Last Boat To Camden Town (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 1)

by Paul Charles

  ‘We believe that the hospital is looking into the circumstances surrounding the death…’ began Kennedy.

  ‘Looking into it… looking into it!’ interrupted Jackson. ‘Come on, Mr Policeman – do you honestly expect me to believe that? Don’t you see that it’s a cover-up? It’s a cover-up that’s going on here. They’re so busy protecting their own, the way they… the way you all do,’ he spat.

  Jackson was obviously used to having an audience. He had the pose of a crowd rabble-rouser, acting aggressively towards someone and having people back him up with chants of “Cover-up, cover-up – tell us about the cover-up, pigs!” And “You tell ‘em!” Or “Yeah, look after your own.” And even, “Don’t let them get away with it!” Kennedy checked to see if there were any Edgar Broughton Band posters about the flat. The next thing he was expecting was chants of “Out, demons out!” Fortunately, there were only the three people in the room and Jackson’s approach was falling somewhat flat.

  Kennedy tried again. ‘William, I need to know what you were doing on Tuesday 2nd February between the hours 6am and 8am.’

  ‘Do you? Do you, indeed? Well you’re the fuzz so bloody find out. And while you’re about it, find out what happened to Susanne Collins. Yes – find out who was where and doing what to whom between the hours of 4pm and 6pm on Friday 22nd January. Yes, find that out…’ His speech slowed. ‘Yes, she’s dead. She went into that hospital healthy. We were going to be married, you know? She went into that hospital happy and she never… she never came out.’

  Obviously, the thing that William Jackson had spent the last few days hiding away in his subconscious was rising to the surface – and fast. Before long he was sobbing quietly. Kennedy had noticed how glazed his eyes were. Either his doctor – if he had and trusted such a person – had put him on medication or else he was prescribing his own drugs, and not the type you get over the chemist’s counter.

  Kennedy spoke softly: ‘Look, we can talk some other time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Irvine added, encouragingly. ‘Is there anyone we can get to help you?

  No answer, so Kennedy continued: ‘Shall we have a doctor come around? We can radio for one and wait until he arrives.’

  ‘Just get out! That’s what you can do, just get out! Just leave me alone! Leave me alone! Oh, God, she was so beautiful and we were going to be married. She didn’t do anything wrong, she never did anything wrong. She didn’t deserve to die. You wouldn’t understand, would you? You’re on their side. Just get out – just get out now!’

  The doorbell rang again, interrupting his tirade. Kennedy hoped that it would be a friend and that they could leave the poor man in safe hands. He was rewarded by the appearance, a few minutes later, by one of Jackson’s teaching colleagues.

  The teacher, Trevor Davies, at first seemed nervous of the two policemen. He probably thought they were there to arrest Jackson. He quickly regained his composure and attempted to take charge of the situation, ascertaining why they were there. Given his traditional dress-sense and attitude, Davies seemed more of a typical teacher to Kennedy, who was happy to leave Jackson in his care.

  Leaving Jackson quietly sobbing in the living-room, the three men walked to the door. ‘Look,’ said Kennedy, ‘he’s in too bad a state to continue with our questioning today, we’ll have to come back some other time. Do you know what he’s on?’

  Davies did know what his colleague was on but he was not about to admit it to Kennedy.

  Finding no response, Kennedy continued, ‘Well, it doesn’t matter to me, but to be able to deal with his loss he needs to get off whatever it is, and he needs to get off it soon, otherwise, he’ll be another casualty. I don’t know exactly what you are to Mr Jackson, but I hope you’re a friend. Right now, that’s what he needs more than anything.’

  ‘I’ll look after him – don’t worry,’ Davies assured Kennedy.

  ‘I do need to ask him a few more questions and I need to do it as soon as possible. Here’s my number,’ Kennedy said, writing his name and number on a clean page and tearing it from his book. ‘Give me a call when you think he’s in a fit state to deal with it. Okay?’

  Davies took the piece of paper in silence and closed the door after the two policemen, noticing that one of them was clenching and unclenching his left hand as he walked away.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Right,’ said Kennedy, either to himself or to the wall – it was hard to know which – ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here?’ After a few minutes silence, he repeated his query. ‘What have we got here?’ A few more moments’ thought. ‘Nothing,’ he replied to the wall and to himself. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t feel down or depressed about his lack of progress on the case.

  He was becoming more and more convinced that Berry had not committed suicide. Unfortunately, all his leads, if you could call them leads, were turning up blanks.

  Irvine had interviewed Berry’s solicitor. John Chappell had turned out to be the old small-village style of solicitor, but unfortunately didn’t seem to have any especially useful information to give. Berry had been a client for seven years and had contacted him to arrange a meeting for as soon as possible. ‘Oh, just a matter I need some information and advice on. We’ll discuss it when I come in,’ had been Berry’s reply when asked what the meeting was for.

  ‘No, he didn’t seem unduly worried – more distracted.’

  ‘No, he didn’t have any major problems, financial or otherwise.’

  ‘No, I don’t think Berry was capable of suicide and I do not think that he committed suicide.’

  ‘No, he didn’t come in to see me often – rarely in fact.’

  These were among the answers Chappell had supplied to Irvine’s questions.

  The additional visit to question Martin Shaw and Junior had failed to turn up anything new.

  Staff Nurse Rose Butler had been kind enough to furnish Kennedy with the doctor’s roster for the month preceding the death. The sole information the rosters provided was that Dr Burgess had gone off duty at 1pm on the day of Dr Berry’s last shift. He next went on duty at six o’clock the morning Berry drowned.

  So, in a way, Kennedy was making some kind of progress. He knew that Dr Burgess could not have murdered Dr Berry. He had an alibi. Alibi is a Latin word meaning “elsewhere”, and when Berry was dropped into Regent’s Canal at Cumberland Basin, Burgess had been elsewhere. In fact he had been on duty in front of several witnesses, three-and-a-half miles away at All Saints Hospital.

  Kennedy found this disappointing in a way because Burgess would have made a good suspect. Kennedy found that it was always best not to like your suspects, not to feel any sympathy for them.

  He flicked through the remainder of the rosters. Nothing caught his eye, so he replaced them in an ever-growing file marked Cumberland Basin Drowning – the name the Camden News Journal had given the case.

  Superintendent Castle stuck his head around the door. ‘Any progress on the Berry thing, yet?’

  ‘No, sir – nothing yet.’

  ‘Ah well, keep at it.’ And he was off in a flash, gone about his other business.

  How unlike TV cops, Kennedy thought. By this stage, I’d have been carpeted several times and received the usual, We need a break-through, we need to give the press something. Not to mention the verbal about budgets, public opinion and promotion – and not necessarily in that order. Scriptwriter’s fancy.

  It was time to return to the hospital to see Alexander Bowles – the hospital manager – to try and find out more about the Collins patient. It was a meeting Bowles had seemed reluctant to make but eventually he had conceded to Kennedy’s polite persistence. Kennedy even had a hard job contacting Bowles by phone. ‘He keeps gentleman’s hours,’ Rose Butler had told Kennedy when he was trying to find out when Bowles would be in his office. ‘He gets in at the crack of lunchtime!’ she had laughed down the phone.

  For someone who didn’t drive and would probably never drive, Kennedy was very mobile around London. He
loved to walk – great thinking time, he’d explain to those concerned about his lack of personal transport. He travelled on buses and occasionally on the Underground. In an emergency, the Tube was still the quickest way around town, police alarms and flashing lights or not.

  Kennedy was always saying to anyone who would listen that by the year 2001 the road system would be full and at a complete and permanent standstill. When that time came, he wanted to be able to know his way around.

  He was great at cadging lifts with his colleagues: ‘Where are you going to? Oh, great – you can drop me at so-and-so. It’s on the way,’ was his usual trap.

  Today his luck had run out so he chose to walk the fair distance over to St Pancras All Saints Hospital. The walk cleared his head, though he was ready for the cup of tea Alexander “Call me Alex” Bowles offered at the start of their meeting.

  ‘I suppose you need to know about the Susanne Collins case,’ Bowles began.

  Kennedy could tell immediately that Bowles was a person who knew how to “deal” with other people. In fact, he’d made a profession out of it. The problem was that one always felt one was being “dealt” with.

  ‘I suppose I do,’ answered Kennedy.

  Bowles consulted his file and he spread several pages out in front of him across the desk. He clasped his hands in front of himself, slightly lower than his cheek. He was ready to speak – Kennedy could tell. ‘At 1.10pm on Wednesday 20th January, Ms Susanne Collins was admitted to our emergency unit. The case notes made by the duty-nurse state that Ms Collins had fallen in her school playground and when she tried to rise she found that her leg would not take her weight. Her leg was causing her a great deal of discomfort. Her vitals were all normal…’

  ‘What exactly does that mean?’ interrupted Kennedy.

  Annoyed that he had been cut off mid-flow and that he was obviously having to address a lay person, Bowles sucked in his breath, not a lot, but enough to be noticeable. ‘Her temperature, blood pressure, pulse and breathing – all normal.’

  Kennedy realised what was coming so he started to take notes.

  ‘She was running a slight temperature and was still having difficulty standing on her leg. The doctor diagnosed Phlebitis.’

  Bowles helpfully spelled it out for Kennedy, before continuing. ‘This is an inflammation of the veins and the doctor decided to put her on antibiotics, Ampicillin.’ Again, he spelled the word for Kennedy. ‘Four injections a day, one every four hours. The doctor decided to admit Ms Collins for observation and to ensure that she would rest and keep her weight off her leg so as to enable the swelling to go down. It’s quite incredible how patients, once they know the extent of their ailments, become rather careless. It’s when they do not know what the matter with them is that they are more careful and attentive.’

  Kennedy nodded, not so much in agreement as in encouragement for Bowles.

  ‘The following day, the 21st, the patient was again attended by the same doctor. The notes state that the swelling had not contracted so he continued with the same dosage of Ampicillin – A-M-P…’

  ‘I-C-I-L-L-I-N. I managed that one, thanks.’ This man was bringing out the worst in Kennedy.

  ‘Good. The patient seemed to be in good spirits apart from her slight discomfort. The following afternoon, Friday 22nd, the patient started to become short of breath, nothing serious, and the nurse tried to make her more comfortable. In the early evening, she started to complain about a pain in her chest and was having more trouble breathing. Dr Berry decided to give her a Diamorphine injection to ease the pain.’

  Again, Bowles helped Kennedy with his spelling.

  ‘Dr Berry stayed in attendance and, on further examination realised that Ms Collins was not, in fact, suffering from Phlebitis. He then correctly diagnosed that she had a blood clot which, by this time, had travelled from the leg into her lung. This was what had been causing her shortness of breath and chest pain. Shortly afterwards Ms Collins lost consciousness. Dr Berry immediately put her on Heparin, H-E-P-A-R-I-N, a drip of ten milligrams to dissolve the clot. Unfortunately, this treatment was too late and the patient expired at 6.23pm on Friday 22nd January.’

  Bowles’ report was at an end. He turned to Kennedy: ‘Your questions, Inspector Kennedy.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Okay, sir – now correct me if I’m wrong but are you telling me that Ms Susanne Collins died in your hospital because the doctor made the wrong diagnosis?’

  ‘Inspector, I have given you all the facts.’

  Alexander Bowles was now doing his schoolteacher bit on Kennedy, who was thinking his remark somewhat evasive.

  ‘Mr Bowles, when this poor woman was admitted to this hospital, did she in fact have a blood clot in her leg?’

  ‘That is a possibility.’

  ‘So, if Susanne Collins’ ailment had been correctly diagnosed at the time that she was admitted and she’d been treated with–’ he checked his notes ‘–with Heparin, then the blood clot would have dissolved before moving to her lung and she would not have died?’

  ‘That is, of course a possibility.’

  ‘Then surely, sir, the hospital trust could now be sued for negligence by Ms Collins’ family?’

  ‘Inspector, you are from the police and I have given you the facts. I have told you the truth. I have given you the results of my investigation. I cannot and will not speculate beyond that.’

  Christy Kennedy drew in his breath. He was surprised – gobsmacked, even – at what Bowles had just openly admitted to him. ‘Have the relatives been given this information, yet?’ Kennedy asked quietly.

  ‘No, Inspector – the hospital board have not yet decided on what course of action to take. I have only just concluded my investigation. I would appreciate it very much if you would not make any of this information public.’

  Before Kennedy could respond, Bowles added, ‘However, if you find yourself in a position where you have to disclose this information, could you please advise me in advance. I imagine the board would wish for Ms Collins’ family to be among the first to receive the information. Mr Collins has been causing quite a bit of trouble and has only really quietened down since Dr Berry drowned but I imagine the results of my investigation will have him back on our doorstep again.’

  I imagine it will,’ Kennedy stated quietly.

  Bowles rose from his chair. ‘And if that is all, Inspector?’ He offered Kennedy his hand.

  Kennedy left the office feeling that he had been “dealt with”. To Bowles and his precious hospital board, the death of Susanne Collins was just another of their daily problems. Something like raising funds for new equipment or handling complaints from doctors and nurses about their hours and wages. Something like doctors – Burgess, for instance – being unhappy with their parking spaces. Rose Butler had told Kennedy about that one. Or something like keeping the board off his back about overspending.

  Kennedy imagined that the minute he left the office, Bowles had closed the Susanne Collins file and had emptied the details of it from his mind.

  Here was the death of a young woman – genuinely in the prime of her life – and because of a faulty diagnosis, she was dead. To Alexander Bowles, she was obviously an acceptable loss and his job was to minimise the hospital’s exposure on this loss. Bowles was selected for this job not on the strength of his qualities but for his faults.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘I can’t believe how wrong I was, I just can’t believe it.’ Kennedy is in his kitchen, sitting at his well-worn farmhouse dining-table, addressing himself to ann rear. It is a large table, but unlike the Berry household dining-table, it’s busy – but busy in an orderly way. Everything is set in its own space, as if there were invisible partitions keeping each item in place.

  Kennedy has just brewed up one of his special cups of tea and is so preoccupied with his mistake that he fails to realise the significance – if, indeed, there is any – of ann rea being alone with him in his house for the first time.


  ‘I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been – the obvious is usually the truth. Sometimes, it’s so simple but we search for something complicated. I nearly fell off the chair when he just came right out and told me the whole story – just, “Blah, blah, blah and then the patient expired. Any questions?” It’s totally preposterous,’ Kennedy exclaimed.

  ann rea sat silently drinking her tea, absorbing his words and home. This man’s kitchen was incredibly homely and warm, not at all what she would have expected in a bachelor’s home. Perhaps her intuition was correct – perhaps Kennedy was not the usual… but… but she had been here too many times before. She had been hurt too much.

  ‘It’s simple,’ continued Kennedy, ‘Berry made a wrong diagnosis, gave the wrong medication, the patient died, he felt shit about it. Just think about it: he’d let down a patient, his profession, his wife, his son, his calling. He couldn’t live with it. That was my mistake, I overlooked his motive for suicide. He was such a highly principled man that he just couldn’t take it; he couldn’t live with that guilt. He was going to see his solicitor to change his will because he became unbearably depressed about the whole incident and about his life. All his training, all that time studying to reach a peak, and then, with all of that, he still kills a patient. That’s probably how he saw it; he probably thought that he’d killed her. Good heavens, it was an accident. He should have talked it over with his wife. But he loved her so much that he couldn’t share it with her. He didn’t realise that it was exactly because they loved each other so much they could have shared it. Sheila Berry is strong enough, she could have helped him through this. But he broke the norm – he became drunk, went over to the canal to forget his troubles, decided to end it all and jumped in. Maybe he was so drunk he fell in by accident. Either way he drowned. And I couldn’t see it. I was too busy building up this shrine to this great guy and all the time it turns out he’s like the rest of us: human. He read the medical situation incorrectly, gave the wrong medicine and the patient died.’