The Truth About Murder

by Chris Collett

  ‘Something I said?’ Cate ventured, sitting and placing her handbag on the floor beside her.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be surprised,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘It’s becoming a habit. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said. ‘Can I get you something — tea, coffee?’ I’d sat down again, and here we were, like lawyer and client, facing each other across the desk. Formal. It suited me, for the moment.

  ‘No, thanks.’ She looked different today, but I couldn’t quite identify why. She was as well-groomed as ever, in a tailored skirt and low-cut soft sweater, a tasteful chunky necklace at her throat. Then it came to me. It was her manner. There was a marked absence of her usual self-confidence, and in its place were disquiet and vulnerability. It made me want her even more.

  ‘You haven’t been returning my calls,’ she observed.

  ‘I’m not very good on the phone,’ I said, though we both knew it wasn’t the reason.

  She hesitated. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  I nodded a silent assent, but said nothing. I wasn’t going to make this easy for her. She needed to understand.

  Smoothing her skirt, she looked up directly into my eyes.

  ‘Stefan, I’m really sorry about what I said. I was trying to be helpful. I hadn’t really thought through how tactless it might be.’

  ‘It makes me think that I’m not good enough,’ I said, running my fingertips along the edge of the desk.

  ‘I can see that. It was a terrible and hurtful thing to say. But I hope you can appreciate that this is a new experience for me, and there are some things I’m learning the hard way. I think we have something, and I’d really like to give it another try, but I will understand if you don’t want to.’ She reached down to pick up her bag and began rifling through it. ‘Anyway, I’ve got some tickets for the theatre, I mean, I don’t even know if you like the theatre, but— Oh, now I’m waffling. Anyway, they’re for tonight, which is probably too short notice, but . . .’ Breaking off, she placed a ticket on the corner of the desk. ‘I’ll leave this one with you and if you feel you can give me another chance, I’ll see you there.’ Getting up, she leaned over to kiss my cheek, all subtle perfume and straining cleavage that sent a rush of heat to my groin. Then she turned and walked out of the office.

  After Cate had gone, I just sat for a couple of minutes, before picking up the ticket from where she’d left it. It was a touring production of Whose Life Is It Anyway? Ten out of ten for irony. I’d think about it. It occurred to me that Cate might have access to the statistics we were after, and it might be helpful to pump her further about Guy Leonard. She might even know the identity of the mystery woman at the inquest. Would that make it a quid pro quo? The only other consideration was how far I was prepared to let my principles stand in the way of a decent shag.

  ‘I’ll be off now, then.’ Plum stood in the doorway, coat and surly expression in place.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help today.’

  ‘No probs,’ she replied, making it sound second only to global warming in terms of inconvenience. ‘Want a lift home?’

  I did. It had been a long day and I was probably going to take Cate up on her offer. Getting home quickly would be a bonus.

  ‘Thanks. You’re a star.’

  Chapter Forty-two

  I dropped Westfield off at his afternoon engagement at the old people’s home.

  ‘You don’t need to hang around here,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a cab back to the hotel. I’d be glad if you could deliver your friend there later.’

  I called Keeley from the car. ‘I’ve got another favour to ask.’

  ‘You’re a happily married man, PC Fraser,’ she reminded me playfully.

  ‘Yes, I am. It’s not me. We have a, er . . . VIP visiting this week.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  There was no sense in being coy. News of Westfield’s visit would emerge soon enough.

  ‘Do you know a man called Matthew Westfield?’

  ‘The only man of that name I know is the politician.’

  ‘Well he’s here, in Charnford, right now.’

  ‘Really? You’re talking about business here?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ I said. ‘I’m not exactly sure what he has in mind.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Keeley sounded almost star struck. ‘I’ve made it to the big time. He’s pretty fit for a politician, too. What’s the deal?’

  ‘The deal is absolute discretion. He’s inviting you to go with him to a reception he has to attend tomorrow evening. He’s in need of protection.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Another woman has got her eye on him and he’s not interested. He’s asked to meet you first, tonight. Can you do that?’

  ‘How important is it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Matthew Westfield.’

  ‘OK, I’ll have to cancel another client, but I can plead sickness, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll make it worth your while. It’ll be a visit to his hotel room tonight and nothing more, as far as I know. I’ll come and pick you up just before ten. You’ll be er . . . recompensed in line with, er, your usual . . . well, you know.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, I do. I think I can manage that.’

  ‘You’re OK with it?’

  ‘I’m fine. Don’t sound so worried, PC Fraser. It’s my job, remember?’

  ‘I’ll see you later, then.’ Jesus, I thought, replacing the phone, I’ve just pimped for a former government adviser. Was that why I felt so grubby?

  It didn’t seem worth going home, so I went back into the station. Always plenty to do there.

  * * *

  Plum drove me home and pulled up just outside my apartment block. She seemed edgy, somehow, still not quite recovered from her strop in the office that afternoon.

  ‘I’m gasping for a coffee,’ she said, turning off the ignition, ‘and I’ve never been in your flat.’

  ‘All right.’ I hadn’t much time and I was tired, but she had helped me out, and the hint was hardly a subtle one. It seemed the least I could do. Once inside, she dropped her bag on the floor and surveyed the lounge.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks. Coffee?’

  ‘Or something stronger?’

  ‘You’re driving,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Oh yeah, coffee’s great,’ she beamed — somewhat unnaturally, I thought.

  It took me a few minutes, and when I emerged from the kitchen Plum had vanished. What was going on? I hadn’t heard the front door and her handbag was still on the floor.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I called, somehow apprehensive of the response.

  ‘I’m in here.’ Her voice didn’t, as I might have expected, echo back at me from the bathroom, but seemed to come from further down the hall. That was taking curiosity a little too far. Putting down the mugs, I followed her down.

  ‘What are you nosing at n—’ I began, breaking off when I saw her lying in my bed. Although the duvet was pulled up to her chin, I could tell she was naked. Her clothes, underwear included, were in a none-too-neat pile on the floor. Momentarily, the power of speech deserted me.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, with a mischievous smile, waving the pack at me. ‘I’ve brought condoms.’

  Shock, embarrassment, disbelief and fear surged through me in equal measure, culminating in an explosion of anger.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, Plum?’ I strode across the room and picked up a handful of clothing, flinging it at her. ‘Get dressed and get out!’

  I went back into the kitchen to put as much space as I could between us. Moments later, I heard her hasty footsteps through the flat, followed by the slamming of the door. My reaction had been pure reflex, but I’d handled it badly. And now there was less than an hour before I was due to meet Cate.

  * * *

  I got to the theatre a little early, my nerves still jangling from the incident with Plum,
and ordered a much-needed double Scotch at the bar. The barman took several attempts in the noisy environment to understand me, and I felt conspicuously single among a sea of couples. With the announcement that the performance would begin shortly, I began to get the first glimmer of unease that I might have been stood up. I had to decide whether to go in and see the play or cut my losses and go home. Then suddenly there she was, breathless and apologetic and planting a light kiss on my cheek, as her citrus-noted eau de cologne wafted over me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t get away. But I’m so pleased to see you. Shall we go in?’

  During the play, Cate took my hand and as we left the theatre, she slipped her arm into mine. We talked about the play a little but uppermost in my mind was the encounter with Plum.

  ‘I can’t understand it. Why the hell did she do that?’

  ‘Because she fancies you,’ said Cate. ‘It’s blindingly obvious. Why do you think she’s so jealous of me? You saw the way she reacted this afternoon. Maybe she saw it as her last chance.’

  ‘But she’s just a kid. I’m almost old enough to be her dad.’

  Cate stopped walking. ‘Stefan, look at me.’

  I stopped and turned. ‘Sorry. I said . . .’

  ‘I heard what you said.’ She put a finger on my lips. ‘I just wanted to do this.’ And she leaned in and kissed me properly.

  It was still early, so we ducked into a bar. It hadn’t been my intention, but after a while I got to telling her about Rita and the Dawsons.

  ‘It’s a terrible decision to have to make,’ she agreed. ‘But they’re not making that decision in a vacuum. They have support.’

  ‘Who from, though? It didn’t sound as if the Dawsons had much of that.’

  ‘The medical professionals who are treating their child should help,’ said Cate. ‘And they, in turn, have guidelines to support any decisions they might make.’

  ‘But who writes them?’ I asked.

  ‘The General Medical Council in the first instance, although there’s always scope for individual interpretation. Additional guidance is set down by the local ethics committee that meets to review any cases that may be contentious. Sometimes decisions can have wider implications.’

  ‘And decisions are based on what, the “viability” of the patient?’

  ‘I would hope that it’s first and foremost about the patient’s quality of life. But yes, after that there may be a consideration of the long-term prognosis.’

  ‘And effective use of resources?’

  Cate sighed. ‘This is the real world, Stefan. Yes, in some cases that has to be a factor.’

  ‘But who has the final say?’

  ‘It’s a joint decision, hopefully, a consensus between the medics and the parents.’

  ‘And is the ethics committee active in that?’

  ‘To a degree. They have to ensure a fair and practical distribution of resources. And they determine local policy. Why the interest?’ Cate wanted to know.

  ‘It was something Guy Leonard said when I asked him about Rita Todd, about the pressure he was under from the committee.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘The committee wields a lot of power, but it’s for good. Ten years ago, the hospital was in the equivalent of special measures and now, since top-level staff have been replaced and new procedures introduced, it’s thriving. Waiting lists are down and the health authority looks as if it could be operating within its budget before long. I can be confident about referring patients because I know they’ll be seen quickly.’

  ‘Are you governed by the ethics committee too?’

  ‘It has more influence over what happens in the hospital than in general practice, but we still feel the ripples. The current chair seems to have some particular ideas about the way things should be done, and has tried to introduce some innovations.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure the voluntary sterilisation programme I told you about was her idea.’

  ‘Who else sits on this committee?’

  ‘Medical professionals, of course, but also a legal representative and a cleric to provide moral guidance.’

  ‘How often do they meet?’

  ‘About once a month, at the hospital. Now, can we stop talking about work? Your place or mine?’

  ‘Actually, would you mind if I gave it a miss tonight?’ I had found myself wondering again about Rita and her priest. But it also seemed imperative that we find out whom it was she met when she left the church that night. Cate took it well, but the absolute truth was I still couldn’t be sure of her.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I took Keeley to Westfield’s hotel and agreed to pick her up three hours later. This was beginning to get, as the man himself had predicted, tedious. I seemed to have become the force babysitter — first Denny and now Westfield. I hoped this gig wasn’t going to turn out like the last one had. I didn’t know what to do with all this waiting around, especially since the boss didn’t want me engaged on anything else. But something that wouldn’t be too taxing and that could usefully be done while the squad room was quiet would be to look at the CCTV for Rita Todd, as I’d promised Stefan Greaves.

  Since the government’s obsession with surveillance had waned, the number of cameras in Charnford had been substantially reduced. A lack of funding for repairs meant that many of them had fallen out of commission and only those dotted about the town centre were fully maintained. That left dozens that were still in place but not functional. It occurred to me then that this was a line of evidence I hadn’t considered for Greaves’ mugging. When I had my next bit of spare time, I’d see what, if any, public CCTV cameras there were between Davey’s supermarket and his flat.

  But first things first. There were no cameras in the immediate vicinity of the church, so I started to fan out to a wider radius. It had been a quiet night with not much activity at the time Rita was out. It took a while, but eventually I picked up two figures that could possibly be Rita Todd and her companion. It was cold — I could see their breath misting as they walked. Trouble was, I’d only seen Rita horizontal on a gurney. It would help if Stefan could confirm that it was her. And he might also have more of a clue than I did about whom the companion might be.

  The first time I called him it went straight to voicemail, so I left a message. I didn’t expect to hear from him that evening, but he rang back about an hour later and once he knew what I’d found, despite the time, he was keen to come in.

  While I waited, I did a quick scan to see if there were any cameras anywhere near Davey’s supermarket. There weren’t, of course, though there was one a bit further back down the street on the opposite side. I left a note to flag this up for Sharon Petrowlski. I’d just finished scribbling it when Greaves texted me to say he was outside.

  ‘What are you doing here so late?’ was his first question after I’d signed him in as a visitor.

  ‘Running around after our friend Mr Westfield.’

  ‘At this time of night?

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘For you, anything,’ he said with his lopsided grin.

  ‘I’ve dropped off Keeley at his hotel and have agreed to go and pick her up later.’

  ‘Keeley Moynihan?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, that was my idea. Westfield wants to take his own plus-one to this gala thing tomorrow night. It was quite funny, really. There was a woman massively coming on to him when he was up at the hospital and he wants some protection from her. Anyway, he asked if there was anyone I knew who would be a decoy, and the only name that came to mind was Keeley’s. She seems OK with it. In fact, she’s with him tonight, “getting to know him”. I’m sorry, that must be weird.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s life, isn’t it? Girl’s got to earn a living. If you’re collecting her, you can give me a lift home at the same time.’

  We turned our attention to the CCTV I’d found.

  ‘Could that be Rita Todd?’ I asked.


  ‘Looks like her,’ said Greaves.

  ‘So who is it with her?’

  He studied the footage for several seconds and just when I thought he’d drawn a blank too, he spoke.

  ‘It could be Guy Leonard, Rita’s boss at the hospital. He’s not too tall and has that kind of bearing. I wondered at one point if he and Rita might be more than just colleagues, but I’d discounted that idea — maybe too soon. Where are they going?’

  We watched as the two figures walked towards the main market square. As they approached one of the roads that went down to the river, they stopped and Leonard turned towards Rita and put out his hand to touch hers.

  ‘You sure there’s nothing going on?’ I asked. ‘What’s he doing there? Is he trying to hold her back, or comfort her?’

  ‘I think he’s giving her something,’ said Greaves, peering at the screen. We watched Rita glance down at her hand before slipping whatever it was into her pocket. Then the pair spoke again briefly, before they went their separate ways. Once they’d disappeared down their respective side streets, there was no more footage to show where they went.

  ‘What was it he gave her?’ I wondered aloud. ‘She was on strong antidepressants. Do you think he could have been supplying them?’

  ‘Weren’t they on prescription, though?’ said Greaves. ‘Why would he need to?’

  ‘Unless he’s supplying something else.’ But there was no evidence to suggest it.

  ‘What happened to Rita’s clothes and backpack?’ he asked.

  ‘Those we do have,’ I said, understanding at once. ‘Wait here.’

  It took me about ten minutes to locate the bag in the evidence store and to go through Rita’s pockets. But the outcome was a disappointment.

  ‘The contents of her pockets,’ I said, depositing them on the desk, ‘including one river-washed scrap of paper. If you can read it, you’re a better man than me.’

  ‘Guy Leonard knows what he gave her,’ he said. ‘We could always go and ask him. He might actually have been the last person to see Rita alive.’

  ‘Have you got a number for him?’

  ‘No, but I know where he lives.’