The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) (26 page)

‘He’s called Craig Anderson. He hasn’t been in the
area long. He makes a religion out of alternative medicine, it seems. But he
does get clients, especially those who have had bad experiences of GPs and
hospitals.’

It might be worth contacting Craig Anderson for
the health page. Extreme views were good for stirring up readers’ interest. It
would have been good to have done the interview with Kingston with his disdain
for alternative medicine, and then one with Anderson with the opposite views.
Clearly Anderson was going to end up in the newspapers one day anyhow. Probably
being sued by some patient’s family. He was playing with fire keeping people
away from all medicine apart from his own. How can people like Kingston and
Anderson be so sure they’re right? Erica, devil’s full time advocate, almost
envied that certainty.

The certainty and extreme viewpoint of the
Operator. How powerful the killer or killers must have felt standing over a man
with his hands nailed down, rendered unresisting by a skull fracture. If this
is a serial killer who hates doctors in general, there’s no way he’d give up a
buzz like that. The ultimate thrill. The kind of thrill Kingston, ironically,
might have enjoyed if his tendencies had been allowed to get out of control.

Now there were two murders, #theOperator was well
and truly trending on Twitter. Erica watched with fascination and sometimes
disgust. On Twitter, or in comments on online newspaper columns, on facebook or
messageboard discussions, surprisingly large numbers of people had their own
tales of woe at the hands of doctors and surgeons. Sometimes incompetence or
negligence, but most often lack of empathy, a callous uncaring attitude which
left scars. Sadly unsurprising was how many others were making a sick joke of
it (‘Paul Chambers is asking, can he have his ball back?’). Others were outraged
on behalf of such eminent victims and were blaming the government for NHS cuts,
the police for incompetence, and a list of other regular blame-ees for assorted
sins. There were troll-like provocative statements (‘smug middle-class bastards
had it coming!’) and speculation about The Operator’s psychology, blaming
his/her mother, father, (‘he must have suffered appalling childhood abuse!’)
the government (‘NHS cuts inspiring hate crimes’), even the victims (‘they must
have done something to provoke such violence’).

Another more local effect of creating the monster
that was The Operator was that Stacey came in from the cold. She rang to face
whatever music would greet her unmasking as the homeopathic drug dealer of
Wydsand nightlife, unable to resist the possibility of being near the epicentre
of a publicity earthquake. Erica’s investigations were her only way of getting
in on it. Erica greeted her with anticipation. How would Stacey handle this?

‘Hi Erica. Just thought Aa’d call to say, you’re
welcome!’

‘I’m sorry?’ Why am I apologising, Erica asked
herself.

‘You’re welcome. Ye knaa. Me ringin the bizzies to
tell them ye were in danger.’

‘Oh I see. What made you think I was in danger
Stacey?’

‘Whey, them lads is bad news man. That Scotty...
Aa knaa his bro. Hard bastard, and not in a good way.’

‘So you thought I’d need rescuing by Will Bennett?
Gosh thanks.’

As ever, sarcasm was wasted on Stacey. Not that
she wasn’t bright but she couldn’t be arsed to listen carefully enough to pick
up a tone of voice.

‘Nee probs, pet.’

‘I thought you’d resigned from your ‘internship’.
Not hearing from you.’

‘Yeah well. Bored out me tree at home. Me mam
expects iz to help look after our Noosh. Aa mean, Aa love the bairn to bits ye
knaa, but kids are so bliddy full-on! And Aa didn’t want to upset her routine
like. Aa mean, it gives me mam sommat to dee, looking after our Noosh. Gives
meaning to her life poor owld soul. Aa wouldn’t want to come between them. So,
can Aa, ye knaa, come back like? Aa’ve felt bad about letting yer doon.’

‘Oh, you mean by stealing my remedies and selling
them as E’s?’

Silence. Stacey’s mind raced as she tried to work
out whether denial or confession would be least effort and most effective at
getting her back into Ivy Lodge.

‘Aa nevvor. Whee sez? Aa’ll sue!’ she tried.

‘Will Bennett says. He found the tabs and analysed
them. They are homeopathic pills. And one of the lads asked me if I got them
from ‘her’ presumably meaning you.’

‘Fuck. Busted.’ Erica heard her mutter. Aloud, ‘Whey
ye cannit prove it was me, nor your tablets. There’s loads of homeos aboot. And
neebody’d die of them tablets would they? It’s not like there’s owt in them but
sugar.’

‘Remind me to remind you what I do here Stacey.’
She launched into a lecture on stealing, trust issues, illegality, risking her
business and reputation, feeling it had to be said. ‘And I can’t have you
nicking my stuff!’

‘Aa won’t! Aa promise. Not that Aa did, mind.
Please man Erica, lerriz come back. Aa rang the polis to help ye. Honest.’

‘So why the phonebox?’

‘Me mobile was chargin...’

‘The anonymous tip-off? Let me guess, it was in
the hope the police would show up and chase the lads off before there was any
chance of me finding out about the tablets they had. Sadly, the police already
knew about it and so do I. Not impressed, Stacey.’

‘Aw haway, man Erica, Aa’ll get we a takeaway the
neet. Me Jobseeker’s just come in. My treat. Look, Aa’m sorry, OK? I didn’t
think them pills were worth owt. Aa mean,
ye
sell them way dearer than
Aa did! Haway, we’re a team, ye and me.’

Omigod. Really? Erica’s turn to switch off her
ears as Stacey launched into a tirade of denial, promises, rash claims, and
guilt tripping.

But if she took Stacey back, she’d be saving
little Noosh from her ministrations, just as she’d saved Stacey from giving
birth to her in a filthy alley. And Stacey had shown admirable self-control,
not mentioning Chambers’ murder and her own relentless quest to be where the
media might suddenly be at any moment. Erica had no illusions about why her company
was so attractive to Stacey but she felt a responsibility to Noosh, the
beautiful baby who’d fought her way out of Stacey’s belly.

‘So, chips or rice? Indian or Chinese? Aa bet ye’ve
had enough Chinese lately ye dirty bugger.’

Erica recognised this as an endearment. She was
already calculating whether she’d done enough exercise to ‘earn’ a takeaway,
even a carefully calorie-conscious vegetable-heavy option. God it was wearing
to have this inner voice, like carrying a school bully in your head. But the
alternative – no, let’s not go there. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,
in the immortal words of Kate Moss. Stacey’s voice cut into her thoughts.

‘Ye bring the booze. Aa’ll get we some chips,
fried rice, giant battered onion rings and curry sauce.’

In the Indian takeaway, the
TV news was all about the killing, and Erica saw Paul Chambers for the first
time, smiling soberly in the photo taken before someone bashed his head in and
slashed his genitals like a bag of boil in the bag rice. Thick grey hair, grey
eyes creased narrow as if he spent a lot of time concentrating; pale skin, firm
mouth. He had a fleshy nose with a suggestion of a cleft in the tip, echoed in
the dimple in his chin. An indoor face of central heating and windowless
corridors; he looked as if he’d spent more time in hospitals or seeing patients
at home than on the golf course.

The men waiting for meals looked away from the
screen, shuffling uncomfortably on their plastic benches as if to shift their
beloved balls away from any stray scalpels.

Erica and Stacey lugged their fragrant bag of food
back to Erica’s, nibbling poppadoms. So they were a team now. Oh well. Erica
told Stacey what Gary Thomas had told her about the murder.

‘It’s aal ower the meedja. Everybody’s talking
about it.’ Stacey was wistful. ‘Ah mean, just think what the Operator might do
to a gynaecologist, or a brain surgeon... or an eye surgeon…’ She ladled bright
crimson chunks of chicken tikka masala onto the alp of colourful rice and
rather flaccid chips on her plate. Erica had shelled out for the non-fat and non-carbs
food groups.

Erica forked the more interesting bits from her
sag paneer onto a spoonful of rice. ‘I’m going to see Craig Anderson. A
fundamentalist homeopath.’

‘He been pinching your patients? Aa’ll get him for
ye.’ She tore a naan bread asunder as if it were Anderson’s liver.

‘No thanks, but he might be putting off a few
prospective ones. He’s asking for trouble.’

‘Aye. Aa can see your Gary and the like crucifying
him in the meedja. He’ll kill somebody and their family’ll take him to the
cleaner’s.’

‘
My
Gary? Eeewww. He’s ecstatic about this
new murder, no doubt already heading to London for a career in one of the
national tabloids.’

‘Yeah? What’s Gary look like? He shaggable?’ The
magic word ‘tabloids’ had its usual effect on Stacey.

‘Only if you hate yourself.’ Erica wondered if she
could get any more information from him about Paul Chambers before he went. ‘Anyway.
This Anderson is just as arrogant as Kingston.’

Stacey licked the serving spoon clean. ‘Hey, mebbe
he doesn’t just go for proper real doctors and that. Mebbe he goes for weirdy
types like this Craig thingy and aal. Or ye! Eeh, ye’d better be careful.’

‘No way. He’d be more likely to go for a high
profile therapist.’

‘Yeah, like a health writer with her picture in
the paper every week?’

‘That’s ridiculous. I’m so - harmless.’

‘Makes you all the easier to kill. Hey, Aa could
be your bodyguard. That’d look great on me CV. Aa could get a job as a club
bouncer. Get in free. Get all the lads after iz. And if the Operator tried to
take ye out, Aa’d kick his ass for him.’ Stacey went into a happy dream of
headlines and TV appearances, invites to be on ‘I’m a celebrity, get me out of
here’ and the like. ‘Only Aa’m not eating worms.’

‘What?’ Erica was mystified by this reference to
ordeal by invertebrates on reality TV. ‘They might never catch the Operator. I
can take reasonable precautions, but they can hardly ask all the health
professionals in the land to stay behind bolted doors for ever.’

‘Precautions like not jogging along creepy golf
courses past murder scenes at night?’

‘This nutter attacks people in their homes.’

‘Erm, who got hit by a golf ball?’

‘Hardly the same as being nailed to a table and
having your pride and joy pruned. Are you going to say the golf ball was hurled
by the Operator, aiming to fire it down my throat as a deadly mockery of a
homeopathic tablet?’

‘Omigod! Hells yeah! Erica, ye nearly got
Operated!’ Stacey punched the air in excitement. ‘What’s Gary’s number?’ She
made a grab at Erica’s phone.

‘I wasn’t serious... give me that back! You don’t
think? Nah. Get a grip Stacey. Where were we? Oh yes, Craig Anderson. I must
admit I hadn’t thought that someone like him could also be a target. I was
thinking, could the Operator
be
someone
like
Anderson - an
alternative therapist who is violently anti-doctor? I was already thinking of
interviewing him for the health page. I bet he’ll jump at the chance to
publicise his views. And it’ll give me a chance to find out if there’s any
chance he might be the Operator.’

‘Aye, even better! Investigate now, headlines
later. Bigger ones.’

‘Besides, the Operator will feel I’m on his side
when he reads my piece on Kingston.’

‘Yeah, brilliant. Aa’ll open another bottle eh. We
can drink to bein celebs! Aa’ll have a Lulu Guiness handbag... Noosh’ll have
designer clothes... mebbe Victoria Beckham...’

The next day, Erica
googled Craig Anderson and called him. A quiet, confident but restrained voice
answered.

She introduced herself. ‘I’ve heard you have some
interesting views on conventional as opposed to alternative medicine... I
wondered if you’d be willing to talk to me about your practice and your
opinions on the future of homeopathy?’

‘That sounds interesting. I welcome every chance
to spread the word about the work I do.’ He sounded wary though.

‘Might get you some new patients too.’ She was
poking him with a stick.

‘That would not be my primary purpose.’ She could
feel the drop in temperature over the phone. ‘It’s about truth. I would insist
on approving everything you write in advance of publication, of course. Would
there be a proper contract and an honorarium?’

A what? Who did he think he was? If she wasn’t on
a fishing expedition, she’d have told him to get lost. Here she was, offering
him a free advert, and he was making conditions. Swallowing her irritation she
explained that no, there wouldn’t be either of those, it was a local paper and
she had no budget for that. He still went for the bait of a public platform
though and she agreed to meet him at his practice later in the week.

Will Bennett and Paul
Lozinski sat in a scruffy flat carpeted by pizza boxes and filmed with dust.
Will felt his usual mix of pity, exasperation, and revulsion at the total human
defeat which was writ large on every surface of the place where Pete Barnes
existed, nursing his groin and his grudge. Paul was less concerned about the
interior design, the place didn’t look that different to his own bedroom when
he wasn’t forced by some lass to tidy it up. Still, he was relieved when the
Guv refused mugs of tea for both of them; there’s muck and there’s other folks’
muck and you don’t want it in your mouth.

They’d driven up the coast to Blyth to interview
Barnes, as his name had been on Chambers’ records as a patient and he lived in
their area rather than that of the City force. They’d been systematically
checking patients of both dead doctors to find grudges or motives,
cross-checking any relevant details with complaints to the Hospital Trusts.
Sally had the bright idea of looking up complications of vasectomies and
orthopaedic operations to see if they came up on any blogs or forums. Barnes’
name had come up after exhaustive searching of key words from the medical
records. Bright lass, mused Will. She’d be a Sergeant soon at this rate. And
always keen to take advice or learn from him...