by Paul Charles
‘Could be, could be. There’s still too many missing links in this thing but tomorrow we should be able to make some ground. It’s just that for a couple of days now, we’ve dug deep and come up with absolutely zero. Castle will be wanting some facts soon and if I can’t give him anything, he’ll want me to return to the backlog. Are you doing a piece on this case, ann rea?’
‘I probably will at some point, but don’t worry, Kennedy – I won’t land you in trouble.’
‘No, no I didn’t mean that.’
‘I know you didn’t. Anyway, I’d run anything I was going to do past you first. I’m not looking for stores, Kennedy. I can’t compete with the Evening Standard, LBC and GLR. They can all beat me for a story by hours and sometimes even by a week. I have to try and find a different view – the full story, the complete picture. I always find a well-composed picture far more interesting, pleasing and lasting than a five-day wonder. Know what I mean?’
They sat down on one of the benches on the top of Primrose Hill and enjoyed the view. People came by, sometimes in threes and fours, but mostly couples, and tried to pick out the various London landmarks. They would stay for five or ten minutes and then move on.
‘Ah shit! Kennedy!’ she shouted, sliding over the bench closer to him.
They were touching.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘That bleedin’ great dog,’ she said, indicating an Irish Wolfhound. ‘I can’t stand then.’
The dog was obviously taking its owner out for a walk and had probably left the poor woman or poor man panting halfway up the hill. The large (as in extraordinarily large) dog was approaching Kennedy and ann rea. The closer the dog came, the closer ann rea squeezed towards Kennedy. He put his arm around her and used the other hand to pat the dog which proved to be a big softy. Big softy grew bored and ran off to do some gardening, which in his case meant digging, planting and watering. Kennedy felt ann rea relax against him. He didn’t move his arm.
They looked at each other, neither sure what to do. Their heads started to move ever so slightly closer to each other – just like in the movies. He calculated that, at their current speed, in approximately fifteen seconds their lips would meet. He tried to remember when he had last cleaned his teeth. He was just about to close his eyes for the final few inches when, all of a sudden, ann rea broke free, jumped up and said, ‘Come on Kennedy – I better get you home. I don’t want the Camden CID on my case!’
Chapter Sixteen
Recorded highlights of the previous scene ran through Kennedy’s mind’s eye, early the following morning. He was in his office, cup of tea in hand, re-living the moments of his near-glory and staring at his ‘Cumberland Basin’ case noticeboard.
The noticeboard was littered with sheets of paper, some bearing the names of the main players in the case – Edmund Berry, Martin Shaw and Peter Blackburn (the name by which Junior was known to the taxman and his bank manager). Susanne Collins was up there, too – as were her brother, Norman and boyfriend, William Jackson. There were photos of Dr Berry and Susanne Collins, courtesy of Mrs Berry and the Camden News Journal respectively. The board also displayed two photographs taken at the spot where Berry was fished out. Kennedy had lines drawn to delineate the connections between the people listed on his board, such as they were. He’d also listed the key details concerning Berry’s drowning:
7-8am, V. drunk, Body marked, Patient dead.
With the help of Staff Nurse Rose Butler and Sheila Berry, he had pieced together a timetable detailing Berry’s last known movements and that was up on the board, too.
Kennedy saw Mrs Berry on most days and he was inspired by her courage and her ability to deal with the situation. Staff Nurse Butler he liked – she made him tea, and they chatted quite a bit – Kennedy felt that the more he grew to know her, the looser her tongue would become.
On the day before his death, Berry awoke around two in the afternoon, having been on duty until 2am the previous night. He spent what Americans call “quality time” with his family, dining with them until about four in the afternoon.
Berry said goodbye to his wife and son at 5.45pm and drove the short distance to the hospital. This journey usually took him anything up to ten minutes. Berry was on call as opposed to being on duty – that is, he was back-up or standing by in case of an emergency. This meant that he could occupy himself as he so desired until such time as his services were required by one of the JHOs. This usually happened when the outpatients unit was dealing with more than one emergency at once and the duty-SHO was occupied with another case.
Staff Nurse Butler saw Berry throughout the early part of the evening. He was talking to people and then catching up on some paperwork in the staff common-room until nine o’clock, when she joined him there to watch the BBC news. They chatted for a few minutes after the news while they finished their respective coffee and tea. At that point, he retired to his cot in the rest-room and she went about her duties.
The on-call doctor was allowed to sleep. In fact, they were encouraged to do so. Berry could be alert quicker by catnapping and that is what he usually did.
Staff Nurse Butler never saw Berry again. He was due to finish his on-call obligations at 2am. The usual routine was for the doctors either to set an alarm that woke them at the end of their shift – at which point they would go home – or sleep on through to the morning. Berry usually chose the latter, deciding not to ruin his wife’s sleep as well. So, he would catnap on his back until the end of his shift and then turn over for deeper sleep on his side. Sleep was precious to doctors – more so now that they were being called on for more and longer shifts – so the wisest of them took every opportunity to make up their sleep deficit to guarantee some kind of sharpness while on duty.
Dr Berry died in the canal at Cumberland Basin between seven and eight o’clock that morning. What had happened to him between 2am and 7am? That was, of course, assuming that the doctor stayed in the hospital until the completion of his shift at 2am.
Kennedy studied Berry’s timetable.
Monday 1st February
14.00 Wakes up at home
16.00 Dines with family
16.40 Departs for hospital
18.00 On-call shift begins
Seen around hospital until
21.00 Watches TV news with SN Butler
21.40 Retires to cot in rest-room
Naps until
Tuesday 2nd February
02.00 ??? until
07.30 (ish) Drowns
10.00 Body recovered by Shaw and Junior
Berry had been in the cold, dirty water from seven o’clock until he was found at 10am by the crew of the Sailing Diamond, Martin Shaw and Junior.
‘What happened to you, Doctor – between 2am and 7am?’ Kennedy asked the photograph on his noticeboard, before he was disturbed by a gentle tapping on his door.
‘Come in.’
‘Good morning, guv.’
It was DS Irvine come a-calling. Kennedy greeted the lively Scot. ‘Good morning, Jimmy. Come on in. How about a cup of tea?’
‘Yes please, sir. Your tea does as much for me at this time of the day as a Glenfiddich does for me at the end.’
‘Yes, Jimmy – I’ve noticed. Perhaps you should take your eyes down to a blood bank this morning and have them drained.’
They both laughed, a little, not a lot.
Kennedy’s laugh dissolved into a smile as he continued with the enjoyable ritual of tea-making. After a few minutes, he turned to his assistant. ‘I suppose we should talk to Collins and Jackson today. I also want to visit the hospital again and talk some more with Staff Nurse Butler. I’d also like someone to chat with Martin Shaw and Junior, again – just in case we missed something or they missed telling us something. Send DC Milligan – he’s got initiative. Tell him to talk them through the sequence, again. It’s surprising what’s left lurking in the back of the brain and will stay there until someone prods it out.’
Irvine was infected by
Kennedy’s energy. ‘Have you got anything, sir? Are you on to something?’
Kennedy replied quietly: ‘I just feel there’s something out there waiting for us – just one thing. Just one thing, Jimmy. I’ll take it either way – proof of foul play or proof of suicide. It’s there, so let’s find it.’
Kennedy handed Irvine a cup of tea. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take this to fortify your resolve.’
Chapter Seventeen
WPC Coles drove Kennedy the short distance over to St Pancras All Saints Hospital. She thought it unusual that a name should have two saints in its title. She was enjoying her time on this case and was hoping that if she impressed enough it could be the start of some CID work. Not that she minded the day-to-day uniform police work, but she had joined up with an ambition of moving through the ranks to Chief Inspector and further.
Coles had a passion for this work but she was aware of how hard it was for a woman to have a successful career in the police force, a disgraceful thing to have to admit to in the latter years of the twentieth century. She did, however, hope that the discrimination, with its unfair work-load, would make her a better detective.
‘So, when we reach the hospital, WPC Coles,’ began Kennedy, breaking into her thought process, ‘I’m going to chat some more to Staff Nurse Butler and I want you to check around with the other nurses and see what you can pick up.’
‘Is there anything in particular you need to know, sir?’ Coles replied, as she changed down gears to stop at a red traffic light, a few streets away from the hospital.
‘No, nothing specific. Just see what you can pick up. I’m looking for anything, any leads on this, and I’m assuming that if there’s anything to know about the goings-on in this hospital then the nurses will know it. Find out what you can about Doctors Berry and Burgess. Get the gossip on Susanne Collins – any rumours, any theories, any scraps at all – that’s how desperate I am. I’ll settle for any scraps you can pick up. There has to be something out there that we’re not getting. All the routine work has come up with nothing so far.’
She had not noticed that the lights had changed. The car immediately behind was aware of the WPC in front and sat quietly but some dickhead – white shirt, red braces, in a Porsche behind the quiet driver – started hooting his horn and effing and blinding and waving his arms out of his window to create rude signs.
‘Give me a couple of seconds and then pull in over there beside that telephone box,’ Kennedy said, as he exited the car and paced back two cars to the offending driver.
Kennedy flashed his ID card and requested that the driver pull in behind the WPC.
‘Now then, sir,’ Kennedy began, ‘what seems to be the trouble?’
The driver was typically indignant – more front than Sainsbury’s. Greased-back hair, big blue-framed glasses and music blaring loud. The music’s not loud because our friend Richard Head likes it, but because to play it loud is a statement – a way of getting attention. He was definitely receiving some attention now. ‘The lights had changed and your car hadn’t moved, mate.’
‘That, sir, is not an offence. Noise pollution, on the other hand, is.’ These people really rattled Kennedy’s cage, but although he would like to take out the frustrations of the Berry case on this product of the nineties, he could not and he would not. But he could waste some of this irritable man’s precious time. ‘Present your insurance and driving licence at the front desk of Camden police station – at the top of Parkway – within the next twenty-four hours.’
‘I can’t man – I’m going to the coast!’
‘And which coast would that be, sir? Brighton or Bristol?’ Kennedy responded. ‘If I were you, sir, I would delay my trip to the coast until you drop your insurance off in Camden. I’ll radio in your details now and unless they hear from you within twenty-four hours, we’ll issue a warrant for your arrest. I’m sure you’ll find that much more inconvenient.’
Kennedy felt some satisfaction for a little while – then he felt bad about having played such games, deserved or not. When he returned to the car, he asked WPC Coles the difference between a pigeon and a yuppie.
‘I don’t know, sir. What is the difference?’ she replied, somewhat surprised.
‘A pigeon can still leave a deposit on a Porsche.’
Kennedy laughed as loud as Coles.
Shortly afterwards, they were walking into the hospital in pursuit of more information concerning the Cumberland Basin case. Kennedy told Coles that he didn’t believe Berry had taken his own life.
Their timing was perfect. As they arrived Staff Nurse Rose Butler was about to commence her tea-break and she happily agreed to share it with Kennedy. Rose Butler was gregarious, she found it easy to talk to new people and she had taken a shine to Kennedy.
‘You better watch yourself or there’ll be talk around here, you’ll do my reputation the world of good,’ she chuckled as they settled down at a quiet table in the staff canteen, Rose with her tea, round of egg and cress sandwiches and an apple. Kennedy settled for tea – coated orange-flavoured biscuits.
‘So, is there much of that goes on here? he began.
‘Oh, you are awful,’ she said.
‘But I like you,’ he joined in. ‘But seriously,’ he continued, ‘gossip is what I’m after; any hospital gossip?’
‘Same as everywhere else, I suppose, Christy. Now, you don’t mind me calling you Christy, do you?’
He smiled his assent, not sure he had a choice in the matter.
‘Good. It’s much nicer than Detective Inspector or Mr Kennedy. Now then – gossip. Yes, of course we have tittle-tattle around here.’ Her eyes broke into a devilish smile. Her jet-black hair was pulled back and tied up in some unique form that joined into and under her nurse’s cap – lots of hair clips and lots of hard work getting all that together for sure, thought Kennedy.
‘Was Dr Berry badly shaken by the Susanne Collins death?’
Rose finished chewing her first mouthful of egg and cress sandwich, and took a swig of tea to wash it down before answering. ‘Totally – totally shook up. Devastated, more like, I’d say. It was completely unexpected. I wasn’t on duty when she was admitted but I saw her the following morning when I was doing the rounds of the wards with the duty-doctor.’
‘And she looked fine?’ Kennedy inquired.
‘Yes, she looked fine – chirpy enough.’
‘Do they know exactly what happened yet?’
‘No. It’s quite fascinating really. They’ve been carrying out an investigation ever since it happened. They gook all the notes and all the records and files – but nothing. Not even a mutter.’
‘Does anybody have any idea what happened?’ Kennedy inquired.
‘No, not really. It’s too much of a madhouse in here. You work on so many cases and because of the duty rosters you rarely see a case the whole way through. If patients are in here for a week or more, you start to become more familiar with them. But if they’re only in here for three or four days they’ll rarely see the same nurse twice. That’s why we place such importance on the files – to ensure that the treatment can continue successfully, we hope. But no is the short answer. No-one has any idea what happened to the Collins girl.’
‘Can the hospital be sued for damages?’
‘Yes, if negligence can be proved. And I hear two of the relatives are kicking up quite a storm. The brother and the boyfriend, I believe.’ Rose quietened her voice in a conspiratorial manner. ‘The brother had a meeting with the hospital General Manager, Alexander Bowles, and apparently there was a lot of screaming and shouting and the brother roughed up the office a bit. Mr Bowles was very shaken after the brother left. He nearly slammed the door off its hinges as he was leaving. Screaming about a cover-up and how you’re not going to get away with it, you’ve not heard the last of me, that sort of thing. A few of the nurses who saw him leave were very scared: apparently his eyes were all but bursting out of their sockets. But I feel sorry for him. He’s lost a loved one and now he
’s alone… all that anger… poor man.’
‘Is the hospital insured against these sort of lawsuits?’ Kennedy inquired.
‘I imagine so – but Mr Bowles could tell you better than I.’
‘And Dr Burgess – what can you tell me about him?’
‘Hmm – ambitious, very ambitious. None of the nurses like him. He treats us as inferiors, frequently shouting at us and blaming us for his own mistakes.’
‘Does he make many mistakes?’
‘We all do, Christy. With the hours we have to work and the amount we have to do, it’s impossible not to make some mistakes. It’s just a case of trying to keep your wits about you to some degree, ignoring the pressure, checking other people’s work, having people check yours.’
‘What about Dr Berry? Did he make any major blunders?’ inquired Kennedy.
‘No, not that I’m aware of. He was a great doctor, on his way to becoming a brilliant one. Cared a lot about his work. He always seemed to be trying to keep in good shape. Took lots of naps, unlike some of them. The things they get up to when they are meant to be on-call, some of them even nip down to the local and you have to bleep them there if anything comes up. Some of the doctors have more… ah, shall we way, energetic ways of spending their on-call times.’ Rose smiled another of those devilish smiles.
She thought for some time before continuing. ‘But going back to Dr Berry, that’s why this Collins case is even more surprising. I can’t see Dr Berry breaking procedure and making a mistake – not a bad mistake, certainly. Bad enough for someone to die. That’s what’s been troubling me. There must have been some mystery illness, something else present that caused her to die.’
‘But surely that would have shown up in the autopsy?’
‘Yes, it should have, but, as I say, we’ve had no news from Mr Bowles. Perhaps he’ll tell you, Christy.’
‘Maybe he will. I’m seeing him later. Let’s go back to Dr Berry. Did he ever fool around with any of the nurses?’