Dead of Night, page 18
part #7 of D.I. Tom Mariner Series
‘Who knew you’d be such a connoisseur of betting shops?’ said Jesson as they left Ricardo’s house.
‘Put that down to a misspent youth,’ said Mariner. ‘Shit, I’ve got to get a move on,’ he said suddenly. He turned to Jesson. ‘I need to go and fetch Jamie. If I drop you off, can you write all this up?’
‘Of course.’
TWENTY
In every other circumstance a shining example of law enforcement, Mariner drove out to Manor Park breaking all the rules, though only when he was certain he could get away with it. He’d driven this same route out to North Worcestershire so many times now that the exact position of the speed cameras was imprinted on his mind, and he knew exactly where the short stretches were where he could safely exceed the speed limit. He was going to be late. Skidding through the gates and into the main drive, Mariner saw Jamie wandering around the lawned area to one side, while Izzy, one of the staff, lounged on a bench alongside the entrance, keeping a discreet eye on him. She turned her wrist, pointing at an imaginary watch and shaking her head, as Mariner pulled up alongside her.
‘Sorry,’ Mariner mouthed back. ‘Hello, Jamie,’ he called, getting out of the car, and just about caught the ‘Spectre Man’ that Jamie muttered in response.
‘Why does he call you that?’ asked Izzy. Like a number of the staff at Manor Park, she was Australian and the twang was strong. No more than mid-twenties, her blonde hair was cut short and she wore the staff uniform of jeans and polo shirt.
‘Because when we first met his sister called me Inspector Mariner, and that was the best he could make of it,’ Mariner explained.
‘Inspector? You’re a copper? I didn’t know that.’ She seemed amused by it.
‘No reason why you should,’ said Mariner. ‘How’s he been?’
‘Good. Jamie’s never any trouble, are you, mate? Just had one little incident, but entirely our fault. We took him swimming and he must have got water up his nose. He went completely nuts for about twenty minutes. Next time we’re going to try him with goggles and a nose-clip.’
‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Mariner, knowing how much Jamie hated anything new. While they were talking Jamie had loped over to the car, and now Mariner opened the passenger door for him. Izzy started up the steps towards the building before turning back. ‘Oh, nearly forgot. Message from Simon: looks like we’ve got a permanent vacancy coming up soon. He’ll let you know.’
Mariner got the distinct impression she’d enjoyed saving that ’til last. ‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘Any idea which days?’
Izzy shrugged. ‘Full-time, I guess. He didn’t say different. Have a good week, guys.’
Christ. What a difference that would make to Mariner’s life. As they drove back to the city, he felt a sudden lightness. ‘I know it’s only Monday night,’ he said. ‘But how about a takeaway?’
‘Fried rice,’ said Jamie.
When Jesson got up to the incident room she found Charlie Glover hunched over his computer. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘What have you been up to? The boss was trying to get hold of you.’
‘Oh, I was just going back over some of the statements,’ said Charlie. ‘Checking nothing has been missed.’ He didn’t see Jesson roll her eyes. ‘How about you? Anything new?’
Jesson told him about the underground car park and about the encounter with Ricardo. ‘Looks like the next step is Sceptre Betting. Great.’
‘Sceptre?’
‘Yes, do you know it?’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Charlie. ‘Do you want me to go?’
Jesson looked at him anew. ‘OK, thanks. Never my favourite places to visit.’
On Tuesday morning Mariner and Jamie were back to Declan and the day-centre routine, but somehow, knowing this might soon be coming to an end, it didn’t feel quite so bad. Jamie safely dispatched, Mariner picked up a text from Stuart Croghan, who was letting him know that Grace Clifton was ready for formal identification by her parents. Jesson was on her way to the Belvedere with a couple of uniforms to lead a more thorough analysis of their staff and guest data. And Charlie? Mariner wasn’t sure where he was.
As promised, first thing on Tuesday morning, Charlie Glover phoned the head office of Sceptre Betting plc and spoke to one of the admin staff. He reminded her about a recent night out at the Belvedere Hotel.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I was there. It was a good night.’
‘Not for everyone,’ said Charlie. ‘I understand one of your colleagues had a bit too much to drink and assaulted one of the bar staff.’ The line went quiet. ‘It’s all right,’ said Charlie. ‘Unless the hotel or the individuals involved press charges, which they didn’t, we can’t do anything. But I would like to speak to the man involved. What’s his name?’
‘It was Mark,’ she said. ‘Mark Kent. He’s the deputy manager of our Corporation Street branch.’
‘Will he be at work today?’ Charlie asked.
‘No reason why he wouldn’t be.’
Mariner went to see Stuart Croghan ahead of the identification to ask about the toxicology report. ‘High levels of Rohypnol in the bloodstreams of both women,’ said Croghan. ‘Essentially they’ve both been sedated – a lot. And the absence of water in the lungs means that they were dead before being submerged in water.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mariner. He’d keep those details to himself.
Grace Clifton’s parents had aged ten years and seemed to respond in slow motion. ‘You do understand that we have a positive identification for Grace from DNA and that we are in no doubt that this is her,’ Mariner reminded them. It was important to make that absolutely clear. He didn’t want the Cliftons, most of all Grace’s mother, to cling to any misguided hope that there might still be some element of doubt, and that her daughter might still be alive.
‘We just wanted to say goodbye,’ said Councillor Clifton.
They steeled themselves, Clifton gripping his wife’s hand tightly. Had there been any uncertainty about Grace Clifton’s identity, the reactions of her parents put paid to that. There were no histrionics, just a harsh intake of breath, a flicker of anguish in the eyes before the tears began to flow quietly and uninhibited. The FLO had come along for support and afterwards brought hot drinks and allowed the couple a few minutes to begin to absorb what they had witnessed. When she felt it appropriate, she fetched Mariner to come and sit with them. They were dazed and disorientated. From his inside pocket, Mariner took the gold chain in its polythene packet. ‘You may remember I mentioned to you that Grace was wearing a necklace when we found her. This is it. Do you recognize it at all?’ he asked.
Two pairs of eyes stared blankly at it, numbed by grief, and Mariner wondered if they were capable of recognizing their own names right now. ‘I’ve never to my knowledge seen that before,’ said Mr Clifton, eventually, his voice raw.
‘Who is P?’ her mother asked.
‘We were hoping you might know,’ Mariner said. ‘As Grace was wearing this necklace when we found her, we thought it might be important to her in some way.’
‘If it is – if it was, then I don’t know why,’ her father said. ‘But then, the more I’m asked about my daughter, the more I realize there are plenty of things about her I didn’t know.’
‘Thank you, anyway,’ Mariner said. ‘And I’m very sorry.’ As he got up to go Councillor Clifton followed him out.
‘We’ll try and think about who this P might be,’ he said. ‘It’s just that at the moment …’
‘I understand,’ said Mariner. ‘It’s difficult enough coming in here today for this.’
‘Oh, we would have been here this morning anyway,’ said Clifton, absently. ‘My wife’s father was brought in during the middle of last night again with breathing difficulties. It makes all of this doubly distressing for her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mariner. ‘I didn’t know he was unwell.’ He wished someone had told him.
‘Emphysema,’ said Clifton. ‘He gets these attacks. Usually he’s in here for a couple of days on oxygen, then when he’s stable again, they discharge him. But the episodes have been getting more frequent, and this time it doesn’t look good. I think the stress of what has happened to Grace …’
‘Well, I hope things work out,’ said Mariner, inadequately.
Exiting through the back entrance of the mortuary, Mariner walked around to the main hospital entrance to get some fresh air. On the way he put a call through to Jesson at the Belvedere. ‘How’s it going?’
‘As yet, we’ve got no staff common to all three dates,’ she said. ‘And there’s no one who’s been on our radar before, unless you count minor traffic offences and one caution for shoplifting four years ago. We’re working back through the guests at the moment, but nothing stands out. I’ll let you know if that changes.’
Before leaving the hospital Mariner climbed the stairs to the first floor to see if Ellen Kingsley was about. While he didn’t exactly regret his actions on Saturday night, he had left himself vulnerable and Jesson was right. However peripheral Dr Kingsley might be to the case, getting involved with her while it was going on was not a good idea. And it wasn’t what Suzy deserved either. As he walked, again unchallenged, into critical care, he could see Ellen through the window in Lomax’s room, supervising a young nurse as she checked the equipment that kept him alive. She turned to say something, and at the same time saw Mariner. Breaking into a smile, she gave a final word of instruction to her colleague, before emerging into the central concourse to meet him. ‘Can’t keep you away,’ she observed.
‘There was something else I had to attend to here, so thought I’d stop by. Have you got time for a coffee?’
‘Sorry, there’s no one permanently covering Dee’s absence yet, so I can’t leave this area. Is there any news?’
Mariner shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’
She hugged her arms protectively around her. ‘I heard that you’d found the other two women.’
‘They’re still searching,’ Mariner said. He hesitated a moment, both of them suddenly awkward. ‘Look, I suppose I really came to apologize. I wasn’t quite honest with you the other night. There is someone, but it hasn’t been going well, mainly because it hasn’t had the chance to. I was feeling sorry for myself.’
‘Oh, well.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Disappointing, but no harm done.’
Mariner nodded towards Private Lomax. ‘No visitors today?’
‘At Buckingham Palace,’ Ellen said. ‘His unit are being honoured for bravery. They rescued some aid workers a couple of months back, before all this happened.’
‘Don’t they wait until he’s well enough to accept it himself?’ She flashed a wry smile and Mariner understood. ‘They don’t know that he ever will be,’ he said.
‘It will be collected on his behalf and brought back to him here. Something for him to wake up to. And all the details of the occasion will be recorded.’ She held up a scrapbook. ‘With luck, someone will have taken photographs too that we can add in.’
‘That doesn’t look very NHS,’ said Mariner.
‘It’s not, but nonetheless it will be an essential part of the recovery process. Dr Hayden introduced them. We keep a kind of log book of exactly what happens to each patient while he’s in here. What treatment he’s received, who’s visited and so on. It helps to fill in some of the gaps when they regain consciousness. Most of them read and re-read it to try to make sense of things when they get back into the real world. They tell us it’s a lifeline. Dee would normally keep Lomax’s up to date, but in her absence it still needs to be done, so I’ve been completing it.’
‘Could I have a look?’ asked Mariner.
‘I don’t see why not. There’s nothing confidential written in them.’ She handed him the book. Like a child’s scrapbook, it was decorated on the outer cover with photographs and cuttings. Opening it, Mariner turned the pages until found the day of Dee’s disappearance. The entry for that afternoon read: 3.30 p.m. emerging. Dr Hayden came. Stayed two hours, but not ready.
‘What does that mean?’ Mariner asked.
‘Well, I was in a meeting at the time, but from what Dee has written here, it looks as if Lomax began showing signs of regaining consciousness at about three thirty. That’s what this coding means here.’ She pointed to the page. ‘She will have paged Dr Hayden, straight away. According to what Dee told me later, shortly after that Craig came round fully, as expected, but almost immediately went into crisis.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
‘He got very agitated and distressed. It’s an intense cocktail of fear, disbelief and anger that hits some men very hard and very quickly. There would have been no option but to sedate him again.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Not at all. If anything, it’s more commonplace. That’s why we’re always prepared for it.’
‘And Dee would have been there, during all this?’
‘Yes. I understand she and Dr Hayden bore the brunt of Lomax’s aggression. They had a rough time in there for a while. Then between them they took steps to make him comfortable again.’
‘Put him under.’
‘Yes.’
‘And this Dr Hayden, she’s one of your team?’
‘He,’ Ellen corrected him. ‘Yes, very much so. Leo’s an essential element.’
‘So what exactly does he do?’
‘He’s a clinical psychiatrist, specializing in post-traumatic stress. When Dee first realized that Craig was regaining consciousness she will have paged Leo and he would have got here as soon as he could. It’s standard procedure. Leo’s skilled in quickly assessing a patient’s state of mind, and the capacity to cope with dramatically altered circumstances. We knew that when Lomax came round it was likely to be harrowing for him and Leo has techniques for dealing with that. It was Leo who recognized that it was too soon for Lomax, and it will have been his decision that he was put under again.’
‘Does Dee often work with Dr Hayden?’
‘Well, we all do,’ said Ellen. ‘But I guess you could say that Dee’s quite often Leo’s “right-hand man” when he’s here. They get on well. Holistic care, I suppose you’d call it. One treating the physical, the other the emotional.’
Mariner thought again about Paddy Henderson. ‘Was there anything between them?’ he asked, carefully.
‘Well, there’s a bit of banter, of course,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s a very necessary part of the job, to relieve tension. You know that. But Dee and Leo are both utterly professional.’ Although Mariner couldn’t help noticing her failure to meet his eye as she said this.
‘Would it be possible to talk to Dr Hayden?’
‘Of course, but Leo isn’t based here full-time. He’s only needed in particular circumstances, so his main job is elsewhere at a private clinic. There are some regular times when he comes in to monitor patients, so I can check the rotas to see when he’ll be in next.’ She went to look. ‘He’ll be back in on Friday, unless we have any other emergencies.’
‘Paddy Henderson. His treatment has ended, has it?’
‘Paddy?’ The question surprised her. ‘Yes, ages ago. I mean, I know that he still gets flashbacks, nightmares from time to time, but that’s quite common. Often it can go on for years. Why do you ask?’
‘On the day after Dee went missing we asked him about her journey home, and he said, “if I’m there I can pick her up”. It gave me the impression he was here quite regularly anyway.’
Ellen smiled. ‘Dee got him roped in. You’ll have seen the “Heroes Welcome” collectors in the main foyer? Once a month Paddy comes in to do his stint at rattling the tin. When Dee’s on earlies he tries to arrange it around that, so that he can bring her in and take her home.’
Their conversation ended, Mariner watched her go back into Lomax’s room to return the scrapbook, talking to the soldier as if he was fully awake. As Mariner was leaving, a porter came into the department carrying a pile of clean linen, which he deposited on a trolley at one end of the ward.
If Dee was ‘right-hand man’ to Leo Hayden, how would Paddy Henderson feel about that, Mariner wondered. Still no body or parcel of clothing for Dee had turned up. Was this because their washerwoman was feeling the heat, or was it because Dee’s disappearance was nothing to do with him or her?
TWENTY-ONE
Charlie had driven into the city centre and parked behind the former law courts on Corporation Street. He’d never had cause to go into betting shops except through the job and he found them dismal places, all the more depressing because he knew they’d been a favourite haunt for his dad. Now that Internet gambling had made it all so easy, though, places like this must surely be on their way out. It would be no great loss.
Although imposing, Mark Kent was a disappointment. Well over six feet tall and heavily built, he had the bulging muscles that Glover associated with steroid use. His brown hair was tied back in a lank ponytail, and his complexion was washed out. From beneath his shirt collar Glover could see the tail end of a tattoo in some kind of Gothic script, creeping up towards a ragged beard. Unless Larry Hausknecht had been very mistaken, or Kent had radically altered his appearance in the last eighteen months, he couldn’t possibly be the man who had attacked Chelsey. He was, however, interestingly evasive about what had happened on the night that Ricardo and Rosa got hurt. ‘I was very drunk,’ he said, as if that excused his behaviour.
Glover showed him the photograph of Rosa. ‘Do you remember this woman?’
Kent coloured up. ‘She got in the way. I didn’t mean to hurt her, and I said I was sorry. It’s a dump, that place,’ he added belligerently. ‘I don’t even know why we go there.’
‘Do you go there much?’ asked Glover.
‘I think the boss must get good rates or something.’
‘Do you dress up for these nights out?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, suit, tie?’
Kent laughed. ‘Do me a favour. I don’t even own a fucking suit.’
