The Simple Death (23 page)

Forty-two

T
hey cut across to the north shore and drove through wealthy suburbs Troy was unfamiliar with. He knew his sister Georgie lived here somewhere, but Anna had always done the navigating when they'd visited. Conti called the Eastwood contact, Constable Latimer, who told them Leila Scott had taken a bang to the head but was conscious now, and would be okay to talk. Carl Burns had stitches in his forehead and was about to leave. For some reason known only to the health system, they had ended up at Hornsby Hosptial.

‘Keep them both there,' Conti said, and hung up.

She looked across at Troy, who was driving. He sensed her attention, kept his eyes on the road. This was the first time today they'd been really alone, the moment for one of them to say something.

What Conti said was, ‘This is bullshit. We should be at St Thomas'.'

‘Don't complain. It'll give you wrinkles.'

‘We've been on this longer than anyone and that's the main game, not checking out another dead end.'

Troy said nothing, knowing what she meant. Although, being objective, the detectives who'd spent the past week looking at complaints to the ombudsman must have learned a bit about how the hospital worked. Which would help them talk to staff in Oncology.

She said, ‘McIver and you, your relationship is different to how it was last year.'

‘In what way?'

‘You tell me,' she said, exasperated. ‘You can take this strong silent stuff too far, you know.'

‘He used to be a kind of father figure,' he said, and stopped, not sure of how the sentence should end.

‘I didn't think that, I don't think anyone did. We just thought you had a good partnership. But now it seems different.'

‘He used to be a father figure and now he's not,' Troy said. ‘I don't know why.' That sounded right.

‘So you're, what, thirty-three and you've grown up. Congratulations. But I don't see why you can't still work together the same way.'

‘No.'

She was even more exasperated. ‘That's all you can say? I ask you this important question and all I get is one word?'

‘Yes.'

When they reached the hospital, Latimer was at the entrance. A tall woman without much of a chin, she explained she'd arranged a room where they could interview Carl Burns. Leila Scott was still in Casualty, and wouldn't be going anywhere for some hours. Latimer said she had to leave soon to join a search around Scott's house.

‘Sergeant Bidwell thought we should have a look for the stolen items.'

Troy raised his eyebrows. ‘Very conscientious.'

‘Normally we wouldn't bother, but because of the break-in the other day, the sarge thought we should make an effort.'

‘What?'

‘Leila Scott disturbed an intruder two nights ago. Didn't actually see him. Nothing was taken.'

Scott seemed to lead an eventful life. ‘What was stolen today?'

‘Ms Scott's purse, the diary it was sitting next to, five hundred dollars cash in an envelope.'

Conti said, ‘Why would they take a diary?'

‘It's actually an old ledger. Sergeant Bidwell thinks the thief might have thought it might contain more cash—you know, thought it was a pile of paper to do with someone's accounts, but didn't have a chance to open it. When he was interrupted he just grabbed it and ran.'

‘So what happened?'

‘Burns had been to the loo, it seems he interrupted the thief as he was leaving, after he'd knocked out Scott.'

‘Then he knocked out Burns? Pretty good strike rate.'

Latimer shrugged. ‘The sarge is thinking the bloke would have checked out the diary when he got away, seen it was empty and chucked it. Maybe the purse too. Might have some prints.' Troy nodded—Sergeant Bidwell seemed to do most of the thinking around here.

Latimer opened the door of a meeting room. ‘I'll wait outside if you like.'

‘How's Leila?' Burns said, after Troy had introduced Conti and himself.

His eyes seemed sharp but his skin was pale and soft, like dough.

‘They say she's fine, keeping her here for observation.'

‘That's a relief. She didn't deserve what happened.' Burns was clasping and unclasping his hands.

Conti said, ‘Deserve what?'

‘To be hit, in her own home. Leila's got class, she's just been through a lot.'

‘Let's go over what happened.'

Burns nodded, almost violently. ‘I'd been to the bathroom—'

‘Why were you at the house?'

‘I'd asked Leila if Julie had left her diary there.' He paused. ‘Julie Cornish was my girlfriend, she died last week, heart condition. She'd spent some time at Leila's, looking after her mother while Leila went on holidays. We're both nurses.'

‘Do you work at the hospice too?'

‘No.'

As Burns spoke, Troy thought he detected a mixture of strength and softness, the two coming and going in a sort of dance on the man's face.

‘So Leila's mother lives in the house too?'

‘Elizabeth Scott died two weeks ago.'

‘How—'

‘Bone cancer. She was sixty-eight. Cruel.'

Burns had his eyes down now, hardly looking up at all. He was clearly still agitated by the morning's events.

‘So you wanted the diary?'

‘It was about us and I wanted to read it, for the memories. Leila told me she'd found it, so I came over.' He glanced at the detectives, as though disappointed they were not encouraging him, and then plunged on. ‘Julie always left stuff around; she was—could be—an unusual person. I got there at eleven thirty and Leila arrived about five minutes later. We went inside, then—'

‘Ms Scott had come all the way from work in the city. Do you know why she might have done that? Was it urgent for you to see the diary?'

‘I just thought she was being kind. Julie and I helped care for her dying mother.'

‘Okay.' Troy was making notes. ‘There was some money too, wasn't there? That Scott was going to give you?'

Burns nodded. ‘I guess that's what attracted the bastard to the table after he'd hit Leila.'

‘So Leila arrives at eleven thirty-five. She was alone?'

‘Yes.'

‘You too?'

‘Yeah. She unlocked the door and we went in, she led the way through to the kitchen. I said I needed to go—'

‘The front door was still open?'

‘I believe it was. We weren't going to stay long. Soon after I closed the door to the bathroom I heard this thump from the direction of the kitchen. It didn't sound right, so I went out and there was this guy coming from the kitchen, moving down the corridor in the direction of the front door. He was carrying the diary and the other stuff in one hand.'

Conti said, ‘What did he look like?'

‘Average height, black T-shirt and jeans, white trainers. Muscles, no visible tatts, that hair they have—sharp sideburns, head shaved except for a sort of round bit on top.' He patted the top of his own head gingerly.

‘They?' said Troy.

‘You know. People of Middle Eastern appearance. That's what you cops say, isn't it?'

‘How old was he?'

‘Early twenties. I was between him and the door and he just grabbed me and swung me around. My face hit the corner where the corridor meets the front hall.'

‘Ouch,' said Troy. According to Constable Latimer, blood had been found at a place on the wall consistent with this. ‘And then?'

‘I sort of staggered for a bit.'

‘You stayed on your feet?'

‘Just. When things cleared, I went to the kitchen and saw Leila on the ground. I checked she was breathing, got her rolled over, called triple-oh. They were there in six minutes.'

‘Right.'

‘That's a pretty good response time,' Burns said, his voice lifting. ‘The ambos were having some problems in the last quarter. Good to see they've lifted their game.'

Conti glanced at Troy, said, ‘Is that right?'

He thought about what he'd been told. It was feasible, although the theft of the diary was odd. There weren't many Lebanese in this part of the city. He looked at his notes, glancing at Burns. There was something strange about the man, but it might be just a personal thing, he could see nothing in their conversation that was out of place. The guy was probably still in shock. Troy looked over at Conti, and back at Burns.

Burns said, ‘You want to search me, don't you?'

This was interesting. Burns seemed to want to take over situations, even when he had nothing to offer. Troy decided to see where it went.

‘To eliminate you completely from our inquiries,' he said, ‘that would be helpful.'

Burns stood up and took out his wallet and put it on the table. Troy flicked through it, finding eighty dollars in cash, a few cards, and a photo of Julie Cornish. Burns emptied his pockets without being asked, pushing his fingers deep to show there was nothing there. The guy had been watching too much television. He produced a handkerchief, some coins, and a key ring. Troy, who'd been replacing the cards in the wallet, put it down and looked at the keys.

‘You can check my car,' Burns said. ‘It's the silver Mitsubishi outside the Scott place.'

Troy picked up the keys.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘We'll do that.'

Burns didn't look annoyed. If anything he seemed faintly pleased, but Troy knew not to make too much of this. Some people have a compelling desire for police to validate their innocence. A surprisingly large number, in his experience.

‘Could I ask where you were around nine thirty on the night of Thursday 4 February?'

Burns smiled. ‘What's this about?'

‘Could you just answer the question?'

‘It's the time Mark Pearson fell off the Manly Ferry, isn't it?'

‘How do you know that?'

‘I work at St Thomas'. We were all talking about it. I saw you in the corridor there last week.' When Troy said nothing, he went on, ‘I was at home with Julie that night. We bought Thai takeaway.'

‘What time?'

‘About nine. A late meal. We'd been watching a DVD,
Pulp Fiction
. I like the classics.' Burns glanced up from the table. ‘It is a classic, isn't it? One of the greats.' He looked down again.

‘Where did you buy the food?'

‘Fine Thai. I picked it up.'

‘Do you remember how you paid?'

‘I use a card.'

Troy wished Burns would look at him more. It was easy to assume someone who wouldn't meet your eyes had something to hide. Too easy.

‘I met Julie,' Troy said. ‘I have a friend who's a patient at Charity.'

‘What's their name?'

‘Julie was kind to him.'

‘She was a lovely girl. Although there were a lot of issues there.'

‘What ward do you work in?'

‘Oncology.'

Troy should have asked before. He wrote this in his book, very slowly, not looking at Conti. Burns' must be on the staff list McIver had shown him that morning, but he'd stopped reading when he'd got to Cornish's name. Sloppy.

‘So Julie and you worked there together for a while?'

‘Until she went to Charity.'

‘What was she like with the patients?'

‘Kind. But their suffering used to depress her, she could get quite down.'

Conti said, ‘So she moved to the hospice?'

Carl nodded. ‘There's more acceptance there, of death. And they're better at pain management. She'd been hurt a lot as a child. Pain worried her.'

‘Abuse?'

He nodded again. ‘I suggested she seek help, but she seemed to be handling it.'

Troy said, ‘When Julie got depressed, did her behaviour change?'

Burns frowned in concentration. He was looking at them more often now, making more of an effort.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Did you ever see her harm a patient?'

‘No. Why do you ask?'

‘Just wondering,' said Troy, not wanting to say anything to alert Burns to the concerns of the investigation. The detectives at St Thomas' would be doing that soon enough.

‘No,' Burns said, looking sharply at both of them. Then, ‘Well, once I saw her about to give an old lady too much morphine. I pointed this out to Jules and she changed the quantity, said it was a mistake.'

He looked down at the table, apparently recalling the incident.

Conti said, ‘Would it have been a fatal dose?'

‘I don't know. It's not that easy to kill someone with morphine.'

‘Why do you think she did that?'

‘A mistake. Like I said, by then she wasn't operating all that good.'

Troy cleared his throat. ‘Do you think there might have been other mistakes?'

‘No.' Burns looked wretched. Despite his quick answer, you could see he was still thinking about it. Maybe it was something that had been on his mind.

‘You're sure?'

‘I'm not sure of anything.' He brushed a few tears from his face. ‘But we had a talk about what I'd seen, and she resigned soon afterwards.'

‘You told anyone?'

‘No. Nothing actually happened.'

‘Because you were there.'

Conti said, ‘If Julie had these issues relating to death, wasn't a hospice a strange place to go to next?'

Burns shook his head vigorously. ‘It wasn't the death that worried her in Oncology. It was the attitude. Cancer doctors are A types, always running around trying to save people who don't have a chance. It's like it's about them instead of the patients.'

‘What about Dr Carter, is he like that?'

‘He's got other problems. There's this ward-management system—'

‘What about with the patients?'

‘He's no worse than the others. The point about the hospice is they accept death and that was important to Julie. It made her at ease with the work.'