The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2)

by Valerie Laws

  Having done her best for the young man with his acne and damaged self-esteem, she had a short break to give the plants fresh water, put on the kettle again for herbal tea, and check her work voicemail and emails. A couple of regular patients wanted appointments for unspecified pains and for eczema; someone wanted to know her rates; and regular patient Beccy Mitchell cancelled her appointment for the next day in a rather breathy, panicked voice.

  ‘It’s me - I mean Beccy - I can’t make my appointment - I’ll get back to you -’

  The voice ended in a squeak as if becoming tearful. Beccy was a blonde, blue eyed young woman who behaved younger than she was. Softness personified; something of a protégé of Erica’s. Will I ever learn not to get too involved, she asked herself, feeling concerned. But Beccy cried easily; in fact she was a typical Pulsatilla type. It wasn’t an unusual profile. Beccy came quite often, but had no serious illness, just ongoing symptoms of stress and depression. She was determined not to go to a conventional doctor.

  ‘They don’t have time to listen to me,’ she would say when Erica conscientiously reminded her of the option to see if antidepressants would help. ‘You do.’

  Erica often wondered if that was all she came for; to talk to someone who would listen, someone less expensive than a shrink, though more expensive than a GP. Erica had developed a protective, almost maternal, feeling for her. And, she reminded herself, she had also treated Beccy’s sinus headaches successfully. She’d have to wait for Beccy to ring again as she wouldn’t take calls, and paid in cash. Apparently her husband didn’t approve of homeopaths, like Will, so she explained away the expense by saying it was for beauty treatments. Some relationship that was. Erica was better off without all that crap. She thought of Louise, a wheelchair user with severe health problems, blissfully happy for the first time in her adult life after a fifty-eight year abusive marriage now that Erica and other professionals had shown her how to leave him and have her own little flat.

  The first appointment of the day arrived, a young woman with a toddler whose cough announced itself from some distance away. Like someone sawing wood... Erica was already listing the exact symptoms in her head.

  Later Erica did some Googling while the kettle boiled for her Earl Grey. She’d known that orthopaedic surgeons use metal plates and pins inside really bad or complex fractures, and used external fixators, but she didn’t know a lot about the technology involved. Ilizarov fixators, Taylor spatial frames... the geometry of it all was fascinating. Halo... the term for a ring of spikes round the head, bolted to struts bolted in turn to wires into the chest, forming a cage and holding the head still for broken necks to mend. Even the vocabulary was religious. Had Kingston been killed that way because he was hated as a man, or as an orthopaedic surgeon? Patient with a grudge, getting nowhere with a complaint or lawsuit due to ‘lost’ NHS files or doctors closing ranks? A mistake by a surgeon could mean terrible consequences for someone, and their family. Plenty of possible motive there.

  She viewed a youtube video of a halo being removed from a young woman who had clearly recovered enough to be freed from her mobile cage. Pins entered her head, and chest, and struts of metal formed props between them. She wore a big collar round her neck and a sort of breastplate of padding and plastic. Her children were in the room, and her husband was filming the whole thing as the surgeon started to unscrew and remove the wires and bars and plates. She was excited, but as the process continued, her smile faltered. Tears showed in her eyes. She tried to keep cheerful for the sake of her watching family, but as the actual work of removing the metal from the flesh and bone went on, unable to pretend any longer, she began to make sounds of pain like a cat yowling. Her young children watched, puzzled, clearly they’d been told this was a happy occasion, but there was Mommy in distress, while her husband kept recording. He’d probably had the same role while she’d given birth. ‘You’re doing well, Honey,’ he kept saying as an unseen hand carefully unscrewed the stiff thin wires out of her bones where they’d been embedded for months and made themselves at home in sheathes of scar tissue, some of it attached to them and reluctant to let them go. It was strangely disturbing even though the outcome was happy. Other accounts or videos Erica found online of the removal of wires or pins mentioned pain relief of various kinds being given. Was it up to the surgeon whether to give this or not? Was cost a factor, or insensitivity, or didn’t pain matter to those who weren’t feeling it?

  Whatever, the similarity of the halos online to Kingston’s crude coronet of spikes was striking. Erica was reluctant to get involved further with the police, especially Will, after their ill-starred attempt at a fling, relationship, whatever that had been. If it has to be defined, start running, was Erica’s motto. But the halo, would they realise the significance of it to Kingston’s murder MO? She couldn’t bring herself to call Will but she had Hassan’s number from the card he’d given her at the station and he’d always seemed a nice guy. For a Detective Sergeant.

  ‘I was just wondering...’ she began, as he said, ‘Will’s here, I’m handing you over to him,’ and Will’s voice was in her ear like his tongue had once been goddamn him! His voice was brusque. Busy man, said his tone, you’re lucky to get me.

  ‘Erica. Why the call? Remembered something relevant to the investigation? Something you actually saw or heard?’

  In other words, I don’t want to hear any of your ideas. Erica felt her anger rise. Yeah, scared I might be right.

  Controlling her irritation, she told Will about the halos. ‘I just wondered if you’d considered the murder might be connected with Kingston’s work as an orthopaedic surgeon - a personal grudge, a disgruntled former patient or something.’

  ‘Disgruntled patient, yes strangely that did cross my poor pedestrian ploddish mind...’

  ‘I meant specifically someone who had to have pins in a fracture.’

  It still sounded insultingly obvious and that was fine with her.

  ‘I mean,’ she added, ‘it might not be anything religious at all. The spikes could be a halo, which is the term used-’

  ‘I think you can leave the investigation to us,’ Will’s voice was cold as a snowman’s snowballs. ‘We’re looking at all the angles, and some progress is being made. We’ll get in touch with you if need be.’

  In other words, sod off. ‘I hope you’re recovering from the shock,’ he said rather stiffly, and had goodbye’d and gone before she could speak again. Was there a man more annoying than Will Bennett? She was very soon to be reminded that there was.

  ‘Why did SHE have to find the body?’ Will demanded. ‘Talk about contaminating a crime scene!’

  ‘Well I don’t suppose she wanted to find him,’ Massum put in mildly.

  ‘Bollocks! She’s loving it, a chance to give me repeated earbashings about her so-called ‘ideas’ and now get herself involved in police business! MY business!’

  Hassan remembered Will getting very involved in sharing his ideas of Erica’s business, but now wasn’t the time to bring that up. And anyway she needn’t have reacted so badly at the time. Will was still fuming.

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past her to have done him in just to make my life difficult... patronising little... ‘oh have you poor stupid sods even considered he was killed by someone who hated him or doctors or him as a doctor or a religious nutter’ of all the fucking NERVE!’

  ‘No outstanding official complaints against him though. I’ve checked. But we’ve got plenty of avenues of enquiry Guv, so let’s forget about Erica for now. Unless we find her DNA on Kingston.’

  ‘I want him gone over with an, an, electron microscope, or a quark one of they make them. Get on the phone to CERN! If there’s a single subatomic particle with a link to Erica’s DNA anywhere on him, I want to know about it!’

  ‘You certainly picked up a lot of physics crap from her,’ remarked Hassan, ‘it must’ve rubbed off. Like DNA.’

  Barely had Erica ended the call than it buzzed again. It was the editor of the Evenin
g Guardian, Ian Dunne.

  ‘Erica! how’s it going sweetheart?’ Despite his rasping fag-sandpapered voice and the louche image it conjured up, he was slim, smart, dapper, sat alertly at his desk, had a sharp-nosed face and small hard hazel eyes and seemed to keep the nicotine off his fingers somehow.

  ‘Fine,’ she was wary. ‘Obviously we won’t be able to run the interview with Kingston.....do you want me to do an obituary?’

  ‘Huh, well, yes, but first, about your eyewitness account. Sensational news for a local, so I’ve got young Gary to cover it, being on the spot, like.’

  ‘What do you mean, on the spot? The police totally cock-blocked him... you mean you’re not using my stuff at all?’ Erica’s blood was starting to boil. Gary, his blue-eyed boy, was the son of one of Dunne’s golfing buddies, hoping to use the local rag as a springboard to higher, if that’s the word, things.

  ‘Course I am love. Don’t get your leotard in a knot! But you’re not News, you’re features, and very nice they are too sweetheart!’

  ‘You...’

  ‘Gary’s a newshound to the bone. He’s got the instincts.’

  ‘Of a plague germ.’

  ‘Gary’s done it as an interview with you, so all your stuff’s in there but as you answering him, so you see I did use your piece.’

  ‘Plundered it you mean!’

  ‘You’ll love it me dear. We’ve put in a lovely photo of you. It’s twice, no, four times the size of the usual one!’

  So much to say, so little time, so much justification for manslaughter. ‘You’ve put Gary’s byline over MY story? How could you! Chopping up MY story and letting HIM have it as HIS fucking interview!’

  ‘Calm down darlin, look, I know you do a good job on the page. I appreciate it, I really do. I know a lot of readers love it, bunch of hypochondriacs most of them, but it’s a case of the right man for the job. That’s why I’m the editor, and you’re not. Don’t worry, it’ll do you a lot of good. The press exposure. The bigger picture! They’ll be queuing up for your pills and potions now!’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she snarled. ‘That’s just the advertising gimmick I need - for people to associate me with dead bodies. Every therapist’s dream.’

  ‘Wait till you see it... that Gary will go far.’

  ‘Sooner the better.’

  ‘Just bash out an obit for us. We’ll put it on your health page instead of on our usual ‘dead page’. Bye beautiful!’

  He had wiped the floor with her. As per usual.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Will had interviewed Tessa Kingston with Sally, thinking a WDC was appropriate. There was quite a lot of oestrogen in the room as it turned out, and Will wished he’d stuck with Hassan. Tessa had turned up with a female solicitor, who protected her fiercely from any kind of attempt to suggest she’d been involved.

  ‘If only we’d managed to have a friendly chat with her alone,’ lamented Will to Hassan, after giving him a brief account of their sparring match. Sally Banner and Tessa Kingston had been little more than an audience, their heads swinging left, right, left like Wimbledon spectators while Will tried to break through the legal barbed wire entanglement thrown around Tessa by her brief.

  ‘What did you make of her, Will? The ex-ish wife.’

  ‘Attractive in a girly-girl way, expensively dressed, claiming to be horrified, whether by the murder of her old man or being in a stinky interview room with no soft furnishings or posh coffee, I’m not sure. Bit of a WAG type by the look of her. Oh I’m probably being unfair.’

  ‘We’ve got no evidence against her have we? Only motive. That stuff I found out about his assets, he’s pretty well off. The proceeds of not just one but two expensive houses, let alone other dosh.’

  ‘Yes the sale of his old mum’s house certainly fattened his bank balance. Not much progress on that motive-wise though. Because she’s started divorce proceedings, her solicitor was already on the case. Wouldn’t let her answer anything much just yet. Clearly trying to find out if we did have anything on her client. So we couldn’t even find out why Tessa left Kingston, if indeed she did - he could have chucked her out for all we know. Hard to work out her feelings about him. She just hid her eyes in a tissue and said nothing.’ Will’s hair was vertical with frustration.

  ‘So I hear. Sally mentioned when she came out to get coffee that things weren’t going so well. So I had a quick skim through the neighbours’ statements the house to house crew collected, in case any of them knew the grisly details of the split.’

  ‘Great, Hassan! You’re a star! And?’ He started flattening his black hair again.

  ‘Nowt.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Sorry. Everyone who mentioned her at all said they’d seemed happy enough and then she just wasn’t there, they weren’t even sure when she moved out. It was only sixteen days ago as far as I can tell but that’s from her and her brief. Kingston was very private about his private life. Some neighbours thought she’d had some kind of illness or breakdown and had gone off for a cure.’

  ‘Hm, maybe rehab? Expensive addiction?’

  ‘Surely she can’t keep fending us off. Did you get fingerprints? For ‘elimination purposes’?’

  ‘Yes we did get those. Not DNA though. And the solicitor grabbed Tessa’s coffee cup before we could get any off that. Smart woman. She and Tessa are obviously close, very different types but blood’s even thicker than legal ethics.’

  ‘Blood?’

  ‘Oh yes I’ve kept the best till last for you mate. They’re only bloody sisters! Tessa and Tara. Sounds like a burlesque act. She’s staying with Tara at the mo, so there’s no chance of getting her alone.’

  ‘Wonder why this Tara’s so keen to keep Tessa from saying anything about the split? I wonder if Tara’s sure she’s innocent, or knows she’s guilty, or is worried she might have done it.’

  ‘If we had some actual evidence stronger than tired old Golden Boy’s tired old theorising... Tara was at pains to point out that Kingston changed the locks after Tessa did a runner. She doesn’t have a key, allegedly. In other words she couldn’t have let herself in.’

  ‘Even if we find traces of her in the house, it’s going to be hard to prove anything. She did live there after all. Traces might have survived the cleaner’s efforts.’

  ‘She admitted to going back after the split a few times, to pick up stuff. And get this, Tara and Tessa gave us this much - they both went round there the afternoon of the night Kingston was killed, to pick up some family photos and personal jewellery apparently. Tara drove her there, so they can alibi each other. They saw him, he had to be there to let them in and no doubt make sure wifey didn’t nick anything of his. Besides, that woman two doors down saw Kingston alive later than they claim to have left, so it’s not much use except to muddle up the forensics.’

  ‘And Johnstone put TOD at 11-3am, most likely towards the earlier time limit. Anyway I’ll check that out, see if anyone saw Tara’s car and when it was there. They might have gone later. Or she might have made it up to explain any of her prints being in the house since cleaning. It’s a quiet street though, and the houses are well detached from each other, neighbours not likely to see cars without looking for them.’

  ‘Great, though I doubt we’ll make much of a hole in their story. Get forensics to double check for traces of her anywhere suspicious. But if Tara’s stopping her from committing herself to anything more right now, it leaves us wide open, if we do find anything she can just say it’s from their visit earlier.’

  It was as bad as Erica had feared. She got home to find the early edition on the mat and herself described as a ‘slim, petite blonde new age therapist’ next to a photo which made her look completely gormless. Worse, she’d given her supposed answers to Gary in a ‘shaken voice’ while her ‘trembling hands clutched a mug of sweet tea, her swimming eyes huge in her pale face’ as he’d ‘encouraged her to face her dreadful experience’. Sweet tea! As if.

  The police had given him
some official guff about ongoing enquiries, tragic case, worst seen in a long career etc, and the neighbours said the usual belatedly complimentary things similar to those she’d heard on local TV news. ‘You don’t expect that kind of thing to happen here,’ and ‘This is a quiet, respectable neighbourhood’. Nothing from the estranged wife; presumably Gary hadn’t been able to get to the new widow yet. Erica wished she could get to Gary and write his obituary.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Erica had had enough for one day. She felt tense and her shoulders were tight. She put on her running gear and set out to work it all off. The tide would be still pretty far out, plenty of damp firm sand to run on. As she jogged slowly at first, warming up, down to the sea front and then gaining speed along the beach, the moon was up already, a pale translucent jellyfish swimming in the still-light sky. The slow, slushing sound of the sea as ever had a calming effect on her spirit. She turned inland again before the track to the lighthouse at the north end of Wydsand bay and ran back alongside the cemetery.

  She often took this route because it made a circuit, along the sea front, looping back past the cemetery and along a wooded track by the golf course. It just so happened that it would take her past Kingston’s house, which backed onto the golf course, separated from it by a muddy worn track. She felt an urge, like a criminal, to return to the scene of the crime.