The Burden of Doubt (10 page)

‘Who wants to know?’ His voice was filled with the same exhaustion as his face, and it was hard to believe he was the man who had made such violent protests in the hospital corridor.

Swift showed his ID. ‘We wondered if we could have a word with you, sir. It’s in connection with the murder of Dr Moira Farrell.’

Tricklebank stared at him in bewilderment. His face crumpled as though being approached in this way was just the last straw.

‘It’s just for information, sir,’ Swift said gently.

‘Don’t tell me I’m a suspect,’ the man said with grim resignation. ‘I’ve enough on my plate without that.’

‘We’re simply making enquiries at the hospital, gaining background information from people who worked with Dr Farrell and who knew her as a colleague, or as a patient.’

Tricklebank was paying full attention, looking from Swift to Laura as though assessing their trustworthiness. ‘I didn’t know Dr Farrell, but I can give you chapter and verse on that slimy bastard Cavanagh. If anyone needed putting behind bars, it’s him.’ He spoke with soft venom.

Swift began to walk away from the busy entrance, leading the three of them to a less crowded place at the edge of the ambulance parking area. ‘Go on,’ he said.

Tricklebank looked undecided, as though the impulsive urge to unload had vanished as swiftly as it had arrived. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, turning it around in his fingers as he pondered.

‘This is a murder investigation, sir,’ Swift said, reflecting on the countless number of times he must have said those words. ‘Anything connected with Dr Farrell’s life and her work could be relevant to our enquiry.’

Tricklebank lit a match and cupped his hand around the tip of his cigarette, shielding it from the raw wind which was gusting around the edges of the building. ‘That man, Cavanagh, has ruined our lives,’ he said. ‘Because of him, my wife lost her baby.’ He took a long pull at his cigarette, inhaling into his lungs. ‘And I’ve more or less lost her.’

Both Swift and Laura began formulating follow up questions to that last statement, and both simultaneously decided that silence was the only possible way forward.

Tricklebank exhaled and then said, ‘She’s in a wheelchair, she can’t speak properly; she wets herself; she shits herself: she wishes she was dead.’

Prickles ran up the back of Laura’s neck at the sounds of this man’s raw grief. She glanced at Swift, recalling that he had suffered the sudden brutal loss of his own wife and guessing that
he was sharing the emotion. ‘When did you lose the baby?’ she asked Tricklebank.

By now their informant had no need at all for prompting. The grief-stricken man couldn’t wait to tell his story to a sympathetic audience.

‘Thirty-two days ago. They’ve been the longest days of my life.’ Again he drew hard on his cigarette. ‘It was our first baby – we’d had no trouble getting started with one and she was fine in her pregnancy, so we didn’t expect any difficulties. I brought her in when the pains started coming regularly, and everything was going to plan until the second stage. The baby seemed to get stuck in the birth canal. The midwife started getting a bit twitchy and talking about foetal distress. That’s when Cavanagh came on the scene. The big boss, the top man.’ Tricklebank’s face twisted with scorn. ‘He tried to get the baby out with forceps but that didn’t work. So they whisked my wife off to theatre to do a Caesarean. About half an hour went by and Cavanagh came out to tell me they’d lost the baby. He was very kind and sympathetic. He told me there’d been a risk that both the baby and my wife would die. She’d started haemorrhaging badly. He’d wanted to avoid doing a hysterectomy because he knew we’d want to try for another baby. But in the end he had to do one.’ Tricklebank snuffed out his cigarette and stared moodily into some far, unseen distance.

‘He made it sound as though he’d been a bit of a hero to save my wife, and I went along with it and thanked him like the gullible, grateful fool I was at the time. It wasn’t until later I realized something really bad had happened during the operation. When she came round, it was as if she’d had a stroke; her speech was all slurred, her hands and fingers lifeless, her legs so weak she had to have a wheelchair issued.’ He looked at the cold, dead cigarette butt in his fingers and carefully placed it in his pocket.

‘I took her home and we soldiered on for a time and it was hell. I got to thinking that some awful cock-up had taken place. I went to see Cavanagh again, but he just insisted he’d done all he could. And then a friend at work told me his neighbour had had surgery from the smarmy bastard too and she was in a right mess as well.
She was thinking of suing.’ He stopped and breathed in deeply, a breath of exhaustion and total frustration.

‘But you can’t get to grips with these guys. Cavanagh just smiles and keeps on saying he did all he could. And the management lot at the hospital won’t give an inch. I’ve been asking to see my wife’s medical notes over and over again. They kept saying they’d get them for me. Then they said they couldn’t seem to find them, and after that it seemed they’d gone missing – for eternity. They made a real show of being oh so sorry about it! And do you know what? I can’t do a damn thing about it.’ He eased his weight from the stone pillar he’d been leaning against, stoic resignation on his features. ‘So there’s a story to brighten your day,’ he told his two grave-faced listeners.

Swift nodded in respect of the man’s suffering. ‘Are you’re sure you didn’t meet Dr Farrell?’ he asked gently. ‘She worked as an anaesthetist in the gynaecology department.’

‘Sorry, no. The only doctor I got to see was Cavanagh. The nurse on duty was very kind and the midwife was great too. But what could they do?’

‘Do you have their names?’ Laura asked.

Tricklebank shook his head. ‘I’d know them if I saw them again,’ he said, kicking out at a small stone lying on the ground. ‘But what I want now is simply for Cavanagh to admit he made a mistake. To admit he’s ruined our lives.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Got to go. I couldn’t get anyone to watch the wife and she gets in a bit of a state if she’s left alone too long.’

Swift and Laura watched him walk away.

‘Any thoughts?’ Swift said.

‘Still digesting.’ She wrinkled her forehead as she reflected on what they had just heard, and as usual a small inverted triangle appeared between her eyebrows. ‘It might be interesting to talk to the neighbour of Tricklebank’s friend – the one who’s considering suing Cavanagh.’

‘It would certainly be interesting.’ Observing her eager expression, he smiled. ‘But maybe not relevant to the case.’

As they walked to the car-park he reflected yet again on the current pulse of frustration running through this case, their failure
to flush Shaun Busfield out from whatever sanctuary he had found for himself. He conjured up an image of the information on the whiteboard in the incident room. The pictures of the slain Moira Farrell, the names of possible suspects and leads, and at the centre of the display the blown-up photo of the bloodstained sole of Busfield’s trainers standing out like a reproach. Hard evidence which was of no use whatsoever until Busfield was flushed out.

He caught Laura’s quizzical gaze. ‘You go track down the neighbour if you think it might be productive,’ he told her. ‘Why not?’

Damian Finch summoned Swift and his team into his office. As usual coffee was percolating in his machine sending out tantalizing wafts of burnt vanilla through the air. Finch was prowling up and down behind his desk clutching a mug of coffee. On this occasion he did not invite the team to join him in taking some refreshment.

‘So,’ he said, speaking in low icy tones as though musing solely to himself, ‘it seems that we are well and truly stuck in the unfortunate situation of having identified a prime suspect, and having allowed him to elude us and lead us a merry and protracted little dance.’ Finch sighed, his glance flashing over the team, flaying each one of them with the severity of his glare. Whilst he had been in post only a few weeks his subordinates were now well aware that his dark moods could infect the whole station, ensuring that it was in everyone’s interest to keep him happy. ‘And from the look on all your faces,’ he continued, ‘I am assuming that little has happened so far to encourage us to have hope of finding our suspect with due haste.’

‘As you know, sir,’ Swift said, unruffled by the superintendent’s ice-man tactics, ‘we’ve got our press officer to set up an appeal through all the relevant TV, radio and press outlets to alert the public to Busfield’s disappearance and our need to find him.’

Finch blinked and frowned as Swift spoke. ‘What about the girlfriend?’ he barked, cutting his DCI short before he could continue his account. ‘I don’t suppose she’s showing any signs of changing her mind and favouring us with some clues as to
Busfield’s whereabouts? No, don’t bother answering that, you’d have told me already, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course, sir,’ Swift said quietly. ‘We’re continuing our house to house questioning with Busfield’s neighbours, and any other contacts who might be able to help us.’

‘But from the look of it having little success,’ Finch suggested, grim-faced. He took a sip from his mug and waited for some kind of response from someone. ‘And sadly we’ve got next to nothing from the search of the van Busfield used during last October and November. Forensics have been over every square inch with a magnifying glass. They’ve removed all the seats and taken them apart – a painstaking piece of research which revealed nothing but a few dust balls, some dead cigarette ends and a ten-pence coin. The floor mat revealed some traces of earth which have been sent to the lab for testing. But I can’t pretend that I hold out much hope of their setting fire to our damp squib of an enquiry.’ He paused. ‘I’ve asked the lab to do further testing on the trainers SOCO found, letting them know that even the most miniscule shred of further evidence would be like a gift from heaven.’

Laura marvelled at the superintendent’s chilling eloquence: it was rather like an ice cube slipped into the collar of your shirt on a warm day.

Doug shifted on his chair, feeling little beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Swift reflected on his experience in the past of working with superiors who considered themselves lower in rank to only God and his angels. It made a difficult job somewhat harder.

‘We shall press on,’ he told Finch. ‘And we shall find Busfield.’

‘I hope so,’ Finch said with pointed scepticism. He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he told the team. ‘I suggest you go away and get on with what has to be done without delay.’

Laura and Doug rose smartly to their feet and made for the door. Swift remained behind, sensing that Finch had something more to say to him, something which needed to be said in private.

‘I’ve read the reports of your various visits to the hospital,’ Finch said abruptly. ‘And I agree that some interesting points have emerged. But as regards Adrian Cavanagh, we have nothing to
place him at the scene, we have no forensics, we have no clearly demonstrable motive.’

Swift nodded acknowledgement.

‘And there’s something further I need to say,’ Finch continued ominously. ‘A part of me considers that I shouldn’t speak out on this matter, but I’m going to anyway.’

Swift waited. Yes you would, he thought, guessing what was coming.

‘I’ve familiarized myself with your recent work, Ed – as indeed I have familiarized myself with the work of all the professional staff working in this station.’ He placed his coffee mug down on the desk with slow deliberation. ‘And I’ve noticed that you have a history of being something of a doubting Thomas.’ He stopped, the expression on his face indicating that it was almost too painful for him to continue. But that did not stop him doing so. ‘There seem to have been a number of occasions when you appear to have doubted – or even disregarded – the evidence against prime suspects and gone off on a trail of your own devising.’

‘That is true,’ Swift broke in steadily, before Finch could go any further. ‘And on more occasions than not, I’ve been proved correct in doing so.’ As he spoke the words they sounded more pompous than he would have liked, but so be it, some sort of stand needed to be made.

‘Quite so,’ Finch said. ‘You might not agree, but I’m a reasonable man, Ed. I wouldn’t disagree with what you say, or presume to criticize your methods of working.’

Swift waited silently through the ensuing pause. He waited for the
but
.

‘Nevertheless,’ Finch continued, ‘in this particular case, I think it would be most unfortunate to undermine the team’s keenness to flush out Shaun Busfield, by actively pursuing other lines of enquiry. We have strong forensic evidence – fresh blood matching that of Moira Farrell on Busfield’s shoes, and also a hair carrying his DNA. We know that it’s possible Busfield might have had the opportunity of visiting the house previously in order to deliver materials. We also know that he has a history of violence.
And
, he’s worried enough to have gone missing.’

‘Strong indications,’ Swift agreed. ‘But, of course, as yet we have no motive. And his girlfriend has given him an alibi.’

Finch gave a dismissive snort at the latter remark. He frowned and a long, deep furrow appeared between his eyebrows. ‘We have facts, Ed. Facts. Those are what interest me. Hard evidence. Backed up by the forensic team. That’s what we’ve got with Busfield. And when we find him he’s going to have difficulty getting round that. As to motive – well, yes, that’s something to think about. But at present we’re a long way from needing to do that. I sometimes feel that theorizing could be seen as mere icing on the cake.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Swift said.

‘You speak with the calm assurance of a confirmed sceptic,’ Finch observed. ‘And you have a right to do so if you wish, Ed. But I’d like to ask you to keep your scepticism to yourself in this case, and indeed generally. Going against the flow isn’t necessarily good for team morale. I want our team to be like a pack of hounds scenting out the prey, not sniffing around randomly like lapdogs being taken for a walk in the park.’