The Burden of Doubt (15 page)

Laura wrote it all down in her idiosyncratic shorthand. ‘Did you know that Moira was pregnant?’ she asked.

Anderson flinched. There was an electric silence. ‘No.’ His voice was a husky whisper and he was unable to conceal a sense of utter astonishment and dismay.

‘Were you having an affair with Moira?’ Laura asked quietly, having no doubt about the answer. Whether or not Anderson would offer the truth was another matter.

He sighed. ‘I only wish I could say that I wasn’t.’

‘So you and Moira
were
having an affair.’

He took some time to consider. ‘Yes. But I didn’t know she was pregnant.’ He levelled a glance at Laura. ‘How far on was she?’

‘Twelve weeks.’

‘Could the baby be yours?’

He turned away whilst he considered. ‘Yes.’ His expression hardened. ‘Did you suspect Moira was pregnant with my baby when you started on all these questions? Has someone found out and ratted on us?’

‘No,’ Laura said. ‘I simply had information from the autopsy
report that Moira was pregnant.’ She saw little point in enlightening Anderson further regarding the question of there being two dead babies, and two different fathers.

‘Jesus!’ Anderson muttered. ‘Patel will kill me if he finds out.’ He put a knuckle in his mouth and chewed on it. Laura noticed that he had a patch of raw red eczema on the base of his finger. Was it stress-related she wondered? ‘Does this have to come out?’ he asked Laura. ‘My wife …’

‘It’s hard to say,’ she said truthfully.

‘Has the pathologist done any testing to discover parentage?’ he demanded.

‘I’m not able to give you that information at this stage.’

‘If this gets out, there’ll be hell to pay,’ Anderson said. ‘I mean I could look like a suspect for killing Moira, for God’s sake.’ He was really rattled now.

‘Yes,’ Laura agreed. ‘Technically everyone connected with a murder victim is a suspect,’ she pointed out.

‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said. ‘I loved her.’ He stared helplessly at the wall above Laura’s head. ‘But I expect they all say that, don’t they? Cold-blooded murderers.’

Laura sat still and quiet.

‘So what happens now?’ Anderson asked.

‘It would be helpful if you’d tell me what you know about any difficulties between Moira and anyone else in your firm.’

‘God! Talk about being between a rock and a hard place!’ He bowed his head for a few moments. ‘I’ll have to get in touch with someone from the BMA before I can say any more. I’m not being obstructive. It’s just that if I start telling tales on colleagues, I could run into real trouble with the hospital management. I could get suspended. My job here could be on the line. It’s happened to other doctors, so it could well happen to me.’

Laura heard the depth of anxiety in his voice. She asked him to describe his whereabouts around the date and time of Moira’s murder.

He leaned his head on his hand and closed his eyes briefly. ‘I was here, in my room at the hospital, I was on call.’

‘So you weren’t on the wards or doing surgery?’

‘No.’

‘You were in bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any witnesses?’

He sighed. ‘Sister Avalon.’

‘She works on your team?’

‘She’s one of the gynaecological ward sisters.’ His face had suffused with dark, hot colour, caught out in lying, evasion and serial adultery.

‘Right.’ Laura stood up, put on her coat and scarf and tucked her notebook in her bag, disappointed to note that Anderson had slipped a peg or two in her estimation. ‘You get in touch with the BMA,’ she told him evenly, ‘and we’ll be back.’

‘We haven’t got enough,’ Swift told the superintendent. ‘The CPS aren’t going to be happy about this.’

Damian Finch had the transcript of Busfield’s first interview on his desk and he wasn’t looking all that happy either. But the usual fresh coffee was on offer and on this occasion his DCI was invited to share in it.

‘I’ve already had a preliminary talk with one of their lawyers,’ Swift said. ‘Their view is that the footprint evidence is circumstantial, certainly not strong enough to build a case on. Moreover Busfield’s explanation of his going to ground when we first went for him seems reasonable enough. And if you listen to the tape and imagine how Busfield might perform in court, I think we’d all agree he could well convince a jury.’ He paused. ‘And, of course, we’ve still no strong connection to demonstrate a link between Busfield and the victim.’

Finch chose not to argue. ‘How are your team holding up? Frustration running high, I would guess?’

‘They’re a level-headed bunch,’ Swift said. ‘But yes, there’s a degree of frustration around.’

‘Any interesting theories, either about Busfield or anyone else?’

‘Laura’s following up angles that have come out through the hospital team Moira Farrell worked with.’

‘Ah, yes, I wondered about that when I read the accounts. Do you think there’s any mileage there?’

‘Possibly. But it’s hard to get information, they’re all silent as the grave when it comes to talking about each other.’

‘Sounds like us,’ Finch said.

‘And the alibis we’ve checked so far on the medics are pretty watertight.’

‘What about the husband?’

‘I’ve made a note to see him again later today.’

‘Busfield’s trainers in the garden with Moira Farrell’s blood on,’ Finch said, frowning into his coffee. ‘Were they just too conveniently available for us to find? Did someone deliberately plant them?’

‘Possibly. And maybe wore them to cover their own tracks.’

‘So who has access to Busfield’s shoes?’

‘His girlfriend, Tina. His workmates.’ Swift shrugged. ‘Maybe a number of others we don’t know about.’

‘We’ve checked them out a few times,’ Finch commented.

‘We could do it again,’ Swift pointed out. ‘Fine-tooth-comb job.’

Finch chewed on his lip. ‘Listen, Ed, I know I’ve a reputation for being a stubborn, cold-hearted sod, but I’m not a man who’s unable to take the wider view. I’m not so keen to nail a prime suspect that I’m blind to other lines of enquiry which might be fruitful.’

Swift nodded, containing his surprise.

‘I’m glad you didn’t rush to assure me that you never thought that,’ Finch said. ‘Because I know you did.’ He pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose. ‘What do you advise at this stage?

‘Just the usual,’ Swift said. ‘Namely going right back to the beginning. We’ve got a murder on the victim’s own territory, with no apparent forced entry. No one saw anything or heard any noise. We need to be looking again at the family. Any other close contacts.’

Finch’s lips were still pursed. ‘Go ahead, do whatever you think, I’ll back it.’ He drained his mug and pushed it away to the side of the desk. ‘How is your daughter, Ed?’ he asked with a degree of respectful caution.

‘She’s keeping in touch. She seems her usual self. I’m inclined to believe her story that the drugs found in her boyfriend’s car had been planted.’ He smiled. ‘But then I’m her father, I would, wouldn’t I?’

Finch remained as grim as ever. ‘That doesn’t mean it’s not the truth.’

With huge courage and steely determination Rajesh Patel had moved back into his own house. He locked the door of the room in which his wife had been killed and moved his clothes from their shared bedroom into a small guest room at the back of the house. In the following days he had been laid low with helplessness and grief. Occasional shots of morphine had got him through the nights, and sheer dogged will power through the days. Patel was not a drug user in the commonly understood meaning of the term. He didn’t shell out money to dealers, nor did he
self-prescribe.
Instead, he had an understanding doctor in Harley Street whom he trusted implicitly, both in terms of medical expertise and in watertight confidentiality. Over the years his doctor had helped him through his recurrent episodes of depression, advising on a carefully thought out drug regime, and on suitable analysts and therapists when Patel had so requested.

But in these days following Moira’s death the old demons were returning in force, reminding him of the torments he had suffered as a young man before the psychotropic drugs on offer had become as sophisticated as they were today. There had been days when his mood had been a kind of sludge brown, swilling around his brain and darkening all the pictures there into a hazy fog. He had sometimes felt he was trying to exist on another planet where there was no vegetation, no people, no other kind of life at all, just emptiness.

The only way to get through was to be strict about taking the
right kind of drugs, and then to draw up all his strength and struggle back into life, seizing each moment by its throat.

To date Patel hadn’t missed a day’s work, even though, when in his office he had spent hours slumped at his desk, sinking into his own world of despair. But now he was going to challenge himself with a mission. And his first stop would be a visit to the hospital’s gynaecology ward.

Shaun Busfield felt better than he might have expected after a night in the cells. He had not slept at all badly, had appreciated the washing facilities and the central heating at the station. And he’d had a quite decent breakfast, brought to him by a cheery custody constable. Room service!

Swift and Laura had teamed up together to provide continuity from the first interview. Tristan Brown was sitting beside his client, pen poised.

Swift set the tape running and made the usual introductions. ‘Let’s just go back over some of the things we talked about yesterday.’

‘You’ve the right to refuse to do that, it could be said to be wasting time,’ Brown intervened, with a firmness which suggested he had been using the hours since the first interview boning up on criminal defence law.

Busfield nodded agreement, then heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘Aye. True. But I don’t want to get on the wrong side of the fuzz, do I? Go on, then,’ he said to Swift.

‘You told us that at the time of Moira Farrell’s death you were in bed with your girlfriend, Tina.’

‘Yeah.’

‘We’ve spoken to Tina since she told us that,’ Swift said.

Busfield affected indifference but Swift could see the jolt of apprehension that flickered across the young man’s eyes.

‘She confirms what you said,’ Swift continued.

‘Well, she would,’ Busfield said with satisfaction. ‘Because it’s the truth. So why don’t you stop wasting my time and just let me go?’

‘Tina could have made a mistake,’ Laura pointed out.
‘Sometimes people’s memories play tricks. Or sometimes they bend the truth to protect people they love.’

Busfield scowled. ‘Very poetic. Why don’t you just get over yourself, love,’ he snarled.

Swift sat forward slightly. ‘Is it true your grandmother died recently?’

Busfield shifted in his seat. ‘What’s that to do with you?’

‘Just answer the question, Shaun,’ Swift said.

‘Yeah. She did.’

‘Was she your mother’s mother?’

‘Aye.’

‘Would you say the two of you were close?’

‘Me and me gran?’

‘Yes.’

There was a softening in Busfield’s normally harsh, defensive expression. For the first time he seemed to want to talk and co-operate. ‘She looked after me quite a bit when I was little. When me mum had to work.’

‘And did you see her regularly during her last few years?’

‘Not as much as I should’ve,’ Busfield said.

‘Have you been feeling bad about that?’ Swift asked, recalling that one of Busfield’s workmates had mentioned how upset he had been at his grandmother’s death.

‘Yeah. And now it’s too bloody late to put things right.’

‘Is this relevant?’ Tristan Brown chimed in.

Ignoring the young solicitor, Swift gave Busfield a sympathetic nod. ‘Did you have a key to your gran’s house?’

‘Aye. She wanted me to have one in case there was any
emergencies
.’

‘She must have trusted you, then?’

‘Aye, I think she did. She used to say I could go live in the bungalow when she was gone. But I thought it would be ages before that happened. She was a tough old bird, didn’t ail nothing.’ A thought struck him. ‘I’ll wager you lot’ve searched her place since you nicked me.’

Swift confirmed this with a slight nod.

‘Well, the stash of cash you’ll have found in the garage was
hers. And now it’s mine. So you’d better make sure I get it back. I’ll kick up such a stink if there’s any dodgy goings-on. Have you lot up for felony. Isn’t that right?’ he demanded of his hapless solicitor.

‘Er, I’ll need to have more detail on that.’ Brown’s pen fluttered and slipped from his hand as he was speaking. He blushed and bent down to pick it up. ‘Anything found and taken from the house should be logged,’ he added stiffly, as he straightened himself.

‘What was she in hospital for?’ Laura asked.

Busfield frowned. ‘I don’t really know. She was on the women’s ward, so it must have been women’s troubles. Some sort of cyst one of the doctors told me. She had an operation, but she didn’t pull through.’

Swift laid a photograph of Moira Farrell on the table, a recent picture Rajesh Patel had allowed him to copy from his own collection of photographs. ‘Do you recognize this woman?’

Busfield looked at the photograph. A pulse began to tick in the corner of his left eye. ‘No.’

‘I think you do,’ Swift said.

‘No!’ Busfield shouted. Beads of sweat on his forehead were clearly visible now, and his upper body was rolling a little from side to side.

‘I think you knew her quite well.’

‘No.’

‘Did you meet this woman at the hospital, at the time your grandmother was ill?’

Shaun shut his eyes tightly and pushed the picture away. ‘Jesus bloody Christ!’ he whispered. He leaned his head on the table and enclosed it with his arms and hands.

Tristan Brown looked concerned. ‘My client clearly needs a break.’

Don’t we all, Swift thought privately.

Busfield suddenly moved into a new state of alertness. ‘Shit, this is serious,’ he said, raising his head again. ‘We need to fucking get this sorted out. Now.’

‘What do we need to get sorted out, Shaun?’ Swift asked.

Shaun jabbed his finger on the photograph of Moira Farrell.
‘This!’ He licked around his lips, feeling his throat dry. He was at a complete loss.

Laura leaned towards the distressed suspect, but Swift stopped her with a warning raising of his hand. ‘Tell us what’s bothering you, Shaun,’ he said quietly.

‘I have seen her. I’ve met her, but …’ Shaun’s head was swimming with panic.

‘But?’ Swift’s voice was patient. Shaun Busfield wasn’t going anywhere for another thirty hours. They had all the time in the world.

‘But, I don’t
know
her. And that’s the truth.’

‘OK, let’s get this straight: you admit to having seen the woman in this photograph.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And we can confirm,’ Swift went on calmly, ‘that the woman in the picture is Moira Farrell. The doctor who was murdered. The victim in our current enquiry.’

‘Yes, right.’ Shaun wiped the sweat trickling down his forehead with the back of his hand. He tried to think of a way forward. A way of getting out of this mess.

‘So where did you see her, Shaun?’ Swift’s voice was gentle and reassuring, attempting to allay Busfield’s obvious state of agitation.

‘At the hospital.’

‘And when was this?’

‘Just after me gran died.’ He pointed to the photograph again. ‘She was the one who came to tell me.’ He looked at Swift, his eyes full of bewilderment. ‘She was lovely, really kind.’

‘What did she say to you?’

‘She told me she’d got some sad news. She said that me gran’s heart had given out. The operation had been going well, and then her ticker just stopped. They’d done all they could to bring her round, but it didn’t work.’ Tears stood in his eyes at the recollection.

He’s telling the truth, Swift thought. But not the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Just those small items of truth he thinks won’t get him into deeper trouble.

Georgie Tyson and her mate Barbara were in the canteen drinking coffee and eating chocolate muffins.

‘God! These are awful,’ Georgie complained, picking at the stodgy mess in the middle of her muffin. ‘Where do they get from? The back arse of some dodgy bakery in Eastern Europe?’

‘You’ve such an imagination, love!’ Barbara said, ploughing on with her fork through the sugary stodge.

‘Imagination! Hmm, wish I could make as much cash from it as John Lennon did.’ Georgie took a long drink of coffee. ‘Shaun Busfield’s been in custody for thirty hours now,’ she said. ‘And the police haven’t given so much as a peep about what evidence they’ve got. And by tomorrow morning they’ll have to charge him, get an extension for holding him, or release him.’

‘And?’

Georgie frowned, chewing on her lip.

Barbara swallowed the sticky chocolate crumbs in her mouth as gracefully as possible. ‘I’d more or less got around to that. So what are you cooking up?’

‘I’ve been thinking about Tina Frazer, Shaun’s girl. What she has to say for herself. And him.’

‘You’re planning on going to see her?’

‘Yeah.’

Barbara thought about it. ‘Cash for a good story?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Our editor won’t cough up.’

‘No, but I’ve got some cash of my own. And Tina’s not that rich. She’ll be mighty tempted at the idea of half a grand to spend just as she wants.’

Barbara watched her young colleague through narrowed eyes. ‘Be careful, Georgie. You’ve been doing OK here.’

‘I’m stuck here!’ Georgie hissed, kicking the table leg. ‘What have I got to lose?’

Sitting on his own at the nurses’ station at the entrance to the gynaecology ward, James Anderson registered the buzz of the
entry phone and reached out a hand to press the button to release the door. Still occupied with writing up patient notes he took no notice of the footsteps approaching the desk. It was not until a soundless shadow fell over the desk and remained there that Anderson looked up.

‘Professor Patel!’ He felt his throat dry.

Patel was in no mood for preamble. ‘You were sleeping with my wife, weren’t you?’

The grief-stricken man’s eyes were as cold and unanimated as those of a robot, and Anderson felt rising panic. ‘Let’s go and talk in one of the offices,’ he said, rising to his feet and looking across the corridor praying that Sister Avalon’s room was free.

‘No, we’ll talk here. I’ve nothing to lose, because I’ve already lost everything.’ Patel spoke in flat even tones which sent chills racing down Anderson’s spine. For a moment he wondered if the senior medic was armed – a knife, maybe even a gun. He felt sure that Patel would be able to see the throb of his jugular if he bothered to look, he was so alarmed.

‘Don’t lie to me,’ Patel said, ‘because I’ll find out if you do. And I’ll track you down, and I’ll kill you. Just tell me the truth.’

Anderson looked around wildly, praying to see some help at hand. But it was a quiet time of the evening; the visitors had all gone and the night staff were occupied with their first rounds, going through the ward. ‘Yes, I was sleeping with Moira.’ He fell silent, judging it best not to elaborate.

‘And were you the person who was urging her to blow the whistle on Cavanagh?’

Cold fear seized Anderson’s joints. ‘We talked about it, yes. I was just as keen as she was to do something about … the situation. I mean patients—’ He stopped, feeling himself trapped in a nightmarish web of lies and doubts and cowardice all of them overlaid with a genuine sense of concern for the welfare of the hapless women who came under Cavanagh’s so called care. ‘I wasn’t urging her on,’ he said lamely.

‘Patients are at risk,’ Patel said. ‘And Moira was a very highly principled woman. But her career would have been ruined if she’d turned whistle blower.’

Anderson sat in frozen silence.

‘Did you know she was pregnant?’ Patel asked. ‘No, don’t bother trying work out what to tell me on that score. It doesn’t really matter.’ He leaned over slightly, his eyes full of intent, as though he might strike the other man. ‘You probably don’t know that she was carrying twins.’

Anderson felt waves of shock ripple through him. ‘No.’

‘One of them carried my DNA,’ Patel told him, ‘the other didn’t. I expect you can imagine what I felt when I discovered that.’

Anderson’s mouth fell open. Trying to work out what Patel’s intentions were and what the future held for both of them felt like wading through hot sand. He said nothing.

‘Did she talk about me?’ Patel asked. ‘When you were together?’

Patel’s eyes seemed to drive into Anderson’s soul, and the younger man felt himself pitched back into his childhood, when lying to his father had seemed like the wickedest crime in the universe. ‘She worried about you,’ he said. ‘About your health.’ He looked up and saw that one of the ward nurses was coming away from the ward, a little spring in her step. Suddenly Anderson was sick of being intimidated.

‘She said it was difficult,’ he told Patel, his voice cold and cruel. ‘Living with someone who is a depressive and dependent on drugs.’

Patel stood back a little and took in a long breath. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I can see that.’ There was a long, stagnant pause and then the older man turned and walked slowly to the exit door. Anderson watched, sensing Patel’s dark mood of hopelessness and despair.