Desperate Measures (9 page)

Butchers had finalised the timeline for Dr Halliwell’s day on Tuesday, his appointments at morning and evening surgery and the home visits in-between and had now turned his attention to collating information on patients who had made complaints.

There was a knock at the door and Vicky Stonnall popped her head in. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yeah, thanks. Doctor Halliwell and Doctor Gupta were both quite settled here?’

‘It’s a cushy number,’ Vicky said. ‘He was nudging a hundred thousand, and Doctor Gupta’s husband’s a consultant so they’re steaming rich.’

‘Big money,’ Butchers said.

‘It’s the business to be in, that or city trading. And they don’t even have to do out-of-hours, anymore. Not like your lot,’ Vicky said.

‘I make a decent enough living,’ Butchers said. There was only him to spend the money.

‘Yeah, but it’s all broken marriages and living for the job, isn’t it, your line? I wouldn’t fancy it,’ Vicky said.

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Butchers said, deciding not to dwell on his own trail of dead relationships.

‘You fraternising with me?’ Vicky said, her mouth in a little smirk.

‘Fraternising?’ Butchers said. ‘You’re not the enemy are you?’

‘Not last time I looked. Coffee, then.’ She disappeared.

Butchers leant forward and pressed the tannoy button. ‘Three sugars please.’ The sound echoed from the waiting room, making him smile.

After a few minutes he got up and went through to reception. Vicky was coming downstairs from the staff lounge and kitchen, with a tray of coffee. She handed Butchers his and offered him a plate of biscuits. Butchers chose two. ‘Ta.’

Vicky took her own coffee round the counter and sat in her chair.

Butchers leant against the counter. She was alright Vicky, he reckoned, down to earth, approachable.

‘If someone was a bit dizzy, like,’ Butchers said, ‘what would that be?’ He’d been surrounded by posters exhorting people to adopt a healthy lifestyle, lose weight, take exercise. It was getting to him.

Dawn Langan came out of the nurse’s room and Butchers nodded in greeting. She still looked very shaken, peaky, her blonde hair greasy.

‘Coffee, Dawn?’ Vicky said.

‘No, thanks,’ Dawn edged behind reception and began sorting through a box of glassine envelopes with stickers and vials in. For blood samples were they?

‘It could be loads of things, dizziness,’ Vicky answered Butchers. ‘Could be your blood pressure. Do you get it checked? Dawn’ll do it for you.’

Dawn glared at Vicky and Butchers said, ‘No, it’s OK.’ He bit into a biscuit. ‘Seems there’s been a fair few complaints about Dr Halliwell,’ he said.

‘Well, he’s been here a long time,’ Vicky said, ‘they all get some.’

‘What did you think of him?’ Butchers said.

‘He was all right,’ she said. Butchers waited, he’d heard a ‘but’ in there. ‘Well,’ Vicky went on, ‘he liked being the boss. Didn’t want his patients chipping in with ideas. Doctor knows best, that sort of thing.’

‘And mistakes?’ Butchers said.

‘He never made mistakes – isn’t that what they used to teach ‘em? Doctor is never wrong.’

Dawn Langan straightened up, spots of colour high on her cheeks and turned on Vicky Stonnall. ‘He was a good man. How can you stand there and talk about him like that? You make me sick.’ She swung past Vicky, marched to the nurse’s room and slammed the door.

‘She wants to watch her blood pressure,’ Butchers said. ‘Is she usually so touchy?’

‘She’s upset,’ Vicky said.
              ‘It’s not just me, then?’ Butchers said. ‘Every time I appear, she vanishes.’

‘It’s nothing personal, it’s the situation, isn’t it?’ Vicky said.

‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ Butchers said.

‘Not the best choice of words, that.’ Vicky grinned.

Butchers finished his coffee and returned to his task. He’d heard that they were arresting Aaron Matthews and thought about it. Matthews had previous form, hadn’t been out of prison long. So what then – he’d tried to break in, thinking he could nick some blank prescriptions to flog, some second-hand computers but ran into Halliwell who was locking up. Or did he know Halliwell? Was there some history there?

Telling himself it was a long shot, Butchers scanned the patient list, and there he was. Had to be the same lad. Aaron Matthews. Butchers stretched, grunted with satisfaction and picked up the phone.

Janine ordered a gunshot residue test – though it was over thirty six hours since the shooting and anyone with half a brain who had used a firearm would know to change their clothes and wash well to remove the evidence. But she’d seen enough incompetent killers to hope they still had some chance.

She tried to ring Pete from her office while Aaron Matthews was consulting with the duty solicitor, annoyed that Pete had not even returned her call or made any attempt to apologize for not showing up last night.
              ‘Can’t talk now,’ Pete said quickly, when she got through,’ I’ll call you back.’ And he hung up before she had chance to say a word. She bit down on her resentment and went to see whether Matthews was ready yet but was met by Richard coming into the incident room, waving a piece of paper.
              ‘Prepared statement,’ Richard said.

Everyone groaned. Janine felt a twitch of irritation. Issuing a prepared statement was a clear indication that Aaron Matthews would refuse to answer any questions put to him.
              Richard read from the statement, ‘I have no knowledge about the offence or those involved. I am not involved in any criminal activity and am not associating with any known criminals.’

‘We’ll still give it a go,’ Janine said. ‘Richard? Lisa?’

Lisa grinned. She was on a roll, Janine thought, first making the arrest and now a role in the interview.

‘Your notes are complete,’ Richard said to Lisa, referring to her documentation of the arrest. Lisa nodded, and passed them to him. He scanned them and signalled to Janine that they were ready.

‘Off you go, then,’ Janine said, trying to sound brighter than she felt. If Aaron Matthews was ‘no comment’ then all they had were the ballistics linking Matthews to the weapon and on its own that wasn’t enough to prove he was the perpetrator. She watched Richard and Lisa go.

The phone rang and Shap answered. ‘Butchers for you, boss,’ Shap said.

Janine took the phone, ‘Butchers?’

‘Aaron Matthews, he’s a patient of Dr Halliwell’s.’

‘Is he now?’ Janine said, ‘Thanks, I’ll let Richard know, he’s about to go in to interview. A prior relationship could give us motive.’

Lisa was nervous, she’d not done many suspect interviews yet but she was grateful that the boss had given her the opportunity: she could just as easily have put Shap in with DI Mayne.

Lisa had gone through the formalities for the recording: who was in the room, the date and time, and then DI Mayne said to Matthews, ‘Where were you between the hours of six and seven pm on Tuesday evening?’

‘No comment.’

‘The weapon used in this shooting is the one that was in your possession, the one you used in the commission of your last offence. Where is that gun now?’

‘No comment.’

Aaron reminded Lisa of some of the lads she was at school with, bright enough and could have made something of themselves if they hadn’t been drawn into the gangs, swayed by the peer pressure, the lure of easy money, the sense of belonging and of protection that a gang offered. Not much use when you got caught, though. Aaron had already done time. Had he learnt nothing? Was this it – the pattern for the rest of his life?

‘Shortly after your arrest today,’ DI Mayne said, ‘you claimed that you had sold that weapon.’

‘Inspector,’ the duty solicitor interrupted, a fake smile on her lips, ‘my client was not under caution then, according to PACE rules.’

What?
Lisa felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

The DI looked stunned.

‘Police and Criminal Evidence—’ the duty solicitor began.

‘I know what it stands for,’ Richard cut her off.

Lisa felt physically sick. She had cautioned Matthews, hadn’t she? She’d begun it, she was certain of that and then …Oh God … He’d legged it and she hadn’t had chance to finish it. And when she caught him and got him in the car she’d been so pumped on adrenaline she hadn’t even thought about it. She’d written in her notes that she’d issued the caution on arrest without even thinking about it. Shit!

‘Interview suspended,’ DI Mayne said.

Lisa followed him to his office. Her stomach churned and her pulse raced.

The DI was furious, his eyes hard and an expression of disgust on his face as he held up her notes. ‘It’s here in black and white,’ he said.

‘I started it but then he did his great escape and I forgot to complete it,’ she said.

‘And forgot to tell me? Christ, Lisa, he’s our chief suspect, he’s a convicted criminal who we can link to the gun and we can’t use a bloody word of it. Nothing that he said in that car. And now he’s no comment.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ she said.

‘Go,’ he said, ‘just go. We’ll discuss what this means for your prospects tomorrow.’

Lisa hid in the Ladies for a while, wanting to cry and kicking herself, wanting to run away, to go home but she had to face them, all of them, knowing that she’d screwed up.

She was making her way back to the incident room when Shap stopped her.

‘Hey, Mother Theresa,’ he said under his breath, ‘why’d you go and hold your hands up? It’s your word against his. You should have just fronted it out. Ten years back no-one would have given a toss. Who are they going to believe? That toerag or a serving police officer?’

Lisa shook her head. She couldn’t be like Shap. Didn’t want to be.

There was an awkward edge to the atmosphere as Lisa arrived back in the incident room.

The boss, DI Mayne at her side, gave Lisa a look; not angry more let down, like she’d expected better from Lisa and Lisa felt wretched.

‘His gunshot residue’s clear,’ the boss said, ‘that was a stretch, anyway, given the time lapse. It doesn’t mean he didn’t fire the gun. He could have cleaned up.’

‘It weakens any case against him,’ DI Mayne said.

‘He used the same weapon before,’ Shap said, ‘he resisted arrest, he won’t talk to us. He’s way ahead of anyone else as a candidate. All this crap about turning over a new leaf is just that – crap.’

‘He might be telling the truth,’ the boss said.

‘Pigs … sky,’ Shap said, ‘Matthews is good for it. He and Halliwell knew each other.’

‘There’s nothing from his flat. Nothing that places him at the scene,’ DCI Lewis said.

DI Mayne sighed, he looked like he wanted to kick something.

‘It’s a setback but that’s all it is. We keep working it,’ the boss said, ‘we bring him back when we’ve cause.’

‘He’s out on licence,’ Shap said, ‘we could do him for resisting arrest.’

‘I want to do him for murder,’ DI Mayne said sharply. ‘Lisa, get rid of him.’

Of course it had to be her, she’d messed up and now she’d be the one to have her nose rubbed in it, releasing Matthews from custody, watching him walk.
‘Do you want me to have a word with Lisa?’ Janine said to Richard on her way out.

‘She’s gone already,’ Richard said, ‘but, I’ll deal with it. I’m seeing her tomorrow.’

‘She’s a good copper, you know, she shows promise.’

Richard gave her a look.

‘We all make mistakes,’ Janine said.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘and we have to accept the consequences.’

Norma recognized the sense of dislocation, the numbness from before. She was eight months pregnant at the time. She’d been into town that morning round the department stores, buying the final few items on her list. The nursery was finished, pale green walls with white and yellow woodwork, curtains that she had made herself. The material had a white background with drawings of animals on, all sorts, like those in the ark.

She had considered NCT classes but Don was dubious. ‘They’re obsessed with natural childbirth,’ he said, ‘they’ll spout ridiculous nonsense about intervention. You’d be better off going to the hospital classes.’ So that was that.

She was putting the changing mat and the nappies away in the alcove cupboard in the nursery when she felt the cramp. Was this a Braxton Hicks? Norma had read plenty of books about pregnancy and labour. When she went to the toilet she found blood in her knickers. A show? First babies were usually late but perhaps this one was an exception. Should she wait to see if labour started? Her mind buzzed with indecision. She felt another cramp deep inside but there was no tightening across her abdomen, just the dragging feeling that came and went quite quickly. She rubbed her belly, tracing the baby. She knew the head was partially engaged, and the round bump she could feel at the top was most likely the baby’s bottom. She wanted to ask Don what to do but had no way of contacting him apart from leaving a message with the office at the medical school and then hoping someone would actually pass it on.

There wasn’t a lot of blood but it was more than just spotting. As for a ‘show’ she would have expected something more substantial as the plug in the cervix came away. She’d talk to the midwives before doing anything else.

When she rang the number she had, they advised her to come in. ‘Just so we can check everything is OK.’

She called a taxi and didn’t have any more discomfort so by the time she arrived she was pretty sure that she wasn’t in labour and was starting to feel a little foolish.

The midwife listened to her account and asked a few questions before inviting Norma to get up on the examination couch, where she gently pressed her abdomen and then listened with a stethoscope. She asked Norma to wait where she was for a moment.

The moment stretched on into minutes and Norma stared at the ceiling and the fluorescent light. She wanted to wee. Perhaps it was a urinary infection?

The midwife returned with a doctor who also listened with a stethoscope and then asked Norma when she had last felt the baby move.

Last night? This morning?
‘I’m not sure. I don’t know,’ she said, her voice high and wavering.

‘I’m a little concerned,’ the doctor said, ‘we can’t make out the baby’s heartbeat so we’re going to take you through to ultrasound and get a scan.’

She knew then it was too late. If there’d been any chance for the baby they would have rushed her into an OR for an emergency caesarean.

‘My husband,’ she said quietly to the midwife, ‘please can you let him know I’m here? He’s at the school of medicine. Don Halliwell. Fourth year.’

‘I’ll do that now.’

They wouldn’t let her walk, she had to wait for a porter to bring a wheelchair and take her down for the sonograph. She pressed her hands over her belly, hoping she might detect some movement there, that the baby might suddenly wake and twist and kick and everything would be alright again.

The house felt like a tomb. Norma turned the heating up. As the radiators warmed, making knocks and gurgles in the pipes, the bones of the house creaked and clicked in response. But she was still cold.

She was used to her own company. Most of her days had been spent alone, the only interaction was with the pupils who came after school or on Saturdays for a half hour lesson. But she was never alone at night. Don was always there.

Always.

She knew that some of the GPs attended conferences, eager to follow new developments in medicine and no doubt enjoy the socializing and break from routine but Don had never gone.

And whatever affairs he had had were limited, she presumed, to evenings in hotel rooms returning to the marital bed by the early hours.

He had sworn to look after her and he had. Until now.

She sensed someone in the house. She went to each room in turn, searching under the beds and cupboards, behind the long curtains. She left the doors wide open and sat at the top of the stairs, hugging her knees, and listened.

She heard it then, Don’s voice, quiet, ‘Norma.’ Her skin went to gooseflesh. ‘Norma.’ It was coming from downstairs.

With her heart hammering she went down, holding tight to the banister, in fear of falling.

She stood in the kitchen, her eye roaming over the high-gloss cabinets, the double sink, the Aga. She cocked her head, heard only the drone of the big fridge-freezer. It was too big. The fridge, the house and everything in it. So large she was lost. There were only two of them for heaven’s sake.

‘Norma.’ From the hall.

She went and stood at the bottom of the stairs. It began to rain outside, the wind hurled drops of rain hard against the window. Norma glanced at the portrait on the wall, a woman staring out from a woodland scene. Her look was hard, accusing.

‘Norma.’ She whirled round. She couldn’t see him but he was here. She could smell him, sense him. He shouldn’t still be here.

‘Go away,’ she said. ‘Please, go away.’

The rain rattled on the glass, a gust of wind moaned through the keyhole in the door.

Norma took the painting down and left it, face against the wall.

She needed something to calm her down, quiet his voice. She’d go mad otherwise.

‘Go away,’ she said once more. What did he want with her? Why wouldn’t he leave her be?