Midnight Murders (23 page)

The room in the secure unit was unpleasantly warm. There were thick iron bars on the windows, and as if they weren't enough, they were fronted by wire mesh screens that blocked out most of the light. Roland was sitting across a narrow table from Dan, flanked by the solicitor. Both table and chairs were chained to the floor. Karl Lane, Carol Ashford and Dotty Clyne sat in a row at the far end of the room. Peter hovered in the corner.

‘Come on, Roland,' Dan pleaded. ‘Tell us where you found the syringe.'

Roland lifted his bloated face from his arms, and stared at Dan.

‘Why did you attack Sister Marshall?' Dan tried another tack.

‘We have yet to establish that an attack took place, Inspector Evans,' the solicitor reprimanded.

‘There are four witnesses,' Peter interrupted. ‘All police officers.'

‘But can they identify Mr Williams?'

‘Yes,' Peter replied flatly.

‘Why did you attack Sister Marshall?' Dan reiterated.

Roland remained obdurately silent.

‘All right, Roland, let's move on. You were holding a syringe. Where did you get it?'

‘Rubbish.'

The single word was enough to galvanise Dan's attention. ‘What rubbish, where?'

‘In the sacks.'

‘Where are the sacks kept, Roland?' Dan persisted.

‘In the corridor.'

‘Which corridor?' Dan was beginning to feel as though he was caught up in that irritating children's nursery verse, “In a dark dark wood, there's a dark dark place, and in the dark dark place there's a dark dark house…”

‘The corridor where the rubbish sacks are kept,' Roland closed his eyes.

‘They're kept in a room in the cellar of the old hospital,' Peter chipped in.

‘Did you go into the old hospital, Roland?' Dan pressed.

Roland sank his head on his arms again, and closed his eyes.

‘You're not going to get anything else out of him Inspector.' Carol Ashford rose from her chair in the corner. ‘He was so agitated we had to tranquillise him.'

‘You could try again later, Inspector.' Karl suggested, above Roland's snores.

‘How much did you give him?' Peter asked.

‘The standard dose,' Carol replied. ‘It had to be done.'

‘He was violent,' Karl brought in a wheelchair and parked it next to Roland.

‘We'll let you know when he wakes, Inspector,' Carol helped Karl lift Roland into the chair and walked beside it as Karl pushed it out of the room.

‘Roland's profile and records don't match those of a potential murderer,' Harry Goldman assured Peter and Dan. ‘But I've asked Dotty Clyne to call in as soon as she's free. Roland's one of her patients.'

‘What is the profile of a murderer?' Bill enquired.

‘There'd be evidence of psychopathic or sociopath tendencies,' Goldman answered. ‘You asked for my opinion, Superintendent Mulcahy, and I'm giving it to you. I don't believe that Roland is your man.'

‘But you can't say for sure?' Bill left his chair. ‘No matter, we have enough to book him.'

‘Only if Sister Marshall presses charges,' Tony Waters interposed.

‘It was aggravated assault, grievous bodily harm, and he tried to attack two police officers.' Bill stared Tony in the eye.

‘If you move Roland, there's a risk of him regressing and losing the headway he's made under Dotty's supervision during the past six months.'

‘Given the nature of Roland's crime, and this case, that's a risk I'm prepared to take. We'll charge him as soon as he wakes then transfer him to the station.'

‘I protest. You'll destroy my staff's hard work… '

‘Hard work?' Bill sneered. ‘Have you any idea how much your recovering alcoholic drinks?'

‘Have you any evidence?'

‘Every time I've spoken to the man he's been stinking of booze.' Bill went to the door. ‘We give him two hours to sleep it off. After that, Sergeant Collins will charge him. Then we'll hold him in our cells. They appear to be more secure than yours.'

‘Anything on Spencer Jordan?' Bill stormed into the back room of the mobile HQ.

‘Nothing,' Dan sensed Bill's mood and trod warily.

‘The pink silk thing?'

‘Sarah… Constable Merchant saw it. She joined his therapy class today. She's moving into the ward tonight.'

‘What exactly did she see?'

‘A woman's headscarf.'

‘Judging by his taste in knitwear, his own,' Peter broke in.

‘Anything else to report on Jordan?'

‘He left the lights burning in the bedroom and living room of his flat for most of the night.'

‘Guilty conscience?' Bill raised the idea.

‘Could be indigestion.' Peter reached for the coffee pot and a box of biscuits. ‘When he woke up he cooked himself breakfast, then left for his therapy room, and that's where he's been all day.'

‘Playing with the silk scarf,' Bill snapped.

‘And working with his art groups.'

‘Does he ever leave the hospital?'

‘Not that we've seen.'

‘Keep him under surveillance, and put someone on Harry Goldman,' Bill barked.

‘And Adam Hayter?' Peter suggested.

‘If we've a spare man.'

‘Then you don't think it is Roland?' Dan asked.

‘I don't bloody well know,' Bill cursed. ‘A full week into this case and no one has come up with any hard evidence implicating a particular suspect. What am I leading here?' he demanded. ‘A police investigation or a game of bloody Cluedo?'

‘We'd stand a better chance with a game of Cluedo,' Peter stepped out of the door. ‘Fewer suspects.'

‘What's the problem?' At the beginning of the second leg of a split shift, Andrew Murphy was tired, irritable, and ready to bite the head off the security guard on gate duty, who was arguing with a young, slim, dark-haired man.

‘He wants to see someone in the nurses' hostel,' the guard explained. ‘I've had orders to ring through the name of every visitor, and the girl he's asked for left this morning to go on holiday.'

‘Give him the date she gets back,' Andrew said impatiently.

‘That's just it, Officer.' The young man pushed his way into the booth. ‘It's my sister and we were supposed to travel together to my parents' house in Brittany. We arranged to meet at home, but she didn't turn up.'

‘You probably missed her on the road,' Andrew looked at the queue of traffic building up on the road outside the gates. ‘It is the rush hour.'

‘You don't understand.' The young man's voice pitched high in temper and something else. Something Andrew recognised as fear. ‘It's nearly six o'clock, and she was supposed to meet me at ten this morning.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-
THREE

A sick, empty feeling rose from the pit of Trevor's stomach as he stepped into the mobile HQ. ‘What did you say?'

‘We think Lyn Sullivan is missing,' Dan repeated slowly.

‘Are you sure? She was going on holiday to Brittany… ' His voice faded as he recalled the stench in the ward where they had found Vanessa.

‘Peter's with her brother in the hostel. They've emptied the place by ringing the fire alarm, and they're checking with everyone to pinpoint the last sighting of her.'

‘How long has she been missing?'

‘We'll know more when Peter's finished.'

Trevor sank down on a chair. All the time he'd been having nightmares about Jean, the killer had been stalking Lyn. He imagined her fresh young face, pale in terror, her eyes staring upwards, as she lay at the bottom of a pit. Earth shovelled spade-full by spade-full, covering her arms, her legs – and finally her face…

‘This bastard is always one step ahead of us,' Andrew Murphy stepped inside the van and handed one of the girls a sheet of paper.

‘Found her car?' Dan Evans asked.

‘It's still in the car park. Lab boys are springing the locks on it now.'

‘Ever get the impression that someone is goading you, laughing in your face?' Dan asked no one in particular.

‘We sew this place up tighter than a monkey's bum and he still gets himself another girl.' Andrew helped himself to a cigarette from a packet lying on top of the computer. For once, none of the girls manning the desk objected.

‘You all right?' Dan turned to Trevor.

‘I will be in a moment.' Trevor lifted his head out of his hands.

‘We will find her.'

‘Like we found Vanessa?' Trevor asked. No one dared answer him.

‘I want the hospital sealed off now – this minute,' Bill's voice reverberated through the thin walls of the van. ‘From this moment on, not so much as a moth flies in or out of the gate without being searched and giving us its name and address.'

‘We sealed off the place when Vanessa Hedley was taken,' Trevor said when Bill stepped inside the van.

‘And we'll do it again,' Bill reiterated. ‘We'll go over every inch of the buildings and the grounds. Once a room or an area is evacuated, it's toothcombed, sealed, and a man is put on surveillance until we've finished the whole complex.'

‘And the personnel?' Dan asked.

‘Those working the wards can go back to them, but the administrative staff will be searched and eliminated from our enquiries before they will be allowed out. If they're driving cars, we'll strip them back to the chassis.'

‘You want me to tell Tony Waters that we're closing down the admin offices?'

‘Until further notice,' Bill concurred.

‘And the grounds?' Dan checked.

‘Same principle; searched, tagged, wrapped in tape, and men covering the area at intervals. Every bloody inch!' Bill had reached the end of his patience. ‘Dog handlers are already in the girl's room, being primed with her bed linen.'

‘I know we've been here before.' Peter climbed the last few steps to the top of the old building. He stopped on the small landing and looked down at the twenty men following him. ‘But we start again, room by room; ransack every cupboard, every nook, every cranny, every box and every file. Tap every wall, every stair, every ceiling, seal off everything as you go. Take it slowly, floor by floor. Five of you start that end,' he pointed to his left, ‘and five this end,' he indicated right. He looked at Trevor. ‘We'll do this quicker if you take ten men and start in the cellar. We'll meet in the middle.'

‘It will save time,' Trevor agreed.

‘When we meet we'll compare notes and double-check to make sure we've covered everything.'

Trevor leaned heavily on the banister, and looked at Chris Brooke. They walked silently down the stairs until they reached the cellar. They began by checking the incinerators, the dog-handler working ahead of them. They checked every sack of rubbish, every crack in the solid cement floor, every inlet and outlet of heating pipes, and the ceiling. And even after the whole area had been thoroughly sniffed over a second time by the dogs, and Trevor had seen everything through his own eyes, he still wondered if they could have missed something.

It was a tedious job that progressed even more slowly when Tony Waters appeared and insisted on dogging their footsteps. He had grudgingly given Trevor a full set of keys, and Trevor, who'd heard about the sub-station from Peter, supervised the lifting of every iron plate from the floor again.

‘Nothing, sir,' Chris Brooke said flatly.

‘Nothing, sir,' the dog-handler repeated.

They checked, searched and double-checked. Knocked every wall, shone torches over every inch of the floor, every inch of wall, every inch of cellar.

‘If there's a bloody mouse that we haven't tagged down here, I'd like to know about it,' Andrew Murphy complained bitterly at the end of two hours of futile effort.

‘Stairs and corridor to next floor,' Trevor ordered abruptly.

‘Half floor,' Tony Waters corrected.

Trevor considered Tony too cool and collected for an administrator who had just lost another nurse, possibly to the same killer who had already murdered a nurse and three patients. He looked back into the empty cellar as he posted a seal on the door. ‘You,' he called out to the last man. ‘Stand here. And you,' he shouted to another officer. ‘Guard the far entrance in front of the locked door. Use your radios. Every ten minutes to main control, and every five to each other.'

Trevor couldn't resist the temptation to look back as he walked away. Were there secret passages beneath the floor, dating back to the days when a Norman Castle had occupied the site? Was Lyn hidden down there, half dead, if not dead already? Was she conscious and suffering? Hoping for a rescue that might never come?

‘My wife will accompany you when you search this floor.'

It was the first time Trevor had heard Tony refer to Carol as his wife. Tony folded the note Carol had brought him into his pocket.

‘I'm sorry to have to leave you, Sergeant Joseph, but I have to attend an emergency meeting.'

‘I'm sure Sister Ashford will look after us,' Trevor said. As Tony walked away and Carol drew closer the dogs went wild, pulling at their leashes.

‘I'm sorry,' the handler apologised.

‘It's all right.' Carol patted the dog. ‘I keep two Dobermans.'

‘You also use the same perfume as Nurse Sullivan and half the other females in this hospital.' The handler addressed Trevor. ‘Dogs have gone berserk over seven nurses already, sir.'

‘I'm afraid Laura has a lot of customers.' Carol explained.

‘The staff here shop together?' Trevor asked.

‘No time for shopping, so we grab what we can. Laura Stafford, the staff nurse in Alcohol and Drug Abuse, is married to a pharmacist. We give her our orders, she gives us discount, and this perfume was last month's special.'

‘All of which makes our job bloody impossible – begging your pardon, sister,' the handler apologised.

Carol smiled absently at him. ‘You know this floor is scarcely used now, Sergeant Joseph?'

Trevor referred to the notes Peter had thrust into his hand as they'd separated. ‘According to this, except for the rooms opposite the old padded cells. The hospital stores rubbish in them that's destined for the incinerator.'

They climbed up the stairs, one dog and its handler preceding them, another bringing up the rear. The men regularly tapped the walls, but there was no point in testing the concrete steps. The stairwell beneath them was an empty void.

‘Note that we haven't looked at the outside steps,' Trevor said sharply, studying a plan of the building to make sure there were no oversights. He walked down a grey corridor, floored and walled in concrete. A row of bare light bulbs hung overhead casting pools of weak light, but the officers still swept their powerful torch-beams over dusty corners. While Trevor tagged off the areas they had searched and locked partition doors, they moved on to the room where the rubbish was stored. The handlers allowed the dogs to sniff each bag before they were slit open. Foul-smelling waste tumbled out, carpeting the concrete. The officers spread it thinly, poking, prodding, and turning it over with long canes the team that had preceded them had left. They searched through used syringes, stained balls of cotton wool, and clumps of damp, dirty paper towels.

‘Does this job come with a free Aids test?' Andrew Murphy asked.

‘Move on to the end of the corridor.' Trevor ignored him, as he watched the last of the rubbish being scraped off the floor into fresh bags by Murphy and Brooke who were both wearing thick rubber gloves.

‘Do you want to search the mortuaries?' Carol asked as they approached the male mortuary.

‘Yes.' Trevor pulled the ring of keys out of his jeans pocket. ‘Do you keep them locked?'

‘Always, when there are bodies in them. That's why we can't understand how the body of Mrs Hope appeared out in the grounds.'

‘Mrs Hope was the corpse I landed on?' Trevor opened the door.

‘She was,' Carol acknowledged. ‘We've had two more deaths on geriatric earlier today. One senile dementia, ninety-two, and one heart attack, eighty-four.'

Trevor opened the door and allowed the dogs in first, but they still persisted in showing more interest in Carol's perfume.

‘There's no need to stay. We'll check out the body drawers,' Trevor said to the handlers.

Trevor walked in with Andrew Murphy and looked around the large square room. Two sinks had been fixed to the back wall, large, stone and open, without cupboards beneath them. Three plain wooden tables covered by sheets of zinc stood in the centre and a large bank of a dozen body drawers, four wide and three high, ran the full width. Andrew jerked out the top left-hand drawer, and he jumped back, as a pair of greyish white feet twitched towards him, the gnarled and yellow toenails pointing upwards.

‘The 92-year-old senile dementia,' Carol joined him and heaved the drawer out further. She folded back the sheet that was wrapped around the slight, emaciated body, and uncovered the face of an elderly man Trevor had last seen sitting and trembling on one of the benches in the garden.

‘Will you transfer him to the General?' Trevor asked.

‘No. We only transfer the ones who need a post mortem, Sergeant Joseph.'

‘We've seen all we need to, Sister.' Andrew looked away from the corpse.

Carol covered the body again and closed the drawer. Trevor pulled out one empty drawer after another.

‘Careful!' Carol shouted, as the whole bank leaned forward. Chris Brooke ran towards them and threw his weight alongside Andrew's, while Trevor and Carol closed one rusty drawer after another. By the time they'd succeeded in setting the unit on an even keel again, they were all exhausted.

‘At least we know there's nothing behind those drawers,' Andrew took out his handkerchief and covered his nose.

‘Check the floor under the sink,' Trevor ordered Chris Brooke, as he walked to the window and examined the mesh covering it.

‘Nothing, sir.'

Trevor was beginning to hate that word more than any other in the English language;

‘Nothing,' Andrew echoed, as he managed to force the last drawer home.

‘Tag it and we'll move on to the female mortuary.' Trevor waited until everyone had moved on before sealing the door. He followed and watched while Chris Brooke and Andrew Murphy fought with another set of rusted body drawers. But this time they were careful not to open more than two at a time.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Trevor stared at the joins between walls and ceiling. There had to be a body sized gap somewhere! People simply didn't vanish into thin air.

Dogs and men sniffed round the huge tubs, sinks and old dry linen cupboards of the laundry.

‘Nothing,' Chris Brooke repeated dully.

The word echoed from the floor above where Peter's team was already working. He imagined Lyn's face, so beautiful in life, frozen in death.

‘Shall we move on to the kitchen, sir?' Chris had to repeat himself before Trevor heard.

The staff moved into the dining area while Trevor's team opened stoves and refrigerators, emptied freezers, pantries, even the microwaves and food processors.

‘Nothing – nothing – nothing – ' Trevor felt as though he would go mad if he heard that word one more time.

Peter appeared at his side.

‘Where to now?' Trevor asked him.

‘Interview Roland. I've just had word he's awake and Bill wants us to give him the third degree.'

Peter dumped a stack of files on the table before he sat down and faced Roland. Trevor closed the door and took the only vacant chair, next to Dotty Clyne.

‘Did you see Nurse Sullivan this morning, Roland?' Peter launched straight into the important questions.

Roland shook his head so vigorously his fat cheeks and chin wobbled.

‘Did you see Nurse Lyn Sullivan at any time this morning?' Peter repeated.

‘No.' Roland's voice was so low Trevor had to strain his ears to catch what he was saying.

‘Where were you this morning?'

‘Therapy.'

‘Which therapy?' Trevor asked.

‘Art,' Roland was so terrified he was almost gibbering.

Trevor left his chair, opened the door and beckoned to Michelle Grady who was standing in the corridor. He pointed to his chair, and indicated she should take his place.

‘Why did you attack Sister Marshall?'

Trevor heard Peter's question, but not Roland's answer, as he made his way down the corridor to the therapy rooms. It was only when he reached the other end that he remembered the old block had been evacuated for the search. He nodded to the officer stationed at the door and went into the garden.