Desperate Measures (11 page)

Shap approached the empty showroom and could see Howard Urwin inside cleaning the tiles with one of those large round polishing machines. He was a big bloke, looked like he worked out. Shap hated that whole scene; preferred his criminals underfed and feeble, physically incompetent, ideally with rickets too. But this vogue for body-building had everyone pumping iron and bulking up like they were all Rambos in the making.

Shap went in, he knew Urwin had seen him but the man still took his own sweet time turning the machine off.

‘Howard Urwin?’ Shap said. The man gave a nod, wary. Shap pointed to the floor, ‘You missed a bit there.’

Urwin was not amused. Shap showed his ID. ‘DS Shap. Your nephew Aaron Matthews, you done any business with him recently? He lend you anything?’
              Howard Urwin gave a snort and switched his machine back on.
Prat.

Shap walked over and flipped the switch at the socket. The machine whined to a halt.

‘You weren’t very happy with the inquest verdict, were you? Saw you mouthing off on the telly. Quite a temper you’ve got there,’ Shap said.

‘What do you want?’ Urwin said.

‘Where were you on Tuesday, between the hours of six and seven pm?’

‘Home,’ Urwin said, his eyes hooded.

Anyone corroborate that?’ Shap said.

‘Adele.’

‘Either of you leave the house at all?’ Shap said.

‘Why?’ Howard Urwin said.

‘Because that’s when someone took a pop at Dr Halliwell, three pops, to be exact,’ Shap said, ‘and you and the good doctor hadn’t exactly parted on friendly terms.’

The man rolled back his shoulders, thought for a minute.

‘Adele nipped out for milk, that’s all,’ Urwin said.

‘When?’

‘About six,’ Urwin said.
              ‘Where d’you get your milk?’

‘Spar shop on the high street.’

Stonewalled by Adele, Janine went back to the office. Shap had rung in with Urwin’s claim that Adele had gone out for milk. Janine sent Lisa to collect security camera footage from the store, for the time in question. And if it didn’t prove Howard Urwin’s account? If Adele had been elsewhere at that crucial time, perhaps heading for the surgery … Her job was to follow the evidence, Janine knew that, wherever it led. To be objective about it but she hoped to hell that Adele Young hadn’t gone and done something she’d regret for the rest of her life.

Roy polished his shoes. They really needed re-heeling but they’d have to do. He had hung up his suit and shirt and tie, all ready.

The bed had gone now and the medicines, Peggy’s inhalers too, so the room looked bare, just his chair and the side table there.

He had been up to Cooper’s with the clothes for Peggy: her navy dress – the one with the flowers pattern – and her miraculous medal and rosary beads and her wedding ring all to be buried with her.

The flowers he had chosen were a mix of roses: red, white and yellow with some ferns and gypsophilia. Peggy loved roses, she had grown them in the little garden at the back of the house, different varieties, so there was always something in bloom. She’d spend hours out there, pruning or deadheading, tying in and cutting flowers for the house.

As was the custom, her body would be taken to church that evening in preparation for the requiem mass the following day.

He got out the photograph albums. Peggy had put them together. Three leather-bound books full of the best pictures they had taken of Simon, as a baby, as he grew, holidays, birthday parties, playing on his bike.

Roy didn’t need to open them, all those pictures were vivid in his mind. Simon on his shoulders, in Peggy’s arms, Simon covered in ice cream, in school uniform, with his first skateboard, on his eighteenth birthday. The picture they had used for his funeral.

Roy took the albums outside and got the barbecue lighter fuel, poured it over them and set the lot alight. The flames flashed high, scorching some of the rose bushes then subsided as the books burned to ash.

He wrote a letter then, brief and to the point, and found a stamp for it in the drawer in the kitchen. Second class. That would do. He didn’t feel the need to explain himself but he knew that Peggy would want him to set the record straight. He ought to take responsibility for his actions. If everyone did that, then things would not have got to this state in the first place.

He drew a chit of paper from his pocket, checking that he’d not forgotten anything that had to be done.

Satisfied, he looked outside. It was just beginning to spit so he put his coat on and set off to the post box down the road.

He ached with fatigue, wanted nothing more than to sleep. But it would soon all be over.

Lisa was running the security film from the Spar shop, the shop floor was visible, the entrance door in the centre. Janine watched as the digital clock on the film clicked up close to six o’clock.

‘She’s a real fighter,’ Janine said to Richard, ‘I can’t believe it’s her.’

‘You can’t deny she was out for Halliwell’s blood,’ he said.

‘Yes, but she’s shouting it from the rooftops, taking it to the highest authority, whipping up debate – that’s not the sort of person who then turns round and performs a vigilante execution.’ Janine gestured to the screen. ‘There she is.’

They watched as Adele got a two litre bottle of milk from the chiller and paid at the counter.

‘But which way does she go now?’ Janine said. She held her breath as Adele exited the shop. Released it when she saw her turn left.

‘Away from the surgery – towards home,’ Lisa said.

Janine was relieved and Richard dipped his head, acknowledged her hunch had been right.

Janine signalled to the ‘grudge’ list on the boards.

‘Right, let’s try and eliminate some more of these names.’

Next on Shap’s list was Mr Neville Pemberton, an address in the pricey part of the area. When Shap reached it he found the smart semi had been adapted. A disabled ramp wound up to the front door where there was an entry phone. Shap pressed the buzzer.

‘Who is it?’

‘DS Shap, Greater Manchester Police. Can I have a word with you Mr Pemberton?’

‘You’re having one, aren’t you?’

Smart arse.
‘In person,’ Shap said.

‘What’s it about?’

‘Serious crime. You’ve heard about Dr Halliwell?’ Shap said.

‘He won’t be doing any more damage, now, will he?’

‘Please can you open the door, sir? Now.’

There was a buzzing noise and Shap pushed the door back in time to see Pemberton in a wheelchair, half-way down the hall by the entry phone unit. He was obviously very frail.

‘You made an official complaint?’ Shap said.

Pemberton made a noise of disgust. ‘Flu,’ he gestured to himself. ‘This look like flu to you? Meningitis and he failed to spot it.’

‘Where were you yesterday evening between six and seven?’ Shap said.

The man burst out laughing. ‘Seriously?’ he said.

‘If you could answer the question?’ Shap did not like being jerked about.

‘Here. Arguing the toss about my disabled living allowance. Then at the pub,’ Pemberton said.

‘Can anyone verify that?’ Shap said.

‘My personal carer might, she’s the poor sod had to get me dressed and into the Ring and Ride. Now, it’s going to take me the best part of fifteen minutes to get back to the computer so unless there’s anything else...’

‘Your carer’s name?’ Shap said.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Pemberton said.

Shap waited, pen poised. Pemberton spat out the details and when Shap got through to her, the carer confirmed Pemberton’s alibi.

It still felt unreal to Norma, impossible to truly believe. The nearest she could come when she attempted to think about it was, who on earth would shoot Don? Perhaps it was a mistake or an accident, Don was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing else made sense. It was all so random, life – wasn’t it? If she’d not got that puncture, not met Don, if they’d not lost the baby, then everything would have been different. She wouldn’t be here now. He wouldn’t be dead. If the baby had lived …

‘You will have another,’ that’s what people said when you lost a baby, had a miscarriage or a stillbirth. ‘Nature’s way.’ Norma hated that platitude. Nature’s way was brutal and whimsical, cruel. The baby had been perfect. Everyone agreed. Perfect but dead.

She felt as though her heart had been taken from her. Birthed and disposed of, like the stillborn child had been, like the placenta. Taken in a mess of pain and blood and grief. Don at her side, grey faced and stoic, held her hand and rubbed her back and when it came to pushing called her a good girl, just like the midwives did. They’d induced her, so labour came on swift and savage, cresting pains robbing her of breath and sense and the ability to speak. When the baby was born there was only silence in the room.

Norma didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see, imagined gross deformities, something bestial. The midwife said gently, ‘It’s a little girl.’ And Norma’s eyes flew to the form on the plastic sheeting. And she was perfect.

‘I am sorry,’ the midwife said, ‘you get your breath and then we’ll see about the third stage.’ And with that she folded the sheet over the baby and took her away.

‘Why?’ Norma said to Don. ‘The cord, it wasn’t around her neck.’

‘No,’ he said, his voice husky, ‘sometimes we never know.’

And they never did.

Norma was able to go home the following day, away from the ward of newborns and happy mothers.

And into the pit.

That’s how she always thought it. Buried in the dark and cold. Numb and unfeeling.

Don still had to work and study. Some days she didn’t move from her bed from the time he left the house until he returned. There were days when speech was too much effort. She took the tablets that had helped settle her nerves at university but they weren’t strong enough. Food was irrelevant, sickening. She didn’t bathe unless Don insisted, running her bath, taking her rancid clothes away.

He tried talking to her but the words slithered around her and sank, joining her in the pit.

She took lots of tablets once and Don found her, her face and hair spackled with vomit. He raged at her. He thought she’d meant to kill herself.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I just wanted to feel safe again. The tablets, they’re not strong enough. You don’t have to stay. I’m not well, I know that. And now …’ Without the baby, she meant.

‘I’m staying,’ he said, ‘you’ll get better.’ He was so determined.

He filled a prescription, come home with it and emphasized it was just for the short term, to help her through this rough patch. It helped. It took away the cold, hard grief and it filled the gaping hole where her heart had been. It helped her forget about the baby. About everything. She began to live again.

It was an honest mistake Lisa kept telling herself but what if DI Mayne wouldn’t give her a second chance? She wanted to be a detective, she liked the work, thought she could be good at it, or could be if she hadn’t made such an idiotic mistake.

She looked in the mirror, straightened her back, lowered her shoulders. Time to go.

When she knocked on his door he called her in.

‘Shut the door,’ he said and her heart sank. His tone was cold, he looked pissed off. She stood to attention in front of his desk.

‘Put yourself in my shoes,’ he said, ‘a fundamental mistake, what action do you expect me to take?’

‘Demotion,’ Lisa said, ‘back to the beat, filing.’

‘That might be appropriate but I’m not going to do that. Instead I want you to revise all your arrest and caution procedure…’

He was giving her a chance. Yes! She felt the weight lifting, the dread melting away.’

‘… You study your handbook. In future, if there are diversions, interruptions of any sort, you double check that you’ve actioned and noted every single step. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ She wanted to smile, fought to keep her face set, serious.

‘You stay on the case,’ DI Mayne said, ‘and you see it through. You deal with the fact that if Aaron Matthews is guilty, he may well escape prosecution as a result of your oversight. If that turns out to be the case you can explain it to Norma Halliwell in person.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Lisa said, praying that it wouldn’t come to that, but prepared to do whatever he said as long as she could stay on the team.

Butchers had continued to speak to patients who had seen Dr Halliwell on the day he died to see if anyone remembered anything out of the ordinary, or noticed anything sinister. Now and again he consulted with Vicky who knew a good deal about the practice even though she had only been receptionist for a couple of years.

‘The home visits,’ Butchers asked her. ‘Dr Halliwell called on Roy Gant on Tuesday.’

‘Oh, yes. His wife Peggy, she’d been ill a while. A smoker – she had emphysema and heart trouble then they found the cancer.’

‘So, it was expected – her death.’

‘Yeah. Poor bloke. Be nice,’ Vicky said.

‘I’m always nice,’ Butchers said. His phone rang – the boss calling. Vicky left him to it.

‘Boss?’ Butchers said.

‘Listen, Shap’s not got anywhere so far with those who’ve made official complaints. We are still investigating the link between Howard Urwin and Aaron Matthews in case Matthews acted on Urwin’s behalf. Adele and Howard Urwin are alibi-ing each other but I’m convinced that Adele wouldn’t countenance the killing.’

Butchers slipped off his shoes and stepped onto the scales.

‘So Aaron Matthews is still the lead horse?’ Butchers said.

‘That’s right but we continue other lines of inquiry and I’m thinking there could be patients who weren’t happy with Dr Halliwell but who won’t necessarily have filed an official complaint. They might just have jumped ship, moved to another practice, sacked him. So look at anyone who left his list in the last few years; changed their doctor. There may be something there, below the radar.’

Butchers stepped off the scales and looked at the BMI chart on the wall. His reading put him firmly in the ‘obese’ category.

‘Will do.’

‘How are you getting on with the appointments?’ the boss said.

Speak to your GP about lifestyle change and weight reduction.
‘I’ve talked to all the afternoon surgery appointments from Tuesday and there’s nothing there,’ Butchers said. ‘It’s like Dr Finlay’s casebook, not a bad word from any of them, the man’s a saint. Thought I’d do the home visits next, confirm the timing?’

‘Who were they?’

Butchers picked up his notes from the desk. ‘Marjorie Keysham, she’s in a nursing home, Halliwell prescribed diamorphine for her. He also called to certify the cause of Peggy Gant’s death, she died at home after an illness, husband’s name is Roy.’

‘Shap can try Keysham, if she’s up to having visitors – send him the details. You check with Roy Gant,’ the boss said.
Shap hated places like this. All floral curtains and the smell of piss under air-freshener. A load of old women with grey perms and twin-sets. And now the ones he was talking to, treating him like an idiot.

He repeated, ‘Dr Halliwell came on Tuesday afternoon, he left a prescription for you.’

Both of the old biddies, Marjorie Keysham and the Matron, shook their heads, acting like he was the one with missing marbles.

‘Tuesday afternoon, diamorphine for Marjorie Keysham.’ Maybe it needed repeating a few times to permeate, Shap thought.

‘I was here,’ the Matron said, ‘we had no visit from Dr Halliwell.’

‘And Tuesday, I go to my reading group,’ Marjorie Keysham said. ‘Besides, I’d remember if I’d seen the doctor, especially if he’d given me morphine. Fantastic stuff, had it when I broke my hip. I’d remember, Sergeant: I’ve got cancer not dementia.’

Both of them bounced their heads up and down like two nodding dogs.

Had Butchers got it arse over tit or had Dr Halliwell been playing hooky? Pretending he was off on home visits when he was actually on the golf course or screwing some bit on the side. Something was going on.

Shap explained the situation to Butchers who got all excited about it, something to do with the prescriptions. He told Shap to come to the surgery and said the boss would want to be in on it too.

When they had all arrived, Butchers showed them the pattern he’d found: a list of patients, all with addresses at nursing homes, all with prescriptions for diamorphine.

‘I’ve rung three of them,’ he said, ‘and it’s the same story. Halliwell has invented these visits and then he’s written the prescriptions.’

‘Always diamorphine? Always nursing homes?’ the boss said.

‘Yes,’ Butchers said.

‘Marjorie Keysham’s prescription was cashed in by Halliwell at Picket’s pharmacy, near the nursing home,’ Shap said. ‘The pharmacy say it’s not uncommon for a GP to pop in with prescriptions. But the actual prescription was for three times the amount that Halliwell entered on the computer records when he got back to work.’

‘And no-one compares the two amounts?’ Richard said.

‘Apparently not,’ Shap said. ‘The only way he’d be found out is if another doctor got called out to the patient, and discovered there’d been no visit, and they’d not had any medicine. Like I did.’

‘What about the drugs budget,’ the boss said, ‘that must have been on the high side?’

‘If he’s been at it for years then it might not be that obvious,’ Richard said.

‘What was Halliwell doing with the drugs?’ the boss said.

‘Flogging them,’ Shap said.

‘Who to?’ the boss said. ‘Find that out and maybe that will lead us to his murderer.’