The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) (23 page)

Her silver-tongued eloquence did the trick, and
they had a wonderful afternoon. Better than football. So it was in a warm and
happy mood that they sat in the Pleasure Dome that evening eating and talking
between trips to the buffet which Erica enjoyed guilt-free, another benefit of
spending the afternoon in vigorous and prolonged exercise. She watched Jamie,
in that haze of sexual gratitude people have often mistaken for love, watching
his mouth close around his food and thinking about what he had been doing with
it earlier on, feeling twinges of ongoing pleasure.

‘What is it men of women most desire? The
lineaments of satisfied desire,’ he quoted. ‘Don’t look so surprised at me
quoting Blake, doctors don’t only read Grey’s Anatomy you know.’

‘I adore Blake, and Grey’s Anatomy too for that
matter. All those people shamelessly showing their internal organs.’

Jamie and Erica went clubbing in the city which
was just starting to fill up after the match. The streets rang with tribal
chants and ran with vomit. Not with blood, though. The local team had won.
Strangers embraced, thugs took a night off beating their wives, thieves smiled
at passing cops. Everyone was happy, except for the other team’s fans, who had
been hustled out of town by the police before the locals could add injury to
insult. And except for one other person who was past happiness or any other
emotion by the night was over.

A man on an operating
table.
Another room, still and silent like Kingston’s. Another room of
shiny clean surfaces, sharp instruments and nitrile gloves like hand-shaped
condoms. Another long narrow table. Another man. He too lay quiet and passive,
the back of his skull soft and pulpy, a puddle of dark blood for a pillow. A
heavy ashtray, clean of ash but bloodied at one end, lay on the table between
head and left shoulder. The man’s grey hair lay in a soft fringe on his brow.
His face was untouched, his clouded eyes catching a stray photon of light as he
gazed at the ceiling, seeing nothing. The same patch of ceiling so many men had
gazed at from this table, feeling cold, scared, suddenly small, shamed and
vulnerable. This man wasn’t feeling anything. Not now, not ever again. Which
was just as well. Protruding from the palms of his hands two scalpels appeared to
pin them to the table, gleaming softly in the diminished light. His comfortably
casual checked shirt was untucked and turned back, his trousers unzipped and
pulled down to mid thigh. Beneath the short, sad, collapsed tube of penis, his
scrotum had been sliced open and his lap was full of blood.

Next morning, Erica woke
first and lay looking at Jamie’s sleeping face. So pretty. It was good having
him there in the morning in her bed, warm and waiting, just as it was good
between their trysts to have her bed luxuriously to herself. He seemed to feel
her scrutiny and opened his dark eyes, a slow smile beginning to widen his
mouth. His skin smelled fabulous. She breathed him in as he reached for her and
she kissed him, her hand swooping down to scoop up his balls and lift, squeeze
carefully, feeling him harden and gasp under her as she fell upon him like a
female praying mantis in a hungry mood.

After Jamie went back to the hospital, she went
for her usual swim, then with her wet hair tied up under a beanie, straight out
of the sea front building for a run along the beach, wintry and deserted except
for a few hardcore dog emptiers. She was in such a good mood that she took off
her trainers and ran through the edge of the waves. It hurt, it was so icy,
belying the silvery beauty of the pewter grey sea. She had trouble getting the
trainers back onto her damp, numb feet when she left the sand, and ran home as
the feeling seeped back painfully into her toes. She had a hot shower, the sand
swirling chaotically down the drain. Life was a bower of bliss, she thought
prematurely as she reached for a crusty white towel.

Her phone buzzed. A chirpy male voice assaulted
her ear.

‘Erica! It’s Gary!’

Pause as if for round of applause.

Why was Ian Dunne’s young protégé, ace reporter in
the making, ringing her up on a Sunday morning?

‘What do you want?’

‘Come on, don’t go all snooty on me. I’m calling
you up to tell you some hot hot news. If a feature writer knows what that is...
don’t hang up! Only kidding...’ He sounded excited, and more than usually
pleased with himself. ‘There’s been another one!’

‘Another what? You’ve had a second wet dream?
Congratulations.’

‘Another murder! And it’s a wet dream alright!
Hope you’ve got an alibi for last night - got the impression the Inspector
fancied you for the last one – or just fancied you!’

He chortled at his own wit.

She wondered if this was his idea of a joke.
Probably somebody got killed in a fight outside a pub - murder was uncommon in
the area, but manslaughter could follow beer like a whisky chaser when a brawl
got out of hand.

‘Go on then Gary, unburden yourself.’

‘Ooh, is that an invitation?’

‘Groogh... hang on while I fetch a bucket.’

‘I can’t fill a whole bucket, but thanks for the
compliment! Anyhoo, I was out and about last night, watching out for trouble,
and causing some and all, what am I like...’

‘Let’s not go there until we’ve got a world-class
psychiatrist handy...’

‘...and I heard a call-out on the police frequency...
it was about half two, the clubs were just coming out, I had a feeling there
might be more trouble, then, call it an instinct, reporter’s instinct...’

Erica sighed, towelling her hair while Gary’s
voice chirped out of the phone like a deranged sparrow. He’d rung up to boast,
no doubt all hyped up at being on the scene of some poor bloke getting glassed
or having his ear bitten off by his erstwhile ‘bessie mate’.

‘Very impressive, Gary, now if you don’t mind...’

‘Listen, Erica! Didn’t you hear me, I said there’s
been another murder! Like Kingston!’

Now he had her attention. ‘Go on, tell.’

‘Oh, now you’re getting your knickers in a twist!
Well, since I owe that great Kingston story partly to you, OK...’

‘Entirely to me.’ Now desperate to hear she was
still unable to help contradicting.

‘Another doctor’s hung up his stethoscope, gone to
that waiting room in the sky, put on heavenly scrubs. God I’m on fire! Might
use those... I’m surprised you haven’t heard it on the news. The media are
flocking and I was on the spot! First kid on the block, again! Yes!’ She could
see him punching the air like a triumphant Toon striker.

‘Get the focus off yourself, Gary, and onto the
story.’

‘Guy called Paul Chambers. Lives up in Jezzie.’

Jesmond, one of the more salubrious suburbs of
Newcastle, a middle-class ghetto heaving with university lecturers and doctors
as well as students with rich parents and bohemian trustafarians. More recently
its main street had become a clubbers’ paradise of purple lighting, patio
heaters and herds of prowling taxis as the hotels became bars and filled up
with noisy drinkers who fancied a change from city centre or seafront, while
any residents who objected were marooned there by massive mortgages and the
housing slump.

‘He’s a cutter too, like old Robert K, but not an
orthopaedic surgeon! Though thinking of bones... And he works, worked, at the
Royal Elizabeth Infirmary. Quite a bit older than Kingston, in his fifties, not
far off retirement actually. Poor sad git lived alone. Wife died some years
back. Cancer. Never got over it. With all them pretty nurses just gagging...
well anyway, there he is, in his own home, in his own private consulting room,
on his own examining table, another one doing a spot of private work as well as
NHS, nailed like a charva lass in a nightclub toilet.’

‘Nailed how exactly?’

‘Same as Kingston, according to the police.’

‘The police gave you info instead of chucking you
out?’

‘Well the city bizzies were there, local DCI quite
a media fan I think, then your pal Willy-Boy and DCS Massum showed up, called
in because of the similar MO. They must have burned rubber up the coast road
and changed out of their jimjams on the move. The two lots of cops were
circling each other like territorial bisons on heat... ‘it’s my case, no it’s
mine you bastard’, type of thing. I kind of did a tap dance amongst them to get
max info.’

‘So, the info you so skilfully gleaned from these
gladiatorial buffalo?’

‘Eh? Right. Well. Whacked over the back of the
head with a heavy object, a marble ashtray this time, hands nailed to the
table, pinned with some sort of blades. Isn’t it fantastic! A serial killer,
right here in the north east, oh thank you god!’

‘You really are vile Gary, cut out the gloating
will you. For one thing, this Paul Chambers was a person, not just a story, and
for another, you’re going over the top. The Archers is a serial. This is two
similar murders.’

‘Oh, yes, a serial killer, and he’s got a name
already. And wait for it, I, Gary, invented it! I got it tweeted straight off, hashtagged
it asap, shared it everywhere, and the media are running with it!’

‘Disgusting image...’

‘Aren’t you going to ask me his name? Well it’s ‘The
Operator’. How cool is that?’

‘About as cool as you’re sexy.’

‘I knew you’d not resist me for long! And you
haven’t heard the best bit yet. Erm, I mean, the worst. I said Chambers wasn’t
an orthopaedic surgeon. Aren’t you interested to know what he was?’

‘Go on, tell me.’

‘He was a urologist! Specialised in vasectomies.
Did them privately in his own consulting room as well as on the NHS. So what
did the bastard do to him? A very messy vasectomy, kind of, with one of his own
blades. That is one smooooth Operator…Hmm, wasn’t there a song? Maybe they’ll
play it when I’m on the TV news... Anyway, if Chambers had lived, he’d be
singing soprano. Gross, eh!’

Erica visualised the scene. Blood. A hideous
wound. Thank god she didn’t walk in on this one. But some poor soul must have.

‘Gary, you’re the one that’s gross.’

‘Can’t help it Erica, I’m high as a kite, had no
sleep all night, I’ve got more coffee in me than Costa, and anyway, Chambers
was probably dead or deeply unconscious and dying before the cold steel did its
work. Probably never knew what hit him. Reunited with his dead wife, eh? Quite
heartwarming, that angle. Hmm...’

‘You’ll have people queuing up to be murdered, you
silver-tongued bastard. Do the police think it’s the same killer?’

‘Looks like it! I’ve been able to get some
background on the victim from Dunne - our esteemed editor’s come up trumps.
Chambers belonged to his Golf Club, the city one.’

Her mind was racing. Why did golf of all things
keep cropping up? Or was it just that consultants and golf go together? And
what would this mean for Tessa? She must get information from Gary while he was
high on adrenaline and ego.

‘So how come the murder was discovered in the
early hours, if this guy lived alone?’

‘Young clubber, lives with his posh parents over
the road from Chambers, came home after a night out, saw lights on, unusual
apparently, then noticed the door was open, went in, saw the body, raised the
place, lost all his designer lager in the hall. Not a pretty sight. Must have
happened last night when everybody was watching the match on TV. Anyway, I
thought I’d ring you, old colleagues blah blah, and I did owe you one. And I’ll
give you one any time you like! Boom boom! Can’t hang around, I’ve got the
nationals to talk to, but maybe we could get together for a drink soonest -’

Gary thought a glass of wine bought him full
sexual favours. Not for a whole vineyard, with him.

Erica finished drying her hair and made tea. While
she had been in bed with Jamie, some poor lonely bloke was being murdered. Sex
and death, twin pillars of existence, not to mention the media. And a murdered
vasectomy surgeon was a dream combo.

At least this time Erica had an alibi; Inspector
Bennett
and his gang couldn’t try to frighten her off with their suspicions.
Jamie had been with her all evening and all night, bless his little cotton
socks. And she had been with him all evening and all night... Yes! Gary-like,
she punched the air, sploshing Lapsang Souchong over herself as the
significance sank in, more slowly than the tea.

If Jamie was her alibi, she was his. Although she
had not seriously suspected him, she had been unable to forget that he did have
a motive, or at least hated Kingston. The demands of her rampant libido had
drowned out the small voice of caution. But it was a relief to know that he was
innocent. At least of this second killing, her mathematician’s mind tried to
butt in, this one might be a copy cat, but she suppressed it firmly. Maybe it
was too soon to speak of a serial killer. But it looked as if the killer of
both of them was someone who was down on doctors, to paraphrase the Ripper,
rather than someone who had a personal motive against Robert Kingston.

All the research she’d done into Kingston’s life
and relationships, all the muck that had floated to the top of his whitewashed
existence. Tessa, his abused wife. Jamie Lau and many others, bullied at work.
Laura Gibson, embittered patient who had endured his sadism helplessly. Again,
many others, each believing themselves alone. Relatives of patients put through
unnecessary suffering to boost his career. Plenty of room for resentment there.
The hoodies. All that, and then it might turn out to be some random nutter who
hated doctors.

Kingston was news again. Without him, no serial
killer, no Operator.

Another result, Tessa would be free of suspicion
now. What motive would she have for killing Chambers? She could move on, find a
new life, perhaps rewarding work, or maybe just another husband who wasn’t a
sadist. Surely after the police had released Tessa, being unable to hold her
any longer without charge, they would have been watching her. Will had believed
she had a boyfriend somewhere. If they’d been watching her that night, the
police would be her alibi. A nice thought. Though it was ironic that Tessa had
been cleared not by Erica’s well meant efforts, but by those of a deranged
killer.