Skin (34 page)

‘What’s happening?’ She’d got up as he came in. ‘Did she kill herself? Did she leave a note?’

‘Darcy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m Jack. Jack Caffery.’

She shook the hand he held out. Her palm was damp, cold. ‘Did she say why? In the note?’

‘Sit down.’

She did so and he sat next to her, his feet set slightly apart, his knee not far from hers, his head bent down a little so he could look up into her face.

‘It’s hit you hard, hasn’t it?’

‘It’s not exactly what I was, y’know, expecting when I came into work this morning.’

‘You up to talking?’

‘I’ve said a lot of it already – I’ve told them how I . . .’ She turned smudgy eyes to Caffery. ‘I keep thinking there was something I should’ve done.’

He put a hand on her shoulder. Stupid thing to do, maybe, because strictly speaking he shouldn’t even be here on his own with her. You never knew what accusations people were capable of. The East European girls in the Dover pens had developed a habit of waiting until they were on their own with a cop, shoving their hands inside their panties, then wiping their fingers on the cop’s hands before he knew what was happening. Screaming assault – and who was going to deny it when the DNA popped up from the swabs? Cops were taught to travel in pairs these days. But this girl looked like she hadn’t the resources left to go to the toilet on her own, let alone accuse him of assault.

‘I’m police too,’ he said. ‘But the questions I’ve got might be different from the ones they asked you on the phone. Is that OK?’

‘What was in the note?’ Darcy pressed a balled-up handkerchief to her nose. ‘The suicide note?’

‘She was unhappy. Said she felt abandoned.’

‘Not abandoned. I just can’t believe it. She had loads of friends. Her parents are great, really cool – for parents, y’know. And Paul was coming off the rigs. It was all she could talk about. She’d spent most of the week getting ready.’

‘You knew her well?’

‘Years ago, we used to do everything together. We had a bit of a – I don’t know – a bust-up about six months ago and since then we’ve kind of avoided each other, but not seriously, you know. We kept it light after that so we didn’t have to talk about the argument. But we’d still socialize at work – laugh and gossip and that.’

‘Control tells me you last saw her yesterday lunchtime.’

‘In the locker room. I was getting changed, ready to meet my date. She was going to the loo. I’m standing there looking in the mirror and I’ve seen her come out and wash her hands and . . . and that’s why I’m sort of . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘That’s why I’m sort of screwed up by it all because I think she wanted to tell me something and I was in a hurry so I didn’t listen. I thought about calling her later, but when I did her phone was switched off. I didn’t leave a message.’

‘Her phone was off when she was found and the log was wiped. Was she in the habit of wiping the log?’

‘I don’t think so. One thing I
do
know is she would never switch her mobile off. Never.’

‘So tell me again – what happened in the changing room?’

‘It was her face. She . . .’ Darcy paused, clearly trying to think how to explain it. ‘You know if someone has just seen something but they can’t believe
what
they’ve seen? They get this sort of look on their face, like they think someone’s having a laugh or something, but they’re not sure.’ She wiped her eyes again. ‘I was in a hurry so I looked in the mirror and I go, “What’s up, Suse?” and she shakes her head and she’s like, “Do you know any of the recovery nurses?” And I go, “No, why?” And she’s like, “I think they’re all a bit thick – not to see what’s going on under their noses.”’

Caffery raised his eyebrows. Darcy nodded. ‘I know. But I’m the thick one cos I was only half listening, thinking she’s getting into some bitching session about the other nurses, and then she goes: “I’m going a bit mad. I think I’ve just seen one of the surgeons stealing something.”’

‘Stealing what?’

‘She didn’t say. I don’t think it was money or valuables. It was the way she used the word “
stealing
”. Like it wasn’t quite the right word. Like it was the nearest she could come to it. And later, when I’m thinking about it, I’m convinced whatever she wanted to tell me was well weird. It was written all over her face, like she’d seen something really horrible.’

‘Where had she come from?’

‘The operating theatre.’

‘Did she say which surgeon it was?’

‘No. She’d have worked with a few yesterday, I think.’

There was a moment’s silence. She looked back at Caffery, not understanding the impact of what she had said. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not much help, am I?’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Caffery said. He had to avoid the instinct to pat her shoulder again. ‘Don’t be sorry at all. You’ve been very helpful.’

55

The manager of the clinic couldn’t think what Susan Hopkins had meant by ‘stealing’. The patients shouldn’t have anything of value in the recovery room: everything would have been placed in the clinic’s central safe upon admission. Signed for. She showed Caffery the register as proof. Her day wasn’t exactly working out as she’d planned it, and Caffery could sympathize with that, but he didn’t think it excused her rudeness. She was as tight-lipped as a camel’s backside in a sandstorm. And when he asked for the details of all the surgeons Susan Hopkins had been working with yesterday, that really tore the lid off for her. The clinic rented the space and facilities to the surgeons, she insisted, that was all. She’d happily give him the names of the three surgeons Susan Hopkins had been rostered with, but absolutely no details of the operations performed and under no circumstances details of the patients. He was welcome to takes his chances with the surgeons’ secretaries, but medical secretaries were notoriously hidebound about things like this, and, she explained, looking down her nose at him, she didn’t fancy his odds without a warrant.

But she was wrong, as it turned out. The secretary who managed the books for two of the surgeons, Davidson and Hunt, was sweet-faced. She knew Susan Hopkins and had heard what had happened. The whole clinic was talking about it.

‘I want to look into their records.’

‘I’m not supposed to tell you anything.’ She stood at the door of her office anxiously, her back to it as if she was guarding a treasure. ‘You know that, don’t you? I’m supposed to wait for a warrant.’

‘Susan didn’t commit suicide. Has that part of the news reached you?’

‘That’s what some of them have been saying.’

‘There might be other cases we’re linking her death to. Can you see what I mean?’

She didn’t answer. She was so pale even her mouth had lost its colour.

‘A serial killer.’ He leant in to hiss the words. The silver bullet. The most frightening words a woman could hear. ‘I’m saying we might be talking about a serial killer.’

The secretary bit her lip. Looked down the corridor to check they weren’t being watched. ‘Oh, Christ.’ She stood back to let him in. ‘I could get the sack for this. Quickly. Close the door.’

She went to the other side of the desk and leant over the computer, shook the mouse and the screen came to life.

‘We’ve been having trouble with the server. The men are due this morning, but it’s still . . . Ah – there. Now, what am I looking for?’

‘Both surgeons’ lists for the beginning of May two years ago.’ Caffery came to stand next to her and watched her scrolling through. ‘Specifically a tummy tuck and a sympathectomy in the same op.’

‘We keep records going back five years. You never know what claims people are going to cook up. I’m pretty meticulous about it. There.’ She stopped scrolling. ‘Mr Davidson did an abdomectomy on the fifth – that’s about it. After that it was mostly rhinoplasties. Mr Hunt did three corrective operations on the fourth – that’s one of his specialities, scar revision. You know, they come in with some other surgeon’s botches. He’s good, Mr Hunt. Really good. No sympathectomies.’

‘Who did you say did the abdomectomy?’

‘Mr Davidson. Paul.’

‘Patient’s name?’

‘Karen Cooper.’

‘Nothing under the name Mahoney?’

‘No.’ She tapped her pen. Looked at the screen. ‘That’s all. The names might be fake – people get embarrassed: we can’t control that – but the ops in the system aren’t. That was the only abdomectomy in those three days. And nothing on the sympathetic nerve. Not for Mr Hunt or Mr Davidson. I don’t think I’ve ever known either of them do that operation anyway. I’m sorry.’

Caffery got up and put his business card on the desk. ‘Where’s Mr Gerber’s secretary?’

‘At the end of the corridor. There are three secretaries in there. You need Marsha. If you get lost just follow the cold air.’

‘The cold air?’

‘That’s me being bitchy. I’m just saying, good luck walking into Marsha’s domain without a warrant and asking for a peep at her surgeon’s records. If you know what I mean.’

‘Not very amenable?’

‘The words “blood” and “stone” come to mind. Or “Cruella”.’

‘Thanks,’ Caffery said. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

56

There were three work stations in the office but it was coffee break and only one was occupied. By Marsha. The indomitable Marsha. She was tall and stately with perfectly black hair cut in a blunt line at her shoulders, rather orange skin and oval, black-lined eyes. If she knew about the Cruella tag she was playing up to it. She was dressed in a long pencil skirt, killer stilettos and a bat-winged purple blouse. Her lips were done in dark, heart-attack magenta. Not one to be messed with.

‘Hi.’ Caffery looked round the office, found a chair and sat, his hand in his pocket, fingers on the mobile-phone number pad. ‘Are you Mr Gerber’s secretary?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Good start, Cruella. With his free hand he fished out another of his business cards and put it on the desk. ‘Is Mr Gerber here?’

‘No.’

Marsha studied the card. The computer screen was turned away from everything – from the window, from the door. She’d made sure no one would be sidling up behind her and looking at the screen.

‘Is he due in today?’

‘No. He’s already been in. Not coming back until Friday. What’s this about, please?’

In his pocket he hit the phone keypad. The ring-tone sang out.

‘’Scuse me.’ He stood, went to the door, pulled out the phone, his finger still on the ring-tone button, looked at the display then took his finger off. The noise stopped.

‘Hello?’

Marsha watched him stonily from the desk.

‘Gotta take this call,’ he mouthed. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He slid away, pretending to talk, stopping at the bottom of the corridor, out of earshot from the offices. He dialled Reception.

‘UPS here. I’ve got a delivery for a Mr Gerber. Have I got the right number?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m coming off the A432. I’m only a few minutes away.’

‘Come down the second track on the right. It’s signposted.’

‘I’m tight on time. Need to just drop and fly. Can you get someone to come out and meet me at the front?’

‘I don’t know. This is getting to be a habit with you guys.’

‘Yeah – I’m sorry about that.’

‘I can’t always do this, you know.’

‘You’d be helping me out.’

‘Oh, ho ho. Now
there
’s an incentive.’ The receptionist sighed. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll get his secretary to wait for you. But just this once.’

‘Good girl.’

By the time he got back to the office the phone call had already come from Reception. Marsha was on her feet, replacing the handset. ‘I’ve got to go. I won’t be long.’

‘That’s OK.’ He sat down. ‘I’ll wait.’

She looked at him, looked at the chair he was sitting on. Then she looked at the computer. She bent over and, very coolly, very deliberately, logged out of the session. Taking her handbag off the back of the chair, she gave him a tight smile. Caffery smiled back and held up his hand. If you can’t trust a cop who can you trust?

That was what his mother used to say. It had always made his dad laugh.

When she’d gone he went to the window and waited for her to appear on the gravel driveway. She came out with her chin held high. Taut and controlled, arms crossed, looking off down the driveway. In his thirty-nine years’ experience he’d learnt that girls who dressed and behaved like Marsha never followed it up in the bedroom. Guys would get fantasies about whips and leather and being sat on, but girls like Marsha wanted more gentleness between the sheets than the ones who wore angora cardigans. Out of the bedroom, though, the Marshas of the world could be true predators. She’d got him – nailed him with logging out like that. This was going to end up with a sodding warrant. More time wasted.

He looked back at the computer. No, he thought. Not a chance he could get into it. Not a chance in hell. But then, he reasoned, it would be rude not to try. He went to her chair and sat in it, staring at the log-in screen. Two empty spaces –
USERNAME
and
PASSWORD
. The choke point – and in the movies it’d always be on the third try that the hero got the password. He searched the desk for clues. Nothing. Ran his hands over the computer, opened the drawers and felt up under them for taped pieces of paper. Nothing. He turned Marsha’s nameplate to face him. Marsha Wingett. Typed ‘m.wingett’. Thought, What the fuck? and typed ‘Cruella’ into the password box. Hit enter. The message flashed up.
Oops! Have you forgotten your password?