Drawing Blood

by J G Alva

  The lift stopped, the doors opened, and Sutton poked his head out. He found himself at the junction of three corridors. A table had been set up in this nook, and on it was a selection of sandwiches and other snacks. Against the back wall was a window, and a group of eight people stood in front of it in a loose circle, their ages ranging from eighteen to eighty.

  One of the younger men caught his enquiring look and said, “are you here for the speed awareness course?”

  What?

  “Uh…no,” Sutton said. “I’m here for the medical lecture.”

  Behind him, a voice said, “it’s this way, dear.”

  Sutton turned to find that the owner of the voice was a woman in her sixties. She was moving off down the corridor without waiting for him, but she waved her hand, indicating for him to follow. He did. A long corridor ran the length of this side of the hotel. On his left, windows looked down from a dizzying height on to a small park; on his right, doors opened on to various function rooms, some of which were full of people either sitting at tables and observing a presentation, or were clustered in groups in discussion.

  The woman in her sixties, who wore white jeans, a striped blue and white top, and a red neckerchief, pointed to the last door in the line and said, “it’s this one, dear.”

  “Thank you,” Sutton said, and she waved a hand to dismiss his thanks and entered the room.

  Sutton hesitated on the threshold. The lecture had not yet begun, it seemed, as people stood and chatted in twos and threes. On the door, the sign advertised the NHL Awareness Fund, and its guest speaker, leading NHL specialist Dr Archibald Bodel.

  Through the half open door, Sutton could see Dr Bodel. Thankfully, he had his back to the door. He was in earnest conversation with a woman in her forties. Perhaps Lisa Feltz? Their conversation seemed to draw to a natural close as people moved to find their seats. Sutton had seen enough.

  But as he moved to leave, a recognisable figure caught his eye. He stopped.

  Getting settled at a table not far from the door, Richard Farrow could be seen settling in for Dr Bodel’s lecture.

  Sutton left quickly.

  *

  Fin called, not long after he returned to his flat, sounding jubilant and self-satisfied.

  “I have the long awaited info on Grace Chapel,” he said.

  “Tell me.”

  “Two years ago last May her son, Robert, died of Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma,” Fin said. “He was nine years old. And the doctor who treated him was Dr Bodel.”

  Ok, so that might explain why Bodel had visited her.

  But that didn’t explain why she had drugged him. What was she doing that had made her so scared of his snooping around? And was Dr Bodel even involved?

  “Sutton?” Fin said. “You there?”

  “Sorry. Wool gathering.”

  “Yeah. I could hear the cogs turning. She’s also on the board of the NHL Awareness Fund. Which, in case you didn’t know, is Dr Bodel’s own personal cancer charity.”

  He did know.

  “Because of her son,” he said.

  “I assume so.

  “And,” Fin continued exultantly, “Grace Chapel’s husband, Mark Chapel, has a seat on the Bristol City Council. One of their projects? The demolition and renovation of Barrow Gurney Hospital.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Sutton said.

  “You may worship at my altar.”

  “As always, Mr Henk, you surpass expectations.”

  “Are you going after her?”

  “Now that I know a bit more, I might take a run at her, yes.”

  “God help her.”

  “I’ll try not to drink anything she offers me.”

  “Someone told me you were smart,” Fin said, amused. “I didn’t believe them, of course.”

  “By the way, did you get a chance to look up any of the other names on Gavin’s list? And what about this Lisa Feltz? Any more on her?”

  “Sure did,” Fin said, and there was a shuffling of papers before he came back on the line. “Lisa Feltz. Ah. She lost her son to cancer. Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma.”

  Of course.

  “I found Michael Turnbill.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “When?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “Anything suspicious?”

  Fin sighed.

  “Not unless cancer is suspicious.”

  Sutton hesitated.

  “That depends. What cancer was it?”

  “Uh…” More shuffling of papers. Silence. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma.”

  Sutton pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache.

  “Okay. And what about Richard Farrow? He didn’t want to speak to me when I saw him. I wondered if there might be a reason why.”

  Fin hesitated.

  “If you spoke to him, then that must have been a trick, because Richard Farrow has been dead for six months.”

  Sutton digested that and then said, “is Richard Farrow’s father still alive?”

  “Yes. Or at least, my current information says that he is. Phillip Farrow, sixty two years old, with a wife, Margaret, of sixty one years of age. And guess how Richard Farrow died.”

  Without even thinking about it, Sutton said, “Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma.”

  Fin was silent on the other end of the line.

  “I can see a pattern emerging,” Fin said lightly.

  “Hm.”

  “Shame Grace Chapel doesn’t have it.”

  Sutton shook his head.

  “She’s had enough pain in her life, I imagine.”

  “Don’t tell me you have any sympathy for her, Sutton. That’s too much.”

  “No, no. Not sympathy. But empathy…I might have some of that.”

  “Okay. As long as it doesn’t stop you from giving her her just desserts.”

  “So we have a pattern, with Dr Bodel at its centre. But we don’t have any real evidence.”

  “Gavin’s list isn’t enough?”

  “It’s just a list. It’s hardly going to convict him.”

  “It depends what we’re trying to convict him of. Gross negligence? And how does that tie him to this psychotic druggie?”

  Sutton thought for a moment.

  “Everyone I’ve spoken to about Bodel says that he is the best there is. I don’t think he would have such a glowing reputation if he was negligent.”

  “Then what?”

  Sutton sighed.

  “I think we need to somehow get a list of Bodel’s patients.”

  “I don’t know,” Fin said uneasily. “Getting medical files is tough. Not impossible, but not easy either.”

  “I might have a way,” Sutton said. “Let me make a call and see what I can do.”

  *

  “Lisa Feltz.”

  He heard her yawn over the phone.

  “Sutton. I’ve just woken up.”

  “Did you know that Lisa Feltz had a son who died from cancer?”

  There was silence on the line.

  “There’s nothing unusual in that,” Janice said eventually, “seeing Dr Bodel’s a cancer specialist and all. I think you’re trying to find something that isn’t there, Sutton.”

  “He died from Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma.”

  More silence.

  “And even if you were right, so what? NHL is rare, but there are still cases of it.”

  “I know. There are 13,400 instances of NHL diagnosed every year. I looked it up. That’s 37 cases a day. Across the whole country. It’s the seventh most prevalent cancer in the UK.”

  “What are you-“

  “What would you do to find a cure?”

  A pause.

  “I don’t understand-“

  “If you had been working on finding a cure for NHL, but you weren’t getting anywhere, you weren’t getting enough funding, what would you do?”

  “Are you saying…I wouldn’t murder
someone, and neither would Dr Bodel-“

  “What if it’s worse than that? What if you let patients die, sons and daughters of rich parents who would further your cause by donating money to your research if their sons and daughters did die? Would you let them die then? Knowing that, once you found a cure, you could save hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of lives? How important then would the life of one, solitary, single child be?”

  He expected outrage. He expected shouting. He expected her to defend Bodel and proclaim that Sutton had lost his tenuous grip on reality.

  He expected her to hang up.

  She did none of those things.

  Instead, there was only silence on the line.

  For a moment, he wondered if she had hung up.

  “Janice?”

  “I’m here,” she said softly.

  “Janice, I know what happens to whistle blowers in the medical profession-“

  “If you think that’s the reason-“

  “I don’t. But it’s got to give you pause. I know that you have only known me for a short time, and that it is ridiculous to trust me, a virtual stranger, over a man who you have known and worked with – and respected – for the last three or four years. But what if something is going on? Not just incompetence, but a real, purposeful neglecting of his duties as a doctor. How the hell are you going to be able to sleep at night knowing you didn’t do anything about it? My divining rod is buzzing like I’m standing over a well. This is what I do. Do you understand? And something is wrong with this situation. I don’t know how, or in what way, but something is very wrong.” He took a deep breath. “I need your help, Janice.”

  There was a contemplative silence on the other end of the line. He sat patiently, prepared to wait her out.

  “I’m not due to go in for another week,” she said, and he knew then that he had her. “It will look a bit suspicious if I go back today.”

  He waited.

  “God, you’re impossible,” she said eventually.

  “You’re not the first person to say that.”

  “I’ll bet. Okay. I’m good friends with a nurse called Kelly. I could get her to look for me. What are we looking for?”

  “I need a list of all of Dr Bodel’s patients over the last two years.”

  A pause.

  “That will take some doing.”

  “How long?”

  “God, Sutton, I don’t know. A week?”

  “Okay. Then I think we can narrow it down to those patients who have been diagnosed with cancer.”

  “Alright. I’ll talk to Kelly. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Also, can she look and see if Dr Bodel is involved with drug addicts in any way?”

  “Drug addicts? Why?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  She sighed as if humouring a mad person.

  “Alright. I’ll ask her to look.”

  “And Janice?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell Kelly to be careful.”

  “She’s hardly going to announce it-“

  “No, I mean, she needs to be careful.”

  A pause.

  “Really?”

  “Really. Gavin was murdered, and I think it was because he was asking too many questions.”

  A pause.

  “Gavin was the name of your friend?”

  “Yes. Gavin Thompson.”

  Silence.

  “Did you know him?” Sutton asked, with suspicion.

  “No,” she said quickly. “No. I just thought the name was familiar. Maybe I heard Bodel speaking about him.”

  “Okay. Well. Tell your friend to be careful.”

  “Okay, Sutton. Assuming that there is something going on, I will ask Kelly to look, and I will also ask her to be careful. Okay?”

  “Okay. And call me when you find out anything.”

  “I will call you.”

  *

  After he had finished speaking with Janice, he made another call.

  “It’s Sunday,” Diane protested into the phone.

  “I’m going to see Grace Chapel.”

  She was instantly alert.

  “Are you?”

  “Today.”

  “Really? Well…I’m glad you told someone this time.”

  “No. You don’t understand. I want you to come with me.”

  A beat.

  “What? Why?”

  *

  Diane wound the car down the thin country lane. They were in her car; taking Sutton’s would unnecessarily alert the people they were going to visit.

  “Remember, stay in the car,” Sutton said. “If anyone comes out of the house without me, drive off and, as soon as you can, call the police.”

  “Why can’t we just call the police anyway?” Diane challenged him.

  Why indeed?

  He supposed he could, but the case would be flimsy. His word against theirs; there was no guarantee they wouldn’t squirm out of it, not a wealthy landowner and his wife who did so much good work for charity. And the fact that he hadn’t reported the kidnap, not even after he’d escaped, didn’t help.

  The truth was he didn’t want to hand it over to the police. They had drugged him and locked him up, treated him no better than an animal.

  This was personal.

  “Because I’m just going to talk to them,” he said. “We’ll get the police involved afterward.”

  The conifers appeared at the end of the road, and then Diane turned into the gravelled forecourt.

  It was odd, returning. The associations were somehow dream-like and surreal, with the mad panicked dash across the room to the front door a film he had watched, instead of something that had happened to him. Even the fear from that moment was distant, and wrapped in cotton wool.

  “God,” Diane said. She looked scared.

  “Turn the car around and face toward the gate,” he directed. “So you can get out of here in a hurry if you need to.”

  She did as he asked.

  “Oh God,” she said again. “I can’t believe you talked me into doing this.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, his eyes on the house as she pulled to a stop. “You’re going to be okay. You’re safe in here.”

  “What about you?”

  The house didn’t stir.

  But someone was home; a car was parked near the steps. A dark green Jaguar. The husband perhaps?

  “Remember what I said,” he repeated, getting out of Diane’s humble Prius.

  He shut the door on her protestations.

  The wind was cold.

  He circled the car.

  A bird called, and somewhere branches were clacking against each other in the breeze, a madman’s percussion, without sense or rhythm.

  The front door opened.

  A burly man in a dark suit came out.

  He had a shotgun in his hands.

  *

  CHAPTER 17

  SUNDAY

  “Get the fuck off my property!” The man shouted, bringing the shotgun up.

  Sutton raised his hands. This wasn’t good.

  “I just came to talk!” He called back, advancing slowly.

  The man stopped at the bottom of the stops.

  Twenty feet.

  Sutton kept moving forward, slowly, carefully.

  He had expected resistance, but not a shotgun.

  The front door opened again.

  Grace this time, fussing and fluttering like an errant, disturbed cockatoo.

  “Mark!” She called, stressed and tearful and afraid.

  “Get back in your car and get the fuck off my property!” Mark shouted again.

  He sounded angry, but Sutton also thought that he sounded afraid. Surely they couldn’t be that surprised at his return.

  Ten feet.

  “Mark! Stop it! Please!” Grace shouted.

  “Grace!” Mark shouted over his shoulder. “Get back in the house!”

  He raised the gun up. It was now pointed at Sutton’s head.

&nb
sp; “Stop,” he said; he backed up on to the stone steps.

  The gun barrel was shaking.

  Seven feet.

  “Mark!” Grace shouted once more, her worried eye on Sutton now.

  “I’ll fucking shoot you,” Mark warned him.

  Sutton stopped. There was now only five feet between them.

  “Please,” Grace begged, and it might have been to her husband but she was staring at Sutton.

  Sutton surreptitiously dug his right foot into the gravel.

  Half looking over his shoulder, Mark said, “Grace, go and get-“

  Sutton kicked the gravel up into the air.

  He was hoping for a distraction more than anything, but the gravel went higher than he expected, and the accompanying dust flew up close enough to Mark’s face to make him flinch.

  In that moment, Sutton rushed him, using the back of his left wrist to butt the shotgun barrel out of the way, while at the same time swinging his right fist at Mark’s face.

  There was a hearty thud, Mark’s head flipped back, and he dropped the shotgun. He fell back, and then tripped on the steps and went down. Grace screamed, as if Mark had fallen on his sword, not on to some concrete steps.

  Sutton picked up the shotgun and broke the barrel open: not loaded. For fuck’s sake. Amateurs. He discarded the shotgun behind him.

  By this time, Mark had gotten to his feet and was running for the door.

  Sutton chased him, but he had already managed to get inside and close the door by the time Sutton reached it. He heard the sound of locks clicking into place, and Mark’s urgent commands to Grace, muffled and incoherent.

  Sutton started kicking the door. It began to splinter after three kicks, and the portion of the door that bore the barrel of the lock broke on the fifth kick.

  The door swung open with a crack of splintering wood.

  Sutton entered cautiously.

  Mark was predictably behind the door, his face white with fear or rage, Sutton couldn’t tell which. His mouth was bleeding profusely, which Sutton was pleased to see, and the lip had swollen enough to distort his face. He swung the cricket bat at Sutton, and Sutton dodged it easily enough. It hit the doorframe harmlessly, but with enough power to split the frame.

  Mark wasn’t a very fit or athletic man. Which was all to the good, as this would be over quickly. He also wasn’t very coordinated. The swing had so much force behind it that, when it failed to meet its intended target, Mark lost his centre of gravity and tipped forward with the bat, slipping to his knees. Sutton had no hesitation in taking advantage of this, and kicked Mark in the face. Mark went over backwards, dropping the bat and spinning around slightly on the polished wood floor. Some blood splashed on the wall. Grace screamed again.