Charlotte sat at the store’s only computer. White galvanised racking, ten feet in length, stretched between her and the counter. It housed light grey plastic bins of assorted medications. As she momentarily leant backwards - the chair emitting a creaking squeak - she caught sight of River, beyond the racking, standing at the counter, seeing to Mrs McCarthy the chairperson of the local PTA. Mrs McCarthy was in her fifties but dressed older; she wore a shawl which was evocative of a doily Charlotte’s great aunt served tea on. Mrs McCarthy smiled coyly and briefly squeezed River’s upper arm as he handed her a white prescription bag, its end folded and sealed.
You’re dreaming Mrs McCarthy.
Still, Charlotte couldn’t blame a woman for dreaming. She was about to log off the stock control system when a notification flashed at the top right of her screen: a new mail. The mail's title caused her jaw to slacken: Forewarning of Audit of Practices.
She opened the mail and closed her eyes, feeling a black world enclosing upon her. She scanned the contents, barely registering its message the first time. On the third read, it sunk in.
The General Pharmaceutical Council was to revise its audit schedule in light of recent information received from an anonymous complainant. The pharmacy was in year two of a five-year audit cycle. This mail stated that the next audit would be brought forward, to be conducted on September 21st.
That’s only nine days from now.
She kept re-reading the words, ‘… in light of recent information received from an anonymous complainant.’
The pharmacy’s door chimed Mrs McCarthy from the store, the place devoid of custom for now. “River, put up the ‘closed for lunch’ sign.”
“But it’s only 11:30,” he shouted back.
“Just do it, and come and read this.”
River read the mail over her shoulder with a hand on the desk. Usually such proximity, mingled with his aftershave’s scent, would have tickled her abdomen, but she felt entirely numb.
Two minutes passed in silence. River said, “Well, it’s a bit of a pain, but we got through the last one, we’ll get through this.”
Charlotte was desperate to retort, ‘This isn’t a pain, this is an unmitigated disaster. Over the next two years I’d planned to slowly write-off the marijuana I’d pilfered for Alison. That quantity, over that timescale, no one would complain about. Now I have to decide whether to write-off the balance now, or leave the discrepancy for the auditors to find. Either way, there’s no escaping this. What a fuck up.’ But of course, she couldn’t say any of that, because River didn’t know of her deceit. Of her theft, she corrected.
Unless, of course, he’d somehow found out (through dummy audit?) and was the one who’d lodged the complaint about her. That was possible, but unlikely. She trusted him, and what would be the outcome if the GPC declared her unfit to practice? They had no other pharmacists they could call on who’d be willing to work all the way out here in the sticks. They’d probably have to close the place for months whilst they advertised the post. It might even give the owner the excuse to shut them down for good. Then what would happen to River? No, it wasn’t him. It had to be someone else.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Aitken held the briefcase. “What have we here?” asked Daniel, reaching under the floorboards to extract a loose canvas bag. He’d not seen a bag of this type since his grandfather had shown him a gas mask and the other wartime memorabilia he’d kept in his garage. Aitken tried the case.
“It’s locked.”
Daniel had his hands on the bag, “Lets open this first.” He unzipped. The zip’s teeth caught a couple of times as they misaligned. He peeled the opening back with circumspection, recalling the months which followed the delivery of anthrax (back in 2001, if memory served) to a mailroom - a time when the nation seemed temporarily infected with package-opening suspicion. No white powder here though, just a clunking of metal. He pulled out a spring-handled clamp, with perforated rubber grips, followed by another exactly the same, then a hair-thin wire which could have been a section of guitar string. Then a square nine volt battery, the size of a Rubiks Cube, with wires connected to the positive and negative. He laid them all out, one by one, a few inches from Aitken’s thigh. A few lighter items were still nestled in the bag. He tipped them out: a full box of razor blades and a box of twelve tampons, with just two left.
“What the f-” She stopped herself.
“Took the words right out of my mouth. Let’s get this open,” Daniel said, sliding the briefcase towards him. He took a hammer and chisel from his toolbox and with half a dozen blows rendered both locks irrelevant; they hung from strands of leather.
At that moment, as Daniel filled his lungs with the cloying, secret-laden air of that old house, he was reminded of his police assessment, taken three months before he joined the force. It was an assessment that hadn’t changed over the years; he was sure Aitken would have experienced the same. One of the sixteen exercises over the two days was to review a slideshow of the most gruesome crime scene photographs the assessors could find. The purpose of the exercise was to test the strength of your stomach. One image, one they saved until last, stood out for him. It was of a man - wedged between a bed and a bedroom wall - whose head had been bisected by an axe, which was still lodged in his brain. The sergeant leading the macabre show had declared, “This guy died of a headache.” Those being assessed had chuckled uncomfortably. The presenter had smiled as though he’d not told this tasteless joke a hundred times before. Daniel had a strong constitution - the picture hadn’t perturbed him - but that didn’t quiet the nausea whispering away in his stomach as the briefcase opened.
Inside was a single manila envelope. It had tired creases, two of which had developed into tears. The gloss of photographs showed through them. In a single, rapid action he spilt them onto the briefcase’s navy felt lining. The spread of photographs was enough for Daniel to get the clear impression he was dreading.
The photographs catalogued the torture of a young Martin Dalgliesh. A torture administered by Sebastian Fallon and Anthony Nixon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was early evening and, after they’d shared a prosaic meal of spaghetti bolognese, Aitken asked if she could make use of Daniel’s shower. He’d explained that there was no need to ask and that his place was hers during the week; she’d arranged to travel back to Lincoln at lunchtime Friday, case permitting. Daniel suspected she was missing her fiancé already, although she’d not admitted as much.
Shortly after the discovery at Fallon’s, Daniel had left Robinson a voicemail requesting an update. Daniel was rinsing plates and stacking the dishwasher when Robinson finally returned his call. He shook drops of water from his fingertips, searching around in want of a towel. Giving up, he used his shirt instead and pulled out his iPhone, which slipped from his fingers. He caught it just before it hit the tiled floor.
“Thanks for calling back. How’s your day been?” The dishwasher was old and clunky; Daniel moved into the hall where he could only hear the faint hiss and patter of Aitken’s showering.
“Okay, I guess. I spoke to Jackson’s doctor. He had no history of mental illness and wasn’t under any prescription. Reckoned he looked a bit stressed at his last consultation for a skin irritation, but that’s about it. Thinks he could have been mistaken in hindsight, you know … looking for something that wasn’t there, given what eventually happened.”
‘Okay. Could you do some digging on the business side of things? Find out which solicitor’s dealing with Jackson’s estate.”
“What exactly are we looking for?”
“I want to know if Jackson lost a sizeable amount of money, particularly if the loss relates to an investment. Check for significant cheques paid out, particularly to Hewitt. You might need to check with companies house, to see if Hewitt had a limited company registered; payments might have been made out to that name, rather than to him personally.”
“And you’re sure all this is in the public intere
st?”
“Just go with me on this.” The line went quiet. “There’s something that’s also come up on the Fallon case.”
“I wondered how long it would take you.”
“To do what?”
“To start raking up closed cases.”
“Whatever … pictures have come to light implicating Fallon and Nixon in the abuse and torture of a young local lad by the name of Martin Dalgliesh. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“Just wondered if you’d heard about my unfortunate visit to Fallon’s place earlier this year.”
“Was that the kid you beat on?”
“He’s the kid I apprehended. I found him looking around Fallon’s. My hunch is he knew these images were in existence and wanted to destroy them.”
“So?”
“There’s no ‘so’ really. Not yet anyway. But we’re going to do a little more digging, to see if anyone else was involved. Nixon and Fallon were in the pictures. So who was the photographer? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“At last.”
“‘At last’ what?”
“A potential suspect, to focus on. Perhaps this won’t have been a complete waste of taxpayers’ money. Still, the camera could have been set to a timer.”
“Don’t think so, its position moved too quickly between shots. Besides, Fallon and Nixon looked in … in full flow. I couldn’t imagine them losing stride to take pictures.”
“Do you think you can get the kid to make a statement, to identify his attacker and press charges?”
“We’ll hopefully find out tomorrow. Listen … I’ve got a question and I want you to give it your considered view.” Daniel’s voice amplified in the silence of the house; the shower’s splattering had stopped.
“Go on.”
“Do you believe there’s a chance these two cases are related?”
“No.”
“Not the remotest chance?”
“Look. These people were from entirely different walks of life. An architect and a wealthy investor. An accountant and the local jobless weirdo. They happened approximately nine months apart. It sounds like one was motivated probably by Fallon’s threat to expose what they were doing to that kid. The second was most likely motivated by a business deal gone wrong, or perhaps Jackson was having an affair with Hewitt’s wife and she ended it - who knows? It generally comes down to money or lust, in the end. If you think there’s a link, you’re over-privileging the nature of the crime and the proximity, and under-privileging the dissimilar circumstances.”
“You might be right … there are three things that bug me though.”
“Go on.”
“Firstly, the statistical chances of two murder-suicides happening within a four mile radius, within the same calendar year, in an area with a population of less than three thousand people-”
“Which is? What precisely is the probability?”
Daniel paused for thought, good challenge. “Fair question, I don’t know exactly the likelihood. But I might be able to find out. Second, Mr Nixon’s wife Jean always protested that there was a third party involved. But - and forgive me for saying this - I’m not convinced you investigated that possibility.”
“Oh didn’t I? Look, the only DNA at that place was from Fallon, Nixon, and Fallon’s grandmother. No footprints outside, no fingerprints inside. The coroner was as satisfied as I was. The third person theory was Jean Nixon’s fantasy.” Daniel quietly considered this, before Robinson enquired, “And the third thing?”
“The frenzied nature of each attack: Fallon eviscerated, Hewitt clubbed repeatedly - you should see the body, ‘frenzied’ was an understatement. And these weren’t the type of people to spend their weekends doing crystal meth and PCP. If they wanted them dead, why not take out a contract, or mess with the brakes on their car-”
“Fallon didn’t have a car.”
“Whatever, the point is, their behaviour was beyond reason. Surely some sort of chemical imbalance in the brain caused this.”
“‘Surely,’ who are you trying to convince, me or you?”
“I’ll take that as a constructive challenge. Listen, do me a favour and focus tomorrow on those business connections.”
“If I have time”
“If you ‘have time’?”
“I’m only to work on this part time, Edwards collared me this morning. You might have caught the armed robbery in Lincoln on the news?”
“No.”
“Well, the woman they inadvertently shot, died later in the hospital. Looks like we’re going after them for murder, if we can make it stick. They need my help.”
“Perfect.” It was meant to sound sarcastic, but somehow it came out straight. Aitken appeared from the bathroom at the end of the hall. She’d clearly not found the big bath sheets, as her white towel, knotted to the left of her breast, finished midway up her thighs. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”
“Why? Want to ogle Aitken in her towel?” Daniel’s heart tightened with guilt, like a teenager caught masturbating.
“What did you say?”
“Sheppard, you’re not the only competent detective around here you know. Careful though, that one’s got a reputation.” Robinson let out a dirty chuckle and hung up.
“What did Robinson have to report?” asked Aitken as she stood by the bathroom door, a neatly folded pile of clothes pressed to her stomach.
“Get dressed, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Robinson’s comment had spooked Daniel and he half expected Aitken to walk through the living room door in a gaping silk dressing gown finishing just above the knee. He was relieved when, ten minutes later, she appeared in long-sleeved and long-legged cream flannelette pyjamas. The pyjamas were be-speckled with tiny teddy bears clutching red and gold wrapped presents.
She refused a drink. The house was unnaturally quiet and Aitken made no objection when Daniel suggested music.
He flicked through a favourite subsection of his expansive vinyl collection, which fanned out underneath his towered HIFI system. He paused for a moment on a Barry White LP, then thought better of it and pulled out Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born in the USA.’
“Hope you like the boss.”
“The who?”
“No, the boss.”
That lost, be-nice-to-me look came back.
“I’m sorry, just a joke that only old buggers like me understand. That’s what they used to call Bruce Springsteen, ‘the boss.’ Don’t really know why.”
“I see. Daniel, can I ask why you always do that?”
“What?”
“Belittle your age like it’s something to be ashamed of.” The comment knocked him off track on two levels: firstly, he hadn’t thought that he was self-conscious of his age until she’d pointed it out and second, it was a bold move on Aitken’s part, making such a personal observation. He couldn't square that with how timid she’d been on their first meeting. Then he recalled the climate he’d created; the revealing admission to Mrs Hewitt about how he felt judged as a mourner; his opening up at their meeting with Robinson about his grief. Openness invites openness.
“I don’t know really. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on myself,” said Daniel.
Aitken said, “Perhaps” with no apparent discomfort for not having something more insightful to add. She smiled wordlessly. The music was too quiet to cut through the tense thread of attraction suspended between them. It was pleasantly awkward. Aitken eventually said ‘“So what did Robinson have to say for himself?”
Daniel relayed his earlier conversation and was relieved to be talking about work. “So tomorrow I suggest we interview Martin Dalgliesh. Well, when I say ‘we’ I mean you.”
“Why me?”
“The last time I saw him we were sharing a police car. I don’t think he’s going to open up to me.”
“What are you going to do then?”
“I’m going to contact an old friend, but first I need to speak to
the person in charge of Hewitt’s post-mortem.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Daniel stepped into the post-mortem room. Suspended strip lights, configured into crucifix clusters, shone brightly, glinting off the four steel examination tables. Each table - a runnel along each side for spills - had its own retractable spotlight for close examinations. All but one was partially covered by a disposable blue hygiene sheet. The remaining table had no sheet as it held Mallory Hewitt’s body.
Daniel was entering in a clandestine way, so as not to disturb the proceedings. A lithe man in blue scrubs with latex gloves was tracing a line up Hewitt’s chest with his fingertips. He recognised the pathologist as Alistair Bornthwaite. Opposite Bornthwaite, on the other side of the table, a similarly dressed man - but shorter and stockier - held a clipboard, poised to write. Though at least ten feet away, Daniel saw perspiration beading on his brow. Wisps of a ginger beard poked from his facemask.
“So, this is how we will proceed. I want you to take down what I say and enter it directly into the post-mortem report. Periodically I’ll check with you to make sure you’ve noted it correctly. We’ll start with our external, moving onto our internal examination, and then we'll take samples for further analysis where I judge it’s beneficial to do so. You won’t conduct any part of a post-mortem until you’ve observed at least two being conducted, and then it will only be under my supervision. Usually, after six supervised exams you’ll be flying solo. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
Prepared to Die Page 12