Primal Cut (21 page)

The causes of the accident have not yet been established. The Lea Bridge road is a notorious accident black spot. There is no suggestion that the driver had been drinking. Police are appealing for witnesses to this incident.

Sweat ran into Underwood’s eyes. There it was. Gary Dexter had been in a car accident in November 1994. He had survived at least in the short term. There would be records of his treatment
at
Whipps Cross Hospital. Underwood was unsure of the legal position with regard to accessing patient medical records. He suspected that he would need a court order.

Underwood found a telephone number for the switchboard at Whipps Cross Hospital, Leytonstone. He called on his mobile. After a long delay while he was connected with the relevant department, Underwood was finally put through to Susan Bruce, the Medical Records Manager. He requested a meeting and, after much persuasion, she eventually agreed to see him at five-thirty that afternoon.

Susan Bruce’s office was much tidier than Underwood had expected. He had imagined a frantic chaos of paperwork and aggression. Her manner on the phone had been curt to say the least: very much the no nonsense young NHS executive. As it happened, the office was extremely well appointed with a brand new flat screen computer, a stylish posture chair and some tasteful prints of King’s College Cambridge on the wall.

After a minute of exchanging pleasantries, Underwood decided that, under different circumstances, he might rather like Susan Bruce. She was assertive, obviously intelligent and frank. Qualities he admired.

And
lacked.

‘I have an unusual request,’ Underwood said as she sat down behind her desk.

‘Go on.’

‘At New Bolden CID we are currently conducting a murder investigation. Time is a factor. A name has cropped up. Someone we are trying to locate was treated here for serious injuries in November 1994 after a car accident. I need to see his medical record.’

Susan Bruce shook her head. ‘That’s not possible. The police have no automatic right of access to clinical information.’

‘Yes, I thought that might be the case.’

‘This trust has a duty to protect the confidentiality of its patients. I’m sure you understand that.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Do you have a subpoena?’

‘No, I don’t. The person in question is not a suspect. We merely wish to question him.’

‘Why do you need to see his medical records then?’

‘I was hoping to find his current whereabouts.’

‘Mr Underwood, you can’t just charge in here and demand to see private clinical records. There are procedures. The police may only compel an NHS Trust to hand over such records after
the
receipt of a court order.’

‘Is it possible to make an exception?’ Underwood pleaded.

‘No. Exceptional disclosures can only be made to a court on receipt of a subpoena or to a coroner on receipt of a written request.’

‘If I had a fax from a coroner requesting information from a patient’s clinical records, could you provide it to me?’

‘No. I could provide it to the coroner in question.’ Susan Bruce seemed to be running out of patience with Underwood.

‘Is there somewhere I could make a phone call in private?’ Underwood asked.

‘Try the office next door. Mr Underwood, I’m very busy…’

‘I understand. Give me two minutes.’

Underwood walked into the adjacent office and closed the connecting door. He found Roger Leach’s phone number on his mobile and called.

‘Leach.’

‘Roger, it’s John Underwood.’

‘Why are you whispering? I can hardly hear you old chap,’ Leach said.

‘What’s the name of your mate at the district coroner’s office?’

‘Chris Ball.’

‘Can you call him and ask him to fax a request
for
clinical record information to Whipps Cross Hospital in London?’

‘Why, may I ask?’

‘I need access to someone’s medical records. It’s for a case. The Medical Records Officer at Whipps Cross won’t let me.’

‘Quite right too. You should know better.’

‘I wouldn’t ask unless it was urgent. All I need is an address.’

‘I dare say.’

‘Come on Roger,’ Underwood urged. ‘The woman here says she can release the information if she gets a fax from a coroner’s office.’

‘Yes, but she’ll only tell the coroner, not you.’

‘I thought you could find out from him and tell me.’

‘God help us,’ Leach exhaled loudly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I appreciate it.’

‘I’ll call you back.’

Underwood waited impatiently. His mobile rang five minutes later. It was Leach.

‘OK. He’ll do it. Give me the patient’s name and the fax number of the hospital.’

‘The name is Gary Dexter. He was admitted in November 1994 after a serious road crash.’

‘Dexter? Is he a relation of our esteemed leader?’

‘No,’ Underwood lied, ‘it’s a common name.’ He
walked
back into Susan Bruce’s office and asked her for her fax number.

The fax from the Cambridge District Coroner’s Office came through fifteen minutes later. Susan Bruce entered Gary Dexter’s name into her computer and printed his details.

‘You realise that I can’t give you this information, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It goes directly back on the fax to the coroner.’

‘I appreciate everything you’ve done,’ Underwood gabbled back at her. ‘You have been a huge help to our enquiry.’

Back inside his car a few minutes later, Underwood awaited the call from Leach. It came shortly before 6.45 p.m.

‘OK John, do you have a pen and paper?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Gary Dexter, formerly of 9 Grove Gardens, Wanstead. Admitted 9
^th
November 1994 after road traffic accident. Discharged six months later to Beech View Care Centre, Wilding Road, Leytonstone, London. That’s all there is.’

‘That’s brilliant, Roger. I owe you one.’

‘You owe me several. Don’t put me in a position like that again. Procedures exist for good reasons, John: to protect patients and to protect you. You could have got us all in serious trouble pissing about like that.’

Underwood
clicked off his phone and drove the short distance through rush hour traffic to Leytonstone.

The Beech View Care Centre was located in a quiet residential street. Underwood parked on the road outside. A nurse sat at the reception desk in the entrance hall of the old building. She smiled.

‘Can I help?’ she asked.

‘Hello. I’m John Underwood. I’m a police officer.’ He showed her his identification card which she checked carefully. ‘I have an enquiry about someone who was a patient here about eight years ago. Can I speak to whoever’s in charge?’

‘The consultant won’t be back until the morning. What was the name of the patient?’

‘Gary Dexter.’

‘Oh. Mr Dexter is in room seven on the first floor.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Gary Dexter is in room seven on the first floor.’

‘He’s still here?’ Underwood was stunned.

‘He doesn’t have any choice, Inspector,’ the nurse continued. ‘I’m Hannah. Would you like me to take you up?’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s been paralysed since the accident.’

‘For eight years?’

‘Forever, I’m afraid. His neck was broken. I’ve
been
here for two years. You’re the first person that’s visited him. He’s got no living family apparently.’

Hannah stepped out from behind the reception desk.

‘I’ll take you up.’

Six months on from that day of uncomfortable revelations in East London, as rain spilled across his car windscreen and the grey sprawl of the North Sea stretched ahead of him, Underwood wondered if he could find the strength to carry on.

Henry Braun left the Admiral pub at 11.30 p.m. The pub was located at the centre of a large sprawl of council housing south-west of Peterborough town centre. A young couple were having sex against the wall of the pub. Normally, Braun would have lit a cigarette and watched. However, tonight he was in no mood for jollities. Rain spread across the road in front of him. Braun folded up the collar of his jacket as he began to walk home. His thoughts – only partially stewed by export lager – focused on his brother. Nicholas had been given a sentence of twelve years. Already, his brother looked like a man broken by prison life. Henry
Braun’s anger was mitigated only by the realisation that he had only narrowly escaped prosecution himself.

He had visited Nicholas that afternoon in Bunden Prison, a dismal, grey sprawl in the Fens north of Cambridge. Nicholas had cried behind the glass that divided them. The sight had shocked him. His brother was broken. Twelve years seemed like a lifetime.

He tried not to let the memory upset him. Henry knew he had a job to do. He had moved into Nicholas Braun’s house in Gorton Row, Peterborough a couple of days previously. Ostensibly, this was to keep a close watch on Nicholas’s wife, Janice. He had already screwed her once that afternoon. As she had sat eating crisps in front of a chat show, he had dragged her onto the floor and pumped her next to the electric fire. Janice hadn’t taken her eyes off the television once. It had just made him pump harder. Henry didn’t feel any guilt. Nicholas had asked him to make sure that his wife was being taken care of. Henry knew it was always best to keep it in the family.

As he turned into Gorton Row, Henry Braun became aware that a man was following him. Unafraid, grasping the kitchen knife that he always carried in his jacket pocket, he turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer.

‘Is there a problem mate?’ Henry snarled at the huge shape of Bartholomew Garrod.

‘Are you Henry Braun?’ came the reply.

‘What if I am?’ Henry took a half step back: the size of the man before him was instantly sobering.

‘I have a business proposition for you,’ Garrod replied.

‘That’s nice of you,’ Henry said sarcastically, ‘but seeing as I don’t know you, seeing as you do business by following people about in the dark, you’ll forgive me if I tell you to sod off.’

‘I saw your brother on television,’ Garrod said. ‘He was treated badly I hear.’

‘What is this?’ Braun snapped angrily, ‘are you a copper? Because if you are, you can tell DI bleeding Dexter that her time will come soon enough.’

Garrod’s smile appeared under the yellow fuzz of a streetlight. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to talk with you about.’

Braun watched him closely. ‘Who are you?’

‘Call me George. Can we go inside?’

‘What makes you think I live here?’

‘I heard on the news that your family live on Gorton Row. I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘What sort of business proposition are you offering?’

‘I’ll tell you inside.’

Henry considered for a moment. ‘Wait a minute.
Did you write a note to my brother? He mentioned someone called George had written some cryptic fucking message to him.’

‘I did write to him.’

Braun decided to take a chance. ‘It’s over here: number eleven.’

The house was tiny. Its narrow entrance hall made Garrod look even more enormous. Braun led him into the sparse little living room and flicked on the light.

For the first time he could see Garrod’s features clearly. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked between puffs on his cigarette. ‘You look familiar.’

‘We haven’t met.’ Garrod sat in what had been Nicholas Braun’s favourite armchair. ‘I watched your brother’s case on the television. I read about it too. I collect newspapers. There was an interesting story in there today about a Mr Woollard. The police are prosecuting him for dog fighting offences. He’s an old acquaintance of mine.’

‘Why are you so interested in my brother?’

‘I’m not really. I’m more interested in the policewoman who put him away.’

Henry Braun looked at Garrod carefully. The man was huge, with arms at least twice the thickness of his own. His face was pitted and scarred from years of violence. Braun recognised the hallmarks of a serious player.

‘DI Dexter,’ Braun said eventually, ‘fucking bitch. What about her?’

‘I have a personal issue to resolve with her,’ Garrod said. ‘I thought you might like to be involved.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘She put your brother away. You just called her a “fucking bitch”.’

‘She is a fucking bitch. But I don’t want to go to prison for her.’

‘I had a brother once too,’ Garrod observed. ‘She killed him. He had mental problems. She scared him. Turned up at our shop with about twenty coppers. Well, poor old Ray wouldn’t have known what was happening. He used to get scared by the television sometimes. He ran out into the street. He was trying to get away you see. A car hit him. I saw it. I heard his bones snap. Alison Dexter took my brother’s life and now she’s done the same to yours.’

Henry Braun hesitated. He remembered Nicholas, broken and pathetic, dead behind prison glass.

Sensing success, Garrod continued, ‘My brother was my best friend. Our Dad was mean you see. He was fucked up by the war. Saw terrible things. He was a drinker and used to knock me about. It never bothered me really. I had Ray you see. Once my Dad was gone, Ray sort of became my son. She
took him away from me. Now, it’s time for payback.’

‘Where do I fit into all this?’ Braun asked, intrigued.

‘I need some help. I’ll give you the details if you’re interested.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘Satisfaction.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Once we’ve got her, I’ll let you watch.’

‘Watch what?’

Garrod smiled. ‘She’s got a big surprise coming. I thought you’d enjoy it.’

‘You’re going to grab her?’