‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, madam.’ Now Skelgill rocks forwards and clamps his hands onto his knees, as if he actually is trying to exert control over his extremities. ‘There were a couple of points we’d omitted to ask your Head of Security,’ (DS Leyton frowns at being used as a stooge in this white lie) ‘and additionally I considered it might be useful to get the views of a cooperative patient who could perhaps shed some light on the suspected thefts. I was on my way down to Haresfell when I got the news about Mr Wamphray – so I asked Sergeant Leyton to rendezvous here anyway.’
This rather disjointed monologue does not sound especially convincing, though the Director seems to give Skelgill the benefit of any doubt, and patiently.
‘Not that he can assist you any longer, Inspector – Frank Wamphray, that is.’
Skelgill sits back and folds his arms. His features have a resigned air, and he throws out his next question like a futile re-cast at the rise of a fish he has missed.
‘Were you surprised by his sudden death?’
Briony Boss is composed. Of course, a twenty-year-plus career in the NHS means the passing of souls is a familiar experience, and the detectives know this – she is unlikely to vest her own emotions in the slings and arrows of outpatients’ fortunes. Or inpatients’, come to that. She looks calmly at Skelgill and makes a small adjustment to the lapels of her blouse.
‘Inspector, as I mentioned to Sergeant Leyton, Frank Wamphray had a chronic condition – indeed he had suffered several minor heart attacks during the past few years. With such a medical history, it is rather a matter of when not if.’
‘And he couldn’t be saved?’
‘I understand he was beyond resuscitation when he was discovered.’ She watches Skelgill for a moment before she decides it is appropriate to elaborate. ‘He was lying on his bed listening to music on headphones. There was no opportunity to summon assistance. I am assured by our doctors that nothing could have been done to circumvent the outcome.’
Skelgill remains pensive for some seconds. Then he seems to accept the situation, and falls back on his reserve.
‘I reckon we’ll just have a chat about the thefts to a few folk – bit of a random cross-section – see if we can come up with any theories that your internal security haven’t considered.’
‘Be my guest, Inspector.’ She stands and smoothes her skirt over her thighs with a single and rather sensual downwards sweep of her palms. ‘I shall put my PA at your disposal to make arrangements – however, do come back to me in person with any problems. I shall be here until late if you wish to have a more intimate discussion.’
*
‘And you were first to examine him, sir?’
Dr Peter Pettigrew peers at Skelgill over the top of his reading glasses. He is seated at his desk in a well-appointed office, only marginally less spacious than that of the Director, and situated on the floor below. That Skelgill has reverted to the subject of Frank Wamphray is somewhat at odds with his parting commitment to Briony Boss – but it is with a renewed vigour that he poses the question. Its recipient, on the other hand, the senior psychiatrist, seems just a touch piqued by some insinuation (whether intended by Skelgill, or imagined by him, it is hard to judge which), though only for a split second does his accommodating façade threaten to crack. Then an affable grin exercises his pliable mouth.
‘I am a fully qualified doctor – it is a pre-requisite for becoming a psychiatrist.’
Skelgill quickly raises an apologetic palm.
‘Aye – of course, sir – that’s exactly what I was thinking – you would be the ideal person – in the event that there were any unusual circumstances.’
Dr Pettigrew seems to be forming the opinion that these are policemen and they can’t help it – and that he had better humour them.
‘I think we can be pretty certain about the cause of death, Inspector. The cardiologist who examined the body is in complete agreement with my initial assessment. The signs of sudden cardiac arrest are highly distinctive.’
Skelgill nods. It is possible he is a little disappointed by this report.
‘Were you treating him, sir?’
‘I was directly responsible only for his anti-psychotic regime. We have an in-house clinical team that deals with what you might call everyday ailments and illnesses. Although Haresfell is not a medical hospital in the conventional sense, for reasons of security we obviously cannot be shipping patients up to Carlisle or Glasgow, or down to Manchester or Birmingham, every time they require the kind of hospital treatment that is offered to the general public.’
‘Hence your cardiologist?’
‘That is correct, Inspector. As you will probably have observed, there is something of a chronic obesity issue in institutions such as these – largely a function of the necessary medication – and with it comes an above-average level of coronary problems. We have to be fully equipped to deal with sudden cardiac episodes.’
Skelgill inhales and exhales, and allows his shoulders to droop.
‘Seems a bit ironic, sir – to die in hospital – of something else, if you see what I mean.’
‘Inspector, even in specialist high-dependency units, where patients are constantly monitored, deaths still occur. It is not always possible to resuscitate a person who has suffered a heart attack.’
‘Do you think Frank Wamphray could have been saved?’
The man gives a regretful shrug.
‘It is impossible to know, Inspector. By the time he was discovered it was too late – perhaps by thirty minutes.’
Skelgill seems to accept this fact without question.
‘Was there anything that could have brought on the heart attack?’
Dr Peter Pettigrew glances briefly at a page of printed notes that lies on top of a file on his desk. Then he gazes again over the narrow spectacles.
‘There is nothing that has been reported – his behaviour could be a little erratic – but he had been doing well in Assertive Rehab over the past few months – certainly no incidents that could be described as traumatic, or that might have required some form of physical intervention by staff. And when I saw him on my round this morning he was looking well and in his usual good spirits.’
The psychiatrist has been surprisingly tolerant during this off-agenda questioning, and Skelgill perhaps recognises he ought not push his luck. He turns and looks at DS Leyton, and holds out an introductory palm.
‘My sergeant has been coordinating our inquiry into the suspected thefts – raised by your Director.’ (DS Leyton looks a little uncomfortable; no doubt wondering with what task Skelgill is going to lumber him.) ‘Frank Wamphray – his mental disturbance aside – seemed to have some knowledge of what you might call issues of security – that’s why we were proposing to speak with him.’ (Dr Pettigrew is nodding, if a little sceptically.) Skelgill consults his wristwatch. ‘To make efficient use of our time – I’d like to leave Sergeant Leyton to ask you a few more general questions – while I pop off and interview a couple of other members of staff.’
*
‘Pity you had to shoot off last night, man – we had a reet little stoppy-backy in the Beck Foot. How was your old ma?’
Skelgill seems to be caught off guard. He looks as though he is about to say, “Old ma?” – but then he remembers the gist of his excuse and nods decisively. ‘Aye, she were fine – she just needs a hand with the stairs to get to bed.’
Nurse Arthur Kerr does not appear too interested in Skelgill’s reply. Instead he has turned his attention to peeling open the wrapper of a biscuit that Skelgill has purchased, along with tea, from the snack bar in the foyer where previously Frank Wamphray had accosted the two detectives.
‘You’ve not let the grass grow, man – did the penny drop after something I told you?’
Skelgill’s features are unnaturally stiff.
‘Aye – I have had one or two ideas – along the lines that delivery drivers might see this place as a bit of a soft touch.’
‘More likely they’re dropping stuff off at certain persons’ private addresses.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow with sufficient emphasis to convey to his companion that he acknowledges his subversive point of view. He leans forwards and lowers his voice.
‘I’m surprised there’s no hue and cry gone up over Frank Wamphray.’
Arthur Kerr returns Skelgill’s inquiring gaze rather indifferently.
‘C’est la vie, as they say.’ Then he picks at a nostril in an unbecoming manner. ‘Or, not, as the case may be.’
‘Is it unusual for a patient to die?’
‘Three or four a year. They get ill just like normal folk. Plus some are knocking on – the longest stay’s forty years and counting.’
‘What age was Frank Wamphray?’
‘Sixty-two.’
‘He looked in fair health yesterday.’
Arthur Kerr shrugs, but has nothing to add.
‘What happened, Arthur – I take it you were around at the time?’
‘I found him, man.’
‘Must have been a shock?’
‘I thought he were kipping. Sometimes they do after their medication.’
‘How does that work?’
Arthur Kerr seems to assume that Skelgill means more than to explain the fact that drugs may cause drowsiness.
‘He has – had – a regular dose at eleven. He said he’d been feeling a bit sick this morning, so I gave it as an injection – standard procedure – if they yack it up you don’t know how much they’ve actually got in their system. Then you don’t want to err on the light side, so you go a bit heavy and you end up knocking ’em out.’
‘But that wasn’t the case, obviously.’
‘He got the pre-measured dose. He went back to his room like he usually does. I called to check on him about twelve – he were a goner.’
‘And what about resuscitation?’
Arthur Kerr makes a face, as if his tea has become stewed.
‘I called the RRT – rapid response team – but they took one look at him and shook their heads – he’d been dead too long. You’ve got a maximum of seven minutes – they reckoned it had been at least half an hour.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘Not long after he went to his room.’
‘Mebbes.’
‘Could the medication have caused it – some sort of shock to his system?’
Arthur Kerr shrugs somewhat disinterestedly.
‘You’d have to ask one of the quacks.’
‘Such as Dr Pettigrew?’
‘Aye.’
Skelgill pauses for thought. After a few moments he has a new question.
‘Where does the medication come from?’
‘The dispensary – no two patients are on exactly the same treatment – so they manage all the preparation and storage – and everything’s signed out as it’s used.’
‘By the nurses?’
‘Or the patients themselves – some of them are allowed to go directly to the counter and swallow it under observation there.’
Arthur Kerr seems to be getting a bit fed up. He checks the clock on the wall behind Skelgill and fidgets about in his seat.
‘There’s things I ought to be doing – if there’s nothing on the so-called thefts.’ He stares rather belligerently at Skelgill. ‘As far as Frank Wamphray’s concerned – you’d be better off talking to the powers that be.’
Skelgill nods grimly, as though he agrees with this suggestion, and that it indeed corresponds with his intentions. He pulls his rarely used notebook from inside his jacket. He flips it open and glances secretively at a blank page before snapping it closed.
‘I’ve got an interview with Dr Agnetha Walker next. They said you’d be able to contact her on the internal system so I can meet her – my mobile’s at Security.’
‘Aye – no problem.’
A rather cynical smile threatens to break out across his mean mouth, though he rises and leads the way towards a swipe-card-operated door. Skelgill still has his notebook in his hand, and he waggles it as he waits alongside the nurse.
‘I need to leave a message with the Director’s PA – if you could take me there first.’ (Arthur Kerr raises his eyebrows suspiciously, without looking at Skelgill.) ‘For my sergeant, like.’
12. POLICE HQ
‘I deduce an early start, Guv.’
DS Leyton, in sharp himself, has poked a speculative head around his superior’s open office door. A line of empty plastic cups suggests a good hour-and-a-half of work has passed since Skelgill first arrived at his desk. His face is severe, and he has tired shadows beneath his eyes, though for once he forces a grin through his grumpy exterior.
‘Sorry to abandon you last night, Leyton – thought I might as well take the chance of a bit of inside information – and a free lift to my car.’ Skelgill taps some instructions into his computer and frowns at the screen. ‘Plus it saved you from the temptation of Tebay.’
DS Leyton looks a tad miffed at this suggestion, and with good cause, given that it is his superior who continually insists upon opportunistic café stops. However, he suppresses any urge to point out what would be an unwelcome fact, and instead responds to Skelgill’s former point.
‘And did you get any, Guv?’
Skelgill shifts his gaze from the monitor to his sergeant’s artless countenance. His eyes narrow and he bites on his lower lip before he replies.
‘The Chief’s agreed to call in the Coroner over the death of Frank Wamphray. They’re doing an autopsy this morning.’
‘Jeez, Guv.’ DS Leyton takes an alarmed step into the office, but then reverses and disappears into the corridor. ‘Just a tick, Guv.’ He reappears a minute later with two machine teas, and slides one in front of Skelgill before taking his regular seat opposite his boss. ‘That’s serious, Guv. That’s telling the hospital they don’t know their own job.’
Skelgill, already drinking, raises his eyebrows unsympathetically.
‘Like I say – the Chief’s sanctioned it. Seems she’s on hobnobbing terms with Briony Boss. Must have squared it.’
DS Leyton, seated, has his broad shoulders hunched and his head pulled in like a tortoise.
‘They ain’t gonna like it, Guv – that’s us off their Christmas card list.’
Skelgill’s rebellious expression softens.
‘At the end of the day, Leyton, it’s no big deal. It won’t do them any harm to confirm the cause of death.’
‘But, Guv – an autopsy – surely that implies suspicion?’
‘Sudden death can be enough justification.’
DS Leyton’s expression is dogged, as if he is working up courage in order to ask an awkward question.
‘Did you mention to the Chief that Frank Wamphray had told us the staff were trying to poison patients – to get the top people fired?’
Now Skelgill scowls.
‘Leyton – you’re getting your knickers in a twist. It was Briony Boss that used the word poisoning – not Frank Wamphray – he just complained about the medication making them dozy.’
DS Leyton looks perplexed – but he bows to Skelgill’s greater vehemence and scratches his head vigorously.
‘I could have sworn he said something, Guv – at least, about causing bother for the management.’
‘Aye, maybe – but it’s one thing destabilising the place by nicking things – topping the patients would be a bit extreme. Even I’ve ruled that one out.’
DS Leyton appears a little pained – as though he has some vested interest in his theory.
‘Thing is, Guv – it’s the surest way to stir up a media storm – patients dying because of incompetence – system failure – that kind of stuff.’
Skelgill is shaking his head.
&n
bsp; ‘Chance a murder charge to get your boss sacked, Leyton? It’d be a lot less risky to let an inmate abscond from a nature walk – hit the headlines and no one need die.’
‘Until some poor hiker refuses to share his packed lunch, Guv.’
Skelgill appears to wave away this minor complication, but in fact a bluebottle is buzzing him. He watches it fly towards the window and crack against the pane. Surprisingly unstunned, it makes more futile attempts to escape. Skelgill rises and opens the ventilation light and shepherds it out. He stands still for a few moments, perhaps considering the weather. There has been a bright dawn but already high cirrus are creating a haze and heralding the next warm front. DS Leyton clears his throat to speak.
‘But you’re not ruling out foul play, Guv?’
Skelgill turns to face him, his expression neutral.
‘Let’s see what the autopsy says.’
But DS Leyton has not yet finished mining his vein of speculation.
‘If it were, Guv – it could mean someone didn’t want him to spill the beans – that he really knew something.’
Skelgill is not open to being swayed.
‘He’d already spoken with us, Leyton – and plenty of folk saw that – it’s probably even on camera.’
‘They might have asked him what he’d said – found out it wasn’t anything too serious yet.’ (Now Skelgill has his back to Leyton and is examining his map of the Lake District that has pride of place on the wall behind his desk.) ‘He could have threatened to blackmail them.’ DS Leyton leans forwards in his chair, grimacing as his belt digs into his midriff. ‘Whatever he was – a bit loopy – he wasn’t stupid, Guv.’
Skelgill resumes his seat and inspects his cup forlornly. He adds it to his line-up of empties and then begins to insert one inside the other until he has a little tower.
‘I’ll say one thing, Leyton. It was Arthur Kerr who gave him the injection.’ Then he tosses the stack into the waste bin beside his sergeant, causing him to flinch. ‘And I did notice that when I first spoke with him about Frank Wamphray he never mentioned he was his primary nurse.’
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