Dr Peter Pettigrew appears uncertain – but the Director intervenes.
‘We gave him the option to go home early, but he was determined to keep calm and carry on. As Doctor Pettigrew mentioned, he is a seasoned nurse and is capable of knowing his own feelings in such a situation.’
Dr Peter Pettigrew rises – he seems keen to do so. He holds out a hand in the direction of DS Leyton.
‘Sergeant, I can take you down – it will save calling for a member of staff to guide you through the various security points.’
DS Leyton glances at Skelgill, who gives him an affirmative nod. DS Leyton falls in with the psychiatrist and Skelgill watches as together they exit Briony Boss’s office suite. He is still seated in his original position on the settee, but now his attention is captured by the clink of glasses as the Director moves in beside him bearing a small round tray that she has procured from a cabinet. There is a clear bottle that looks like mineral water, but as she sets it down and sits beside him he sees that it is in fact vodka, and the glasses contain ice cubes.
‘It has been quite a day, Inspector – I feel we should take a few moments to relax before I must change my outfit for our little tour.’
‘I take it that’s not to mask the taste of adrenaline?’
She chuckles throatily.
‘You just heard the expert, Inspector, it does no harm ingested orally.’
Skelgill raises a wry eyebrow.
‘I reckon I’ll take a chance.’
She shuffles a little closer to him.
‘I believe you are aware I spoke with your senior officer. It seems you have a reputation for rolling the dice – and thereby achieving results.’ She raises her glass and smiles across a bare shoulder. ‘And since my PA has left us alone for the evening, I shall require some competent assistance with the buttons of my skirt.’
14. THE SIREN
‘Guv, I didn’t realise you knew that Geordie nurse, Arthur Kerr.’
‘Who says I know him?’
‘He did, Guv – says he’s seen you drinking in his neck of the woods. I told him I reckoned you’d have been fishing – the River Lune, ain’t it?’
Skelgill does not answer immediately. He must wonder what is Arthur Kerr’s game, dropping hints to DS Leyton that he knows will get back to him. Another bung, perhaps? He glares out of the passenger window of DS Leyton’s car. Through light rain and trees he can see glimpses of the river to which his sergeant refers. It is Thursday morning and they are en route to Haresfell. He shakes his head, and then involuntarily bangs a fist on the dashboard, rather like a sleeper who strikes out at an unpleasant image in a dream. DS Leyton visibly starts.
‘Guv?’
‘Aye – the Lune, aye. Good for sea trout, especially at night on the worm.’
‘That’d be it then, Guv.’
Skelgill remains tight-lipped, watching the scenery flash by.
‘How was he?’
‘The Kerr geezer, Guv?’
‘Aye. And he’s a Mackem, not a Geordie.’
DS Leyton purses his lips – but evidently opts not to pursue this new question of provenance, the raising of which by Skelgill would appear to contradict his opening denial.
‘Well, Guv – you might say, considering he’d not long killed a patient – he was surprisingly chipper. Seemed more annoyed than anything. Reckons he’s the fall guy for someone else’s cock-up. And then again – he was half triumphant about it, Guv.’
‘Triumphant?’
‘Like as if to say the hospital deserved this to happen. He ain’t his employers’ number one fan.’
Skelgill does not appear surprised.
‘Don’t suppose he had any kind words for Frank Wamphray?’
‘He said he’d learned a long time ago not to get emotionally involved with the inmates – patients, I mean. Reckons they’re highly manipulative – quick to take advantage.’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘Sounds like where I work.’
‘Right enough, Guv.’
‘What about the contamination of the medicine?’
‘Must have been the only thing he didn’t have an opinion on, Guv.’
‘What, nothing?’ Skelgill sounds a little exasperated by this suggestion.
‘Dunno, Guv – maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. But he weren’t in a hurry to speculate.’ DS Leyton shrugs his arms as he threads the car through a series of s-bends. ‘I’d say he’s a hard case, though – if you’d told me he’d done it, I’d believe you.’
Skelgill becomes pensive for a while.
‘How about Pettigrew – did he let anything slip once he was out of the Director’s earshot?’
DS Leyton twists his prominent lips and eyebrows into a curious expression of concentration. (This gesture proves rather ironic, given his reply.)
‘Know who he reminds me of, Guv?’
‘No, Leyton.’ Skelgill dislikes any such guessing games. His tone is curt. ‘Winston Churchill.’
‘Nah, Guv – that there Mr Bean geezer, off the telly – well, films or whatever. He’s a dead ringer, Guv.’
Skelgill casts a disparaging sideways glance at his sergeant.
‘And your point is?’
‘Not as daft as he looks, Guv – you could hide a lot of badness behind a face like that – and no one would be the wiser.’
Skelgill is frowning. Whether he disagrees with his sergeant, or this rather naïve assessment has in fact struck some sort of chord, it is impossible to tell.
‘Did he say anything specific?’
DS Leyton shakes his head.
‘Not really, Guv. At a guess he was relieved to get out of the meeting. I suppose it’s his head on the block – as the top medical man, like.’
‘Comes with the territory, Leyton.’
‘Actually, Guv, he seems a decent bloke to me – offered to get me a scone and a coffee on his account.’
Skelgill appears interested by this revelation.
‘Did you take him up on it?’
‘Not likely, Guv – what if he’s the poisoner?’
Skelgill shakes his head sadly, as if such a fickle concern should not be allowed to get in the way of a free snack. Notwithstanding, he seems to ponder something his sergeant has said, and there is a period of hush as they wind through the lanes south of Tebay village. The route is becoming familiar, and DS Leyton drives skilfully – though a flock of Rough Fells grazing the verge beyond a rise might pose a challenge to his reflexes. Eventually, it is he that breaks the silence.
‘Think Frank Wamphray was deliberately targeted, Guv?’
Skelgill sits tight-lipped for a good half a minute. Eventually DS Leyton steals a brief glance across at him.
‘You know what, Leyton?’ But Skelgill does not wait for a reply. ‘They’ve got Meredith Bale in that hospital – on the same mixed ward as they had Frank Wamphray.’
‘That’s right, Guv.’
Skelgill delays his next sentence, as if he is choosing his words carefully.
‘Remember that report on her, the one the idle Manchester crew sent up – that you were supposed to read?’
DS Leyton begins to protest – but Skelgill silences him with an authoritatively raised palm.
‘I know the contents – Dr Walker kindly filled me in on the details.’
DS Leyton’s expression grows increasingly concerned.
‘What are you saying, Guv?’
Skelgill turns to stare almost savagely at his sergeant, who senses the discontent (if not its justification) and affects to concentrate hard upon the road ahead.
‘I’m saying that Frank Wamphray’s cause of death matches Meredith Bale’s MO – and no one has mentioned the fact. Not a single person – not even as a throwaway remark.’
Skelgill sinks back into his seat, glowering. He folds his arms and another silence descends. Perhaps DS Leyton finds this hiatus uncomfortable – or is simply unable to suppress the machinations of his thoughts – for he produces a somewhat
unexpected retort.
‘Mr Bean did, Guv – at least, when we first went in, remember? About her being Britain’s most prolific serial killer, or something like that?’
Skelgill’s features remain stern, though his tone betrays a hint of amusement.
‘You better watch what you call him, Leyton – else you’ll be saying it to his face next. Then he will come gunning for you with his needle.’
DS Leyton seems disturbed by this prospect, but he gathers his features into a mask of determination and grips the steering wheel more vigorously, wrestling the car into a tight z-bend, where the road narrows and the proximity of the nearside dry stone wall has Skelgill flinching.
‘But how could she have done it, Guv?’
Skelgill exhales, perhaps with relief that they have emerged intact from the unforgiving chicane.
‘She couldn’t.’ His reply is decisive. ‘Last night, Briony Boss took me from the main dispensary to the ward. The person who filled all the vials on Sunday was a trainee – post-graduate, mind – under the constant supervision of a fully qualified pharmacist. Then a pair of security guys transported the batch to the ward dispensary, taking a route bristling with CCTV. Two staff checked it in and locked it in the cabinet. It was signed out on Tuesday by one of the dispensers and a ward nurse, who handed it to the primary nurse, Arthur Kerr. They were both present when he gave Frank Wamphray the injection in a treatment room off the ward.’
‘So, if it weren’t some freak accident, Guv – accidental contamination – it must have been tampered with while it was locked up?’
Skelgill seems reluctant to endorse this logical conclusion. Already he has highlighted the difficulty inherent in knowing the medication would not be taken orally by the patient. However, with some reluctance he indicates his acceptance.
‘Aye – it’s possible.’
‘So, Guv – Meredith Bale – if she didn’t actually do it – are you thinking she had some hand in it?’
Skelgill seems even more resistant to this proposition.
‘Like, how, Leyton?’
DS Leyton clearly has some theory in mind – though he procrastinates with a series of facial contortions.
‘When Frank Wamphray was pretending to be the psychiatrist – giving us the low-down on the escape tunnel and whatnot?’
‘Aye?’ Skelgill sounds like he is anticipating reprise of the ramblings of a certified lunatic.
‘He said it’s easy enough to bribe a member of staff.’
At this point Skelgill appears to lose interest. He begins craning out of the side window to inspect the sky above the fells. But DS Leyton soldiers on.
‘Who’s to know if a patient’s got a bank account, Guv – especially if it’s in a false name? Then with a mobile phone – Bob’s your uncle.’
Skelgill is scowling.
‘So what? We interrogate all Haresfell staff’s bank accounts – in case a juicy bounty payment’s made this week? How many are there – eight hundred plus?’
DS Leyton looks a little crestfallen. He shakes his head forlornly.
‘Trouble is, Guv – an accomplice would probably have a secret account as well.’
Skelgill casts out a hand, in a gesture of “there you go” – as if his subordinate is now seeing sense. However, DS Leyton’s mind is clearly dogged by this notion, and he must unburden at least one more aspect.
‘Guv – we know full well that jailbirds pull strings from inside regular prisons – so why should Haresfell be any different? It only takes one bent member of staff – and, like you say, look how many there are to choose from.’
Skelgill’s continued scepticism could be construed as unreasonable – given his own clandestine experience with Arthur Kerr. He does not reply – but DS Leyton continues in a manner that attempts to rally his superior’s support.
‘I mean, Guv – now you point it out – Meredith Bale’s MO – the more I think of it – the more it seems like one heck of a coincidence.’
Skelgill remains determinedly pensive. After a while he presses his shoulders back into the passenger seat and stretches out his arms, yawning extravagantly.
‘If you ask me, Leyton, what’s more of a coincidence is it happening right under our noses.’
He does not elaborate upon this somewhat cryptic statement, and instead closes his eyes. It could be imagined that he is sleeping, but after a few moments – without opening them – he speaks again.
‘What time do your DC’s arrive?’
‘Ten-thirty, Guv. Briony Boss’s PA has allocated us an interview room right next to that coffee bar.’ He glances at his superior to see if this arrangement meets his approval – and sure enough there appears to be a favourable facial twitch. ‘I thought we’d need time to get our feet under the table – get a cuppa.’
‘What are you going to tell them?’
Skelgill is still conducting the conversation from behind closed lids. DS Leyton appears disconcerted, having assumed his superior will brief the detective constables. He glances at Skelgill – and seeing his eyes still shut he pulls a distressed face and with one hand picks at the hair on the top of his head, in a passable silent impression of Stan Laurel. When he looks back, however, Skelgill is regarding him quizzically.
‘Er – right, Guv – what I thought was – er, CCTV.’
‘Aye?’ Skelgill’s tone hangs heavy with cynicism.
‘Yeah, Guv – there’s cameras in the lobby area that cover the Coniston Ward dispensary – I figure we could identify everyone who went inside – Tuesday morning – and maybe Monday night – right through the night, even.’
It is hard to tell if DS Leyton is making this up on the hoof – certainly he sounds a little unrehearsed – but it seems to do the trick, and Skelgill’s reply suggests the proposal is acceptable.
‘We’d need one of their staff, Leyton – our boys are not going to recognise anyone.’
‘I thought if we narrowed it down, Guv – noted all the times on the tape – then we can borrow someone for an hour to do all the IDs – someone reliable.’ He casts an apprehensive sideways glance at Skelgill. ‘I thought you might be able to pull a favour with the Director.’
Skelgill’s peeved expression hints at irritation with his sergeant’s presumption – rather than an objection to the practicality of the idea. His reply sounds grudging.
‘Aye, maybe. What else?’
‘Well – like you said yesterday, Guv – get the lads to interview everyone involved in the preparation and transfer of the medicine. And I thought maybe we should talk to Security – Eric Blacklock and his team that operates the x-ray machines and body-scanners – see what they reckon about the drug being smuggled in.’
Skelgill does not respond immediately to this latter suggestion. As a man who likes to know best, he is perhaps a little torn that his sergeant appears to have come up with a sound plan. Thus it must fall to him to act as devil’s advocate.
‘Leyton – that would be child’s play.’
‘I know that, Guv – I realise it’s just a few drops of liquid in a little plastic bottle – shove it where the sun don’t shine – who’s going to find that?’
Skelgill, however, finds an objection.
‘Leyton – let’s just put us off our breakfasts, shall we?’
That they have already patronised Tebay services does not deter Skelgill from making this statement. No doubt he has already incorporated into their schedule a visit to the handily placed coffee bar.
‘Sorry, Guv – but you know what I mean – I agree it could be a doddle – but they might just have noticed something – someone acting different to normal – looking nervous or suspicious.’
‘Or walking with a limp.’
Though Skelgill says this sardonically his sergeant appreciates that the joke accommodates his hypothesis. He chuckles, and evidently feels sufficiently reassured to pose a significant question of his own.
‘Reckon we should interview her, Guv?’
�
��Her being?’
‘Meredith Bale, Guv.’
This proposal does provoke a reaction from Skelgill. He draws a sudden breath, and holds it for several seconds before exhaling with a long hiss through his nostrils, like a reformed smoker who has not yet shed the automatous habit.
‘She’d love that.’
‘How do you mean, Guv?’
‘Let’s just pretend for a minute she’s involved – think how she’d be gloating, watching us floundering around – the fact that we were interviewing her would tell her we hadn’t got a shred of evidence to go on.’
DS Leyton ponders this scenario.
‘So you think not, eh, Guv?’
Skelgill shakes his head – meaning he concurs with this view.
‘But not for that reason.’
Now DS Leyton waits to see if Skelgill will elaborate upon his analysis, but it seems he is keeping whatever cards he might hold close to his chest. (Unless he deems it so obvious to his sergeant that it does not merit explanation.) After a few moments, DS Leyton proffers a supporting observation.
‘I suppose the thing is, Guv – if it were her – what’s the worst we can do?’ He laughs a little hysterically. ‘Stick her in a high-security mental hospital?’
‘Stop, Leyton!’
DS Leyton does as he is bid, swerving the car onto the verge and grinding to a bumpy halt.
‘What is it, Guv?’ His eyes are wide and he looks to Skelgill as though he must have experienced a brainwave. But Skelgill is unruffled and appears bemused by his sergeant’s agitation.
‘The Lune, Leyton.’ Skelgill gestures to the bridge ahead of them. ‘I want another gander. We’re down here so often I may as well get a permit. Especially with sea trout running at the moment.’
DS Leyton grins but fails to conceal a certain degree of exasperation. Dutifully, however, he exits the car and trails his superior to the centre of the bridge. Like on their last stopover the water is high, streaming from the fells and hastening to the coast. Skelgill, as always in these situations, seems immediately entranced. He appears to engage a sixth sense to the exclusion of his other five. The rain has abated, and there is just the hint of drizzle in the air. The temperature is mild, and the conditions not unpleasant. After a minute or two DS Leyton clears his throat as a warning that he wishes to interrupt his superior’s contemplation.
Murder in the Mind Page 12