DEAD WRONG a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by Helen H. Durrant

  “Does she take Risedronate?”

  “No, she doesn’t, but it is dispensed to some of our other residents. Unlike the Aricept it’s a commonly prescribed drug. Is all this important, Tom? I can give you a report on what she’s had over the last twelve months if you like.”

  “Sorry, Monika, that’s not necessary. This isn’t really about my mum — it’s the case I’m working on. The bodies were full of drugs and one of them was Aricept.”

  “That should narrow it down considerably for you, then. We have only the one user here, and you can cross your mum off the list of suspects. She can barely walk — remember?”

  “Very droll. I don’t think a user of Aricept did this. I think their drugs were stolen by someone close to them.”

  “In that case talk to their GPs. If a patient isn’t taking the drug properly, then they’ll know. Aricept is usually prescribed by a hospital doctor, so there will be check-ups and they’d notice it wasn’t having the desired effect.”

  That wasn’t a bad idea.

  “Sorry, Monika. I’m not getting at you. I’ve had a pig of a day. One of my team has been injured. Poor Rocco is in hospital with a head injury. Look — shall I come over tonight? We can have a catch up and flop in front of the telly.”

  “Sounds nice. I don’t see nearly enough of you these days, Tom. Come when you’re ready. I’ll make something good and hot.”

  Calladine left his office and went to find Dodgy. “Contact these people’s GPs and find out if any of them are not responding properly to the drug Aricept. Leave it to the morning if you like and put your findings on my desk. I’m nipping out for a bit.”

  Before he called it a day he needed to check on Lydia. She’d be finishing work soon and making for her apartment. He couldn’t spend another night with her, but at least he could make sure she was locked up tight.

  “Sir!” Imogen called out, the office phone in her hand. “Ruth wants you — says it’s urgent.”

  “Tom, Rocco’s in a bad way.” She was crying. “He’s been taken to theatre and his parents are here. It looks bad. They know because he’s blown a pupil or something. I don’t know what to say to them. They’re so upset.”

  “I’ll come. Give me ten minutes or so and I’ll be there.”

  He handed the phone back to Imogen and went to get his coat. If Rocco couldn’t be fixed he’d never forgive himself. He should have told Jones where to go, stood his ground. He should never have gone back to bring the Foxleys in.

  “Tell Jones, one of you. I won’t be back until the morning. Don’t forget — if Kelly turns up, then let me know at once.”

  * * *

  Ruth was pacing the corridor outside the operating theatre with Greg and Jean Rockliffe, Rocco’s parents.

  “What’ve they said?”

  “He’s had a significant bleed; something called a subdural hematoma, and a blood clot has formed. They need to remove it straight away, then it’s a waiting game. He’ll be in intensive care for a while, and then we’ll have to see.”

  “Thanks Ruth.” Calladine turned to the parents. “Look, Mr and Mrs Rockliffe, Rocco — Simon — was unlucky. He wasn’t being stupid or taking any chances, none of us could have known what was going to happen. He was simply there — stood in the wrong place when that mad woman lashed out.”

  Jean Rockliffe put her hand on his arm. “We know that Simon’s job is risky, Inspector, and he’s told us often enough how you take care of them all. It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself for every mishap that befalls your team.”

  Some bloody mishap! What had Ruth said — subdural hematoma? He’d no idea how long it’d be before Rocco was back on his feet, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be any time soon.

  “Can I get anyone a drink while we wait?”

  “No need for you to hang around, Inspector.” Jean Rockliffe smiled. “I know it’s serious, but my boy’s strong. He’ll be fine.”

  He could tell from her face that she wasn’t convinced. With an injury like that, who would be?

  “I’ll get some teas.” He didn’t know what to say to her. The truth was, despite her kind words, he did blame himself. He’d allowed Jones to call the shots, even though he knew it was wrong. Not a mistake he’d make again.

  He couldn’t face them. He couldn’t walk back, proffer tea and make small talk. He passed by the tea machine in the corridor and went to find Doc Hoyle in the mortuary.

  “Sebastian!” He greeted the man with a weak smile. “Sorry to burst in on you like this. I didn’t know where to go. I’ve had a bad day — no, much worse than that — a crap day, the very worst. One of my own is in theatre with a brain injury.”

  The pathologist shook his head and gestured to a chair.

  “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink. What have they said? Which of your team is it?”

  “Rocco. A damned good cop, too. I just can’t call this . . . I don’t know how it will pan out. Brain injuries are difficult to predict.”

  “They’ll have got in a Neuro team from Oldston. They’re some of the best, Tom. If he can be put right then they’re the ones to do it. Believe me, I’ve seen some wonderful stuff achieved.”

  “We really need this one to break. It’s doing my head in to be honest. And now this happens. His parents are waiting outside theatre with Ruth. I should be with them, but his mum is being so damned reasonable I just had get away. Despite what she says, it was my fault. I should have stopped it. I should have known what would happen. It was like walking into a cage of wild animals.”

  Hoyle measured out some whiskey into a glass.

  “Hindsight is there only to taunt us, Tom. We do what we can. You have a situation, and you react as you see fit. Here, get this down you. The lad will be okay. Most are, you know.”

  Calladine threw the amber fluid down his throat in one. It burned a comforting path down to his stomach. He held the glass out for more.

  “Sorry. This isn’t the usual me. Frankly, tonight I just want to get hammered and forget the whole hellish business.”

  “Damned expensive malt, this is, Tom.” The doctor’s dark eyes twinkled as he measured out some more. “And we can’t have you drunk on duty, can we?”

  “Right now, Doc, I don’t care. I just want Rocco to recover and for us to find the bastard who’s ripping his way through the estate, and then get a good night’s sleep.”

  “It’s not going to be easy. Whoever is doing this is meticulous. He’s left no biological trace whatsoever.”

  “So he is forensically aware?”

  “Very much so. In fact I’d go so far as to say his crimes are perpetrated in a forensic suit, hat, and gloves — the lot. When he takes them he won’t be able to be so careful; he obviously can’t draw attention to himself. But given that we’ve never found any of the victim’s clothing, he probably burns it. The hair — what’s left on the head — and the body parts are clean too. It’s as if they’d been washed or hosed down before freezing.”

  “I take it the parts we’ve got are Edwards and Hurst?”

  “Certainly Edwards, but we have no DNA on record for Hurst. But we do have two bodies only, and, given they were rarely apart, it’s fairly safe to assume that the other is Hurst.”

  “Thanks. Can I have your report fairly quick? Keep Jones happy. Not that he bloody well deserves it after today.”

  “I’ll email it to you tomorrow, Inspector. Now — do you want more whiskey or are you able to rejoin the others?”

  Truth was, Calladine felt a little woozy. The drink had gone straight to his head — which wasn’t surprising because he hadn’t eaten all day. He checked his watch: gone nine. Monika would be wondering where he’d got to.

  “I’ll get them some tea and go back. Talk tomorrow, Doc. And thanks.” On the way back he rang Monika and told her what had happened. She still wanted to see him.

  “Come anyway. It doesn’t matter what time you roll in. You can stay, you know. You have slept with me before, and anyway I want to
discuss your mum. She’s been a bit upset today; a friend of hers has died, and she could do with seeing her son pretty soon.”

  So that was the deal. He’d finish up here and then go round to Monika’s. He got the tea, plus a coffee for himself, and went to see how things were going.

  “Apparently they’ve nearly finished, and it’s looking okay. He won’t be able to talk to us for a while; they’re going to keep him sedated. So we might as well go.” Ruth was smiling with relief.

  His own relief flowed through him with almost as much warmth as the whiskey — and with much the same effect. He was feeling distinctly spaced out. Calladine said goodbye to Rocco’s parents and walked back to the car park with Ruth.

  “I’m going to Monika’s.”

  “Hope you don’t intend to drive yourself. I can smell you from here. Who’s been feeding you the booze, you lucky bugger?”

  “Doc Hoyle keeps a stash in his filing cabinet. Can you believe that — a pathologist with a penchant for illicitly stashed liquor?”

  “Shame I didn’t come with you. I’ve got a damn cold coming and a wee dram would do me good. Anyway, I’d better give you a lift. Go have a word with the security guy over there about leaving your car here, and I’ll go and get mine.’

  It didn’t take long to get to Monika’s, but by the time they arrived Calladine was nearly asleep. Ruth tooted her horn and she came out to get him.

  “Silly sod’s been downing the whiskey. You might have to put him straight to bed.”

  Chapter 17

  Thursday

  They sat on stage in a row behind a long desk. DCI George Jones was in the middle. Calladine hadn’t expected so much interest, but there they were — hordes of press people, all curious and baying for information.

  The noise was growing — and his pain increased as it passed through his throbbing head. Two whiskeys and a few beers at Monika’s had left him with a hangover. He kept looking around, at the seats, at the reporters still piling in through the door, but there was no sign of Lydia.

  She wouldn’t miss this — and he’d made sure she’d been told. So where was she? It was a few minutes to ten; just time to ring her. He tried her mobile first. It was turned off. He dialled her home number and after an endless wait, a female voice answered.

  “Lydia?”

  “No — this is Katya. Miss Holden has left for her office.”

  “And you are?”

  “Katya.”

  Had she understood? Her accent was Eastern European, possibly Polish. “When was that?” “She left early. She has a busy day. Will you leave a message?”

  “No thanks. I’ll catch her at her office.”

  He dialled again. “Lydia Holden, please.”

  “She’s not here yet.”

  “Is she coming straight to the press briefing at the police station?”

  “Not sure. We’ve sent Morton. I think Miss Holden must be running late this morning.”

  But she wasn’t. According to Katya she’d left early. What was going on? Where was she?

  He pushed his folder of notes under Jones’s nose and nudged him.

  “I’m going to have to leave, sir. I can’t find Lydia Holden so I’m going to check her apartment.”

  “You can’t leave now, Tom. What on earth’s got into to you? They’ll have questions, and what the hell do I tell them?”

  There was an answer to that, but Calladine swallowed it.

  “Ruth’s here.” He nodded at her. “Anything tricky, get her to deal with it.”

  He wasn’t prepared to argue or to waste any more time. He got up from the table, grabbed his coat and left.

  * * *

  It took no more than fifteen minutes to drive through Leesdon, along the bypass and into Hopecross village. He left his car parked at the side of the road and pressed the buzzer to gain access to the building.

  “Katya! Police! Let me in.”

  Katya, it turned out, was employed to do a little cleaning and shopping for Lydia. She came in three days a week.

  “You spoke to her this morning?”

  “Yes, I made toast while she dressed. We spoke about what she’d make for dinner, and then she left.”

  “What time?”

  “Before eight. I arrive at about seven thirty.”

  “Did she take her car?”

  “Yes, she took her keys. See they are gone.”

  “Where does she leave her car?”

  “In the car park, at the back of the building. Each apartment has a designated parking space. Miss Holden’s is 44.”

  “Okay. Thanks Katya. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else that’s relevant, then ring me.”

  Calladine hurtled down the staircase and out through the back doors. It was a sizeable parking area, but there was only one car left in it — Lydia’s.

  He felt his stomach seize. He strode forward, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. Was this a crime scene? He prayed not. He hoped that the sick feeling in his stomach and the thoughts swirling in his head were entirely misplaced.

  The car was still locked, and the engine stone cold. It hadn’t moved. His instincts were right; something had happened to Lydia. He called the incident room.

  “Imogen. Lydia Holden’s gone missing. I want a full forensic team at Wrigley Mill Apartments car park, and will you tell Ruth to join me the minute the press briefing is finished.”

  Calladine went back inside. Lydia had said there were alarms and cameras. So where were they? And how soon could he get his hands on the footage?

  It didn’t take long. Within the hour forensics were crawling all over the place. Calladine and a snuffly Ruth sat in front of a screen in the caretaker’s office, preparing to watch the video from the last few hours.

  “Thanks for dropping me in it, sir.” She sneezed and sat down heavily beside him. “Those press people. They practically had me for breakfast, vicious lot of harpies that they are. And I wasn’t at my best. I’ve got this bug and I feel dreadful . . . not that anyone cares. And do you know how stupid that man Jones is? DCI or not, he’s still got a lot to learn. They asked if he — the man we’re looking for — is considered still active and dangerous, and he tells them — yes! I mean, no effort made to stop the panic. No not him. By the time he’d finished he might as well have given them that bloody bimbo’s front page.”

  “That bloody bimbo has gone missing, remember?” He was angry — not with Ruth, but with the way things were going. He should be able to sort this out — so why couldn’t he? Why was this so difficult? The doc had agreed that their man was forensically aware. Did that imply, perhaps, that he had a degree of training? Perhaps he’d worked in a lab, a hospital — or even for the police . . .

  “There.” Ruth pointed to the screen. “She’s just left through the back entrance doors.”

  They both watched the young woman walk towards her car. She wore a dark fitted suit with a short skirt and high heels. She looked lovely, her blonde hair swished on her shoulders. She carried a briefcase in one hand and had her bag over her shoulder.

  Suddenly there was someone else. At first, nothing more than a shadow cast across the tarmac in the weak morning sunshine. Then a man stepped into view. He was wearing jeans and a casual jogging top with the hood up and pulled well down over his face at the front. He had his hands in his pockets and walked steadily behind Lydia.

  Calladine’s heart was in his mouth. He didn’t want to see her hurt. If the bastard hit her he didn’t know what his reaction would be.

  But he didn’t. It was almost as if he’d simply whispered something in her ear. He crept very close, leaned forward and spoke a few words. She turned. The camera caught her full in the face as she smiled, chatting happily to the stranger. Perhaps he wasn’t a stranger. She laughed — she actually laughed; then opened the boot of her car and put her briefcase in it.

  He kept his back to the camera. The bastard knew damn well it was there and that the footage would be scrutinised later. He took her
arm. She was still smiling as she happily walked off with him.

  She was gone and they had nothing. He could get the images blown up so that they filled the entire wall, but all he had was a rear view of the man. He was clever. When, if ever, was he going to slip up? But then something occurred to him. Lydia had been facing the camera. If they could get someone in who could lip-read, then perhaps they could decipher what she’d said to him. It might give them something. Good idea — he’d get Imogen on it straight away.

  * * *

  “I think you should take her today, Tom. She’s been very upset since she heard about Lizzie, and the funeral is bound to make her more so.”

  He’d only just got back to his desk when Monika rang him.

  “Lizzie Mottram, I remember her. She was a neighbour. I used to call her auntie and she’d give us — me and you know who — sweets. Ma liked Lizzie. So when is it?”

  “Twelve noon, at the crematorium. We’ll wrap her up warm and one of the carers will accompany you both. Your mum will be in a wheelchair, so you shouldn’t have any bother getting her about.”

  Today. It would be, wouldn’t it? Just when he was up to his ears in it.

  “What about afterwards?”

  “Back to Lizzie’s son’s for a bite to eat. But don’t drink anything. You had quite enough last night, remember?”

  Well no, he didn’t remember. Last night was all a bit of a blur. The shock of Rocco, the spat with Jones and working all hours — it’d taken its toll, and the drink had affected him badly. He’d had a raging head all morning. It was only the shock of Lydia’s disappearance and the urgent need to find her that was keeping him going.

  “You do realise that I don’t really have the time. I’ve got a missing reporter. So I might have to give the wake a miss.”

  “Do what you can and perhaps we can try again tonight? I would like to wake up next to you tomorrow — you know — it being my birthday.”

  Bugger! He’d completely forgotten. That meant, as well as everything else, he’d have to tear along to the Antiques Centre, as Ruth had suggested earlier in the week.