The Truth About Murder

by Chris Collett

  ‘So why has he been recalled?’

  ‘It could be for a number of reasons,’ blustered the curate. ‘Father Adrian is a respected member of this community, and of the Catholic faith. He has responsibilities.’

  ‘Did you know Rita?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that I knew her, but I occasionally came across her in the church, of course. I was here on the last evening she was seen, I believe. Father Adrian was out and I could tell that she was disappointed. She was hoping to make one last attempt to “change his mind”.’

  ‘Is that what she said? Change his mind about what?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said the curate. ‘She stayed here for a while anyway, sitting on her own in the church as she sometimes did. She only left when it was time for me to lock up.’

  ‘Did you see which direction she took when she left?’

  ‘No, but she met someone outside. They were standing talking by the gates.’

  ‘Someone she knew?’

  ‘I would think so. Though I heard Rita greet whomever it was quite loudly, as if she was surprised.’

  ‘Was it a man or woman?’

  ‘It was impossible to tell. It was dark and they were both bundled up in winter clothing. But Rita seemed happy to see whomever it was, there was something in the tone of her voice. When I left the church myself, a few minutes later, I saw the two of them walking together quite companionably towards the town centre.’

  In the opposite direction to Rita’s house. ‘What time was this?’

  ‘It would have been around eight o’clock.’ He waited for my next question. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  * * *

  This was something I felt sure Mick Fraser didn’t know. As far as he was concerned, the last person Rita had seen on the night she died was me. I rang Fraser, but he was out of the office, so it would have to keep for now.

  Plum and I made our way back to the town centre.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked her. ‘He was cagey about why Father Adrian has suddenly scarpered.’

  ‘In fairness, it is none of our business.’

  Recalled — like a faulty car. Or at least, one that’s not behaving in the way that it should.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  When I arrived at Fulford Road the following morning, I saw that Stefan Greaves had phoned and called him back as soon as I’d had my coffee.

  ‘Did you know that Rita Todd went to the church on the Friday night after she left my office?’ he said.

  It was news to me.

  ‘She met someone when she left, too. The curate saw her. They went off together.’

  ‘Did he see who it was?’

  ‘No, it was too dark.’

  I had to ask. ‘Where are you going with this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought it might be worth getting the full story and trying to ascertain who it was that she met. They might know more about what was going through Rita’s head at that time. They could have even witnessed what happened.’

  He was right, of course. If Denny hadn’t been killed when he had, I would have made more of an effort to trace Rita’s last known movements. But from the start it had seemed a straightforward case, and it was hard to believe that having either the priest or this unknown person at the inquest would have changed anything. I had to recognise this for what it was — Greaves was desperate to know that he hadn’t played a role in Rita Todd’s demise. Clearly it was important to him, and it wasn’t as if we’d come up with much regarding his own attack, so I offered a suggestion.

  ‘We still have some CCTV in the town centre. I could have a quick look if you think that would help? I’ve been meaning to anyway. Only thing is, I’ve got a lot going on just now, so it might have to wait a couple of days.’

  ‘Of course, no problem.’ He seemed disproportionately pleased. I glanced up as I heard a shout from the incident room and saw several of my colleagues reaching for hats and Kevlars before racing out of the room.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go . . .’

  Ringing off, I wandered over to the doorway, where a couple of the civilian admin staff sat at their workstations.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  The nearest looked up from her screen. ‘The animal rescue centre called in,’ she said. ‘Liam Archer’s turned up there.’

  It was impossible to get on with my work again. I’d be on tenterhooks till I knew an arrest had been made. But they were back all too soon. As the first one came into the office, he saw my face.

  ‘He’d scarpered before we got there,’ he said, aggrieved. ‘Must have realised that the manager was calling us.’

  ‘He’d gone to collect his dog?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just visiting. They wouldn’t let him take the dog, the state he was in. Sounds like he’s barely managing to take care of himself. The manager said he was rambling, and reeked of booze even at this time of day. He thinks Archer is sleeping rough. Our bad luck that the manager also let slip that people were looking for him. He suggested that he turn himself in, which is probably what frightened him off.’

  ‘Rambling about what?’ I asked.

  ‘Denny Sutton. He didn’t know that Denny had died and it scared the life out of him. Kept saying “they made him” do it.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The voices in his head, I guess. The same voices that kept telling him he was going to win the lottery. That didn’t get him very far, did it?’

  * * *

  It was more from hope than expectation, but on my way home that evening, I called in at the hostel, just on the off-chance. Archer wasn’t there, of course. While I waited in the hall for Doug, those head shots stared down at me.

  No one at the hostel had seen Archer since the night of Denny’s attack, something that Doug was clearly worried about.

  ‘I know you’re the wrong person to say this to, but Liam’s not dangerous,’ he said. ‘He’s vulnerable, and easy prey to others.’

  ‘I understand he hears voices?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve never seen any evidence of that, but I suppose, given his history, it wouldn’t come as a total shock either.’

  ‘Would any of the other staff know?’ I asked, nodding towards the row of mug shots.

  Doug forced a laugh.

  ‘They’re not staff,’ he said, pausing to study the pictures. ‘They’re some of our regulars who’ve passed away over the last few years. Too many, just lately. We realised that no one apart from us even noticed their passing, so decided to create a memorial wall. If we didn’t make an effort to remember them, no one would.’

  It was a moving tribute, simple but effective.

  ‘If you’re interested, we’re holding a vigil for them in the market square this Friday evening,’ he added. ‘We do it every year.’

  ‘I’ll think about that,’ I said. ‘What happened to them?’

  He pointed out two men who had succumbed to a bad lot of drugs, and three more, a woman and two men who had perished in bad weather.

  ‘Someone told me about that.’

  ‘Yeah, it was terrible. A local builder, Ashley Curzon, offered to do up the hostel at cost price, but he had a limited time frame, so we had to grab the opportunity. It was appalling luck that it coincided with such a cold spell.’

  * * *

  Back at Fulford Road, I bumped into Chief Superintendent Bowers on the stairs and got my second invitation into his office inside of a week. Once I was seated, he closed the door.

  ‘Time to let the cat out of the bag,’ he said, with barely concealed excitement. ‘Have you heard of a man called Matthew Westfield?’

  It was like asking me if I’d heard of Jack the Ripper. ‘The politician, you mean?’

  ‘The very one,’ he said. ‘We’ve had word that he’s available, so it’s all systems go for tomorrow.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Can you spare a few minutes to go over the sched
ule?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  It wasn’t a big task, now that all the planned visits were confirmed.

  ‘We might need to fit in a couple of extra meetings — there are some local dignitaries who might get upset if they don’t get to meet him. You know how it is,’ said Bowers. ‘But we’ve added in a formal reception on the last night — a black tie event at Mawton Manor — so that we can mop up anyone who feels they may have missed out. Our last opportunity, you might say. And we’re hoping to end with something quite special.’

  Bowers then stressed again the need for discretion, though I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

  He shepherded me to the door. ‘The media can be tiresome,’ he added. ‘There’s a particular local hack who does a good job of making a nuisance of himself.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, you know, putting two and two together to make five. If you ever come across Simon Montgomery, give him a wide berth.’

  * * *

  I decided that if I was going to be spending time in his company, it would be good to find out more about Matthew Westfield, beyond what I’d seen in the tabloids and on TV. I typed his name into a search engine and an overwhelming number of news stories flooded onto the screen, the most recent ones predominantly concerned with current government health policy.

  The more reliable content picked up the trail some six or seven years ago, when Westfield met and formed an alliance with the now prime minister. There was plenty about how he’d masterminded and orchestrated the premier’s rise to power and helped to shape the man into a world leader. The most commonly used epithet seemed to be ‘Machiavelli’, which was hardly ever meant as a compliment. But then it was well known that Westfield didn’t court the media. His bullying tactics and abrasive manner at that time were well-documented, and appeared not to concern him in the slightest. And he was vindicated shortly afterwards by an admirable demonstration of the capriciousness of the British public and press corporations, who dramatically changed their tune when his long-term partner, Amelie Ghestin, became ill with motor neurone disease. Her deterioration was rapid and for several years, Westfield all but withdrew from political life. His reappearance was marked by a couple of controversial speeches on assisted dying and after her death, it was reported that she had spent her last days in Switzerland. Westfield had a reputation as a straight talker and that had never been more evident than when he’d described in graphic detail the last, miserable stages of his wife’s illness. It was widely reported that the prime minister missed his friend and advisor, and it was no great surprise that shortly after Westfield’s wife’s death, the pair were rumoured to be spending time together again.

  However, Westfield’s only public appearances since his wife’s death seemed to be his regular participation in marathons to raise money for various MND charities. And now he was coming to Charnford. The big question was: why here and why now? Was there about to be a major policy announcement, or was this Westfield signalling the low key resumption of his political career?

  I scrolled down the pages of hits, trying to glean more about the man, but there wasn’t much. According to his somewhat sketchy bio, he was a scholarship grammar school boy, who’d progressed to the London School of Economics in the late 1980s and worked his way to a first class degree, alongside a number of extracurricular activities. The piece included a list of societies he’d belonged to, the debating society among them of course, along with others whose names gave away little about their purpose.

  I nearly wouldn’t have recognised Westfield in photographs from that time. His hair was blonder and hung almost to his shoulders. Someone else in the picture caught my eye. I couldn’t be certain, but the similarity was there, and it was surely too much of a coincidence. I clicked on the photo and was taken back to its original source, where a caption listed the people pictured. I’d been right. Unfortunately, it only specified those in the centre of the picture, but I had a plausible explanation now for why Westfield had shown such interest in Charnford. It was why Bowers had been looking forward to Westfield’s visit so much: they were old chums. Suddenly a whole lot of stuff that had been bothering me became clear. Closing the web page, I turned my attention back to Westfield’s timetable, double-checking that everything was in place. At least we wouldn’t have to clean up the streets in preparation for the visit. Nature, or, at least, the climate had effectively done that for us.

  I’d become so absorbed in the information search that I hadn’t realised how quiet the office had become. Checking the clock, I realised the afternoon had gone. It was time to go.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  When I arrived at work the following morning, the first thing Barbara said was, ‘You have a visitor.’

  A woman who had been sitting in one of the visitor chairs got to her feet.

  ‘I’m Delores Mbegu. Andrea Todd asked me to come and talk to you.’

  Unlike Rita, Delores was solid and matronly and looked her age, though she evidently took great pride and care with her appearance, wearing a smart wool coat and patent, heeled shoes.

  I invited her through to my office, where she declined any refreshment, but took the seat beside my desk. She seemed contained, clutching her handbag in her lap and a tissue wadded in her hand, which she used from time to time, still coming to terms with the death of her friend, I supposed.

  Plum was hovering by the door and on my signal, took up her note-taking post, though I wasn’t at all sure why I thought that might be necessary.

  ‘I appreciate your taking the time to come in to see me,’ I began, unsure of how this was going to help anyone. ‘We’re all very sorry about what has happened to Rita. It came as rather a shock to us too, as you can imagine, though I only met her on one occasion.’

  Delores sniffed and pinched her nose with the tissue.

  ‘I feel so bad for her. I might have been partly responsible.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t here for her. I knew she was getting into some kind of trouble.’

  Another member of the growing band who thought they had let Rita down. I was familiar with that feeling, so the least I could do was hear her out.

  Plum gave me a questioning look. Where to start?

  ‘One of your former colleagues, Ellen Campbell, told us that Rita was suspended after a couple of babies died on her ward,’ I began. ‘I’ve seen the formal allegations.’ I gestured to where the envelope still sat on my desk. ‘There’s nothing in them to contradict that.’

  Delores glared at me. ‘Rita wasn’t killing babies — she was desperately trying to keep them alive.’

  ‘Could she have made mistakes, though? We got the impression she was under some duress.’

  ‘Of course she was!’ said Delores. ‘The team had been decimated. And even before I retired, I was having a lot of time off, which put added pressure on everyone else. After I left, I know things didn’t improve. They didn’t bring in a proper replacement.’

  ‘Ellen Campbell told us a bit about that, and about the restructuring. Did that have anything to do with your retirement?’

  ‘Well, my mother was ill. But yes, the changes made my decision much easier, and I wasn’t exactly discouraged from leaving. We had always been a strong unit, a tight unit, you know? The reorganisation undermined that.’

  ‘How?’

  She shrugged. ‘Divide and rule — that was what they wanted. Up until the changes, we were all part of one big team that worked across two wards exactly the same. It was a “key worker” system, so we were allocated children at the acute phase, as soon as they were admitted, so we would be there from the very start of the treatment and stay with them right through to recovery until they had been discharged. It meant that we got to know the child and the family really well and could ensure that the care plan was meeting their needs, and that everything was in place for when they went home. It gave us and the families continuity and allowed us to build stro
ng relationships. When the reorganisation came, the team was split and the wards renamed “Holly” and “Ivy”.’ She shook her head in contempt at that. ‘Euphemisms for “acute” and “recovering”. The idea was that at the appropriate time, the child passed from one ward — and one team — to the other.’

  ‘Why did that matter?’ I asked.

  ‘It meant that we only dealt with one stage of the process, depending on which ward we were assigned to. With Rita and me it was the acute ward. When the patient transferred, we passed them on to someone else. It’s frustrating because you only get a snapshot view of what’s happening to the child, and often the families have just got used to one clinician and suddenly they have to start all over again. There’s meant to be a handover meeting when information is passed from one nurse to the next, but in practice there’s never time to do it properly. The closure of some wards and the relocation of others doesn’t help, it just makes it easier for things to get missed or forgotten.’

  ‘What was the rationale for it?’

  ‘Efficiency, of course,’ said Delores, with a sniff. ‘It was felt that if we were overseeing a smaller number of children it would lighten the workload. Ha! As if that would make any difference.’

  ‘It sounds as if it made the job harder,’ I said. ‘Could it account for the mistakes that Rita was alleged to have made?’

  ‘Hm, if they were mistakes,’ said Delores. I’d expected her to back up her friend.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘After I left, Rita began to notice a rise in the number of children who were passing away. Children she had been responsible for, who’d had a good prognosis, were dying unexpectedly during recovery.’

  I felt a murmur of foreboding. ‘Isn’t that inevitable with such vulnerable babies, though?’ I recalled what Guy Leonard had said.

  ‘Yes, of course. The children are, by their nature, very fragile. But Rita had concerns about the way in which decisions were being made.’

  ‘What kinds of decisions?’

  ‘About what kind of care a child should have. We’ve known for a long time now that the advances in medicine mean that our capacity to keep a patient alive often exceeds our ability to cure the underlying condition. Sometimes you get to a point where it becomes obvious that the child is unlikely to ever improve and that their quality of life is severely limited, and difficult decisions have to be made. Any life support can be ended in favour of palliative care. Rita believed strongly, like I do, that decisions like those should be made together, with the parents, not just the professionals. She’d had experience of it on the other side — her little boy, Martin, was very poorly. Rita knew first-hand how important it is for the family’s wishes to be given full consideration.’