The patient, p.8
The Patient, page 8
‘So it would seem,’ was his reply, as he watched Cross on the floor below, examining the shirt presses as carefully as he might a crime scene.
*
There were three separate presses, operated by a young man and two women. The first was an undulating press where they did the collars and cuffs, two shirts at a time. This was followed by two cylinders over which the operators draped the sleeves, and they were then pressed. Finally came a machine which looked like a flat shirt cut out of metal. The shirt was placed over this and pressed.
Cross was always fascinated by machines like this, probably something he’d inherited from his father, a retired engineer. He was intrigued by the carousel delivery system when he discovered that it was controlled by a computer. The assistant took the customer’s receipt and scanned it, and the carousel spun round and presented the corresponding piece of laundry. If more than one assistant was using it, it would automatically place them in a queue. Cross loved the efficiency of it, and the truth was that he was an obsessive ironer. He ironed everything, even his bed sheets. But it was the ironing of his shirts that filled him with immense satisfaction.
It wasn’t long before he was asking the young laundry workers whether they used starch on the collars or whether there was no need with this wondrous machine. Did they need to dampen the shirts first? They thought he was making fun of them initially, but when it became clear he was genuinely interested, they replied with enthusiasm. It seemed that Cross had, quite unintentionally, made their day by taking an interest in their work. The highlight for them was when he took his coat off and asked if he could have a go. Much to his satisfaction, he pressed a white shirt perfectly. He was really pleased, but they couldn’t tell, as his face was a picture of intense concentration.
During this exercise he had noticed that one of the young girls was made nervous by his presence. She hadn’t joined in with the good-humoured laughter of the others at his shirt-pressing efforts. She was extremely thin, like an underfed sparrow, with dark shadows under her eyes. She smiled with strained politeness, averting her eyes to the floor when he thanked her for showing him her part in the process. Just before he left the shop floor he turned his back to Danny’s office and, making sure that no one else was looking, presented her with his card. She looked at it, then back up at him, but he said nothing. She quickly snatched the card from him and stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans.
*
‘Flick Wilson was murdered,’ said Ottey.
‘What? I thought she overdosed,’ said Danny.
‘She did. But it wasn’t self-administered.’
Danny thought for a moment then began shaking his head.
‘No, no, you’ve got this all wrong,’ he protested. ‘She was an addict. She fell off the wagon. Where’d you come up with this? How is that even possible? Unless there was a struggle. Was there a struggle?’
‘I can’t divulge that information,’ Ottey replied.
‘Look, it’s tragic, but you guys are barking up the wrong tree. Is it the mother? Is she the one who wound you up? She’s a right nutter, that one.’
Ottey thought this was interesting, because no one could fairly describe Sandra as a ‘nutter’. In all their dealings with her, even when no one was listening, she maintained her equanimity and dignity.
‘Where were you on the night of Tuesday the seventeenth of June?’ Ottey asked.
There was a pause, then he laughed. But before he could reply, Cross walked in.
‘Quite the operation you have here, Mr Stokes. Very impressive,’ he said.
Danny looked at him, unsure how to react. Was the detective taking the piss? Was he trying to get him off guard? He just couldn’t work it out. He opened his computer and looked at his calendar.
‘I was working, obviously. I always work. Some people call me a workaholic, but what can you do if you happen to love what you do?’
‘June the seventeenth,’ Ottey reiterated.
‘I don’t know. At home probably,’ he said.
‘Is there a Mrs Stokes?’ Ottey asked.
‘Nope. Never been married. Never wanted kids. Bit of a ladies’ man, if truth be told.’ He winked at her.
‘In the circumstances I’d call that an unwise description, Mr Stokes,’ said Cross.
‘It’s just a bit of harmless fun.’
‘Is that what you told the girls who were taking you to the tribunal for harassment?’ Cross continued.
‘There was only one girl taking me to a tribunal,’ Danny said.
‘Who is now dead,’ said Cross. ‘Quite convenient, some might say.’
‘Like I said – she had no case.’
‘Not according to her lawyer,’ said Ottey.
‘Even if she had a case, which she didn’t, it was an employment tribunal. Who in their right mind would kill someone to prevent that happening? It’s not worth it,’ he said.
‘That could imply that you’ve thought about it. Weighed up the odds,’ said Cross.
‘I have never thought about killing anyone. I’m a dry cleaner, for God’s sake.’
‘A dry cleaner with no alibi for the night of the murder,’ said Ottey.
‘True, but I don’t need one because I didn’t do it,’ he said.
‘Everyone needs an alibi in a murder case, Mr Stokes. I wouldn’t underestimate the importance of that if I were you,’ said Cross.
*
Back in the car Ottey turned to Cross.
‘So what did you learn?’ she asked.
‘That a domestic iron is never going to be a match for an industrial shirt press, no matter how hard you try,’ Cross said.
‘From the employees,’ she said.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he replied.
This puzzled her, as she couldn’t figure out whether he was holding something back. She thought it must mean that on this occasion he actually had been interested in the mechanics of the dry cleaning operation. He really was a puzzle at times.
Chapter 14
Unless the photocopies had been scaled down, Flick’s journal was A5 sized. There were six photocopied journal pages, set side by side on A4 paper. The relevant material stopped towards the bottom of the fifth journal page, with the sixth page opposite on the sheet pretty much illegible as the ink from the seventh page had bled through the paper for some reason. The legible five pages consisted of notes of the other girls, their accounts of the various assaults and the dates, together with the likelihood of their taking part in the tribunal case against Stokes. His abusive behaviour followed a pattern. From unwanted attempted kisses, to unwelcome hugs where he pressed his obviously aroused member against the girl’s thigh. Playing with himself behind his desk, then asking the girl if she wanted to have a look. If, through fear of the consequences of not doing so, they walked forward to see his engorged penis, he would ask if they wanted to ‘give him a hand’. He really was a loathsome individual, thought Cross, taking advantage of vulnerable young women who he purported to the outside world to be helping.
He then took the pages out to Edwin the exhibits officer. He liked Edwin. They had a lot in common, these two, as they were sticklers for detail and procedure. The exhibits officer had to be as he or she was responsible for the chain of evidence. Any break in that chain, any potential for contamination, could make a case collapse in court. Edwin was very particular, almost obsessive in his job. His labelling system was legendary in the force not just for its detail and the way it enabled him to put his hands on anything requested at a moment’s notice, but because his indexing of the evidence was comprehensive and comprehensible. In short he was fantastic at it. Some years before Edwin had overhauled the evidence indexing system in the department, for his own convenience really. He found the existing system, ‘if you could call it that,’ he’d said, was confusing and overly-complex. His system was quickly seen to be more coherent, comprehensible and user-friendly. It wasn’t long before it had been adopted across the entire force. Cross was envious not only of the obvious efficacy of the system but the fact that it had become universally known as the ‘Edwin index’. Ottey often found herself thinking that Edwin was more pedantic than her partner which amused her. Edwin surveyed the photocopies in the plastic folder. They then had the kind of conversation which their colleagues loved to eavesdrop on.
‘They’re copies,’ he said.
‘Facsimiles, yes,’ Cross replied.
‘So I suppose the question is – are they strictly speaking evidence?’
‘A good question and one to which I gave some consideration,’ replied Cross. ‘Strictly speaking I am not sure of their admissibility in court as evidence but they are of evidential relevance to the case.’
‘Ah, I take your point.’
‘Good, then I leave them under your care.’
‘Hmm,’ replied Edwin. ‘The question is how to index them accurately.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Cross as he gave this conundrum some thought. Edwin did what he always did when confronting an indexing puzzle. He picked up his pipe, his tamper, his matches and his tobacco pouch and headed for the fire escape. Cross was quite envious of this routine and would have taken up pipe smoking himself were it not for the obvious health risks.
*
Carson eventually got his way and a meeting was convened at the Major Crime Unit. It was a very small meeting, as not many resources had been assigned to the case. Ottey thought this was because Carson was, as yet, unconvinced of Cross’s determination that it was murder. He was being cautious so that if Cross was wrong he, Carson, would attract less flak from upstairs. What had really annoyed Ottey – and it didn’t take much when it came to Carson – was the fact that he was behaving as if he was doing them all a favour by letting them look into Flick’s case in the first place. It was as if he was indulging them. But it was a murder. So why on earth was he behaving in this way? She concluded that, as usual, it simply fed his enormous appetite for feeling superior.
‘So where are we at?’ Carson began. An inane, nonsensical question in Cross’s opinion, but on this occasion he managed, with some effort, to bite his lip.
‘Nowhere much,’ replied Ottey.
As far as Cross was concerned, this was actually true. He was convinced it was murder, but they had nothing to go on. True, there was no container, but that being the leading fact was also the major complication – there was no evidence. The missing drug container was their only lead, as frustrating as that was.
‘We have determined to our satisfaction, if not to that of the higher-ups—’ Ottey continued.
‘Sorry to interrupt but what exactly makes you say that?’ asked Carson.
‘Well, you only have to look at the number of people in this room to get your answer,’ she said.
Cross didn’t get involved in this exchange, not because he didn’t believe she had a point – he very much did – but because he had observed over time that this little dance between his partner and their superior officer seemed to be a ritual they needed to perform before they were able to put their heads together on a case.
‘Flick Wilson was killed by a dose of diamorphine. The absence of the container containing the drug makes us believe that it was administered by a third party,’ she said.
‘Our killer,’ said Carson.
‘Our killer, yes. A search of the flat and the surrounding area has not revealed the container, which means the killer probably took it with them. But it remains our main clue,’ she went on.
‘So, our only clue is non-existent,’ Carson commented.
‘A clue nevertheless,’ Cross said.
‘Who in her circle had access to such drugs and had a reason to kill her?’ Ottey finished.
‘Next step?’ Carson asked.
‘Well, just before you called this meeting we were on our way to interview Flick’s neighbour in the downstairs flat. Brian Stott,’ she replied.
‘Why hasn’t he been interviewed before?’ asked Carson.
‘He’s been out of the country. He phoned in this morning, voluntarily, having been told we’d been to his place of work asking about him,’ she replied.
‘And why is he of particular interest?’
‘Because he’s a nurse who works in ITU at the BRI,’ said Ottey.
‘The Bristol Royal Infirmary,’ added Cross helpfully.
Carson looked impatient. ‘I know what the BRI means, George, thank you.’
‘Then you will also know that his job means he must have regular access to a range of powerful drugs in dealing with people close to death – including diamorphine,’ Cross continued.
Mackenzie now spoke for the first time. ‘According to Sandra, Flick’s mother, Brian had something of a soft spot for Flick. But while she was fond of him, romantic feelings were not reciprocated. We don’t know how he felt about that as yet.’ She had become more confident about contributing to meetings, feeling that she knew when it was useful and welcome.
‘Daisy’s father, Flick Wilson’s ex, says Brian was obsessed with her. They had a few run-ins,’ interjected Ottey.
‘Why would he want to kill her if he was obsessed with her?’ asked Carson.
‘Because she wasn’t interested in him,’ replied Ottey.
‘Excellent. Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go over there and see what he has to say for himself,’ he said, clapping his hands together.
*
‘I loved her, Detective,’ said the young man sitting on the sofa opposite the two police officers. He was in his late thirties and had a series of colourful, childlike tattoos on his arms. Pictures of teddy bears, penguins, Aardman-like figures of sheep and penguins. Together with vast swathes of vibrant colours filling the spaces in between. He was in his nurse’s scrubs, having just done a night shift. One side of his head was shaved to a stubble. There was then an extravagant, thick mane of hair swept over to the other side of his head from where there might have been a parting. It was dark black and incredibly shiny. Cross found himself thinking that a hair advertisement would probably describe it as having a ‘lustre’ to it. He had a thick Liverpudlian accent.
‘I think she was resistant to us being a thing because all the men in her life had turned out to be unreliable or just wanted to take advantage of her,’ Brian said.
‘Unless she just didn’t love you,’ Cross pointed out.
‘Maybe. But I think we could have been happy, the three of us. I love Daisy as well. She’s a gorgeous child. But Flick wouldn’t have it and I didn’t want to become a nuisance like Simon. I decided it was better to have her as a friend than not have her in my life at all.’
‘Where were you immediately after her death? You took two weeks’ sudden leave,’ Cross asked.
‘I needed to get away. I was upset and I live below her…’
‘And last week?’
‘I was in Liverpool visiting my parents. My father is unwell. I wanted to give my Mum a break.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Ottey.
‘Thanks.’
‘Did you see a lot of Flick when she was alive?’ asked Cross.
‘Are you kidding? We were in and out of each other’s flats when I wasn’t at work,’ he said. ‘We ate together a couple of nights a week. I’d cook. We’d have the baby monitor on with Daisy upstairs. We had movie nights. It was great. I’d babysit for her when she wanted to go out with Sandra for dinner and be alone with her mum.’
‘You sound like a good friend,’ said Ottey.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Was it enough?’ asked Cross.
‘For me? Um, not to start with, if I’m honest. Then I thought I might win her round with quiet persistence. But by the end we’d become such good friends that the idea of it going any further had become a bit too weird.’
‘Did she talk much about things?’ asked Ottey.
‘You’re joking, right? Of course she did. That’s all we ever did. Talk, talk, talk. Till the early hours of the morning sometimes, which was completely unfair,’ he laughed.
‘Why?’ asked Ottey.
‘Because she was obviously stone cold sober and I got more and more pissed as the night wore on. Then the next day she’d make out that I’d told her all sorts of personal stuff about myself, which I couldn’t remember, and she wouldn’t then tell me what it was. Complete lies, of course,’ he said, still smiling at the thought.
‘You sound like you were really close,’ said Ottey.
‘She was really fun,’ he said, getting lost in the memory. ‘You’re here because Sandra thinks someone killed her.’
‘We’re here because we think someone killed her,’ said Cross.
‘It’s just inconceivable. I mean, isn’t it? We’re talking murder, right?’ he said.
‘We generally are when someone has been killed deliberately,’ said Cross.
‘You work in ITU,’ said Ottey, changing the subject.
‘I do, yes.’
‘That must be tough,’ she went on.
‘Sure, but you get used to it.’
‘I have to say I’m full of admiration for you. Both my parents were in ITU. In your hospital as it happens. I was really impressed with the doctors and nursing staff,’ she said.
‘I think it’s something you feel you want to do,’ he said. ‘It’s not for everyone.’
‘You must see a lot of death,’ she said.
‘We do. But also a lot of recovery.’
‘As a nurse, do you have access to all the drugs used in ITU?’ asked Cross.
‘As a senior nurse, yes. Why?’ he asked.
‘Would that include diamorphine?’ Cross went on.
‘Of course, among others. We’re dealing with the very edge of life, DS Cross. The margins between life and death can be very small.’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Cross and left it there.
‘What makes you so sure it’s murder, not an accidental overdose or suicide?’ Brian asked.
‘Let me ask you a question. Do you think that Flick could have fallen off the wagon, or wanted to kill herself?’ said Ottey.
‘No. Neither. I get your point. It’s odd. But surely that’s not enough for you guys, is it?’ he asked.
