The Simple Death (17 page)

Twenty-nine

W
hen they reached Room 233, Troy printed a document from [email protected]. Then he found his way to the ombudsman's office. It was one big room, with a quarter of the area partitioned off to create a private office where Pearson had worked. There were no windows, and no people in the outer room. He knocked on the door of the internal one and a voice told him to come in.

Paula Williams was wearing a dark blue suit today, sitting behind the desk and tapping on a keyboard.

‘One of your colleagues just brought back the hard drive,' she said. She stared at the screen as though it might reveal the secrets of Mark Pearson's life. It wouldn't, Troy knew. He knew exactly who Mark had emailed in the month before his death, knew where he'd travelled in cyberspace. There was nothing there to help them, no dating websites, no searches on the word
pethidine
.

He went to the side of the desk and watched the screen with her. She leaned back, and he saw a flock of pigeons flying across the sky as the saver kicked in. The sky behind the birds was pure blue, apart from the very top of a church spire that came and went at the foot of the screen. In a few seconds the birds were replaced by a view of some building Troy thought he recognised. He asked Williams if she knew where the pictures came from.

‘You can load your own,' she said. ‘I've got my boys on mine.'

Some buildings appeared, modern townhouses designed to look like terraces, and he realised they were next to the park where he'd met Tim Kalnins.

‘Mark took these?'

Williams nodded. ‘When we got the computers, they came with standard pictures, tropical fish, alpine meadows, all that. It was a bit pretty for Mark. One lunchtime he said he couldn't stand it anymore, went out for an hour with a digital camera.'

Troy nodded. Pearson's camera, all the pictures on it and on his computers, had been checked too. An officer at Manly had spent two days going through the images, looking for anything of significance, identifying the people who appeared in them. Another picture of pigeons came on the screen, swirling around in a sort of pattern.

‘Nice pics,' he said.

‘Mark had a good eye.' She pointed at the wall. ‘Those are his.'

Troy looked at two paintings, one a drab abstract in grey and black with a trace of red, the other more colourful, a bit like a close-up of a computer's CPU. As Williams leaned forwards and began to type, he examined them more closely and found something inside himself stirring, as though feelings he couldn't recognise had been aroused. He looked away.

‘Was there something?' she said.

‘Do you think you'll get Mark's job?'

‘I don't know if they'll keep it,' she said, reddening a little. ‘I don't know if I'd want it, either.'

He nodded, figuring the last bit of that was insincere. ‘Can I see the log of calls about the progress of complaints?'

She stood up. ‘That's the red book on Sally's desk.'

‘Sally's not here?'

‘Sick leave since you found Mark. Stress.'

She took him out front and found the book, and when she'd gone back into the other office, he sat down and went through it. There was a handwritten record of every phone call the office received, with the name of the patient involved, the name and number of the caller, and a brief description of the purpose of the call. At first there'd been a diversity of calls, but in the past month over half had
f/u
written next to them, presumably meaning ‘follow up', along with another surname. A key at the front of the book indicated this meant the caller was asking about the progress of a complaint that had already been lodged.

The list he'd pulled off [email protected] earlier contained all the complaints received by the ombudsman since the position started, in alphabetical order. Rostov's group had compiled this from all the files they'd been given. Troy went through the red book and checked that every name with
f/u
before it also appeared in the list of complaints. It took over an hour, and by the time he'd finished he had found three instances where someone had called about a complaint that did not appear on the list of files. The names were Des Bernfeld, Marion Dougherty and Jean Smith. There had been several phone queries about the last two.

He made a few calls and then took the book and the list into Williams, and told her what he'd found.

She flushed, more scarlet than pink, and frowned. ‘I can't understand it. We investigated those complaints, they should be there. I thought we gave you the files.'

He sat down and watched her across the desk, watched her gaze shift around. ‘The thing about being a good liar,' he said, ‘is that it needs practice.'

‘I'm not lying. That's—do you have any reason to say that?'

‘I'd say David Saunders had some practice.'

She shifted in her seat, said, ‘You're suggesting Mark destroyed some of the complaints?'

‘Not really,' he smiled. ‘But let's pretend for now. I just rang the three people who made the calls on the missing files.' Williams stared at him. She looked frozen, and he wondered what the deal was: probably, Saunders had offered her Pearson's job if she went through with this. But what really interested him were the bigger questions, why these complaints had been removed, what Saunders was trying to hide.

He had the beginnings of an answer to that. ‘I got on to two of the callers,' he said, ‘asked about the nature of their complaints. Both involved deaths in the same ward, and I'm betting the third will too. The cancer ward.'

‘Oncology.'

He watched her some more and she said nothing.

‘Is that all you can say? “Oncology”?'

‘That's the correct name for it.'

‘Where are the files?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

She was scared, he could see that. But determined too. David Saunders was a very powerful man.

He batted it around with her for a few more minutes, but she refused to admit to any knowledge of the missing files. She grew more confident, clear about where her loyalty lay. He pulled out the stats for Oncology deaths and threw them on the desk.

‘You've seen these—you gave them to Saunders,' he said, guessing.

‘Admin sent them up here for you. I asked him to pass them on, thought you'd be seeing—'

‘What do they mean?'

‘Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. Some years you're up, sometimes you're down.'

He took out his digital recorder and turned it on.

‘We'll have them looked at by experts,' he said. She flinched; she was frightened, maybe finding herself on the wrong side of things, seriously, for the first time in her life. ‘You need to talk now,' he said gently, pointing at the stats. ‘If there's anything there, it's going to come out.'

She shook her head twice, said, ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

He spent five minutes trying to break her down, using all his experience. How hard can this be? he thought as he got a little heated, made her cringe.

But she refused to break.

*

Back in Room 233 Troy went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of instant. For a while he was alone, thinking about Saunders, and then Conti came in. White blouse, sleeves rolled up, snug-fitting brown slacks. She kissed him, sliding a hand down to his crotch and disrupting the view he'd formed of her as a woman who kept her life in compartments.

She stepped back and examined the coffee tin. Mountain Roast.

‘I can't believe you drink this stuff,' she said, as though it was important. She looked towards the door of the small room. ‘There's a fire escape at the end of the corridor.'

Doing more serious damage to his view of her.

‘Is that right?'

‘You turn left outside. Don't keep me waiting.'

She winked and walked out, just as one of the other female detectives came in.

‘Hope I'm not interrupting anything,' she said, and laughed.

How could they know already? he wondered, as he took his cup back to his desk. Maybe Conti had told someone. He waited for the anger to rise but there was none there, and he saw he didn't care. Realised he was happy.

In the stairwell they kissed, and soon the bright light and the smell of concrete didn't matter anymore and it started to get out of control. She smelled good today, a perfume that was lighter than last night, although you had to be close to notice. He was very close, and she moved her hand down to his fly. He pulled away.

‘Not here,' he said.

Anyone could come in.

‘Where?'

‘Tonight. Let's go out.'

‘You still want to see me, then?'

‘Of course.'

‘Can we go to Maroubra, to your place?'

‘Do you need to go home first?'

‘I travel light. Remember?'

‘Well—'

But her face creased and she took a step back. ‘I forgot,' she said. ‘I'm off to Lismore tonight for my brother's birthday. Back on Sunday.'

‘You forgot?'

‘I was carried away. By desire.'

He smiled. Sunday seemed far away.

Looking at his watch, he said he had to meet Mac soon.

‘Keep me involved?' she said.

‘I'll do my best.'

‘I want to be involved.'

‘You are.'

‘I think I'd better go now.' She turned to open the door, said, ‘You might want to wipe your lips.'

Thirty

W
hen McIver arrived at the hospital, Troy told him what he'd learned that morning in the ombudsman's office. McIver's eyes brightened. ‘I think Saunders is involved. You talk to him, if that doesn't work we question all the ombudsman's staff.'

Mac nodded, said, ‘Next?'

Troy led him to a spare room he'd located, and left him for ten minutes with the stats. When he returned, he had Conti with him.

McIver threw the paper on the table. ‘I called Administration, got the codes,' he said. ‘This shows the numbers of deaths of patients in the oncology ward for each of the past five years. They're expressed as raw numbers and also as percentages of all patients admitted, which is what matters. This percentage figure is compared with the same one for all cancer wards in the state, and also for teaching hospitals only, because they get tougher cases. That's the figure that counts, because St Thomas' is a teaching hospital.' He scratched his left arm, at the place where the bullet had hit him. ‘The last year, which concluded six months ago, wasn't too good for the home team. They were sixteen per cent up on their own average for the previous five years, and twenty per cent up on the state average for teaching hospitals for the year.'

‘By
up
,' Conti said, ‘you mean more people died?'

McIver nodded.

‘What's the margin of error?' said Troy.

‘High, because the samples aren't big.'

‘Even so,' Conti said, ‘they have a problem?'

‘You might think so.' Again he rubbed his chin. ‘There were at least four more deaths than you'd expect if they were on the teaching hospital average. But of course, averages disguise the fact most things don't happen evenly. So the question is . . .'

‘How unusual was it for someone to be twenty per cent off average?'

‘Pre-zackly. Looking at all of this, I'd say twenty is high.'

‘Saunders told me the type of cases the hospital deals with have changed.'

‘I rang a mate,' McIver said, ‘a medical journalist. He knows all about that, says it wouldn't affect deaths. He reckons in terms of case type, St Thomas' was still similar to other teaching hospitals during this period.'

‘The fact they kept those files from us,' said Conti, ‘shows they know there's a problem.'

Troy said, ‘Or it might just mean they don't want anyone thinking there's a problem because of some unreliable stats that might be misinterpreted.'

McIver nodded. ‘We'd be thinking Saunders got Williams to withhold those three files?'

‘Most likely. He might want to protect the BRISTOL pilot, or maybe Carter. I got the impression he thinks the doctor's pretty good.'

‘They actually go together,' said Mac. ‘Carter ran the pilot that found BRISTOL is fabulous.'

‘Why are people dying?' said Conti. Then, answering her own question, ‘Because BRISTOL cuts too much muscle.'

McIver smiled. Troy picked up the papers and banged them gently on the table, making the edges align. ‘So, we have a motive for Mark Pearson's death.'

Conti said. ‘Saunders or Williams? Dr Carter? One of them's a killer? You're kidding.'

McIver said, ‘Let's just say we may have a motive. Not strong, but possible.'

‘So, we talk to Saunders?'

‘Later,' McIver said. ‘Williams would've told him about your little discovery by now. He can worry for a while.' He stood up. ‘Let's see if we can speak to Carter before he does.'

Troy led them through the long corridors, trying to find the oncology ward. He got lost and they wandered around the vast hospital, its size more apparent when you didn't know the way. As they walked he told McIver about Carter, and realised he didn't have much sense of the doctor. Finally he found a sign pointing to Oncology and they walked down more white hallways, past the staff in their pale uniforms. He looked into the rooms as they went, which appeared just like any other hospital rooms. But they seemed sinister now he knew people might have died here who shouldn't have died.

At the nurses' station, women were busy talking, all ignoring the detectives. A nurse with a small tub of pills balanced on a medication chart argued with a man in a white coat, while another on the phone was saying, ‘I really do think you should make the trip. He's unconscious and not breathing well.' She put a hand over the phone, called to someone, ‘Can you help Dr Wallis with a paracentesis on Mrs Ables in bed four?' then continued with the call: ‘I know we said that, but his condition's deteriorated. Don't wait too long.'

She hung up, noticed McIver's face and then his badge, smiled. Mac explained who they were after and she paged Dr Carter, then left.

Troy heard another nurse on the phone: ‘He had a little bit more to eat today. Oh yes.' It sounded like good news. He hoped so.

An older nurse came by and asked McIver what he wanted.

‘Are you a NUM?' he said.

‘A what?' She blinked. ‘Can I help you?' He explained about Carter. ‘He's halfway through two days' leave,' she said.

‘The other nurse paged him. She didn't know?'

The woman stared around the station for a moment, at all the activity. ‘There's too much to know.'

As they walked back towards the lifts Conti said, ‘We should talk to Saunders.'

She was pushing it, Troy thought, as though she sensed Mac was off his game. He'd enjoyed last night, very much, but there was something hard about her.

McIver said to Troy, ‘Got Carter's address?'

Troy nodded and took out his phone. ‘It's a short walk, I'll get someone to take a car.'

‘You,' McIver said to Conti, handing her his keys. ‘Meet us there.'

McIver and Troy left the hospital, slowing down as the heat struck them, and made their way through narrow, leafy streets towards Carter's place. Troy used the sat nav on his mobile. The roads were lined with terraces, charming but tiny. They came to a hill and the dwellings grew bigger as they climbed, and shrunk again as they went down in the direction of Darlinghurst. Mac was panting, and Troy could smell the alcohol coming out of his pores. He wondered why the sarge was here: picking up Carter could have been left to Conti and himself. They still had little idea of what had gone on in Oncology. Mac's amateur reading of the stats needed to be confirmed with a health expert; even if there had been unexpected deaths, there might be a reasonable explanation, it could have been an accident.

But he thought he knew what Mac was up to. Sometimes in an investigation you did things just to keep moving.

They were on a wider street now, and half-way down an unmarked police car was already parked by the kerb. When they reached it, Troy saw Conti in the driver's seat. She got out holding a bottle of water and indicated Carter's house, a narrow terrace a hundred metres away.

‘You take the back lane,' McIver said.

Paddington was laced with these laneways, once used by the night soil men and now convenient routes for burglars.

‘You expecting trouble?' she said.

McIver examined her sourly, said, ‘I have no idea.'

He took a few steps away from Troy while they waited, lost in his thoughts or the distant view of the harbour. After five minutes Troy walked up to Carter's door and knocked. There was no answer and he knocked again, loud and slow, aware the doctor might be in bed. He knew from experience what odd work hours could do to your sleep patterns. When there was still no response, he retreated to the footpath and examined the outside of the building more closely. The curtains in the downstairs windows were drawn, but those up top were open. The windows themselves were all closed, with bars across them. Troy dialled Carter's number and waited. It rang through to voicemail, and he left a message asking the doctor to call him.

McIver went over to the car, sank into the passenger seat while Troy climbed in the driver's side. He didn't want to, but it would be too noticeable to hang around on the deserted street. The car was hot and he thought about turning on the air conditioning, but knew McIver considered this a waste of energy. He wound down all the windows and reflected again on why they were here.

‘You okay?' he said.

‘It's all good. Young Conti needs to slow down. You were like that once.'

‘Was I?'

‘Being a detective requires reflection. I bet you a hundred she ends up in management, loosely defined.' Troy nodded, and McIver said, ‘How's Father Luke?'

‘Stuff 's happened.' Troy tugged an ear, found sweat there, wiped it off. Said, ‘In confidence?'

‘Yeah.'

Troy told him about Luke's admission of the abuse, and then about Tim Kalnins' revelation. It was the first time he'd ever seen Mac look really surprised.

‘So,' he concluded, ‘Luke lied to me.'

‘Don't take it personally.' Troy did, a bit. But mainly he was lost. McIver said, ‘People lie for all sorts of reasons. Luke's made a false confession to keep the Church investigators out of his private life. Doesn't want them sniffing around up in Gosford, asking about living arrangements at the presbytery in the eighties.'

‘But why lie to me too?'

‘He thought if you believed he's innocent, you'd look into it, try to clear him. And then you'd stumble across his relationship, maybe learn about the kid.'

‘But—'

‘The guy's been like a father to you, hasn't he? He doesn't want you to know about Tim. This is all about defending his boys.'

Troy considered this, Luke and Brigita, Tim and Sam, the closest he'd had to a family when he was in his teens. It hadn't seemed like it at the time, there'd been no warmth, no one had ever talked to him as though he was their son. Or brother. No one had ever held him. Still, maybe Mac was right. He wondered why this explanation hadn't struck him before. But where Luke was concerned, his thoughts moved through mud.

McIver broke the silence. ‘Anything else?'

‘I met Walsh at the hospice, told him what Luke had said to me, his admission to the abuse. I thought Walsh looked surprised, just for a second.'

‘And his surprise surprises you?'

‘He strikes me as a guy with his emotions under a lot of control.'

McIver leaned back and closed his eyes again. ‘Walsh is so slippery it could mean anything. He started out to be a Jesuit, did two years with them, then he switched to train as an ordinary priest. Told a friend it was because he'd discovered Jesuits can't become pope.' Troy smiled. McIver said, ‘You want to crack this one, I'd get the archbishop in an interview room.'

‘Okay.'

‘Don't leave any marks.'

McIver's phone rang. After he'd hung up he said nothing for a while. Finally: ‘Rostov's people have finished their work. Mark Pearson was not killed by a complainant, unless it was Ed Valdez.' He punched a few of the buttons on his phone and, after asking to be put through to an inspector whose name Troy didn't recognise, had a mildly heated conversation. When this was over there was more silence.

‘Bourke,' he said at last. ‘Still no sign of Valdez. Think they have someone who was drinking with him in town the night Pearson died. Bloke's a pisshead, but it seems right, says Valdez was shooting on a property a few hundred k out. The locals are still looking.'

‘Bugger.'

‘Makes you think about Dr Carter.'

Troy took out his own phone and made a call to the hospital. Made another. Said to McIver, ‘We've been assuming Pearson hadn't received the stats when he died. But he did, two days before. Paper copies.'

‘Which we haven't found.'

‘If people are really dying in Oncology, I wonder how.'

‘Saving money, cutting corners,' McIver said, ‘people might start to die more quickly. They're dying anyway, so you mightn't notice for a while. If Carter told you the truth, that it was him suggested Pearson pull the figures, he probably didn't know anything about it.'

‘Surely he would have?'

‘Maybe not. Oncology must see hundreds of patients a year, lots of them die. A few extra deaths, who'd notice?'

‘You'd hope they'd be watching the mortality figures if they were cutting their inputs by five per cent. As part of the pilot evaluation.'

‘You'd hope. But let's say they decide to ignore the figures, for whatever reason. Then Pearson gets onto it and approaches his mate Dr Carter for an explanation.'

McIver smiled and closed his eyes.

After ten minutes, Troy was finding it difficult to keep his own eyes open. He examined the view, looking for a point of interest to occupy his attention. The flat land at the foot of the hill led across to the harbour, although the sight of it was blocked by the elevated Eastern Suburbs Railway, which ran through a jumble of trees and tall buildings. In front was a patch of light industry, dominated by a large grey building that looked like an old factory, about six storeys high.

The sky above all this was an even blue. As Troy scanned it in vain for a cloud, a flock of birds came from behind the factory and flew for several hundred metres towards him and then turned sharply. There were a few dozen, and from their shapes and the way they turned, he knew they were pigeons. He watched as they swung around again and repeated the manoeuvre, and kept doing it. There was a slight variation each time but not much, as though each of them was attached to the same point on the ground by a long piece of elastic. This reminded him of something and he tried to think what it was, moving his gaze back and forth from the birds to Carter's front door.

The image from the screensaver on Mark Pearson's computer at the hospital. And he'd seen this before, too: long ago, when he'd been seventeen and living in an abandoned workshop by an old railyard. They were homing pigeons. He'd met the man who owned them and learned how they were let out twice a day for exercise, would always return when a bell was rung, for food.