Dead Wrong (16 page)

“What do I have to produce to convince you? The Foxleys weren’t even in the country. It wasn’t them, alright? The photos — highly likely that’s Malcolm Masheda — see, same MO, guts all over the place. They were sent to Lydia Holden within the last few hours.”

He stood back, shaking with anger and pent up frustration. The man was a damned fool!

“She needs watching too. She’s been threatened. I want an officer outside her door.”

“That can’t happen I’m afraid. We haven’t the manpower and even if we had, there’s the cost implication.”

“What? How do you put a cost on a young woman’s life? We’re dealing with a brutal killer. I don’t know what’s at the back of all this, but Lydia Holden has been picked out as his mouthpiece for the publicity he wants. She hasn’t delivered, so she’s in danger. What do you want, sir? Another mutilated dead body — or this?” He shook the front page mock-up.

Jones’s face went ashen. “That can’t go out,” he mumbled, and coughed his throat clear.

“Well that’s what he wants, and Lydia Holden is supposed to print it.”

“Call a press conference for tomorrow morning. We’ll give them something, but not that.” Jones’s eyes were glazed as he stared at the details. “I’d better have a look at the case notes, and review what you’ve got so far.”

“What we’ve got is nothing, but the one thing I am sure of is that this isn’t to do with gangs or drugs. The victims are being picked off for a reason. I’ve still got enquiries to make, and Doc Hoyle hasn’t finished with the bodies yet, so we have to stay hopeful. But whoever is doing this is clever, sir. I don’t think it’s random. Something links these three. I just have to find out what that something is.”

Chapter 16

“I’ve got those names, sir.” Dodgy placed a printed list on Calladine’s desk.

He’d wanted to leave early to check on Lydia; make sure she was okay, given that the police could offer no proper protection. However, both the day and the night were disappearing fast. Now he’d have to check through the list and follow up any possible leads it might give. They were running out of time.

“Thanks.” He nodded to the young officer, already scanning down the column of names.

“I think I’m going mad!” he exclaimed, holding his head in his hands. “My own mother’s on this list.” What was going on? Calladine picked up the phone and dialled Monika’s number.

“You never told me my mother’s on Aricept. I’m looking at a list, and she’s the only one in the home taking the drug. Why’s that?”

“And
hi
to you too, Tom. She’s on it because your mother is a good candidate for the drug. It’s not for every case of Alzheimer’s. She’s still in the early stages, you see, and it’s hoped that the Aricept will hold it at bay for a while and improve her quality of life in the long term.”

Long term? She is eighty-five for heaven’s sake!

“But shouldn’t you have told me?”

“Why? You’ve never shown an interest in what she takes before. From time to time she’s on a number of different drugs — painkillers, antibiotics — you know the type of thing. I rarely tell you about any of those.”

“Does she take Risedronate?”

“No, she doesn’t, but it is dispensed to some of our other residents. Unlike the Aricept it’s a commonly prescribed drug. Is all this important, Tom? I can give you a report on what she’s had over the last twelve months if you like.”

“Sorry, Monika, that’s not necessary. This isn’t really about my mum — it’s the case I’m working on. The bodies were full of drugs and one of them was Aricept.”

“That should narrow it down considerably for you, then. We have only the one user here, and you can cross your mum off the list of suspects. She can barely walk — remember?”

“Very droll. I don’t think a user of Aricept did this. I think their drugs were stolen by someone close to them.”

“In that case talk to their GPs. If a patient isn’t taking the drug properly, then they’ll know. Aricept is usually prescribed by a hospital doctor, so there will be check-ups and they’d notice it wasn’t having the desired effect.”

That wasn’t a bad idea.

“Sorry, Monika. I’m not getting at you. I’ve had a pig of a day. One of my team has been injured. Poor Rocco is in hospital with a head injury. Look — shall I come over tonight? We can have a catch up and flop in front of the telly.”

“Sounds nice. I don’t see nearly enough of you these days, Tom. Come when you’re ready. I’ll make something good and hot.”

Calladine left his office and went to find Dodgy. “Contact these people’s GPs and find out if any of them are not responding properly to the drug Aricept. Leave it to the morning if you like and put your findings on my desk. I’m nipping out for a bit.”

Before he called it a day he needed to check on Lydia. She’d be finishing work soon and making for her apartment. He couldn’t spend another night with her, but at least he could make sure she was locked up tight.

“Sir!” Imogen called out, the office phone in her hand. “Ruth wants you — says it’s urgent.”

“Tom, Rocco’s in a bad way.” She was crying. “He’s been taken to theatre and his parents are here. It looks bad. They know because he’s blown a pupil or something. I don’t know what to say to them. They’re so upset.”

“I’ll come. Give me ten minutes or so and I’ll be there.”

He handed the phone back to Imogen and went to get his coat. If Rocco couldn’t be fixed he’d never forgive himself. He should have told Jones where to go, stood his ground. He should never have gone back to bring the Foxleys in.

“Tell Jones, one of you. I won’t be back until the morning. Don’t forget — if Kelly turns up, then let me know at once.”

* * *

Ruth was pacing the corridor outside the operating theatre with Greg and Jean Rockliffe, Rocco’s parents.

“What’ve they said?”

“He’s had a significant bleed; something called a subdural hematoma, and a blood clot has formed. They need to remove it straight away, then it’s a waiting game. He’ll be in intensive care for a while, and then we’ll have to see.”

“Thanks Ruth.” Calladine turned to the parents. “Look, Mr and Mrs Rockliffe, Rocco — Simon — was unlucky. He wasn’t being stupid or taking any chances, none of us could have known what was going to happen. He was simply there — stood in the wrong place when that mad woman lashed out.”

Jean Rockliffe put her hand on his arm. “We know that Simon’s job is risky, Inspector, and he’s told us often enough how you take care of them all. It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself for every mishap that befalls your team.”

Some bloody mishap! What had Ruth said — subdural hematoma? He’d no idea how long it’d be before Rocco was back on his feet, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be any time soon.

“Can I get anyone a drink while we wait?”

“No need for you to hang around, Inspector.” Jean Rockliffe smiled. “I know it’s serious, but my boy’s strong. He’ll be fine.”

He could tell from her face that she wasn’t convinced. With an injury like that, who would be?

“I’ll get some teas.” He didn’t know what to say to her. The truth was, despite her kind words, he did blame himself. He’d allowed Jones to call the shots, even though he knew it was wrong. Not a mistake he’d make again.

He couldn’t face them. He couldn’t walk back, proffer tea and make small talk. He passed by the tea machine in the corridor and went to find Doc Hoyle in the mortuary.

“Sebastian!” He greeted the man with a weak smile. “Sorry to burst in on you like this. I didn’t know where to go. I’ve had a bad day — no, much worse than that — a crap day, the very worst. One of my own is in theatre with a brain injury.”

The pathologist shook his head and gestured to a chair.

“Sit down. I’ll get you a drink. What have they said? Which of your team is it?”

“Rocco. A damned good cop, too. I just can’t call this . . . I don’t know how it will pan out. Brain injuries are difficult to predict.”

“They’ll have got in a Neuro team from Oldston. They’re some of the best, Tom. If he can be put right then they’re the ones to do it. Believe me, I’ve seen some wonderful stuff achieved.”

“We really need this one to break. It’s doing my head in to be honest. And now this happens. His parents are waiting outside theatre with Ruth. I should be with them, but his mum is being so damned reasonable I just had get away. Despite what she says, it was my fault. I should have stopped it. I should have known what would happen. It was like walking into a cage of wild animals.”

Hoyle measured out some whiskey into a glass.

“Hindsight is there only to taunt us, Tom. We do what we can. You have a situation, and you react as you see fit. Here, get this down you. The lad will be okay. Most are, you know.”

Calladine threw the amber fluid down his throat in one. It burned a comforting path down to his stomach. He held the glass out for more.

“Sorry. This isn’t the usual me. Frankly, tonight I just want to get hammered and forget the whole hellish business.”

“Damned expensive malt, this is, Tom.” The doctor’s dark eyes twinkled as he measured out some more. “And we can’t have you drunk on duty, can we?”

“Right now, Doc, I don’t care. I just want Rocco to recover, find the bastard who’s ripping his way through the estate, and then get a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s not going to be easy. Whoever is doing this is meticulous. He’s left no biological trace whatsoever.”

“So he is forensically aware?”

“Very much so. In fact I’d go so far as to say his crimes are perpetrated in a forensic suit, hat, and gloves — the lot. When he takes them he won’t be able to be so careful; he obviously can’t draw attention to himself. But given that we’ve never found any of the victim’s clothing, he probably burns it. The hair — what’s left on the head — and the body parts are clean too. It’s as if they’d been washed or hosed down before freezing.”

“I take it the parts we’ve got are Edwards and Hurst?”

“Certainly Edwards, but we have no DNA on record for Hurst. But we do have two bodies only, and, given they were rarely apart, it’s fairly safe to assume that the other is Hurst.”

“Thanks. Can I have your report fairly quick? Keep Jones happy. Not that he bloody well deserves it after today.”

“I’ll email it to you tomorrow, Inspector. Now — do you want more whiskey or are you able to rejoin the others?”

Truth was, Calladine felt a little woozy. The drink had gone straight to his head — which wasn’t surprising because he hadn’t eaten all day. He checked his watch: gone nine. Monika would be wondering where he’d got to.

“I’ll get them some tea and go back. Talk tomorrow, Doc. And thanks.” On the way back he rang Monika and told her what had happened. She still wanted to see him.

“Come anyway. It doesn’t matter what time you roll in. You can stay, you know. You have slept with me before, and anyway I want to discuss your mum. She’s been a bit upset today; a friend of hers has died, and she could do with seeing her son pretty soon.”

So that was the deal. He’d finish up here and then go round to Monika’s. He got the tea, and a coffee for himself, and went to see how things were going.

“Apparently they’ve nearly finished, and it’s looking okay. He won’t be able to talk to us for a while; they’re going to keep him sedated. So we might as well go.” Ruth was smiling with relief.

His own relief flowed through him with almost as much warmth as the whiskey — and with much the same effect. He was feeling distinctly spaced out. Calladine said goodbye to Rocco’s parents and walked back to the car park with Ruth.

“I’m going to Monika’s.”

“Hope you don’t intend to drive yourself. I can smell you from here. Who’s been feeding you the booze, you lucky bugger?”

“Doc Hoyle keeps a stash in his filing cabinet. Can you believe that — a pathologist with a penchant for illicitly stashed liquor?”

“Shame I didn’t come with you. I’ve got a damn cold coming and a wee dram would do me good. Anyway, I’d better give you a lift. Go have a word with the security guy over there about leaving your car here, and I’ll go and get mine.’

It didn’t take long to get to Monika’s, but by the time they arrived Calladine was nearly asleep. Ruth tooted her horn and she came out to get him.

“Silly sod’s been downing the whiskey. You might have to put him straight to bed.”

Chapter 17

Thursday

They sat on stage in a row behind a long desk. DCI George Jones was in the middle. Calladine hadn’t expected so much interest, but there they were — hordes of press people, all curious and baying for information.

The noise was growing — and his pain increased as it passed through his throbbing head. Two whiskeys, and a few beers at Monika’s had left him with a hangover. He kept looking around, at the seats, at the reporters still piling in through the door, but there was no sign of Lydia.

She wouldn’t miss this — and he’d made sure she’d been told. So where was she? It was a few minutes to ten; just time to ring her. He tried her mobile first. It was turned off. He dialled her home number, and after an endless wait, a female voice answered.

“Lydia?”

“No — this is Katya. Miss Holden has left for her office.”

“And you are?”

“Katya.”

Had she understood? Her accent was Eastern European, possibly Polish. “When was that?” “She left early. She has a busy day. Will you leave a message?”

“No thanks. I’ll catch her at her office.”

He dialled again. “Lydia Holden, please.”

“She’s not here yet.”

“Is she coming straight to the press briefing at the police station?”

“Not sure. We’ve sent Morton. I think Miss Holden must be running late this morning.”

But she wasn’t. According to Katya she’d left early. What was going on? Where was she?

He pushed his folder of notes under Jones’s nose and nudged him.

“I’m going to have to leave, sir. I can’t find Lydia Holden so I’m going to check her apartment.”

“You can’t leave now, Tom. What on earth’s got into to you? They’ll have questions, and what the hell do I tell them?”

There was an answer to that, but Calladine swallowed it.