The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) (5 page)

But then as she continued her fast crawl up and
down, she began to picture the crime scene, and instead of all her focus being
on Kingtson’s poor abused dead body, she allowed herself to recall other
elements in the room. Kingston’s big masculine desk. What was on it? Something
purple... yes, an open box of disposable nitrile surgical gloves. Surely even
the stupidest murderer would have used those, so handily provided? And there
was another larger dispensing box, yes, those disposable aprons they use for
barrier nursing. That should complicate the forensics.

Oh well, there was no real reason she’d be
involved with the case at all, apart from the accident of discovering the body,
which she’d probably have to testify about at the inquest, if not the eventual
murder trial, supposing Will and his gang got somebody bang to rights. The
pulsating rhythms of Swedish House Mafia got her through the last few lengths
before she got out and cycled home to get ready for work.

Dr Johnstone was beginning
the post-mortem, dictating and recording his findings and opening up the late
surgeon with instruments similar to his own. The great Y shaped incision, the
rafts of ribs cut free and moved to expose heart and lungs, the organs removed
one by one, weighed and set aside for consideration. The stomach contents and
various samples were sent to the lab, in case some kind of sedative or poison
had been used to subdue him as well as the crude anaesthetic of the large stone
applied to his skull. Kingston had eaten an evening meal, a Marks and Spencer
ready meal, corresponding as far as he could tell before analysis with the
dirty plates in Kingston’s dishwasher, presumably without realising it was his
last, and its stage of digestion confirmed the rough time of death as being late
at night. Somewhere between eleven and three.

The man, on the table.
The killer was as aroused as Erica though for different reasons. The fresh flowering
into murder felt so good, even the fear of being caught was a rush. The memory
of Kingston helpless on his own examination table, as the nails were bashed in,
brought a powerful surge of euphoria-creating endorphins better than heroin. A
step had been taken, which could not be reversed, but at the moment there were
no regrets. Except that it was over.

‘So it’s your case then
Will.’ They were grabbing a coffee before setting off, Will to see Johnstone
complete the PM and Hassan to organise the team’s routine investigations.

‘Our case, Hassan me old marra. Or mine, in the
sense that it’s my chance to give CPR to my career and save Golden Boy some
wonga in the process. Anyway, he’s convinced it’s the wife, and he may possibly
be right.’

‘On the old stopped clock model?’

‘Exactly, though twice a day for GB’s a bit
optimistic. So we’ll keep the uniformed lot on house to house, any unexplained
visitors, suspicious characters hanging about the street, anything about
Kingston that might be relevant, you know the drill.’

‘Separated wife, not divorced.’ Hassan had been
following his own train of thought. ‘She might want to inherit all his money
rather than make do with a divorce settlement. I assume he was pretty well off.’

‘Hell yes, those big houses backing onto the golf
course are worth a mint.’

‘Be handy if it is that easy, with all the
forensics nightmare - hard shiny surfaces, disposable gloves and aprons, bleach
sprays and other cleaning stuffs all over the place... And fancy Erica Bruce popping
up again.’

‘Yes fancy.’ Will started pushing his hair up into
spikes, a habit he had when stressed or frustrated. He’d push it up without
thinking, then realise and smooth it down again. He’d learned to control the
habit when among the team after hearing they’d started calling him ‘Sonic’
after the hedgehog... it hadn’t caught on though, some called him ‘Bambi’
because of the cartoon-length eyelashes fringing his too-blue eyes. Too late,
he’d realised Sonic would have been a better option. Speaking of options and
mistakes... he smoothed down his hair.

‘Yes it’s a pain. She’s a pain. And it’s hard to
believe it’s just a coincidence she discovered the body. But how can it be
anything else?’

‘Unless she did him in.’

‘Hmm. She didn’t seem too keen on him, did she?’ Will
sounded wistful.

Hassan was about to reply, when Golden Boy
suddenly manifested between them.

‘Just a word to the wise, lads. Our flesh-carving
victim was a keen golfer. And so’s the Chief Constable, as he’s just pointed
out to me. They played together sometimes. Just passing it on. No pressure!’
And he rolled away.

‘No pressure! Yeah, right. Well Dr Johnstone and
bits of Robert Kingston await.’

‘How about I get on Kingston’s Will and his
assets, check if he was worth murdering?’

‘OK Hassan, I think Sally brought his address book
back, no doubt his solicitor’s in there.’

‘Not really put off your game by Erica being
involved are you Will?’

‘Nah. She’s in the past as far as I’m concerned.
There’s no reason she should be involved any further, thank god.’

Erica, beginning the
mammoth task of drying her thick hair using a bank of three hairdryers which overheated
and cut out in turn, found the local radio news was full of the story and
paused to listen. Then, aware of the pile of emails and calls from patients
forming, and the list of people to see today, she put on the TV local news
instead and switched on the subtitles before turning the hairdryer back on. The
boss of the NHS trust for whom Kingston did his national health work was all
over the media telling the public how tragic it was and what a loss to
orthopaedic surgery.

‘Mr Kingston was an outstanding surgeon whose work
has been of great benefit to the people of this area... a popular man, prominent
in the community... someone I’ve played golf with many times.....our sympathies
go out to his family.’

They didn’t specify who the ‘family’ were. Bit
awkward with the wife being almost ex. Of course, the closest family members
are automatically suspect in a murder case. No doubt Will would head straight
for the traditional suspect spouse, Erica thought. In some ways, so
conventional a mind, if not in bed.

They’d managed to find the spokeswoman for Hip Hip
Hurrah, Kingston’s local fan club and Facebook Group of people who’d had twin
hip replacements under his knife. There was also Knees Up, for knee replacement
veterans. Common as the op was, they all associated him with the end of chronic
pain and disability, and she spoke of him in glowing terms, looking emotional.

‘He was a saint, that man, a saint. He made me
walk again after years in pain, it was a miracle. I don’t know how anybody
could do this, it must have been a madman. It’s terrible these days, you’re not
safe in your own house....’

Hair relatively tamed, hairdryers basically
buggered, Erica checked her emails, texts and voicemail, steering well clear of
Facebook and Twitter, for now. Luckily she’d kept the day before free, to write
up the intended interview with Kingston and do some admin, but she had
appointments all day today. No cancellations. In fact several patients had rung
or emailed asking for urgent appointments, unusual in alternative medicine, and
Erica was pretty sure it was because of the media coverage of her finding Kingston’s
body. Was this proof of the power of publicity, or did they just want to get
some gory details from her first-hand? Some seemed genuine, a desperate parent
with a teething baby, for example, and she offered a slot for later in the day
by email before cycling off to work. Parents of babies, fearful of conventional
medicine, were mainstays of her homeopathy practice at Ivy Lodge, a lovely old
Georgian house which was now a centre for alternative medicine. Ivy Lodge also
housed an aromatherapist/masseuse, her friend Rina who was away on a long trip
with her fiancé Dave. There was also a reflexologist, a chiropractor, and a
hypnotherapist, Miles Fredericks. He drew up at the kerb in his Prisoner-style
kit car as she walked up the steps, bumping her bike strenuously upwards to
store it in the back. Extra calories used, always a good thing. The morning sun
made the Georgian sandstone of the fine old terrace glow golden, and ignited
the tubs of generic local authority plants dotted along the street by a council
sporadically mindful of Britain in Bloom and the local elections.

Miles overtook her on the steps with his springing
stride, hair flopping into his eyes as usual. He claimed it was hard to have a
personal life as a hypnotherapist, because whenever he gazed into someone’s
eyes, they were terrified he was putting the ‘fluence on them. Hence the
flopping hair to curtain them, or so Erica and Rina had theorised. His partner Mel
was immune to hypnosis, understandable as it meant there was still some mystery
in Miles’ love life.

‘Morning Erica!’ he chirped, disappearing into the
building.

‘Be seeing you!’ she replied, making a circle of her
thumb and forefinger to continue the Prisoner motif.

Before Erica could enter the building with time to
spare for a mug of herbal tea and a read of the first patient’s notes, a smell
of cigarettes and a familiar voice assaulted her.

‘Fuck me! Aa cannit believe ye bike to work. Ye
need help, man Erica!’

‘Stacey, I’ve told you, no swearing in the
workplace!’

‘We’re still ootside man! Ye never answered me
messages,’ accused Stacey, waving the phone which seemed surgically sutured to
her non-smoking hand. ‘Honest man, ye need iz! Good job I’m yer intern, innit?’

‘You’re not my... look Stacey, I’ve got a lot on,’
Erica struggled to hold the door open while she manoeuvered her bike inside,
painfully barking her shin on a pedal in the process. ‘Ff- !’

‘Nee swearin, Erica!’ Clearly helping with the
door was not the role Stacey envisaged for herself. ‘Look man it’s yer lucky day!’

‘Erm well it’s luckier than yesterday, no corpses
as yet. Ow, sod it!’ The door had struck her elbow.

‘That
was
the lucky bit man, eeh I dunno,
yer clueless! It’ll get we into the papers man, even on the telly if we tell it
right!’

‘Who’s ‘we’ and no thanks.’

‘Well that’s alreet for ye, livin on lentils and Weetabix
and that horbal tea like an anorexic rabbit, worrabout me? Single mam,
struggling to get by... I’ve reinvented meself for the sake of me dream, haven’a?
Worrabout me dreeeeem! A girl’s entitled to her dreeeem! And put the kettle on
when yer get inside, will yer, Aa need a coffee.’

‘You needn’t have bothered getting up. Must be
early for you.’ Erica had the bike almost through the door.

‘Bit late yer mean. Aa’ve not been home yet, man,
great night up in toon, went to the after-party, shagged a DJ, well he said he
was, result! I’m just on me way back. Howay, ye needn’t look so stuck up, it’s
not long since ye were dancing every neet doon the sea front clubs, Aa
remember! And hookin up with random guys...’

‘Yes well something called work’s got in the way a
bit lately. Or maybe I’m getting old.’

‘Aye Aa knaa, you’re nearly pushin thorty! That’s
not the point, make iz a coffee and put plenty sugar in, I’ll be in in a bit
when I’ve finished me tab.’

Erica went in alone and did indeed switch her
tomato red kettle on. Stacey had given herself a makeover to get the look
sported by her role models on reality TV show, ‘Geordie Shore’. She’d lost some
weight, by smoking more and by switching to vodka and diet coke instead of
beer, alcopops and cocktails, so she was thinner but with the muffin top still
in place, pregnancy and bad muscle tone ensuring its survival. Her formerly blonde-streaked
lank hair was now jet black beyond the dreams of any African princess, and
would have drained any natural colour from her pale northern face, except that
it was now glowing with orange spray-tan. Her black mass of hair was worn long,
but back-combed over a pad 60s style to form a high pile on her head, with a
fat wodge of fringe brushed sideways across her brow as fashion dictated. Huge
black-rimmed eyes bolstered with ranks of false lashes and litres of eyeliner
balanced the look, after the night’s activities somewhat smudged and displaced.
Her tiny tight neon pink dress was complemented by the anatomically impossible
high heels dangling from her wrist, the clubbing Geordie girl’s accessory of
choice once a few drinks had gone down.

Hoping Stacey would stay outside or go home, Erica
got ready for work, sipping a ginger tea. Suddenly her door opened, and a man
walked in, waving some kind of ID at her. This was not the expected youngster
worried about his acne... no it was a reporter from a city paper with aspirations
to tabloid glory, Stacey hard on his heels.

A confused conversation ensued, ‘your story’ ‘I’d
rather not’ ‘haway man Erica!’ ‘our readers’ ‘pleeeese Erica!’ ‘must have been
traumatic for you’ ‘Aa’m the intern here ye knaa’ ‘you are how old pet?’ ‘police
investigation, privacy, at work, no thanks NO!’ being the edited highlights
before the reporter slunk off, but only after she’d added ‘
Guardian
has
the exclusive’. Meaning the local
Evening Guardian
of course but hey.

Stacey was disgusted. ‘You bliddy stupid...’

‘So that’s why you waited outside. I assume you’d
arranged to meet him here, pretty impressive! But don’t do it again.’

‘You’ll never get any wonga, how’ll yer afford a
boob job on what ye make?’

‘I don’t want a boob job.’

‘It’s aal very well not eatin and deein exercise
and that, but then ye have to put the fat back in yer tits. Or plastic or
worreva.’

‘Attractive as that sounds, no thanks.’

‘Not that Aa need any.’ She looked down
complacently at her own impressive frontage. ‘Well it’s not too late. The
meedja could do a story about ye and that Will Bennett! ‘A doomed romance, once
they were everything to each other, their lurve flowered among the fingerprints
and bloodstains, then the job came between them, until destiny brought them back
together over a murdered medic’s tortured corpse.’ It’s got everything except
royalty! And it’s even true!’