The Burden of Doubt (7 page)

Tina shrugged. ‘I doubt if he has, never mind me.’

‘Mates?’ Laura followed up.

‘He doesn’t really have any. Well, not close, not the sort he’d go and stay with.’

‘He sounds to be a bit of a loner,’ Swift said.

‘Yeah,’ Tina agreed, cheering up a little at finding herself able to make some positive kind of statement.

‘So you’re all he’s got, then?’ Laura suggested.

Tina’s temporary cheeriness evaporated. ‘Suppose so.’

Swift got to his feet, Laura following suit. They picked their way gingerly down the hallway.

‘Let us know if he comes back,’ Swift said in matter of fact tones. ‘Or if you have any new ideas on where he’s gone.’

‘Are you sure he’s the one you need to be after?’ Tina asked, pursuing them to the door.

Swift turned. ‘We can’t comment on that, Miss Frazer. Not yet.’

Tina stood in the doorway watching them go. Then abruptly slammed the door shut as a gust of icy air rushed into the already freezing house.

‘She’s scared of him all right,’ Laura said, shivering as she waited for Swift to unlock the car doors.

‘Caught between a rock and a hard place,’ he observed. ‘If she
tips us off as to where Busfield is, she risks bringing the wrath of hell down on her head from him. And if she keeps her lips buttoned she’ll have us constantly on her back.’

‘She’s rather like a doll, don’t you think, sir?’ Laura wrapped her skirt around her knees as she settled into the passenger seat. ‘Doll as in a child’s toy, rather than a bloke’s plaything.’

Swift didn’t disagree.

‘A doll with a chunk of the stuffing knocked out of it,’ Laura added, wiping a spy hole through the condensation on the window.

‘Impressions of Busfield?’ Swift asked.

Laura took a few seconds to get things straight. ‘From what Tina said our suspect Shaun doesn’t strike me as the kind of boy most mums would be best pleased to have their daughter shacked up with.’

He gave a faint smile of agreement.

‘Are we going to keep an eye on where she goes?’ Laura asked.

‘What choice have we?’ he said crisply. ‘Because if none of his work colleagues or bosses can give us a clue, she’s all we’ve got. Let’s just hope she doesn’t have a fancy for leading us a merry dance.’

Doug waited in the reception area of the Maternity Unit at the local hospital, contentedly wandering up and down glancing at the posters on the walls and the chalked-up scribbles on the message board. Some minutes before he had been told by a pretty and charming administrative assistant that Mr Cavanagh, the senior departmental consultant in Obstetrics and Gynaecology, would be with him in just a moment.

In time firm, hurrying footsteps came down the corridor, a clear vibrant voice accompanying them, the tones resounding in the corridor. ‘I’m so sorry, Sergeant, I was busy with an outside call.’ The speaker came forward, smiling and confident, offering a welcoming handshake to each police officer. ‘Adrian Cavanagh, Clinical Director,’ he announced.

Cavanagh was tall and well built, with stylishly cut black hair, and singularly handsome features. From Doug’s perspective he looked unreasonably youthful to be in charge of a department in a major hospital, but then Doug was beginning to feel that no one was old enough to be anything any more. He guessed Cavanagh would be around twenty years younger than himself, and when he made a calculation of the guy’s likely salary from the NHS with a possible topping up of around 90% in fees for private work, he reckoned it was up in the stratosphere in comparison with his own. He smiled inwardly: envy had no part in Doug’s personality, he had enough for his needs and in his book that made him as lucky as any high earner – or millionaire come to that.

Cavanagh took him into a tiny cubicle-like office, and
courteously
gestured him to a small and very uncomfortable plastic chair. As the doctor seated himself behind the desk, Doug had a fancy that his room at the private hospital down the road would be somewhat more restful and palatial.

‘Before I ask how I can help you,’ Cavanagh said, giving the confident impression of being fully in charge of proceedings, ‘I must, of course, say how dreadfully shocked and sorry we all were to hear of Moira’s death. And in such terrible circumstances.’

‘How do you know about the circumstances, sir?’ Doug asked.

Cavanagh was in no way disconcerted. ‘Simply that she was murdered – that is assuming the information available from the press and the media and your own department is reliable.’ He levelled his gaze at Doug, who found himself in the headlight beam of brilliant blue eyes.

‘Yes, sir, we’re treating her death as murder,’ Doug confirmed. ‘I believe you worked as a colleague with Dr Farrell.’

‘Moira worked with me and other of my gynaecologist colleagues as an anaesthetist,’ Cavanagh confirmed. ‘She was a skilled and committed colleague. She will be very much missed.’

Doug was beginning to find Cavanagh somewhat sanctimonious, pompous, and quite possibly a very smooth liar. ‘There have been suggestions that there’ve been some tensions in the department, sir,’ he said, mild but blunt. ‘Personal differences.’

Cavanagh smiled. ‘Ah, yes. I imagine you’re referring to the assertions of the young journalist who wanted to make a name for herself at the media press conference. I don’t think any of us need place too much credence on her attempt to claim a few minutes of fame.’

‘So there are no tensions in your department, sir?’ Doug asked, as though merely wishing to clarify things in his own mind.

‘Good heavens, no!’

Doug nodded sagely. ‘I’d say that was pretty unusual, sir. Abnormal even. Most, if not all, working groups experience some degree of strain and personal disagreements from time to time.’ He gave Cavanagh a kindly, paternal smile. ‘Even in our CID department.’

Cavanagh’s smile held a touch of frost. ‘I wouldn’t wish to challenge you on that, Sergeant. But in the case of my department the levels of co-operation are invariably of a very high standard.’

‘I’m glad to hear that, sir,’ Doug said. ‘And I’m a constable. We’ll need a list of all the staff here,’ Doug told Cavanagh in his habitual easy-going tones.

Cavanagh’s smile melted away. There was a moment when it seemed he was considering making a protest. As it was he decided to go down the route of dissenting with good grace. ‘By all means, Constable. I’ll get my secretary to run off a copy for you. I should warn you it’s a big department, including nursing, midwifery, auxiliary staff, admin, cleaning and so on, beside the team of doctors.’ He paused, the smile inching its way back. ‘My guess is you’re going to be very busy for quite some time.’

He rose to his feet in one graceful gesture. ‘Now, I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m under some pressure – you know how it is, needing to be in a number of places at the same time.’

‘Please sit down, sir,’ Doug said mildly, whilst still managing to convey that they, the arm of the law, would brook no arguments. ‘As you appreciate, this is a murder enquiry and we need all the help we can get to find Moira Farrell’s killer.’

Cavanagh had reached the door. Now he turned.

‘There are one or two further questions we need to ask you – in your capacity as head of the department.’ Doug offered the last statement as something of a sop to the consultant’s ego. And it seemed to work.

Cavanagh returned to sit in his chair and assumed an expression of due gravity.

‘Did you know that Moira Farrell was pregnant?’ Doug asked.

Cavanagh frowned and his eyes narrowed a little. ‘No, I didn’t. But, of course, a pregnancy is a very sensitive and private issue for any woman. Moira would perhaps have preferred to keep it to herself, for a time, at least, especially as she has a sad history of miscarriages.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Doug agreed. ‘Would you say that Moira had a happy marriage?’

For a moment Cavanagh looked startled at the change of tack.
He stared at Doug. ‘I would say that that was none of my business.’

‘Did you used to visit Moira and Rajesh Patel at their home?’ Doug continued. ‘Drinks or suppers, perhaps?’

Cavanagh cleared his throat. ‘No. Well, not recently. Rajesh has always struck me as a rather retiring sort of person, I don’t think he enjoys socializing over much.’

‘And, Moira? Did she enjoy socializing?’ Doug asked.

‘She was more sociable than Rajesh,’ Cavanagh said carefully.

‘So,’ Doug said reflectively, ‘you used to visit the Patels in the past, but recently you haven’t visited. That could suggest that the friendship between you had cooled.’

Cavanagh threw his glance up to the ceiling, then levelled his gaze at first one officer, then the other. ‘If you haven’t got more weighty and relevant things to discuss, I’d like to get on with my work.’ He folded his hands together on the desk and his tone was arctic.

Unperturbed, Doug rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time. There’s nothing further, sir,’ he said in courteous, formal tones. ‘For the present.’

Executing a neat slide around the desk Doug managed to get to the door ahead of Cavanagh and make a slick exit, leaving the clinical director to trail behind.

Damian Finch looked like a man who has just has just witnessed the stampede of a herd of cattle through his front room.

Swift admitted that it was mainly bad luck that Traffic had decided to make a swoop on one of the car-thieving lads living next to Shaun Busfield only seconds before he and his backup car arrived to bring Busfield in for questioning.

‘The media will love it, of course,’ Finch reflected. ‘Police incompetence at its most risible: catching a sprat and letting the shark get clean away.’ His smile was grim. ‘A shark with a very shady history.’ He tapped the printout lying on his blotter. ‘Busfield’s previous: a couple of TWOCs when he was fourteen, causing an affray at seventeen and an ABH during a street fight three years ago. No wonder he didn’t want us to catch up with him.’

Finch swept the team with his cold, meticulous gaze. ‘DNA results have just come through. The blood found on the trainers buried in the garden is definitely Moira Farrell’s. And the traces from the hair found in the trainers are confirmed as belonging to Busfield. He paused and pursed his lips. ‘Whose DNA, because of the aforementioned charges, was already helpfully on the database.’ His tone was pure acid.

Doug and Laura found themselves suddenly heavily compelled to inspect the toes of their shoes, such was Finch’s ability to inspire feelings of guilt even in the face of blameless innocence.

Finch was now prowling the strip of carpet behind his desk. ‘We also know that Busfield had some kind of connection with Moira Farrell in that his firm delivered plumbing materials to the Farrell household.’

‘According to his manager, Busfield’s team spends most of their time in the warehouse, sir,’ Doug ventured gingerly.

‘Does he never go out in the vans?’ Finch snapped, wheeling around to glare at the constable. ‘Do we know that?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well find out, Constable Wilson. And look at the signing out schedules for the vans, with especial reference to the dates around Moira Farrell’s murder. Because, as far as we know Busfield has no other transport than a bike, so he might well have needed to use one of the vans to get to Farrell’s house which is some way from his own house and his place of work.’ He spoke with slow deliberation, as though Wilson were a young lad with learning problems.

‘Yes, sir.’ Doug squared his shoulders and cleared his throat.

‘And if we find Busfield did have a firm’s van that would have enabled him to get to Farrell’s house in time to kill Moira Farrell and then get himself into work all cleaned up, then we get that van to forensics and have it stripped down to its axles.’

‘We’ll find Busfield,’ Swift told the superintendent, trying to make himself believe it would be soon. ‘People can’t stay holed up in a house or a lonely wood, or a field for ever. In the end they have to take risks, venture into the outside world.’

‘True,’ Finch barked. ‘But, on the other hand, Busfield only needs one villainous, police-hating friend to provide him with a safe bolthole in order to turn our job into an extremely expensive, fruitless and embarrassing nightmare.’

Swift nodded silent agreement.

From the wall to the left side of Finch’s desk, the
Mona Lisa
remained as self-righteously inscrutable as ever.

‘So you think this man Busfield is a suspect for Moira’s murder.’ Rajesh Patel frowned. He had listened to Swift’s account of the discovery of the bloodstained trainers and the details of their owner with his eyes half closed, as though trying to blot out the horror he was going through.

They were sitting in a small study at the back of the house belonging to Rajesh and Moira’s neighbour.

Patel was, as usual, solemn and courteous, welcoming Swift and inviting him to make himself comfortable on a chair close to the fireplace in which gas-fuelled mock coals burned with a low glow. He then returned to the small sofa opposite, making a place for himself amidst the albums and loose photographs which were spread over the sofa cushions.

Swift recognized this particular response to grief: the desperate need to try to hold on to the loved one by trawling through the collection of their images recorded on film. He had never found this exercise particularly comforting himself, reaching the conclusion that it merely served to emphasize that the loved one had become part of the past. And the more you looked at static, individual images, the more you began to lose the multiple complexities of the essence of the person when they were alive.

‘And are you questioning this man, Chief Inspector?’

‘Not at present.’ Swift steeled himself. ‘I’m afraid he anticipated our arrival. The upshot was that he made a speedy getaway and slipped through our fingers.’

‘I see.’ Patel showed no surprise or anger. He simply continued to look worn out and irredeemably sad.

Swift had the impression the man sitting opposite him was breaking up inside. ‘It goes without saying that we’re making
every effort to trace him. We’ve circulated his picture to the press and media. He’s going to find it difficult to remain in hiding.’

‘Ah.’ Patel sighed. He looked utterly spent, as though he was almost indifferent regarding what Swift had to say. ‘This man Busfield,’ he said, slowly, ‘it means nothing to me, and I can’t recall that Moira ever mentioned a man of that name. But then, you see, we never discussed such issues. Moira took charge of everything concerning the house – and indeed the garden, employing workpeople when necessary. She was a highly efficient and organized person.’ His voice faded to a mere breath. He picked up one of the photographs and held it in his fingers, but his gaze was fixed blankly on the far wall at the far edge of his vision.

Swift steeled himself once again. ‘Professor, we have reliable information from our pathologist that one of the two foetuses Moira was carrying did not share your DNA.’ He left it to Patel to work things out.

A flicker of nervous energy travelled over Patel’s heavy eyelids as he processed the information. He made some noises in his throat, but Swift was not able to gather any meaning from them.

‘Had you had any idea that she was seeing someone else?’ Swift asked.

Patel gave a small jerk of his head, indicating a negative response. ‘She was constantly working with male colleagues,’ he said slowly. ‘She was an exceedingly attractive woman.’

‘But had you any suspicions that she might be having an affair?’ Swift pressed quietly.

‘No,’ said Patel, and his desolation seemed to invade the room like a creeping fog.

‘Maybe it wasn’t a sustained affair,’ Swift said. ‘Maybe just a one night stand, something done on the spur of the moment and instantly regretted.’

Patel considered. ‘No, not Moira,’ he said with a degree of firmness. ‘No one night stands,’ he said, distaste distorting his stern features.

Swift left a respectful silence.

‘When you discover the identity of the father of the twin that wasn’t mine,’ Patel said, enunciating his words with great
deliberation,
‘I would ask you to give me the choice of remaining ignorant.’

Swift guessed that Patel would be aware that there was no possibility of his giving such a guarantee.