I mean, I know better now, obviously.
I’m teaming Debbie and Bakshi up to take on George, who’s another one of the nurses. He’s the ward’s gentle giant, and yeah, I’m being just a bit sarcastic. I’m not saying he’s rough when he doesn’t need to be, but let’s just say he’s well aware that he’s a big lad. Holding himself back, like he’d love nothing more than for Ilias or Tony to have a pop at him. He’s got a proper Geordie accent and of course he’s a Newcastle fan, which I take every chance to wind him up about. Telling him that clearly means he’s madder than anyone in here.
He told me once he always wanted to be a copper, but they wouldn’t let him join, and that made me wonder just what George might have got up to when he was younger. I mean, these days they’ll let any nutcase in.
So, first up then, it’s Bakshi and Debbie versus George. Result: even with two against one, and despite the fact that Debbie would probably fight dirty, George is the only winner here, taking the pair of them out inside the first thirty seconds. Quick and ugly.
I reckon a match-up between the ward’s two healthcare assistants would give the crowd a better spectacle and certainly a longer one. Malaika’s Indian, same as Dr Bakshi, only with a really thick Brummie accent. Pure Peaky Blinders, Malaika is, but with a better haircut (red streaks which look cool) and without the hidden razor blades. Trust me, none of the people who work in here are a soft touch, but she’s definitely not the strictest. If you’re watching something on TV, she’ll maybe let you have another ten minutes after you’re supposed to be in bed, and if you were on escorted leave and she took you outside for a cigarette, she wouldn’t rush you back in the second you’d stubbed it out. She’s a smoker herself, so she’s always happy enough to go with you.
Malaika’s pretty tight with George, always whispering in corners, and for a while, I thought there was something going on between them. Then I found out she was gay – it was actually George that told me – so I let my overly fertile imagination run riot in other ways. It’s fun to make things up about the staff, invent weird and wonderful private lives for them. Like Malaika probably had quite a strict upbringing, maybe an arranged marriage she got herself out of, so now, when she’s not at work, she’s wild and into all sorts. Death-metal and coke and stuff. I know she’s got a temper on her, too, because I heard her arguing about something with Debbie the other day.
I wonder how she’ll fare, toe to toe in the arena with the Polish Punisher.
Mia would probably be popular with the crowd. She’s got spiky blonde hair and a cute accent and she’s pretty, but if I’m honest she’s a bit of a black hole, personality-wise. She doesn’t socialise much, by which I mean she never ‘hangs out’ or tells you anything about her life outside Fleet Ward. She probably thinks she’s being smart, because some of her colleagues who have let things slip have paid for it later on. Thing is, that just means we make it up, like I did with Malaika. So, Mia . . . definitely some kind of dominatrix on the side, and that’s not as much of a leap as you might think. Sometimes I catch her staring at some of the other patients, when she doesn’t know she’s being watched, and once or twice I’ve seen that pretty face looking seriously cruel.
Malaika versus Mia. Result: a much trickier one to call, and Mia’s a bit of a dark horse, but my gut says Malaika would probably come out on top.
The final bout is another one that’s going to be close, even if it’s a man against a woman. Marcus is the ward manager, because he’s the senior nurse, I suppose. Very tall and wiry, Nigerian, I think, because he told me he was born in Lagos. That’s in Nigeria, right? I reckon ‘even-tempered’ would be the best way to describe him. I’ve only seen Marcus really lose it once – with Lauren, no surprise there – but he doesn’t really smile a lot either. In fact thinking about it, he doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humour at all. I would have thought that was pretty bloody important working in a place like this, some of the stuff that goes on, but he’s obviously good at his job or he probably wouldn’t be ward manager. The rest of the staff all seem to like him, anyway.
He talks very slowly like he’s choosing his words carefully, and in perfect English, like someone reading the news, but every now and again there’s a slight stammer which gives certain patients a golden opportunity to take the piss. Some people just enjoy being cruel – naming no names – but a few of the others seem to genuinely find it funny because they don’t understand boundaries. You know, ‘Look out, here comes M-M-Marcus’, all that. Lauren always manages to dig out an appropriate song to try and wind him up. Elton John or David Bowie are particular favourites.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes . . .
B-B-B-B-B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets . . .
Ha, ha, ha. Stupid b-b-b-bitch.
I’m not too sure what part of Africa Femi’s from, but she’s got a thicker accent than Marcus. Small, but stronger than she looks (I think all the nurses are), and she’s really good at bringing certain patients out of their shells. The ones who just withdraw in here, you know. She talks about her kids with them or tells terrible jokes and sometimes she even joins in when Lauren’s singing, which is probably taking the cheery thing too far.
She’s another one who’s definitely got a short fuse, though, but I’ve only ever seen it with other members of the staff. Saying that, I don’t think she likes confrontations because one time I caught her crying in the toilets after a bust-up with someone. She doesn’t take any shit, I mean she’s not a pushover or anything, but Femi’s one of those the patients will go to if they need a favour or a word putting in with Dr Bakshi or something.
I said there’s nothing of her, right? She’s properly tiny, like her clothes would fit a ten-year-old, so I do wonder if maybe she had her own issues with food once upon a time, because she’s always picking at something grainy-looking in a Tupperware container. I mean, apparently a lot of people working in mental health used to be patients, so I wouldn’t be surprised. Poacher turned gamekeeper sort of thing. It’s funny, because the only person she’s ever remotely spiky with is Donna, so maybe she’s a bit freaked out dealing with someone who’s got the same problems she had. Once, she gave Donna a major telling-off about something and ever since then Donna’s called her Femi-Nazi, which would be a pretty nifty UFC nickname now I think about it.
Marcus versus Femi. Result: controversial, but I’m going with Femi for this one. I’m not sure Marcus has got a lot of fight in him and I think Femi could take care of herself if she had to.
So, a few fight-night facts about the men and women who take care of us and perhaps a bit of creative ‘embroidery’, but you get the picture. Full disclosure, I should probably mention that one of the members of staff stepping into my imaginary UFC ring almost certainly sexually assaulted me. Right, ‘almost certainly’ . . . makes it sound a bit vague, but I’m as sure as I can be, taking into account the issues with memory and medication. I’m not going to say who it was because I really don’t like to think about it very much, but if they did it to me, you can bet they’ve done it to others.
L-Plate told me the same thing had happened to her once, at a different hospital. She told me that she’d made a complaint, but that she’d just been called a drama queen.
‘Best to keep your head down,’ she’d said. Crying in my arms she was at the time. ‘Don’t make waves.’
Obviously, as a copper, I want to see people who do this kind of thing get what’s coming to them, because that’s my job, but I also know that, things being the way they are – me being where I am – I need to steer clear of trouble. Believe me, it goes against the grain, but it’s a little easier to come to terms with now I’m smack in the middle of a murder case.
TEN
Visiting hours in here are pretty relaxed, but there isn’t any sort of official visits area. You just have to grab a bit of privacy wherever you can, so just before dinner time on the Tuesday, me and Tim Banks found a couple of chairs in the music
room. Jamilah was already in there reading a magazine and she was clearly earwigging, so I just gave her evils for a few minutes until she pissed off. As soon as she’d left us alone, Lauren stuck her head round the door and asked Banksy if he wanted to hear her song.
He said that he was busy.
She told him it was a really good one.
He said maybe another time.
She told him he was a cunt and then closed the door.
‘Nice.’ He looked at me. ‘So, how you doing, Al?’
Tim’s probably the most regular visitor I’ve had. Mum and Dad have been down a couple of times, but it usually means a night for them in some hotel and it’s never pleasant because they get so upset. Sophie came in once, which was nice, but she was a bit freaked out by Tony (the postcard incident) so I don’t think she’s in a hurry to come back. We text and talk on WhatsApp, so it’s all good. She tells me how boring her new flatmate Camilla is, even though she’s apparently a lot tidier than I was.
I was never boring to live with, nobody could ever say that.
Banksy’s been great, though. He understands. Yeah, it pisses me off that nobody else from work has been in, all those people I’d thought were mates, but I get it. I’m damaged goods, aren’t I?
I told Banksy I was fine. He said I was looking well.
‘Relative though, isn’t it?’ I smiled. I knew I looked like death warmed up.
‘Better than last time, anyway,’ he said. ‘Colour in your cheeks.’
‘So, come on then.’
‘Give me a bloody chance.’ He dug into his pocket and brought out a notebook. He’d made notes, God bless him. Like I said, he’s someone I know I can count on.
A bloody good copper, Banksy is.
On top of which, he was Johnno’s best mate.
I’d called him two days before, on the Sunday night, after I’d talked to Seddon. I’d brought him up to speed, told him to do some digging and asked him how soon he could get in to see me. Like I said, it wasn’t our team working this, but I knew he’d be able to ask around and call in a few favours. I knew he could find out something.
‘What’s the story, then?’
He was flipping through the pages of his notebook. ‘Can’t remember the last time I saw you this fired up,’ he said.
‘A murder tends to do that,’ I said. ‘Plus, I’ve been a good girl, so they’ve cut the dose of my mood stabiliser.’
Banksy found the page he was looking for. ‘Well, you were right about that much, at any rate. It is now a murder investigation.’
‘Yes!’ It was just me and him, so I didn’t bother trying to hide my excitement. ‘I fucking knew it.’
‘Not a stabbing, though. You jumped the gun a bit there.’
I waited.
‘Cause of death was asphyxia. Victim was suffocated, basically. Pillow’s their best guess.’
I thought about that. Kevin wasn’t a weakling, but he wasn’t a big lad either and he’d have been half asleep, zonked out on whatever meds he’d been given last thing. Pressing a pillow over his face wouldn’t have been difficult and it wouldn’t have taken very long. ‘What about time of death?’
‘That’s a bit trickier,’ Banksy said. ‘The pathologist reckons some time between nine o’clock and ten-thirty.’
‘Which pathologist?’
‘That weirdo at Hornsey. The one with all the tattoos and piercings.’
‘Right.’ I’d never met the bloke, but he had a reputation.
‘Now, they think they can narrow that down because they already know the victim went to bed early, just after eight-thirty, and they know the nurse who was doing the rounds—’
‘Debbie.’
‘Yeah . . . she checked on him at nine-thirty and he was sleeping, not a problem. They’ve got her observation charts or whatever, got her on camera going in and out, right? So, now they’re thinking, OK . . . we’re obviously looking at whoever killed him sneaking into his room sometime between then and when Debbie makes her next round just after ten-thirty and discovers the body.’
‘Screams the place down.’
‘All nice and straightforward, so they reckon, because they’ll have their killer on tape, but apparently there’s some kind of technical issue with the cameras. So . . .’ He stopped when he saw me grinning.
‘Not exactly technical,’ I said.
I told him the same thing I told Seddon yesterday.
Aside from his pathological fear of being second in line for anything, I explained, Graham – the Waiter – is more than a little twitchy when it comes to being watched. ‘He usually does it straight after mealtimes,’ I said. ‘With whatever food’s left over. He stands on a chair and uses anything he’s not eaten to screw with the cameras. Porridge or pudding or whatever. Mashed potato is his favourite; he’s deadly with that. A nice handful of leftover mash . . . splat . . . camera knackered.’
Banksy looked horrified. ‘Can’t they stop him?’
‘Oh yeah, they try to. He always gets a major bollocking and they put him on Within Eyesight or Within Arm’s Length or something, but they can only keep it up for so long. After that, they do what they can to keep an eye on him, but he’s pretty sneaky about it. Eventually he finds a way to clamber on to a trolley or get on somebody’s shoulders and smear something gloppy over as many cameras as he can get to before they catch him. At first it was a big deal, I mean they took it dead seriously and they’d be cleaning the cameras up straight away. Then it just became something they got used to and nobody could really be arsed to get it fixed that quickly. Marcus says it’s a health and safety issue, nurses with buckets and cloths climbing up on stuff or whatever, so these days they tend to wait for one of the hospital janitors to come along with a ladder and sort it out. Pain in the arse for them, obviously, but pretty funny.’
‘Not if you’re running this investigation,’ Banksy said. ‘According to the log, the camera covering the men’s corridor went out just after half-past nine and wasn’t . . . cleaned up until just before the body was discovered. So, yeah, they’re looking at the murder taking place during that same hour, but it’s also an hour when the camera was out.’
‘Fucking Graham.’ I shook my head.
‘Fucking Graham.’
‘Just when dinner’s finishing,’ I said. ‘Staff cleaning up, people milling about all over the shop. Always a bit full-on, that time.’
‘Something else.’ Banksy was looking at his notepad again. It was hard to contain myself. ‘They found drugs in the victim’s bedroom. Quite a lot of drugs.’
‘What kind of drugs?’
‘I don’t have the details, but . . . pills. Prescription stuff, sound of it.’
‘Jesus.’
‘That’s it.’ He closed his notebook. ‘Trust me, I had to twist a few arms to get that much.’
I told him I appreciated it, said I’d try not to bother him again. ‘I can’t promise, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ he said. Then, when he’d stood up and was hanging about looking awkward: ‘Listen, Al, don’t bite my head off, but I’m not convinced this is the kind of thing you need right now. That it’s good for you.’
‘Are you joking me? It’s exactly what I need.’
‘I mean, shouldn’t you just be . . . ?’
‘What? Chillin’? Putting my feet up? Catching up on all those good books I should have read?’
‘You know what I mean, Al. Come on, I don’t want to debate this with you again, but you know you’ve not been well. I mean, you do admit that much, right?’
‘You’re a top bloke, Banksy.’ I walked to the door, waited for him to follow. ‘But you’re not my dad.’
A minute later, while we were standing at the airlock waiting for someone to let him out, he said, ‘I saw Mags the other night.’ Like it had just popped into his head.
&n
bsp; ‘OK.’ I could feel something jumping inside and was trying not to let it show in my voice. ‘How’s she doing?’
Maggie was Johnno’s girlfriend.
Five months pregnant when he died.
As pregnant as she was ever going to get, as it turned out.
‘Yeah, she’s all right,’ Banksy said. ‘She was asking after you.’
That didn’t help things and I was grateful when I saw Mia coming with the keys. ‘You all done?’ she asked, a little more chipper than usual.
‘Yeah, we’re done,’ I said.
Banksy gave me a big hug before he stepped into the airlock, and when he was inside with Mia, signing out and waiting to go through the second door, I pressed my palm against the window, then kissed the glass, pretending to cry like we were lovers saying a final goodbye or something.
It made him laugh and he stuck two fingers up.
As soon as he was gone, I checked my watch then went back to my room to make a call. That calmed me down a bit, knowing I’d be sorted before very long. Then I went to get my dinner.
ELEVEN
It was just a regular house call, that’s all. An everyday ACTION as part of an ongoing sexual assault case that involved talking to everyone on the local sex-offenders register. Run-of-the-mill stuff. Obviously, though, no story like this – no once-in-a-career tragedy – ever starts with ‘we were on the trail of a vicious, chainsaw-wielding serial killer’, does it, because then you’d know how it was going to turn out.
There’d be no surprise.
You look ahead. I said that earlier, didn’t I? You try to prepare for all eventualities, but no amount of preparation or due diligence or just bog-standard keeping your wits about you is going to help when life just turns round, says ‘bad luck, mate’ and gobs in your face.
Turns the world upside down.
Turns you into somebody else.
The somebody Johnno and I were looking for that morning was not at home, but his flatmate seemed happy enough to let us in and answer a few questions. It was a flat above an electrical shop in Mile End and, from the doorway, it looked nice enough. Nicer than we were expecting, anyway.
Rabbit Hole Page 6