable Persons Board. But now, in the name of efficiency and “to spare the parents distress”, these decisions are increasingly made without their input. There’s discussion of how the family is coping, and the short and long-term impact of the child’s condition on the family unit. The idea is that it provides an opportunity to discuss treatment in an objective way, in terms of benefits versus burdens. By burdens they mean cost, of course. But the main thing is that it’s become a discussion about the family, not with them. Once the decision is made, it’s much easier for the consultants to frame their conclusions in a way that informs parents it’s for their own good, and their child’s. The rationale is that in taking that decision-making responsibility from the parents, it absolves them of any guilt they might feel.’

  ‘But aren’t there guidelines for these things?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. There are guidelines about neonatal care for premature babies and criteria for when care should be withdrawn. But these are human beings we’re talking about, so sometimes it’s not so straightforward. In rare instances the decision is black and white. More often than not, it’s a confusing shade of grey. A lot of sick babies come into that unit, Mr Greaves, those born prematurely and older children with complex medical needs. The machines keep them alive, but sometimes it’s clear either that life is being prolonged artificially,’ she hesitated, ‘or that if the child does survive, he or she will be so disabled that their quality of life will be poor.’ For a second or two she found it hard to meet my gaze, and we both did our best to ignore the elephant that had just strolled in and plonked itself down in awkward proximity. ‘There’s a fine line, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Our eyes met. ‘I sat on it once.’

  Delores was firm. ‘Rita didn’t make any mistakes,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Rita tried to alert Mr Leonard to the increased mortality rates, but he wouldn’t listen. Instead, he began to make Rita’s life a misery. She tried to get hold of some hard, statistical evidence, but met a brick wall. I even think she’d started taking copies of individual patient records.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I think she was photographing them on her phone.’

  Rita’s phone, the smartphone she didn’t need. Probably somewhere at the bottom of the Charn now.

  ‘And she took alternative action.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘A child can’t be deliberately killed, of course, but pain-relieving treatments can be administered to hasten death. It remains lawful if the doctor doesn’t intend death and is guided by the best interests of the patient. Life-shortening pain relief is seen as being morally acceptable. It was one of those rules that increasingly we were required to breach. The truth is, some parents welcome it. Rita realised that where a child might need long-term interventions, higher dosages of diamorphine were being prescribed. In large enough quantities, especially where a child has breathing difficulties, it’s enough to kill.’

  ‘So that’s why Rita reduced the dosage, of her own volition?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why did she draw attention to what she was doing by altering the records? If she’d noted the prescribed dose, instead of what she’d actually given them, no one would have been the wiser.’

  Delores fixed me with a gaze that said I was being particularly slow. ‘This was her protest. Rita didn’t want to get away with it,’ she explained, patiently. ‘She wanted to be called in front of the disciplinary board because she saw it as an opportunity to highlight what was going on. She couldn’t amass the evidence she needed, so she wanted to speak out in a public forum.’

  ‘There was another allegation,’ I said. ‘Rita was charged with compromising patient confidentiality. Do you know what that was about?’

  ‘Yes, that was Baby Dawson. She broke the rules, but again she felt justified.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘There was a dispute about Baby Dawson’s treatment that bothered Rita. I don’t know exactly what.’

  ‘But that was the breach of confidence?’

  ‘I think it must have been. You should talk to the parents, Mr Greaves.’

  ‘I’m really not sure that—’

  ‘It wasn’t an isolated case,’ Delores cut in. ‘There were others. We had already been lectured by Mr Leonard on the perils of raising parents’ expectations. It was an insult. He said we should be realistic, that it was impossible to grasp what it could be like caring for a child with a lifelong disability and how much suffering it could cause, both for the patients and their families. He even used the word “viability”.’ She shuddered. ‘Now there’s a word I hate.’

  ‘I doubt I would be able to get hold of the Dawsons’ details without arousing suspicion,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps I can get them for you,’ said Delores. ‘I know this might sound like an overreaction, Mr Greaves, but after what has happened . . . I was afraid for Rita’s safety. She had exposed herself professionally, and I know that she felt she was being watched.’

  ‘Did she say by whom?’

  ‘No. But she was convinced that there was more going on than even we knew. She sent me rather an odd text just before I went away. I saved it.’ Delores scrolled down the messages. ‘Look.’

  I took the phone from her. The message was short and to the point: I’m right — it’s pure strategy.

  ‘What do you think she meant — that the strategy is being put before patient welfare?’ I couldn’t imagine that it was anything new.

  ‘That’s what it says to me. Rita felt they were being sold an idea on the grounds of efficiency and sustainability. But vulnerable human beings shouldn’t be viewed in those terms and someone should answer for it. If nothing else, they shouldn’t be allowed to get away with the way they treated Rita.’ She looked down at her lap. ‘I should have done more — she needed my support.’

  ‘Did you know Rita had gone back to church?’

  ‘I thought she might have,’ said Delores. ‘The priest came to the hospital once, and she went to speak to him. They did seem to have a lot to talk about.’

  ‘This was Father Adrian?’

  She frowned. ‘I thought Rita mentioned Father Frank, but perhaps I was mistaken.’

  She got up to leave. ‘One last thing: shortly before I made the decision to retire, I was offered an alternative way out, a newly created post in a proposed new facility.’

  ‘What kind of facility?’

  ‘One specialising in the care of patients with complex medical needs, of all ages. Rita warned me against it.’

  ‘But why? It sounds like a positive thing.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it was odd. I was told that if I wanted the job, I would have to sign a non-disclosure agreement.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘I really don’t know. In the end it didn’t matter, did it? I chose to retire.’

  It seemed to conclude our conversation. I wasn’t sure that I felt any differently about Rita, but Delores seemed happier to have shared what she knew.

  ‘Will I see you at Rita’s funeral?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t know it had been fixed.’

  ‘Next Monday, ten a.m. at St Barnabas. Andrea doesn’t want lots of fuss but I know you’d be welcome. She speaks highly of you.’

  * * *

  One thing my conversation with Delores had done was stir up memories of my own less-than-straightforward entry into the world, and I was lost in thought when I realised that Plum had returned from showing Delores out and was standing leaning on the door frame, arms folded, jaw working and watching me. The subject of my condition had only arisen between us on one occasion before.

  ‘I looked you up,’ she’d told me, one day, out of the blue. ‘Cer-eebral palsy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bummer,’ she’d remarked.
<
br />   ‘Yes.’ It was the only time it had ever been discussed. Until now.

  ‘What happened with you?’ she asked, with her customary directness.

  ‘The delivery was taking too long,’ I told her. ‘I was stuck in the birth canal and in distress, but the midwife ignored it. I was blue when I was born, and they spent five minutes trying to get me to breathe. If what Delores says is right, I doubt Mr Leonard would have bothered.’

  Plum’s brow furrowed. ‘What shall I do with these?’ she asked, holding up the notes she’d just taken. ‘Rita Todd’s case is closed, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Except . . .’

  I waited.

  ‘From what Delores has just told us, Rita was getting to be a real pain in the butt, wasn’t she? And she more or less said that Rita was getting ready to blow the whistle. Wouldn’t that be . . . a reason for someone to want her out of the way?’

  Plum looked as if she was expecting a telling off, but the reality was she’d only put into words what I was already thinking.

  ‘Shame not to close it for good,’ I said. ‘Let’s see if we can get hold of the hospital’s mortality figures and see if what Delores says has any substance. We can’t look up individual case notes, but the mortality rates might make for interesting reading — both before and after the reorganisation. If Rita was right, then we should be able to tell.’

  ‘Are we allowed to see that kind of stuff?’

  ‘Since the Freedom of Information Act, yes. You’ll probably have to fill in endless forms but theoretically it should all be publicly available. See what you can do, will you?’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Liam Archer had appeared again, only this time it was in a skip underneath several sheets of plasterboard. Turned out he was smarter than anyone thought, and he’d somehow managed to locate the main arteries in his wrists and gouge them open using the neck of a broken bottle, after which it would have taken a matter of minutes until he bled out. Covered only by the same shabby parka I’d seen him wearing on that Friday evening, he had started to decompose, but had lain there for several days before being discovered by someone walking past who noticed the stench. Even Archer, with his limited intelligence and grasp of the real world, couldn’t face up to or live with what he’d done. No doubt his ‘voices’ had guided his actions. In a sense, justice had been served, but it still left an unsatisfactory taste in the mouth.

  It was unlikely that they’d tell us much this long after the event, but I offered to collect his clothing and personal effects from the mortuary in the hope that they might turn up something in the way of forensics. His pockets were a revelation, including a ridiculous number of spent lottery tickets, purchased at Davey’s shop. How did he afford them, I wondered? What came as a shock was finding a flashy and very expensive-looking watch. The inscription on the back was To Stefan on your 21st birthday, along with a date. How the hell had Liam Archer come by that?

  Before Matthew Westfield took over my life, there were a couple of things I wanted to do. The first was a call through to Natalie to follow up the DNA tests on Keeley’s shoes. The lab must have been snowed under too — it took me several attempts to get through to Natalie and when I did at last speak to her, she sounded harassed.

  ‘Did you manage to get anything off those shoes I sent you?’ I asked.

  She brightened. ‘Yeah, we did a swab and there were a number of substances.’

  ‘And DNA?’

  ‘Traces, sure. One of my tasks today was to email through the results for you. Hold on a minute and I’ll bring them up.’ After a few seconds’ silence, I heard her cursing under her breath. ‘Oh, for God’s sake . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s telling me “data not found”. It’s OK. We’ve been having problems with the software all morning, to be honest. Can I find it and get back to you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  A little later she called back, full of apologies.

  ‘I can’t understand it — the record has gone. I’m missing a couple of others, too, so I’m sure it just must be a glitch in the system. Soon as I can track it down, I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘And if I can’t find the results, I’ll just repeat the test. We’ve still got the shoes here.’

  It was a long shot, but the only other way I could think of trying to break the deadlock on the case was the slim hope that Tracy Carrick could identify the thugs hanging around the flats where she and Jodie lived. I rang her and she agreed to see me, so armed with my trusty tablet, I called round again. But the explanation of my purpose didn’t get the response I expected.

  ‘I’m not sure that I’ll be much help,’ she said. ‘I have severe nystagmus and photophobia. I’m registered blind.’ She removed the sunglasses and now I could see the way her eyeballs danced in the sockets. ‘It means faces are at most a blur, and I won’t see much on your tablet either. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘God, no,’ I said, feeling a terrible mixture of shame, embarrassment and downright stupidity. ‘I don’t know why I hadn’t worked that out for myself.’

  She laughed. ‘Why would you? I’m willing to give it a try, though, if you think it’s worth it.’

  This time when I went into her flat, I immediately saw the white stick propped by the front door, as if to confirm what I now knew. Hm, great detective I was going to make one day.

  ‘So Jodie had a visual impairment, too?’ I asked her.

  ‘Oh yes, she was almost totally blind and she was epileptic too.’

  ‘And Rory was an assistance dog.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  * * *

  On the drive back to the station, an idea that until then had been only ephemeral began to solidify and take shape. Back in the office, I went back to the PNC and those past crimes. There had been oddities that had struck me: Lloyd Jones, an eighteen-year-old still usually driven to computer club by his mum. Ian Whiteacre, no recorded employment. In isolation, those facts meant little, but put them together with Jodie Marshall and Stefan Greaves . . .

  While Whiteacre’s crime report was in front of me, I scoured it from top to bottom. There was no mention of him having been urinated on. Nor did it feature in any of the other cases known to me. Had it been deliberately omitted? It was a key component of Stefan Greaves’ case and the kind of signature that might link with other cases. But perhaps it was part of the phenomenon Booth had described as low priority. If there was no real intention to investigate, there was no need for the crime records to be accurate.

  Just out of interest, I did a keyword search on ‘urinate’. It came up a couple of times, including on a couple of historic crimes from several years ago, but one of them brought me up short: a burglary attributed to a Bostwick. Not Sam Bostwick, but Gary Bostwick — his younger brother. I looked him up. Gary Bostwick’s rap sheet was long and varied, from an early career in petty theft to more recent affray and a caution for possession with intent. The younger Bostwick had made a career out of crime, serving two prison sentences in the process. He was the spit of his older brother, hence Davey’s mistake.

  And there was the flag for a profile on the National DNA database. I couldn’t believe it. Jesus, if we’d had a sample from Stefan Greaves’ clothing, the case could have been sewn up. Had Denny realised that and deliberately let the clothing go? Sure, it could have been oversight or error, but then I recalled how he’d tried to discourage me from pursuing this one. Was it because it mirrored the others that he and Booth had given low priority? Booth had said there was a pattern to the crimes, but because we’d had to rush out and rescue the fence, I hadn’t got back to asking him what. I wished I’d asked for his mobile number, supposing he had one. What I did have, though, was the address of the farm, and from that I was able to get a landline number. A woman answered, presumably the same one who’d directed me to Booth’s caravan. I introduced myself and stated my inquiry. There followed a prolonged pause, duri
ng which I began to wonder if she had gone to fetch him, but eventually she spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kevin’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ I echoed in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It was sudden — an explosion, three nights ago.’ Her voice cracked and there was a pause. ‘Sorry, we’re still, you know . . .’

  ‘Of course. Take your time.’

  ‘We think it was the gas canister. There must have been a fault, or he made a mistake in connecting it . . .’ she tailed off again. ‘He was killed outright.’

  I replaced the receiver feeling numb. Booth had been getting his life together. How harsh was that? I sat for a while, head in hands, trying to make sense of it. Was this mere coincidence?

  When I came to, I saw Bowers standing over me.

  ‘Everything all right, Fraser?’

  ‘Kevin Booth — Denny Sutton’s former partner — he’s dead.’

  ‘Really? Poor chap,’ said Bowers, all concern. ‘But the man was an alcoholic. Probably the kind of accident that was waiting to happen. And it’s doubtful that he would have known anything about it.’

  ‘Known what, sir?’

  Bowers blinked. ‘About Denny Sutton’s death. I don’t think anyone managed to track him down.’

  So he didn’t know that I’d been to see Booth. And now Booth was dead. Booth knew about what had been going on. I thought about the man I’d met just a few days ago, who was very much not in a bad way, but I hadn’t the energy to put him straight.