by Unknown
Mary Seacole Ward was for infectious diseases, so he took care to squirt plenty of gel on his hands before entering. Dr Peploe met him by the nurses’ station. He was a paediatric surgeon, and the Lynn Primary Care Trust’s spokesman on the disposal of human tissue, a post required under the Infectious Diseases Act. A neat Glaswegian with a widow’s peak, Dr Peploe possessed one of those asymmetrical faces that the Celts seem to breed: one eye slightly more open than the other, the mouth off the horizontal. Handsome enough, with taut healthy skin stretched over a muscular face. And there was nothing Hebridean about his tan, which was an Italian brown. Stern, but playful – an image enhanced by the small cuddly toy sticking out of one pocket.
He laughed at himself, stuffing the teddy bear’s head out of sight.
‘Sorry – Human Tissue isn’t my day job. It pays to keep the wee customers happy, however little they are.’ He smiled, and Shaw noticed the scar left by a harelip.
‘We think someone, somehow, infiltrated the waste system to steal street-haul drugs before they were incinerated,’ said Shaw. ‘Consignments from law enforcement, customs, the lot. Is that possible?’
Peploe thought about it, and there was a long intake of breath. ‘Right. You want the Cook’s Tour or just a run-through?’
‘For now, just the basics please,’ said Shaw.
Peploe picked up an empty yellow waste bag from the room behind the nurses’ station. Each bag, sealed, had a metal tag. This one read NHS: W 10.
‘This bit’s pretty obvious,’ he said. ‘Every ward gets its own supply.’
On the bag itself was a plastic label on which had been printed a further code: 1268. Non-R. Non-C. I.
Peploe took him through it: the label was filled out by a nurse, 1268 was a patient number. Non-R – no radioactive material. Non-C – no chemotherapy residue. I – infectious.
Twice a day the bags were taken by a ward orderly to the metal chute in the cleaners’ room. A drawer, opened then shut, tipped the bag down a gravity-driven pipe system. They listened to it rattle away.
‘Let’s go get it,’ said Peploe, light on his toes. As they walked down the corridor he slid a hand in his pocket and pulled out something small, plastic and colourful; then he tapped it quickly, twice, in the palm of his other hand and quickly swallowed whatever he’d dispensed. Self-medication, thought Shaw, or a sweet tooth.
In the lift Peploe continued a virtual tour. ‘Clearly the system is different in the operating theatres – they’re all running today otherwise I’d have taken you in. But the principle’s the same, it’s just the volume that’s different. Any body part or other waste takes this route.’
‘The young man who found the body said he was sent down to Level One with a waste bag,’ said Shaw.
Dr Peploe nodded, as if that fitted the system he had just described, which it didn’t.
‘Anything that might stick in the system, or break, goes by hand delivery – but never through the public areas of the hospital.’
The lift dropped to Level One and he followed Peploe through the maze of corridors to the tug depot, beneath the hospital’s main concourse. A metal chute descended into the depot room, cut off in mid-air, so that they could glimpse up into the darkness. They heard a sigh, then a rattle, and a yellow bag fell out of the darkness and into an angled bin below, which deadened the impact, then allowed it to slide down an aluminium ramp into a waiting tug.
‘That simple,’ said Peploe. He walked to the tug truck, looked amongst the yellow bags, and retrieved the one he’d put down the chute on Mary Seacole Ward. ‘Tugs take it all to the furnace. Then we monitor what goes up the chimney in terms of chemical composition. We can – broadly speaking – match input and output. It’s a good system.’
‘Tell me they didn’t just put the drugs down the chutes?’ said Shaw.
Peploe grinned. ‘I know this is the NHS, but we’re not that stupid. No – that system doesn’t cross this system until we get to the incinerator room.’
They walked through Level One to Junction 57. Shaw was braced for the cacophony when he brushed through the doors, but it was like a hammer blow, the bass note making one of the bones in his ear vibrate. And the air was laden with the white, lifeless dust.
But they weren’t stopping.
‘We can’t talk here,’ shouted Peploe. ‘Follow me.’ He took them beyond the incinerator belt, where a man worked with ear protectors and a plastic mask, and to a door marked simply CONTROL.
Shaw was about to step through when someone shouted his name. He turned to see Tom Hadden standing by the belt, waving him over. He used his hands to tell Peploe to carry on – he’d catch up. Hadden pushed what was left of his strawberry-blond hair back off the pale forehead, took a breath, and shouted. ‘I had someone brush all the metal surfaces in here for prints. Nothing, but we found this instead.’
Beside the belt and next to Bryan Judd’s small office was a control panel in beaten metal. A few dials, an LED display which, Shaw guessed, showed the temperature at various levels of the furnace, and a set of brass switches sticking out, each with a small bulb of metal at the end, like a chapel peg. One of them was darker than the rest, smeared.
‘It’s blood,’ said Hadden, into Shaw’s ear. ‘And brain and bone. The switch has been impacted by some kind of collision.’ Hadden opened his palm out and mimicked hitting the switch. ‘I think this is what punctured Judd’s skull.’
Shaw went to speak but the dust caught in his throat, so that he had to turn away, coughing violently. ‘So – what – not a fall?’ he asked eventually, holding the back of his hand to his lips.
‘No, no. A fight perhaps.’ Shaw moved closer. ‘Judd was medium height,’ said Hadden. ‘My guess is his assailant got him by the neck and threw him back against this wall – the switch would be just right for here…’ He touched the base of his skull at the back of the neck. ‘There’s a lot of force – see, the whole thing’s dented.’
Shaw stood to one side so that the light played across the metal. A dent, around the switch, and again below where Judd’s hips would have crashed into the metal panel.
‘One other thing,’ said Hadden. He gave Shaw a piece of card marked NHS: W 22.
‘That’s what was on the metal tag with the bag that went in with the victim.’
Shaw took it. ‘Tom,’ he patted him on the back. ‘Thanks.’
He went after Peploe, climbing an enclosed spiral staircase until he stepped into a room with a glass wall looking out onto two large gas turbines. Peploe explained that these were used to drive the air through the furnace and up the 200-foot chimney. The surgeon pointed up and Shaw craned his neck; the ceiling was glass too, giving them a view up through the mesh floors of the furnace.
Shaw’s mobile trilled. It was Valentine. ‘I’ve just touched base with Twine – picked up some bad news. Hendre – from upstairs at number 6? He did a runner overnight.’
‘What?’ Shaw’s voice buzzed with frustration. ‘He had someone on him?’
‘Yeah. But he went for a pee. They told him chummy was out sparko – couldn’t lift a finger. When he got back he’d gone, plus the dusty suit. Last seen legging it over the car park.’
‘Get a description out through Paul – let’s find him before he goes to ground.’ A tiny detail, but Shaw hadn’t missed it. Valentine could have given him the name of the DC who had bungled the job, but he’d kept it to himself. There’d be a quiet word later, a warning, nothing bureaucratic, no paperwork, just a note added to the Valentine memory banks.
‘I’ll be at the briefing,’ said Valentine, cutting the line before Shaw had a chance to check on his progress with ex-DS Wilf Jackson out on the coast.
There were two engineers in the room monitoring a bank of dials and LED displays. But Peploe affably took charge. He tore off a foot of printout. ‘So, you want to know how the drugs fit in…’
He tapped the printout. ‘When a consignment’s due we put aside an hour in the schedule. That’s what they pay f
or – and they pay by the minute. The drugs arrive with a certificate from the Home Office lab which lists the contents of the batch. The drugs are in sealed metal containers – old fashioned, but effective and simple. The seals are wax. They’re signed over to us downstairs. There’s normally a senior officer with the police, or whichever agency we’re dealing with, present for the handover. He or she comes up here while our head of security stays downstairs and personally – personally – puts each container on the belt.’
He tapped the printout again. ‘This shows the chemical composition of what’s going out of the top of the chimney… This is state-of-the-art technology. Every drug has a chemical signature. As it burns we can match it up with the printout. These are very sensitive machines. If any of these emissions breach EU guidelines, for example, the furnace shuts down. It’s that strict, there’s no margin for error. Half a mile away the cars on the ring road are churning out carbon monoxide like there’s no tomorrow – a self-fulfilling prophecy if ever there was one. But here – a few milligrams of toxic gas slips through the filters and we’re out of business.’
‘And it is a business,’ said Shaw.
‘Of course. Every penny we make goes back into the NHS. But this kit costs millions, so, like any business, we have to sweat the assets. We run it twenty-four hours a day. Shutting down’s too expensive, so we need to make sure we can generate income full-time. We have several contracts – vets, private hospitals, doctors’ surgeries, pet cremation – and then the whole range of law-enforcement seizures – police, customs and excise, British transport police, the lot. And not just West Norfolk, of course, but several other forces without access to this kind of facility. But it doesn’t matter how busy we are, Inspector – what goes up in smoke is what goes on the belt. Believe me. You can watch it yourself…’
He led the way to a porthole door, like an airlock. One of the engineers spun a lock and it popped open. They stepped through into a circular room, then looked up. The sky was a hundred feet above them, blue, with white clouds, but shimmering as if caught in a permanent mirage.
‘The gases come in about thirty feet above our heads,’ said Peploe. ‘What’s left behind is lifeless ash.’ They could see the pipes, the gases churning out, colourless but distorting, like a fairground mirror.
‘You mentioned the head of security,’ said Shaw. ‘Name?’
‘Nat Haines.’ Shaw knew him – a retired DI from Norwich he’d once worked with on a migrant workers case – an illegal gangmaster running a prostitution business from a chicken farm.
‘When was the next consignment due?’ asked Shaw.
‘Tomorrow – five p.m. That’s not Norfolk, actually – it’s Cambridgeshire. There’s a manifest.’
‘How much notice do you normally get?’
‘Ten days,’ said Peploe. ‘Usually longer. This isn’t a cheap form of disposal, but bulk cuts the price. So most forces stockpile seizures for a month, maybe six weeks, then we burn a job lot.’
‘Would Judd have known the consignment was coming?’
Peploe nodded. ‘Yes. Bryan Judd’s job is to coordinate the waste disposal, so he’d be told in order that he could make sure there was a gap, and also ensure that anything that needed to go up went up before the security van arrived. So, if there was something radioactive from the cancer ward, for example, he’d make sure that was dealt with. We can’t have that kind of waste just sitting around.’
A seagull crossed the circle of sky above. ‘Bryan Judd was a registered drug addict – was that sensible?’ asked Shaw. He’d disguised the question by keeping his voice light. Peploe climbed back out through the door and Shaw wondered if he was buying himself time.
‘I’m sorry – your question again?’ asked Peploe.
Shaw repeated it, though he was certain he didn’t need to.
‘Well, at the time, it seemed to be sensible. The trust has responsibilities as an employer,’ said Peploe. His pager buzzed and he read the message.
‘You need to go?’ asked Shaw.
‘No. No – it’s fine. I need to get up to the theatre. But this is important.’ He gathered his thoughts, looking down at his shoes. ‘We give opportunities to those with criminal records. Judd was one of those. Given the fact that drug disposal is so closely monitored, none of us saw any potential danger in letting him work the conveyor. It’s not a pleasant job down there. He did it well.’
‘I’ve got a note of the annotation on the metal tag on the bag we found with the victim. Can you trace it back for us? Our forensic lab is testing the waste itself, but we’re pretty sure it’s a human organ. But this would help.’
He showed him the note marked NHS: W 22.
‘That can’t be right,’ said Peploe, putting both hands in the neat white pockets of his house coat.
‘Why?’
‘That’s the children’s ward. We don’t carry out surgical procedures on the ward – never.’
‘But there was body waste in that bag,’ said Shaw. ‘The CSI lab’s checking it out, but we’re pretty sure it’s human.’
Peploe nodded. ‘Well. Then we’ve got ourselves a problem, Inspector. A very serious problem.’
16
Shaw took the ten-thirty briefing in the murder incident room at Junction 24. It was as much for him as for the team, a chance to lay some of the jigsaw pieces out flat, to step back, and see if they saw the same picture he did. The mood was electric, because they all knew these were the crucial few hours – the first day that could make or break the whole investigation. Voices buzzed with adrenaline and a wave of laughter ran through the team like mains electricity.
The clock flipped its digital numbers to 10.30. There was still no sign of Valentine but Shaw binned a paper cup of Costa Coffee espresso and stood. Behind him was a perspex display board, bare but for an enlarged print of Bryan Judd’s face: their victim. Dark Celtic features, heavy swollen flesh, the curly hair unkempt, the skin blotched.
‘OK – listen up, please.’ The room was silent anyway. They all knew Shaw’s reputation, a high-flier, going places. None of them would object to catching hold of his coat-tails. Getting on to the squad was the first step. Now they had to perform. Get noticed. Stand out from the crowd – without showboating, because they all knew that was fatal.
Shaw tried hard to ignore the rows of disembodied arms, legs and hands lining the wall at the back of the room – and the sets of eyes, each in their own pigeon hole. He decided then that he’d get one of the civilian staff to drape some sheets over the stuff while they were using the room. He noticed that his voice had an echo, bouncing round the concrete walls, as if they were in a crypt.
‘We have a scenario, and it works. That doesn’t mean it’s the right scenario. And it is most certainly not the complete scenario. But let’s run it, for what it’s worth.
‘Our victim…’ He slapped his hand on the portrait. ‘Character: the silent type, morose even, nervous too, but a dry sense of humour – like he was secretly laughing at the world. According to his colleagues – and the youngster who spotted his body inside the furnace – music was his life: New Country, Johnny Cash. He’d wear an iPod, even though it was against the rules, and he’d sing with it. Wife made him lunch, so he didn’t go to the canteen, but he’d go down to the staff bar once a week with the rest of them for a beer. Recently, according to the foreman, he stopped that too.’
‘According to his younger brother he’s a drug addict, a user. And not any old stuff – Green Dragon, skunk dunked in pure alcohol. He gets his stuff from this man…’ He put a mug-shot of Aidan Holme up on the board, extracted from the files held in the locked cabinet in the room behind the altar at the Sacred Heart. ‘He lives in the hostel on Erebus Street. One-time addict, now clean, but a serious supplier. Due up in court next month on his third charge – pleading not guilty. He’s escaped going to jail twice before, maybe it’s third time unlucky.
‘Our victim – Judd – pays for his stuff by helping Holme steal large quantiti
es of hard drugs seized by various agencies and destined to be incinerated here at the hospital. That’s what he told his family, anyway. The problem is we don’t know how – and having just had a tour of the disposal system, we may never know how. On the other hand, perhaps he lied to his family.’
DC Fiona Campbell, standing at the back, put up both hands.
Over six foot, flat shoes, shoulders rounded to make herself look shorter. A career copper from a family of coppers – her father was a chief super at Norwich. She’d come out of school with enough qualifications to do anything she wanted in life – and this was it. Not just a bright girl, she had street cred too, earned the hard way. The scar from an eight-inch knife wound ran from below her ear down the side of her neck. A chief constable’s commendation had been her only reward for trying to save the life of a violent man who didn’t want to live.
‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘He helps this Holme character get a haul worth thousands in return for a bottle of the green stuff worth – what – a couple of hundred?’
‘Good point. But it does work if the only role our victim plays is simply to look the other way. And there’s no evidence Judd was ever on crack, tabs, poppers, heroin – anything like that. Green Dragon is highly addictive, but it’s nothing like the usual cannabis derivatives we pick up off the streets. It’s a middle-class drug, and we all know we don’t even get close to that trade. I think this was a deal Judd just fell into. For minding his own business – maybe little else – he gets a supply of what he likes. Then, one day, he decides that life would be better without it and he tells Holme the deal’s off. Someone kills Judd. Is it Holme? Maybe.’
Shaw took a deep breath, aware that adrenaline was making his heartbeat pick up. ‘Evidence? Neil Judd’s statement provides us with the basis for motive. At the moment we don’t know anything about opportunity because we don’t know where Holme was at the relevant times – that’s a priority. Forensics are pretty thin. Holme’s house is all ash and smoke damage, so don’t hold your breath. We have the rice at the scene of crime, which might be a link to the church where Holme ate. But it’s pretty flimsy evidence.’