The History Suite (#9 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (21 page)

As Craig entered his office he wheeled round to face the woman who was giving his male staff so much grief. His voice was pure steel.

“Do you know why you’re in here, Constable McGregor?”

Carmen jutted her chin out defiantly; it made her look like a sulky child. “No, sir.”

“Then it’s even worse than I thought. You have no insight into your behaviour.”

She went to pull out a chair and Craig barked. “Remain standing.”

He paced the short space between his desk and the window in silence while Carmen watched, her nerve failing by the second. She genuinely had no idea what she’d done but the Super obviously thought it was bad enough to warrant this. Finally Craig turned towards her, his voice changing to a narrative tone.

“Picture a workplace where three men and five women work, with one man and one woman working in a support role. Yes?”

Carmen nodded dumbly. She didn’t have the foggiest clue what Craig was on about but she thought it was best to humour him. There weren’t three men and five women in the Murder Squad, but the story obviously meant something to him.

“Now picture what happens if one of the men has a problem with the female sex and barks, snipes and is generally as difficult as possible with every woman on the team. What would you do?”

Carmen screwed up her face. “Am I the boss?”

“Yes.”

“Am I male or female?”

Craig considered the question. “Female. Although it shouldn’t make a difference.”

She thought for a moment. “Unless there were good reasons for their behaviour and if they were pleasant to the men and only nasty to the women, I’d give them a warning. Their behaviour is sexist.”

Craig banged his palm down on the desk, making her jump back. “Exactly! Their behaviour is sexist and unless they stop it the equality police will come down on them like a ton of bricks.”

Carmen nodded dumbly.

“That’s what you’ve been doing, Constable. Since you arrived here four months ago you’ve been hostile to every man in this team without, as far as I can see, having any legitimate reason. You’ve done it to me as well, although I think you’ve tempered it because I’m your boss.”

Carmen blustered. “But I…”

“But nothing. You’ve been unpleasant to every male team member and I don’t know why; I’m not even sure that I care. But if you want to remain working here, you need to face whatever demon is causing you to behave this way.”

Carmen drew herself up to her full five-feet-three and was about to say something she would regret when Craig held up a hand to stop her.

“If the next words out of your mouth are anything except ‘Yes, sir’ you’re off this squad. So think very carefully.”

Carmen’s lips tightened and her face grew red. Craig watched her fists curl into a ball and he knew she wanted to pummel him with them, but she wisely stayed mute. After a moment he said “Good” and sat down behind his desk, beckoning her to sit while he gave her a note to see the force’s psychologist the next day. Then he waved her out.

As Carmen’s shadow approached the door Nicky scooted quickly across the squad-room, leaving Liam standing alone. Carmen yanked open the office door and saw him. She glowered and pushed past him, grabbing her handbag from her desk and completely ignored Ken’s sympathetic glance. Then she stormed off towards the lift.

Craig glanced up to see Liam standing in his doorway. He sighed heavily. “How much of that did you hear?”

Liam feigned innocence. “Who me?”

“Don’t give me that. You and Nicky were probably listening to the whole thing.”

Just then Nicky’s small face appeared and Liam sniffed at her in chagrin. “She legged it and left me in the lurch.”

Craig beckoned them in and Liam kicked the door shut, then, when they were certain the others had left, the three old hands had a serious chat.

Chapter Seven

5.30 p.m.

Annette parked her hatchback on High Street and waited for Jack Harris’ call. He’d held Cooke in the cells as agreed and now he was deliberately taking his time with the paperwork to let Annette get into position. At five-fifty her mobile rang and Jack’s avuncular tones came down the line.

“He’ll be out in five. There’s a cab coming.”

The line clicked off just as the taxi arrived. Annette instinctively ducked down in case Cooke saw her and then realised how stupid she must look, and how suspicious. A woman sliding down in her driver’s seat outside a police station – people had been arrested for less. Why was she hiding anyway? Cooke had never seen her. To him she was probably just a middle-aged mum waiting to pick up her kids.

As Adrian Cooke climbed into his taxi Annette regained her decorum, slipping into the traffic and following the cab towards Carlisle Circus and the Antrim Road. Cooke definitely wasn’t heading for the hospital. If the address Davy had given her was correct, he was heading home. Perhaps they were wrong about Ellie Rudd having a Black Book, or Cooke had already stashed it somewhere.

Cooke paid the cab and entered a tall, terraced house on Serpentine Road that Davy had said held three flats. The doctor lived on the top floor and Annette pictured him trudging up the stairs, thinking about his life. If his expression as he’d left High Street was anything to go by they wouldn’t be happy thoughts. She glanced at her watch; six-twenty. She’d give it an hour to see what happened.

As the evening’s gloom deepened the lights on the Victorian building’s top floor blinked on and Annette could make out Cooke pacing around his bay-windowed front room. As the TV flickered she imagined him watching the evening news, knowing that he might hear his own name on it someday soon. What
did
a man who’d thrown his life away think about? She’d seen Cooke’s file; wealthy parents and a good school, followed by a rapid passage through medical school with stellar grades. He had academic papers and publications galore to his name and had been tipped for the top in his career, all destroyed now by a powder he shoved up his nose.

She shook her head. She’d never understood addiction, but then she’d never really understood weakness of any sort. She’d been a responsible teenager and a strong adult, always walking the orthodox line. She made a face in the dim evening light and corrected herself. She’d walked the line until now. Just as her mind prepared to wander to less professional things Annette registered a movement in her peripheral vision. A car was pulling out of the house’s driveway; a sleek blue MG. It was Cooke’s!

She glanced at the third floor window, seeing the lights still on and the TV flickering as if there was someone there, but it was all for show. Cooke must have suspected he was being watched. Now he was gunning towards the city centre and as Annette tailed him it became obvious what his destination was. Twenty minutes later they were in St Mary’s car park and Cooke was running swiftly across the tarmac and through the hospital’s automatic front doors. Annette stayed well behind. There was only one place Adrian Cooke was heading: the E.M.U. If she tailed him there then he would see her, better to let him bring back whatever he’d gone to find.

Twenty minutes later there was still no sign of the doctor. He’d had plenty of time to retrieve the book from wherever Rudd had stashed it and return to his car. It was time to take a look. Annette was just crossing the car park when she heard the sirens approach. Not the swooping sirens of ambulances driving in and out of casualty, but the unmistakeable ‘nee-naw’ that signalled the arrival of the cops. As the patrol cars disgorged their uniformed contents her heart sank. She raced through the hospital main door, almost colliding with the officers in reception. They turned towards the E.M.U. simultaneously and before the men could say a word, Annette had displayed her badge.

“Elderly Medicine Unit?”

A young officer nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. A man’s body’s been found.”

She already knew what his name was. Dr Adrian Cooke.

***

8.30 p.m.

“I’m really sorry, sir.”

Craig shook his head and gazed down at the body. He wore a puzzled expression that said he was working something out.

“Tell me again, Annette. With exact timings.”

Annette sighed. Not because she’d already told him and was fed up repeating herself, but because the more often she said it the surer she became that there was something she could have done to prevent Adrian Cooke’s death. Craig hadn’t blamed her, he didn’t need to; her guilt was strong enough.

“Dr Cooke left the lights and TV on in his apartment, as a decoy probably, then he took off for the hospital at six-fifty. He parked in the car park at seven-ten and entered the building approximately one minute later. I didn’t follow because I thought he would have seen me as soon as I’d entered the E.M.U. I was planning to search him when he returned to his car and retrieve the book if he’d had it, but the squad cars appearing put paid to that.”

Craig nodded and hunkered down beside Adrian Cooke’s immobile body, staring expertly at his bloodshot eyes and darkening neck. He’d been strangled, manually if the finger marks were anything to go by, exactly the same as Eleanor Rudd. John would confirm it but he already knew that they were looking for the same man. But what was more interesting than Cooke’s premature demise was the small book that lay in his hand. Annette had had to argue with the C.S.I.s not to move it; she’d wanted Craig to see everything still in place.

Craig scrutinised the book from every angle. It was small and unremarkable. Not black of course, but then ‘Black Books’ seldom were. Its navy cover was embossed with the word ‘Notebook’ in silver gilt, like a million others that were sold every day. He shivered at the banality of it; what was written beneath that cover had probably got two people killed. Something stopped him finishing the thought and he rested back on his heels, staring straight ahead as Annette looked on.

She knew that he wasn’t looking at the C.S.I.s, or even at the hospital staff who had gathered outside the tape, driven by curiosity and a ghoulish sense of the event. Craig wasn’t looking at either of those, he was searching the recesses of his brain for some clue that he had missed. Without warning he sprang to his feet and beckoned a female C.S.I. across, pointing to the book.

“Bag that please and get it straight to Dr Marsham at the lab.”

He signalled Annette to join him in the stairwell, waiting until the fire-doors had closed for privacy before he spoke.

“Why was Cooke wearing his white coat?”

Annette shrugged. “Habit probably. He probably put it on whenever he entered the unit.”

Possible. Craig continued. “Why didn’t they take the book?”

Annette stared at him blankly and then realised what he’d meant. It was a good question. Why not take it? If Adrian Cooke had been killed by a rival drug dealer, the book would be like manna from heaven; a ready-made list of junkies waiting for a fix and not fussy who they bought it from. She vocalised her thoughts and Craig nodded.

“I agree. Not a rival dealer then.”

“And not an addict either, sir. An addict would have taken the book on the off-chance that someone else on the list knew of a good place to score.”

“Or they would try to sell it, or even blackmail some of the names.” He nodded. “OK, so not an addict and not a dealer. They would both have taken the book if drug supply was why Cooke was killed.”

Annette interrupted. “If?”

Craig was still talking. “Someone whose family Cooke and Rudd had hurt?”

“You mean someone who loved an addict? Maybe.”

Craig half-nodded then he shook his head, answering his own question. “No. Why would they do it here? Why not at Cooke’s home? Unless…”

Annette waited, knowing that he didn’t need an answer. He would provide his own in a moment. It came in fits and starts.

“They killed Cooke here because…the book was here and… they wanted to catch him red-handed with it.”

Annette played devil’s advocate. “If the book was the reason.”

Craig nodded. “Even if the killer didn’t want the book, it may have given them the proof they needed to execute Cooke. Either way, unless you saw someone tailing you from the Antrim Road the killer was already here when Cooke arrived.”

Annette glanced through the glass fire-door at where Adrian Cooke’s body lay. He’d been found in the same area as Eleanor Rudd, but lying on the floor between the linen room, clinical room and sluice. The E.M.U. definitely held the answer to their killer’s identity.

“No CCTV in this area, which would fit with your theory that it’s someone who knows the unit. Maybe they work here?”

Craig followed her gaze through the glass as she kept talking.

“Where was the book, sir? Before Cooke lifted it, I mean.”

Craig gestured through the door. “One of those three rooms would be my bet. Eleanor Rudd must have hidden it there.”

“Perhaps that’s why her body was found in the linen room? Maybe she kept the book in there.”

Craig shook his head. “Too risky, any nurse or porter could have found it.”

“She was inventorying the clinical room that morning, so perhaps she stashed it somewhere in there when she knew she was going to be killed.”