The room door opened gently as Cathy the auxiliary nurse let herself in.
‘Do you mind?’ the lawyer said sternly. ‘I am trying to conduct an interview with a potential client here.’
‘Aye, aye, don’t get your silk knickers in a twist,’ Cathy said, approaching the bed. She freed Kelly’s left hand, which had been tucked tight under the sheets, and placed it in the lawyer’s. ‘Now Kelly, hen, squeeze once for no and twice for yes, understand?’
The lawyer felt a faint but definite squeeze of her hand. And then again.
‘Good, lass. Right, now ask your question,’ Cathy said to the lawyer.
‘Do you feel you are being held against your will?’ Fiona McDade repeated.
Again the lawyer felt Kelly squeeze her hand twice.
‘Are they over-medicating you?’
Two more squeezes.
‘Would you like me to represent you?’
This time there was a slight delay before Kelly squeezed the lawyer’s hand. The second one made Fiona McDade wince with pain.
51: The snatch
April looked glum as she put the phone down on another wasted call. ‘That’s the prison service. I thought I’d see if they had a Kelly Carter in their custody. Yet another blank. I am now officially all out of ideas,’ she said, flummoxed.
‘I’m going to hit her ex-husband’s door today. See if he’ll cough,’ Connor said.
‘Good plan.’
• • •
Connor and Jack Barr pulled up outside Brian Fairburn’s flat in Kilsyth. Kelly had ditched her married name the day their divorce was complete.
There was no one more cynical and battle-weary in the business than Barr. Connor and all the other reporters were prepared to put up with JB’s mumps and moans as he was probably the best snapper there was at ‘snatches’ – the age-old art of newspaper photographs capturing someone in the split-second they leave their house, car or place of business. Barr revelled in his reputation as the ‘snatch king’.
Their simple plan was to knock on Brian’s door to ask if he knew Kelly’s whereabouts. If they couldn’t get Brian, they would knock on the neighbours’ doors to find out what they knew. Judging by the look of the block of flats – all smart windowboxes and well-kept communal grounds – most of the residents were probably elderly. Which would mean nosy neighbours.
But just as Connor was about to open the passenger door, there was a knock at the window. A grey-haired, stocky man in a black suit was blocking Connor from getting out.
‘Not today, lads,’ he said through the crack in the door, in a no-nonsense tone that immediately had him marked down as a cop in Connor’s book. The last time he saw an officer like that they were from the Royal Protection Squad. Or shadowing the Prime or First Minister. They were the type who wore a permanent scowl and didn’t do small talk.
‘And why not?’ was all Connor could think to say, having been unexpectedly confronted.
‘Because I said so,’ was the menacing reply.
‘So much for freedom of the press,’ Connor said lamely.
‘Boo hoo, take it up with your MP,’ came the mocking reply.
Connor looked at the photographer, who shrugged his shoulders.
‘Okay, well, you have a nice day, officer,’ Connor said in defeat.
‘Don’t you worry, I will,’ the cop replied. ‘Now off you fuck.’
Connor was raging with himself as they drove off. He’d come away empty-handed. Not only that, but he had also been bullied by a policeman, which wasn’t something that had happened before. It was usually the other way around. Connor loved standing his ground with the flat foots at crime scenes as he knew the law better than they did. But he hadn’t even had the chance to go toe to toe with this hard case. He’d been blindsided and he wasn’t happy.
‘Seen that bastard before?’ Barr asked as they drove back to the office.
‘Nope, but I’d love to know what unit he’s from.’
‘Maybe your cop contacts can help. Here, show them this.’ Barr handed a tiny Sure Shot camera to Connor. On the back screen was a picture of the man who had blocked them from doing their jobs. It may have been taken from an awkward angle, but it was sharp as a tack.
‘You might be a moany bastard, JB, but no one can take a snatch like you.’
Something that passed for a smile broke across Jack Barr’s craggy, weathered face.
52: The tribunal
Fiona McDade had submitted an emergency motion to the Mental Health Tribunal. The lawyer had grave and immediate concerns for the wellbeing of a patient called Kirsty Adams. As far as she was concerned, her client was being deliberately over-medicated to keep her sedated and was being held against her will. The papers showed no criminal charges were pending and there was no suggestion that the patient was a danger to anyone other than herself.
Legally, the tribunal had five working days to report their primary assessment, but they only took twenty-four hours before Fiona McDade was summoned before the board.
Fiona was well known to the panel and prided herself on being a constant thorn in their sides as she had made mental health cases her specialty. There were easier ways of making money, but since learning her own grandmother had been sectioned for falling pregnant as an unmarried eighteen-year-old, she had made it her life’s work. It was the reason she studied law in the first place. Times had moved on since the days of forced adoptions and teenagers of legal age being wrenched from their family homes. But, as far as Fiona was concerned, our mental health treatment still left a lot to be desired. There were some staff still working who had once administered electro-shock treatment and claimed it had been a travesty when the method of literally frying patients’ brains had been abolished.
One such nurse was Jim Drury, who was a dinosaur of the profession if ever there was one. Fiona had raised three gross misconduct cases against the obese male nurse on behalf of three separate clients, only to see them all thrown out. At the end of the day it was the word of damaged minds against that of a cunning and warped one. But Fiona was on Jim’s case. She was determined to stop the arrogant son of a bitch. So she had been more than alarmed to see from Kelly’s medical notes that Jim Drury was her night nurse. She knew what happened when Drury was left to his own devices.
Fiona was fired up and in full flow when she came face to face with the board. As the meeting was opened with the usual formalities, she butted in: ‘Let’s cut to the chase: what are you doing about my client, Kirsty Adams?’
‘Miss McDade…’ the chairman of the board, Mr Russell Richards, began.
‘Don’t “Miss McDade” me. Just tell me right now what you are doing to stop the over-medication of my client, Kirsty Adams.’
‘Miss McDade…’ Mr Richards sighed, ‘if you would allow me to speak.’
‘Well, get to the point then, would you?’ Fiona snapped.
Russell Richards was a retired mental health consultant who had crossed swords with Fiona McDade on several occasions. He had once privately told her she was heading to a breakdown if she continued to overwork herself and didn’t learn to relax. His advice had clearly fallen on deaf ears. Fiona McDade was more manic than ever.
‘If you would be quiet for one moment, Miss McDade,’ Mr Richards said sharply, ‘then I’ll tell you. I went to see your client personally but was unable to help.’
Fiona McDade’s face went crimson as she was about to fly off the handle.
‘And before you give me an ear-bashing,’ Mr Richards continued, ‘the reason I was unable to help is because she is no longer a patient of NHS Glasgow or, indeed, any other trust. Kirsty Adams has been discharged. She’s gone, Miss McDade. Case closed.’
53: Hips
Connor was in a filthy mood when he returned to the broom cupboard. But there wasn’t anything in the world that couldn’t be cured by a cup of tea,
as far as April was concerned.
Connor moaned his head off on the way to the ‘breakout area’, that horrible modern management term for a falling-apart kitchen with a few tables and chairs. ‘In the old days, they had a canteen,’ he had once remarked. The Daily Chronicle had long since moved offices from an old, rundown Victorian warehouse to a stainless steel and glass city centre building. Connor missed the old dump as at least it had character. They also seemed to have more fun back then. Like the time management had held a competition amongst staff to come up with a new name for the canteen to coincide with its ‘refurbishment’, a grand title for a lick of paint and the replacement of a few cracked floor tiles. Connor had gleefully sent in his suggestions, including, ‘The Slug And Lettuce’, ‘Burger Ming’ and ‘Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook’.
The last had been in reference to the time he’d asked one of the surly school dinnerlady types for a cheese toastie. In tones that could have greatly benefitted from customer service training, she’d replied that there was ‘nae cheese’. While Connor was deciding what other delicacy to choose from the array of delights on offer – from bloated, soggy pasta to a sad, burnt slice of pizza – the dinner lady demanded, ‘Dae yae no want yer toastie?’
She stood behind the counter wearing an outraged look and no gloves while holding two slices of bread.
Connor was confused. ‘But I thought you said there was no cheese?’
‘Aye,’ was all she replied, as if speaking to an imbecile.
‘Then that’s just toast.’
Strangely, he missed those days. Back then, editorial shared the building with the vast print works and the smell of ink. Connor had made friends with many of the ‘inkies’, the print workers who operated the machinery. And, despite their unions having long since been tamed, they still drove flashier cars than most of the reporters.
Now Connor and April worked in the equivalent of a call centre. There was no atmosphere and large-scale redundancies meant there was no buzz either.
‘I miss smoking at my desk,’ April said fondly.
‘You still pretending you’ve quit?’
‘Shhh,’ she said, looking over her shoulder as if she was about to be busted. ‘My daughter will kill me if she finds out. She made me promise to quit once and for all, and so I have. For good. Kinda.’
‘Well, you always were a woman of conviction.’
They got themselves a couple of weak coffees from the free vending machine, a management compromise for ditching the canteen when they relocated premises.
‘I’m pissed off allowing myself to get pushed around like that. I should’ve stood my ground with that cop.’
‘Easier said than done after the event. But when he’s sprung on you like that…’ April sympathised.
Connor liked the way that April always backed him up even when he hadn’t been at his best. ‘Thanks. I’ll be better prepared next time. JB got a cracking snatch of the bastard. Going to run it past Bing to see if I can find out who he is.’
‘And I’ve got some lawyer to call back. She’s a friend of a friend who says she has a story for me,’ April said, rolling her eyes. ‘It’ll probably be about a client’s damp council house. Why do people always think that’s a story? I mean when has the Daily Chronicle ever done a story on a damp council house?’
‘You never know, she may have just found Lord Lucan. If you’re Lucan for trouble…?’ Connor said in his best Elvis voice.
‘…You came to the right place,’ April replied, with a shake of her prominent hips.
54: M74
Kelly was in the back of yet another vehicle and heading once again to a destination unknown. She had been hastily discharged from hospital, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, and was then picked up by complete strangers. With the break to her routine it had been a while since her last medication and the veil of her drug-induced existence was starting to lift. But she didn’t recognise any of the roads until they hit the M74, heading south to the border with England.
No one spoke in the car, which was fine as Kelly didn’t feel like speaking even if she could, but she vowed to pay close attention to the road signs and junction numbers in case she was able to call for help at some point in the future.
The occupants of the car were unaware she was taking anything in as a long line of saliva hung from Kelly’s mouth. She felt the strength returning to her hands, but resisted the urge to remove the drool. It was best to keep up the pretence that she was still in a world of her own.
Now her priorities were to get back to the real world. And Kelly was determined to make it.
55: Never judge a book by its cover
‘Hello, is that Fiona? This is April Lavender from the Daily Chronicle. Sorry I missed your call earlier.’
‘Can we meet?’ came the terse reply from the lawyer.
‘Of course, there’s a coffee shop on Royal Exchange Square.’
‘I know it. See you there in twenty minutes.’
April didn’t even know what this Fiona character looked like. But she reckoned she would know her when she saw her. From the tone and urgency of her voice, April suspected a damp council house was the last thing on the lawyer’s mind.
• • •
Fiona was almost exactly as April had expected, although she looked younger than she sounded. She was certainly as highly strung as the reporter had thought she’d be, puffing on a cigarette outside the coffee shop as April arrived.
‘April, isn’t it? Fiona McDade.’
‘How did you know?’ April asked, wondering if she looked just as she sounded on the phone.
‘I googled you,’ Fiona replied, without any trace of a smile.
‘Oh yes, apparently I’m on many Internets,’ April said with a flash of her gold incisor tooth.
Fiona frowned slightly. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. You will be found through most search engines, but there is only one Internet.’
April laughed at her own stupidity. It wasn’t the first time she had been told by a total stranger she wasn’t making sense. ‘Sorry, I’m hopeless with technology. Totally hopeless. Now let me get the coffees and we’ll sit outside so I can join you for a smoke.’
Fiona gave her order then eyed up April as she made her way into the chain coffee shop with its perpetually cheery baristas. The lawyer was beginning to think she’d made a terrible mistake. The old dear was clearly past it. April had come highly recommended, but maybe that was from yesteryear, as everything about her screamed of faded glory – from the harsh, peroxide hair to the clothes that were clearly bought a few dress sizes ago. She just didn’t seem to have the wherewithal for what needed to be told. Fiona made her mind up, put her cigarettes back in her bag and got up to leave.
‘Uch, I’m not that boring, am I?’ April said with her usual self-deprecation as she arrived back with the coffees just as her subject was about to scarper.
‘Sorry, I’ve made a mistake. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have wasted your time.’
‘That’s okay, but I’ve got the coffees now. Sit with me for five minutes. Have another ciggie.’
Fiona looked at the smiling moon face staring back at her then checked her watch and, deciding to go against her better instinct, she sat back down.
‘I know I might not be what you were expecting, Fiona, but I was like you once. I was even as skinny as you, as hard as that is to believe now,’ April added, patting her hips.
Fiona smiled, something she hadn’t done in a while.
‘But I’m a good listener. And also if I can’t help, I know someone who can.’
Fiona sighed heavily, took a sip of coffee then lit another cigarette as she weighed up April’s offer. ‘Okay, here goes. But I will tell you this on the cast iron guarantee that you act fast. Believe me, speed is everything. We don’t have much time to save a life. I have a client called Kirsty Adams, who’s bee
n held on a mental health ward. Although now I realise her name isn’t really Kirsty Adams. It’s the missing nurse, Kelly Carter.’
‘I knew the bastards must have changed her name,’ April said a little too loudly, earning glances from the neighbouring tables. ‘I checked everywhere. Thank God you’ve found her.’
‘Had found her,’ Fiona said. ‘I’m afraid Kelly Carter has gone missing again.’
56: Smash and grab
The car that Kelly was sitting in had an expensive feel to it – from the black leather seats to the array of buttons including temperature control. The windows were tinted, making the interior dark and gloomy even though it was bright outside.
A stern-looking driver shot her an occasional glance in his rear-view mirror, as if checking his captive was still there. He needn’t have worried: Kelly knew there was no hope of escape, especially while the car was hurtling down the M74. Another male sat in the front passenger seat and had one of those child mirrors Kelly used to have when her kids were young, to keep an eye on what was happening in the back. The men up front had a military look to them: square haircuts, wide shoulders, permanent scowls and eyes that constantly scanned for danger.
Sitting next to her was the obese male nurse, Jim Drury, who was barely able to fit in the rear seat, despite it being a large car with generous proportions. His body spilled out in all directions, with the seatbelt emphasising his massive moobs. Kelly thought to herself there would be many women who’d like a pair of breasts like his. Jim’s blue nurse’s tunic was stained down the front from whatever he had eaten that morning. Although, judging by the general state of his personal hygiene, it could have been yesterday’s breakfast. Or the day before’s.
A syringe full of some yellow liquid was stuffed into his top pocket, something no self-respecting nurse would ever do. Kelly reckoned the injection would be for her, maybe when they got closer to their destination or if she kicked off. He was angled so he could face her, his fat legs invading her footwell. At least in this situation he wouldn’t be able to molest her, but that didn’t prevent him running his black training shoe up and down her calf. She wondered who in the world would find it a turn-on to have their lower leg roughly rubbed by the rubber sole of a training shoe. Then again, as far as this pervert nurse was concerned, it was all about power and pleasuring himself. Kelly had never truly despised someone before. Not even Monahan when he had put her and her children at risk. But she truly despised this creature that passed for a man.
Wicked Leaks Page 14