Vital Signs

by Candy Denman

  “No, no, not at all.”

  As Callie had anticipated, the reporter was delighted to speak to her.

  “How can I help? Has another body turned up?”

  “No, nothing like that, thank goodness, although it is about the immigrants in a way.” Callie hesitated, then decided, to go for it. “The story about the boat being deliberately damaged, I heard the television reporter ask Ted Savage about it on the news, do you know where that story came from?”

  There were a couple of seconds of silence from the other end.

  “You want me to tell you who leaked it?” Smith queried.

  “Not specifically. I understand how you might feel about not revealing sources. It’s more that I want to know where the story first appeared. Who first said it had happened, publicly?”

  There were a couple more seconds of silence.

  “Are you suggesting that the story might not be true?”

  The reporter was certainly quick on the uptake, Callie would have to be very careful what she said.

  “I’m just trying to find out where and when the story started.” Callie tried not to be explicit and hoped the reporter understood why.

  “That’s interesting,” the reporter said, “because it caught us all on the hop. I’ve obviously tried to find out for myself. I’ve been in touch with all my usual contacts, but it didn’t seem to come from anyone here in Hastings as far as I could tell, at least, that’s what everyone is telling me.”

  “Not from the lab or the police then?”

  “Not as far as I know, and certainly not from any of my sources. In fact, the first I, or anyone else here, heard anything about it was when the bloke asked Ted Savage the question. Obviously, I’ve tried to get confirmation everywhere, but I’ve come up against a brick wall.”

  “Where else could he have got the information?”

  “Search me. I’ve drawn a complete blank.”

  “Is it possible that it came from the reporter himself?” she asked. “I mean, I’m sure he wouldn’t…” Callie struggled to find the right words, she didn’t want to upset anyone.

  “Make something like that up? It’s okay, it certainly happens.”

  Callie was relieved that she hadn’t taken offence at the suggestion.

  “It could also be that he was responding to a brief from his interviewee.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, sometimes when you are doing an interview and the person has a story they want to get out but don’t want to be seen as the source, they tell you to ask them about it,” she explained. “Ted Savage has form for doing that. He once got me to question him about a proposed change in fishing quotas that I knew nothing about. It was just a way to leak embargoed information, and whip up the outrage he knew it would cause, and all without getting into trouble. He’s a good actor, too. Managed to look suitably outraged that I knew about such sensitive stuff when I asked the question.”

  “Did it work?”

  “It did. The government backed down double quick when the opposition got wind of it.”

  Callie smiled to herself.

  “So, if Ted Savage wanted to disrupt the FNM rally, without publicly speaking out against it, he could have deliberately planted that story,” Callie clarified.

  “I’m not saying that’s what happened,” Debbie quickly answered. “Although it’s true he’s always shied away from direct criticism of the group. I’m just saying that that could be the way it happened.”

  “Why wouldn’t he speak out against them?”

  “Because it’s a marginal seat and he doesn’t want to offend any possible voters. There’s a fair amount of support for the FNM within the constituency.”

  “But he doesn’t support them, either?”

  “No, definitely not from what I know of him.”

  “So, he might try and disrupt things indirectly, you think?”

  “Yes, particularly if the story wasn’t true. Do you know if that’s the case?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Callie responded. “I was just curious that no one had responded from the local police, to confirm or deny. It seemed strange to me.”

  “You and me both. And it’s not for want of me asking, let me tell you.”

  Callie could believe that. She ended the call and added hot water to the now cool bath, knowing that she had probably set the cat amongst the pigeons. Debbie Smith was unlikely to let this drop now Callie had voiced her concerns. The question was, did it matter who had made the story up? Did it change anything? No one had broken the law, as far as she could tell; fake news was everywhere these days. But it made a difference to Callie in that she needed to know where Lisa stood. If Lisa hadn’t been the source of the leak, then it looked likely that she supported Darren Dixon and his cronies and, much as it probably shouldn’t, Callie admitted to herself that it would affect the way she worked with the photographer in the future, even after she had helped Callie when she was knocked down. It was bound to. And if she wanted to know for certain, she was going to have to ask either Lisa or the politician directly if they were the source of the story and hope they told her the truth.

  As Lisa seemed to have disappeared for the time being, she had little choice but to try to speak to Ted Savage. She just hoped that she managed to catch him before Debbie Smith did, although she thought that was unlikely. She was pretty sure the reporter would be trying to get hold of the politician first thing in the morning.

  * * *

  Next morning, Callie was unsurprised to hear that Lisa was still off sick, so there was no point in going to the lab and trying to speak to her. The morning was free from clinics and was allocated on her timetable for administration, learning and preparing for her annual appraisal. In reality, that meant she had time to try and track down her MP to ask him about that interview. She could always catch up with the other stuff in the evening.

  Of course, tracking him down was easier said than done.

  Ted Savage’s website had contact details, but they only seemed to be for her to email him with any questions she might want to ask. He also held advice surgeries every Friday afternoon at an office on an industrial estate in nearby St Leonards and she could email or telephone for an appointment at that, outlining her problem beforehand so that his team could ensure he had time to research the answer. His Twitter feed and Facebook page had lots of comments on things, but nothing that would tell where he was likely to be at any given moment. She supposed that it was good security not to tell people where they could confront him.

  She was fairly sure that he didn’t live in Hastings itself but in one of the villages outside, and she remembered seeing him interviewed outside a house by the beach, but which beach was not something she could remember.

  Of course, Debbie Smith was bound to know, but Callie wasn’t sure she wanted to enlist the help of the reporter at this point. She had already given her a heads-up about the probable fake news.

  Callie left a phone message, asking for an appointment at his next advice surgery, saying that she wanted to discuss the future role of police forensic physicians. She thought it sounded a reasonable request seeing as the role had changed and in some areas of the country, police doctors had been almost entirely replaced by specially trained nurses. She also suggested that they could meet earlier or at his convenience, but agreed to a surgery appointment if not.

  With nothing more that she could do on that front, Callie decided to see if the police were getting anywhere with identifying body number nine as she thought of him. It would be good if they actually had a name rather than just a number.

  “Hi, Mike,” she said when she finally got through to the coroner’s officer. “I wondered if you had heard anything about the body found on Fairlight Beach? Body number nine?”

  There was a pause before Parton answered.

  “I wish there was, but it’s going to be difficult identifying any of them.”

  “I fully understand that, Mike. I just thought this one might
be easier, as it looks like he wasn’t one of the refugees, what with the tattoos and the drugs and that.”

  “Well, the official view is still that he was one of them and that the tattoo and things could be because he had lived over here in the past. It’s not uncommon for people who have been deported before to make their way back. Particularly if they have contacts or family over here.”

  Callie hadn’t thought of that possibility and it certainly could explain the tattoo, if not the drugs.

  “But if he’s been deported already, wouldn’t he be on a database somewhere?”

  “Of course, and I’m sure that the police are checking them, but−”

  “It’s not a priority.”

  “Catching the people smugglers before any more die has to be their number one concern,” Parton gently chided her.

  “Of course, I know that. It’s just that I can’t help feeling that he doesn’t belong with the others, not that he’s more important than them, or anything like that.”

  “I know, but I can promise you, he hasn’t been forgotten, and I, as well as the police, will be doing everything we can to identify all the bodies as quickly as possible. In fact, I think we do have an identification on one of the younger men. He’s from Syria, sixteen years old and most of his family are dead, but he has an uncle who came over two years ago and has already been granted asylum. He was coming to join his only living relative.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yes, it is. And I’m sure most of the others have similar stories. That’s seventeen young men dead now.”

  “I’m sorry, Mike. I shouldn’t be poking my nose in and disturbing you all when you have so much to do.” Callie really did feel bad for interrupting him. After all, he had many more bodies that he needed to identify, every one of them somebody’s son, brother or father, and every one a tragedy.

  Callie needed to worry about doing her own job and stop trying to do others’ work as well, she told herself firmly and settled back to an online tutorial regarding new guidelines for diagnosing dementia.

  Chapter 13

  Next morning, Callie got a message from the woman who was in charge of Ted Savage MP’s diary. At least, that was the way she described herself. Callie was told that he could see her that afternoon, when he would be in his constituency office after a visit to a local primary school, or he could see her at his next advice surgery, the choice was hers. The woman made it clear that it was a very great honour to be given the choice and be allowed to decide for herself.

  Callie checked her work schedule and accepted the appointment for that afternoon.

  Before her own morning surgery, Callie checked the visit list and put her name beside a couple that she knew would be quick check-ins. Then she rang David Morris to make sure that he was still okay, and wasn’t surprised that he didn’t answer the phone. She left a message on his answer machine asking him to check in with the surgery, just so that she could be sure he didn’t need another home visit, and then did a glance through the pile of prescription requests to make sure that Anna Thompson hadn’t asked for any more asthma inhalers. It was a relief to find that she hadn’t, so far.

  After a deep breath to compose herself, Callie pressed the buzzer for her first patient of the day.

  * * *

  The MP’s constituency office was on an industrial estate and nothing like Callie had been expecting. The parking area was rutted and had weeds growing up from cracks in the asphalt. There was only one car parked outside, a small flashy red hatchback. A quick glance through the windows showed that it was immaculate inside, as if it had been recently valeted. As if it was always recently valeted.

  In contrast, the entrance to the office looked as if it had seen better days, like the carpark. Callie opened the door and went inside.

  The woman in charge of the MP’s diary turned out to be older than Callie expected. She looked to be in her early forties and was very conservatively dressed in a knee-length skirt and a flowery blouse done up almost to the neck.

  “I’m Teresa Savage,” she introduced herself, holding out a hand and making a quick grimace that could have been an attempt at a smile.

  Callie was surprised and knew that her face had betrayed that fact. She knew that MPs had often employed members of their own family as a way of increasing the joint income from the taxpayer for work a spouse might well have done anyway, until the practice was banned. She dimly remembered that it was only banned for new MPs, suggesting that Ted Savage had already employed his wife and was allowed to continue. Callie’s initial impression of Teresa Savage was of devoted secretary, not wife. Perhaps that’s what she had been, before gaining promotion to the role of spouse, Callie thought. She certainly looked well-prepared to fight off the rude and belligerent constituents that no doubt made up a fair-sized proportion of those who attended advice surgeries.

  Mrs Savage sat Callie in a bland, utilitarian waiting room, with uncomfortable chairs and a coffee table covered in advice leaflets, mainly about personal finance or how to claim various allowances and benefits. A picture of the smiling MP shaking hands with the last prime minister hung on the wall, alongside a portrait of the Queen.

  Having refused the offer of tea or coffee, Callie settled down to wait and was pleasantly surprised that she didn’t have to wait long. Too often, in Callie’s experience, people with power liked to keep others waiting, just because they could.

  “Dr Hughes?” Savage asked as he crossed the room, hand held out in readiness. He had a firm grip, but the shake was quick – not one to overdo the touching bit, she was relieved to find. Dressed more casually than he had been when being interviewed on the television, the MP was wearing a blue dress shirt, open at the neck, and cream chinos. His hair was greying at the sides and there were deep lines either side of his mouth but he still managed to look younger than the fifty-seven years his biography on Wikipedia had said he was.

  He led her through to his office, a slightly better furnished room, with shelves full of files covering one wall. There was a table for him to sit behind rather than a desk, but a comfortable chair, unlike the two wooden dining chairs put out for those who came to see him. Callie was sure his offices in Westminster and at his home would be far more comfortable than this. His wife, she who was in charge of his diary, followed them in and at last it appeared that she could smile, if only for her husband.

  “How can I help?” Savage asked once they were all seated and his wife had a notebook out and a pencil poised. To write down, what exactly? Every word they spoke? Perhaps she was there to note down any action points from the meeting. Or maybe she was just there for show, to impress Callie with how important a man Ted Savage was and how grateful she should be to be given some of his precious time. On the whole, she inclined to the latter view.

  “I’m one of the forensic physicians for the area,” she started. “We work with the police, and so have been closely involved with the recent deaths of refugees.”

  “Terrible, terrible.” He shook his head. “Those poor young men. I can’t tell you how bad I feel about it. Just dreadful. All they wanted was a better life, a place of safety, and look what happened. Such a tragedy,” he said and Callie was impressed that he actually sounded so sincere.

  “Yes, a tragedy indeed.”

  “In what way have you been involved with these poor young men, Dr Hughes?”

  “I, and my colleagues, have been to each scene, where the bodies have been found, to formally pronounce death and try to form a view as to the nature of the death in order to direct the police investigation and the coroner in the right direction.”

  “Fascinating,” he said and Callie was once again struck by the sincerity in his voice. “I assume it was fairly clear what had happened in all these cases, but it must be much harder at other times.”

  “That’s true. Sometimes it’s really not easy to decide whether a person died of natural causes or not, and we always err on the side of caution, suggest that the police investigate in
case it is suspicious, but then the post-mortem may clarify things.”

  “Or not.”

  “Yes, sometimes even then we are not completely sure, but it’s always easier to stop an unnecessary investigation than start one days or even weeks after the fact.”

  He nodded his understanding and leant forward.

  “So how can I help you today, Dr Hughes?”

  He looked at her expectantly, the formalities were over and he was all business.

  “It was actually about the interview you gave last Saturday.”

  She was sure it wasn’t just in her imagination that there was suddenly a slight tension in the air. Savage was sitting very still, smile fixed on his face, whilst Mrs Savage’s back had stiffened and the knuckles holding her pencil were white. Callie worried that it might snap. Savage cleared his throat.

  “Oh yes?”

  “In the interview, the journalist asked about damage to the boat. I wondered if you knew where he had got the idea that anything like that had happened?”

  “Goodness only knows.” Savage waved a hand dismissively. He had recovered quickly, much faster than his wife. “Reporters seem to have sources everywhere and he’s hardly going to tell me where he got hold of something like that, is he? Why do you ask?”

  “Because of the timing of that interview and as a result, the question. You see, it’s the first time that the possibility of sabotage seems to have been mentioned and it was the day of the FNM rally. It led directly to a counter-demonstration being set up by the anti-fascist and anti-racist groups.”

  Savage was unable to hide the look of contempt on his face when she mentioned the FNM.

  “Can’t say that I’m sorry that odious man had his rally disturbed. If I had my way, he wouldn’t be allowed to hold them anywhere round here.”

  “Quite, but you can see why I’m interested.”

  Savage leant back in his comfortable chair and looked at her intently.

  “Actually, I have to say that I can’t see it. I mean, why would you be interested in finding out why an FNM meeting had been disrupted? Unless you were angry that it had spoilt their evening of gloating over the deaths and suffering.”