Deadly Friends, page 11
‘That was Curtis,’ he told Natasha. ‘They can’t come this weekend. Ewan has lost a filling. He’s had a temporary one done but he’s to see his orthodontist on Saturday.’
‘Oh, the poor darling,’ Natasha sympathised.
‘Did you notice,’ I began, trying to drag the conversation away from Ewan’s molars and back to my murder enquiry, ‘any changes in the doctor’s moods or behaviour at any time? Was anybody putting any pressure on him in any way?’
‘Who, for instance?’
‘Well, were any ex-girlfriends causing him aggro? Then there’s the drugs thing. Do you think he was under any pressure to supply anyone? Did he have any worries that he wouldn’t discuss with you?’
She was silent for a few seconds, looking passably thoughtful. ‘He was screwing someone at the clinic,’ she declared, as indifferent as if she were disclosing the colour of his eyes.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. I told him I didn’t want to know.’ ‘Someone single or someone’s wife?’
‘I think she was married.’
‘Well, that’s something for us to look at. Anything else?’
‘There was something. I remembered after Mr Makinson called and wondered if I ought to mention it, but he said you were looking for this drugs man and we were fairly certain it was him, so I didn’t.’
‘And what was it?’
‘I think someone must have reported Clive for mal—, er, mal—’
‘Malpractice?’ I suggested.
‘That’s it – malpractice – sometime in the past. I hadn’t known him very long – a few months – and Ewan was doing the pilot for Emergency Doctor. Did you see it?’
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t.’
‘It was ever so good. I can’t think why they didn’t go ahead with the series. Well, apparently, he’d been reported to the General Medical whatsit, for doing a really dangerous operation on the captain of this boat, during a storm. He’d had a heart attack, and the doctor revived him by giving him an electric shock from a table lamp. It was terribly dramatic.’
‘It sounds it,’ I said. ‘And was he all right?’
‘Who?’
‘The captain.’
‘Oh, him. Yes. And they were all saved. We’ve a copy of the video somewhere, if you’d like to borrow it.’
‘Video? Oh, I see. Er, some other time, perhaps, when we’ve solved this, er, case. So what had this to do with Clive?’
Genghis came in with the coffees and a plate of biscuits and stood near me. ‘I brought the cream and sugar,’ he said, ‘so you can put your own in.’ His crotch was level with my face and it was impossible not to notice his preferred side for dressing. The right, just for the record. But he knew how to make good coffee. I told him so and he blushed.
‘He’s a darling,’ Natasha said. ‘He’s been very good to me since … since poor Clive was murdered.’
For a second or two I thought she was going to show some emotion. ‘You were telling me about this video,’ I said, reaching for a biscuit.
‘Oh, yes. Well, Ewan asked Clive about how a doctor would feel if he was charged with mal—, er, mal—’
‘Malpractice.’
‘Malpractice. Clive threw his hands up and said: “Tell me all about it!”’
‘As if he’d been through it himself?’
‘That’s right. He was a big help to Ewan, first-hand experience and all that, but you’d have to ask him about it. I was rehearsing for Humpty Dumpty and didn’t need the distraction.’
‘Of course not.’
I was hungry so I had another biscuit and finished my coffee. ‘That’s been very useful, Natasha,’ I said. ‘I’d better be on my way before I’m snowed in with you. Was there anything else?’
‘No, except …’
‘Go on.’
‘No, it’s nothing.’
‘Now you’ll have to tell me.’
‘Well, I thought of all sorts of things at first. You do, don’t you, when someone’s been murdered. Who could have done it? And all that. Should we have noticed something and perhaps prevented it happening? And then, when Mr Makinson told us about this drugs man, it all seemed so obvious.’
‘I see what you mean,’ I said. ‘So what was it?’
‘It’s just that … he used to play squash. He was mad about it. Even took me, once. I was hopeless!’ She giggled at the memory of it.
‘And what happened?’
‘He just stopped going. One weekend I asked him if he’d played at all through the week and he said he’d stopped. Didn’t want to play anymore.’
‘When was this?’
‘About a year ago. No, more than that. Summer before last, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Where did he play?’
‘In Heckley. It must have been near the hospital because he used to play after work or at lunchtime or something.’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘Do you think it’s important?’
I shook my head and smiled. ‘No, but this malpractice charge might be.’
‘I’m sorry. We really would like to help you catch whoever did this to poor Clive. He was a lovely man.’
I asked a few questions about Dales Diary and the music business. It was interesting, and I was reluctant to leave that fire. Before I was in danger of overstaying my welcome I said: ‘I’d better go, but there’s just one last question I’d like to ask.’ She looked at me as I picked her photo from the floor. ‘Will you sign this for me, please?’
There was a thin layer of snow over everything, like a dust sheet over furniture, waiting for the decorators to arrive, but the wipers swept it aside easily enough. Genghis advised me to go the long way, through Burnsall, where the hills were less steep, and to come back if I had any problems. A few cars had preceded me and the snow on the main road had already turned to slush, but the traffic was crawling. We must be the worst winter drivers in the world. It was nearly ten when I arrived home. Annabelle had left a message to call her on the ansaphone.
‘You haven’t been working until now, have you, Charles?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but you could hardly call it work.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I’ve been to interview an actress called Natasha Wilde. She’s the leading lady in Dales Diary, on television.’
‘Really! And what has she done?’
‘Nothing. She was supposed to be the girlfriend of our dead consultant, but she hardly played the devastated fiancée. I’ve seen greater expressions of sorrow over a spilt drink.’
‘Perhaps she was acting being brave.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Charles,’ Annabelle said, hesitantly. ‘About this weekend.’
‘I’ve booked a table at the Wool Exchange, for eight on Friday,’ I told her.
‘Oh.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No. No. But Xav rang me earlier tonight and said he’d like to introduce me to a designer that he’s thinking of engaging. Apparently he’s sacked the others – they were taking advantage of him and their suggestions were second rate, as you know. He wants me to be there when he talks to these other people. He says he respects my opinion.’
‘Well he’s right about that. But I thought you were going to do the designs.’
‘Umm, well, I thought so, but perhaps it’s all a bit too ambitious for someone with my little experience.’
‘Nonsense,’ I assured her. ‘You can do it. The only thing these so-called experts have is confidence.’
‘The problem is, he wants me to go up to London, first thing on Saturday, on the early train, so I wouldn’t want to be too late.’
‘Oh. So do you want me to cancel the table?’
‘No, of course not, as long as we are not too late.’
‘Do you want me to take you down?’
‘That’s kind of you, but I’m not sure when I will be coming back.’
‘Why? How long are you thinking of staying?’
‘Only until Sunday or Monday.’
‘So where will you stay?’
‘I’m not sure at the moment. At Xav’s, perhaps, or he’ll find a hotel for me. He’s paying my expenses and a fee.’
There must have been something in the way I said: ‘Oh.’
‘Charles, what are you suggesting?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just missing you, Annabelle. Xav knows he’s found someone special, and he’s got me worried, that’s all.’
‘Don’t be silly, Charles,’ she replied. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you on Friday.’
I put the phone down and prayed for the biggest blizzard to hit the North since the Great Ice Age. I had a sandwich – banana, honey and a sprinkling of cocoa – and caught up with the news on TV. They were having it bad down South, but they always are.
I took a shower and went to bed reasonably early. Then I remembered that I had no ironed shirts. I got up and hung a couple over the shower head, in the hope that the creases would drop out overnight. I dreamt about operating on Genghis to remove a piano from his brain, on the deck of an open boat with only an electric iron for a scalpel and big waves crashing over us.
‘What have we got?’ I asked. We were seating ourselves around my desk again. Nigel carefully lowered three steaming mugs and sat down.
‘Custard creams,’ Sparky replied.
‘Pass ’em over, then, please.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Nigel said. ‘Wait a minute. Where did that come from?’
Sparky followed his gaze to the wall behind my desk and smiled. Natasha had written: ‘To Charlie, with lots of love, Natasha Wilde’, on her photograph, with four kisses, and I’d pinned her on the wall next to my new calendar from the Bamboo Curtain.
‘She’s dotted that last i in an unfortunate place,’ he observed.
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ I said.
‘I take it you had a successful meeting,’ Nigel declared. ‘She’s a very nice lady.’
‘Find anything useful,’ Sparky asked, ‘apart from her telephone number and her favourite tipple?’
‘Mmm. She confirmed that the doc was knocking somebody off at the clinic, presumably the registrar’s wife that we already know about; about eighteen months ago he mysteriously stopped playing squash; and, sometime in the past, he’s been accused of malpractice.’
‘Malpractice?’ Nigel said. ‘What was that about?’
‘She didn’t know. Can you look into it, please? Try the General Medical Council.’
‘Right. And what’s so special about giving up squash?’
‘Nothing. She was just trying to be helpful. One minute he was a keen player, then he stopped, that’s all.’
‘Perhaps he had a recurring injury. It happens all the time.’
‘Yep.’
Sparky chipped in with: ‘You said he was knocking someone off at the clinic.’
‘Mmm.’
‘The registrar works at the General. Was this a different one?’
‘Sugar! I don’t know. I’m certain she said the clinic. Maybe she meant the hospital. What’s the difference between a clinic and a hospital?’
‘I think your mind wasn’t on the job,’ Sparky said.
‘You could be right,’ I admitted. ‘Let’s try to check it from this end. What did you two find?’
Nigel said the parents were bearing up remarkably well. Doctoring was the family business – they were both GPs. He’d come away with the names of a few friends and had promised to have a word with the coroner about releasing the body for a funeral.
‘And at the hospital?’ I asked, turning to Sparky.
‘Nothing worthwhile. To be honest, there seems to have been a great deal of affection for the doctor, from both sexes. Everybody agrees that he was a fine doctor and a good bloke. He had his flings, but he was a gentleman with it.’
‘Sounds a bit like me,’ I said.
‘Just what I thought, Charlie. So I collared the registrar and asked him if he knew that the doctor, or consultant, to be precise, had been shagging his wife.’
‘I hope you weren’t so circumspect,’ I said. ‘The first rule of good interviewing is to be unambiguous.’
‘Well, actually, I told him that I’d heard rumours. He said he’d heard the same rumours, but as he and his good lady were leading separate lives and just keeping up appearances until the kids went to college, he wasn’t bothered.’
‘Mmm. Interesting. Did you push it?’
‘You bet. I asked him where he was on the night in question. He and his wife threw a dinner party for eight neighbours. It’s something they do monthly, or thereabouts, rotating round each other’s houses.’
‘Keeping up appearances.’
‘Quite. He’s given me a list of names.’
‘Let’s have ’em checked. Anything else, either of you?’
‘Yes, there is,’ Nigel replied, blushing like a schoolboy about to present his parents with a favourable report. ‘I took Dr Jordan’s letters and cards to his parents, but copied most of it. His bank statement made interesting reading. Apart from his salaries there were deposits of three hundred, three hundred and fifty, and another three hundred, at monthly intervals. I checked his previous statements and it’s been going on for nearly two years. The amounts vary, but it’s usually three hundred, three hundred and fifty, or occasionally four hundred, at the end of the month.’
‘Maybe he does some other work,’ I suggested. ‘He could be on a retainer, or something.’
‘And doesn’t pay tax on it?’
‘How do you know he doesn’t pay tax on it?’
‘Because if he declared it it wouldn’t come out at such a round figure.’
I said: ‘I don’t know who you’ve been mixing with, lately, Nigel, but you’re developing a terribly suspicious mind.’
‘There was one exception. Last September the payment was missed, but there was a double payment in October. In the doctor’s diary,’ he went on, ‘I came across an entry at the appropriate time that said: “AJKW not paid, ring him.” That’s all.’
‘So you reckon that these payments are coming from someone called AJKW.’
‘Yes.’
‘Any ideas who it is?’
‘Yes,’ he declared with undisguised triumph.
‘Go on.’
‘Last night, in the absence of a better offer, I took the telephone directory to bed with me.’
‘I have nights like that,’ Sparky interrupted.
‘Shut up,’ I told him.
‘I worked my way through the Ws and found an entry for A.J.K. Weatherall. It only took a couple of minutes. It’s got to be the same person. Odds of it not being are about equal to your chances of winning the lottery. And he’s a chemist in Heckley, which clinches it, I’d say.’
‘You mean … a pharmacist chemist?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Sheest!’ I sat back and whistled through my teeth.
Nigel bit into a custard cream and had a sip of his tea. I popped one in whole and took a swig. Sparky dunked.
When we’d swallowed the biscuits and digested the information, Sparky said: ‘So what do you reckon? They were scamming the NHS?’
Long time ago, when the Earth was young and sex came before marriage only in very cheap dictionaries, prescriptions were free and professional people were assumed to be honest. Things have changed since then. The price of a prescription is now often four or five times the cost of the medicine it procures. ‘Ah!’ says the Health Minister, gleefully. ‘But sixty per cent of patients are exempt from paying the charges.’ They draw perverse satisfaction from the fact that most of the nation’s sick fall below some arbitrary poverty level. Their logic escapes me.
Pharmacists recognise the injustice. Some of the more unscrupulous ones tear up the prescriptions and pocket the difference for themselves. Others just sell the medicine to the customer at the market price and are happy with the profit on that. Either way, it’s called fraud. It is OK for the Government to rip us off, but not enterprising individuals.
But that wasn’t what was happening here. A chemist could do that in the privacy of his own shop. No collusion was required with a sympathetic general practitioner. If Nigel had stumbled on something, it was much more serious.
‘Fake prescriptions,’ I said. ‘Do you think we’re talking fake prescriptions?’
‘I’d say it’s a strong possibility,’ Nigel replied.
‘You mean,’ Sparky began, ‘some friendly doctor makes out a few hundred prescriptions for patients who haven’t been anywhere near his surgery, and the chemist claims the fees for not dispensing any drugs?’
‘A very succinct summary, I’d say, David,’ Nigel agreed. ‘And they share the proceeds,’ I added.
‘Four hundred quid a month. That’s eight hundred if they’re sharing equally. How many prescriptions is that?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Nigel admitted. ‘I’ve considered having a word with Fraud. What do you think, Charlie?’
‘Yeah, good idea,’ I said. ‘They’re bound to know more about it than we do.’ I thought about it for a second, then decided: ‘No. Bugger Fraud – they’ll take for ever. Let’s have a word with A.J.K. Weatherall ourselves and ask him what it’s all about. After lunch. First of all let’s have it all down on paper and tagged for the computer.’
For the first time I felt optimistic. Something of the thrill of the chase was welling up inside me, like I always get when an investigation turns the corner. You gather the facts and they don’t make sense, until, hopefully, a simple piece of information comes along and everything starts to fall into place. We hadn’t reached that stage, yet, but things were moving.
Maggie knocked on the door and popped her head round it, which was the cue for Sparky to jump up and gather our mugs together.
‘Private party or can anyone join in?’ she asked.
‘Have a warm seat,’ Sparky told her as he sidled past in the doorway.
‘Don’t drop the teabags in the bin,’ she called after him.
‘We’ve finished, come in, Maggie,’ I said.
She sat down and sniffed. ‘It stinks of fish and chips in here,’ she declared.
