Midnight Murders (6 page)

‘These rooms lie empty, while the attics are full of boxes? Didn't anyone think to tell the removal men they could have stopped off halfway?' Peter noted the thick layer of dust that blanketed the floorboards.

‘Those records were put into storage in the fifties, when this was still being used. The papers in the box I opened dated back to the turn of the century.'

‘They could be worth a fortune.'

‘I doubt it – but I've notified the town archivist. When he has time, he'll examine them. Shall we go down to the ground-floor?'

At the foot of the stairs Peter noticed a narrow passage behind the staircase. It led to a locked door that faced the rear of the building. He tapped on the door.

‘That leads to the old padded cells. They were ripped out twenty years ago, but they hadn't been used for years.'

‘Can I take a look?'

‘There isn't much to see.' Irritated, Waters tried four keys in the lock before he hit on the right one. They entered a long dark passage lit by widely-spaced weak light bulbs. After twenty yards the corridor began to slope steeply downwards. Waters switched on another string of lights and halted before a row of six identical concrete cells.

‘No doors,' Peter stared into the eight-foot-square, grey concrete boxes.

‘They were taken off when the padding was ripped out.'

‘And this door?' Peter pointed to a steel door at the far end of the corridor.

‘Leads to the old laundry and mortuary. You can also enter them from the main corridor, but as we're here, we may as well go this way. He fumbled with the keys again. After a couple of minutes of trial and error, the rusty lock gave way. He switched on the lights.

‘Are we at ground-floor level or basement?' Peter asked. There had been no windows in the padded cell area, but the corridor ahead also loomed dark and forbidding, devoid of natural light.

‘Somewhere between the two,' Tony flicked on another light. ‘It's a half-level floor, built into a low mound at the back. You can see it on the plan.'

Michelle unfolded the drawing she was carrying.

‘This is probably the first time in years anyone's walked through this area from the cells. We use the old laundry for storing rubbish before it's burned in the incinerator.'

Peter looked at neat rows of bulging bright-pink plastic bags, boldly imprinted DANGER MEDICAL WASTE.

Tony selected another key and opened a wooden door. ‘This is the male mortuary.'

‘The what?' Michelle repeated.

‘The male mortuary. The female mortuary is down there.' Tony pointed down the corridor.

‘You separate male and female dead?' Peter laughed. ‘What's the problem? You afraid they'll get up to something they shouldn't?'

‘The Victorians built this place, not me.' Tony opened the door to a surprisingly large, light and airy room, although all the illumination came from bubbled glass panes set close to the ceiling. Fully tiled in white wall tiles and black floor tiles, it contained two zinc-covered tables, the most enormous stone sink Peter had ever seen and, facing them, a bank of twelve body-size steel drawers.

‘Tin-lined.' Tony pulled one drawer out after another. They moved stiffly, their runners warped.

‘I take it you don't use this place any more, either?'

‘Yes, we do. But only for routine deaths that don't require a post mortem. If there's a problem with diagnosis or death certificates, we send the body to the mortuary in the General.'

‘And Patrick O'Kelly?'

‘Who?' Waters stared blankly at Peter.

‘Patrick O'Kelly, the pathologist in the General. I thought as you worked for the Health Authority, you might have heard of him.'

‘No, I haven't.'

Peter looked into a drawer. ‘So these are still used?'

‘Particularly when someone dies on the geriatric ward.'

‘Do you have a mortuary attendant?'

‘Not since we made the last one redundant two years ago.'

‘Who lays out the bodies?'

‘Usually a nurse. One or two of the porters can do it at a push.'

‘Can we see the female mortuary?' Michelle asked.

‘Want to find out if they're going to lay you out behind flowered curtains?' Peter enquired.

Ignoring Peter, Michelle followed Tony into a room, identical in every respect to the male mortuary.

‘The laundry.' When they emerged from the half-level Tony pointed out a hall dotted with sinks and enormous round boilers.

‘Disused?' Peter asked.

‘Laundry was put out to tender years ago. Kitchens,' Tony opened another door, this time on an area bustling with noisy activity.

‘Not put out to tender.' Peter gazed at the white-overalled staff who were flitting between modern cookers and stainless-steel work surfaces.

They walked down the back staircase to the cellars and a boiler room that was fed on gas, the sub-station that housed the cables for the incoming electricity supplies and the generator back-up. Remembering another case he'd worked on, Peter lifted the iron plates that covered the incoming supply, but he uncovered only thick black cables.

‘The incinerator was installed only last year.' Waters pushed back a heavy sliding door and said hello to a man who was fiddling with rows of dials. Peter looked at the mass of pipes, cables, and small tunnels leading off into darkened spaces.

‘We've seen the whole of the old building?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's a paradise for someone who wants to conceal a body,' Peter mused. ‘And bloody murder for a policeman looking for clues. Absolute bloody murder.'

CHAPTER SIX

‘Anything interesting?' Dan asked when Peter and Michelle walked into the administrator's office.

‘Nothing obvious,' Peter replied. ‘Only a nightmare of a building to search. Who's organising it?'

Dan studied his fingernails and said nothing.

‘You can't do this to me.' Peter protested.

‘Drug Squad officers organise the most thorough searches,' Dan flattered.

Tony spoke to his secretary in the outer office before joining them. His face creased in annoyance when he saw Dan sitting behind his desk, a notepad covered with scribbles in front of him, the telephone conveniently placed at his elbow. ‘Can I get you anything, Inspector?'

‘No thank you,' Dan replied. ‘Your secretary has provided me with everything I need.' He moved an empty coffee mug to the edge of the desk before rising from the chair. ‘And I won't be inconveniencing you long. We're moving a mobile HQ into the grounds.'

‘A demountable building?' Tony asked warily.

‘More of a caravan,' Dan looked through the window. ‘Perhaps you can advise us on a suitable site.'

‘If it's space you're looking for, there are rooms the size of football pitches going begging in this building,' Tony said.

‘Our mobile HQ contains all we need, and we won't get under anyone's feet,' Dan countered. ‘Where do you suggest we put it, Mr Waters?'

‘I'll think about it,' Tony put off the decision.

‘It'll be here in an hour,' Dan said shortly.

‘How about close to the main gate, so we can keep police traffic in and out of the hospital to a minimum.'

‘That's too public,' Dan stroked his double chin. ‘It will attract sightseers. I thought somewhere at the back of this building. Behind the tunnels?'

‘As you wish,' Tony agreed, wondering why Dan had bothered to ask his advice when he'd already decided on the location.

‘I'm also expecting two teams of police,' Dan warned.

‘To search the building?'

‘Later, first I want them to do some digging. The heat-seeking cameras came up with a few spots. They're probably nothing, but to be on the safe side we're going to excavate your flowerbeds.'

‘May I ask how long this digging is likely to take?' Tony was beginning to wonder if his day was ever going to end.

‘There are two hours of daylight left. We'll start as soon as they get here, which with luck,' Evans glanced at his watch, ‘will be in the next ten minutes. But if we find anything unusual, we may work through the night.'

‘In the dark?'

‘We'll bring up floodlights.'

‘I must protest. Lights would definitely disturb the patients.'

‘We may have no choice. One more thing before I go,' Dan pulled a sheet of typed paper from his pad, and a photograph. ‘These came up from the station half an hour ago. Description and new photograph of the victim for you to circulate among your staff.'

Tony took the photograph, and blanched.

‘You knew her, Mr Waters?' Dan asked.

‘It looks like – Rosie Tywford.' Tony gripped the edge of his desk. ‘The hair's right,' he faltered, ‘but the face is all wrong. The skin's too dark.'

‘It would be, Mr Waters. She was asphyxiated,' Dan explained. ‘There's a description; five-foot-six, dyed blonde hair, blue eyes, no distinguishing marks other than a butterfly tattooed on her buttock.'

‘I wouldn't know about the butterfly, Inspector.' Tony dropped the photograph on the desk. ‘But everything else fits.'

‘Who was she?' Peter asked as Tony sank down in his chair.

‘She worked in this department as a clerk, before she had a breakdown. Then she became a patient.'

‘When was the last time you saw her?' Dan demanded.

‘I can't remember.'

‘Think!' Peter ordered.

‘Sometime last week. Harry told me that he was discharging her as an outpatient. She'd been discharged from the ward weeks ago. He said she was thinking of visiting her parents in Devon before returning to work here.'

‘Where did she live?' Peter pressed.

‘How should I know?' Tony replied irritably. ‘A rented room or flat I suppose. I only spoke to the girl once or twice. If you want to find out more, I suggest you ask Harry or Human Resources.'

‘We'll do that,' Dan said. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Waters. No doubt we'll be in touch again soon.'

‘Where to now?' Peter asked Dan as they left the administrator's office.

‘Human Resources then Harry Goldman. Here.' Dan handed Michelle the photograph and sheet of paper detailing the victim's description.

‘You want me to do it, sir?' she bristled with pride at the trust he was placing in her.

‘Be quick. I've a feeling these offices shut early, and it's four now.' Dan watched as she hurried down the corridor, her long-legged stride hampered by her narrow skirt. ‘Were any of us ever that keen, Peter?'

‘I can't remember.'

Dan headed into a perspex tunnel. ‘What do you think of the administrator?'

‘He's a stuffed shirt who might know more about that girl than he let on.'

‘We can't build walls until we have foundations to lay them on,' Dan mused. ‘I want you to oversee the staff interviews.'

‘Must I?'

‘I said oversee. That doesn't mean you have to do them all yourself.'

‘But it means I have to co-ordinate the resulting information.'

‘As well as supervise the search of these buildings, but I'll see to it that you have help. Bill's bringing in a couple of teams… '

‘Shouldn't we check if they've arrived?' Peter prompted, before Dan could think of something else to unload on to him.

‘They can start without us. You do know that apart from the sites picked up by the heat-seeking cameras we're going to have to scour every inch of garden that can be seen from Vanessa Hedley's window?'

‘With probes?' Peter suggested.

‘In every centimetre of ground,' Dan warned.

‘Garden that size could take weeks.'

‘It could.' Dan turned the corner, and once more he and Peter were locked in the strange, disembodied white tunnel world. ‘But now I intend doing something I've been trying to find time for all day. I'm going to visit Trevor Joseph, and as I didn't know him that well, I'd like you to re-introduce me.'

‘He's a hopeless case.' Peter hated himself for declaring it.

‘I'd like to see how hopeless for myself,' Dan walked towards the wards. ‘You do know where to find him, don't you?'

As usual, Trevor was slumped in the chair in his room, but to Peter's surprise he had a book on his lap, and as it was the right way up, Peter had no reason to suspect that he hadn't been reading it.

‘You remember Inspector Evans?' Peter walked in and sat on Trevor's bed.

‘Dan Evans.' Dan held out his hand and Trevor shook it, but he refused to meet Dan's steady gaze, and continued to stare down at his book.

‘Can we talk?' Dan asked.

‘I suppose so.' Trevor moved his legs so Dan could sit alongside Peter on the bed.

‘You heard we found a body buried in the grounds here?'

‘Yes.'

‘You don't seem very interested?'

‘I'm not.'

‘It's murder. A young girl, early twenties, buried alive,' Evans informed him. ‘I was hoping that you could help us.'

‘I'm on sick leave.'

‘You're also in this place.'

‘As a patient,' Trevor reminded.

‘You're a trained detective,' Dan persisted.

Trevor left his chair, walked to the window and looked into the garden. It was the first time Peter had seen him glance at the outside world since he'd been injured, but he suspected that Trevor was only doing so to avoid looking at Dan.

‘That last case of yours… ' Dan paused. ‘It could have happened to any one of us.'

‘But it happened to me.'

Peter had to strain his ears to catch what Trevor was saying.

‘I know what you must be feeling,' Dan sympathised.

‘You can have no possible idea what I'm feeling.'

‘You're right, Trevor,' Dan braved the silence that followed Trevor's outburst. ‘That was presumptuous of me. I can't begin to imagine what you've been through.'

‘Or what I'm still going through,' Trevor added.

‘I wouldn't have come to you if there was anyone else with your qualifications and inside knowledge of this place. We need your help.'

‘I'm not fit enough to work.'

‘All I want is for you to tell us about some of the people here. You've a trained eye; you know what we're looking for.'

‘These people have been taking care of me,' Trevor protested. ‘I haven't been watching them with a detective's eye.'

‘But you know them?' Dan persevered.

‘Not as well as they know me, and not well enough to know if one of them is a murderer.'

‘Won't you at least talk to me?'

‘I wouldn't be any help.'

‘You must know something, this Vanessa Hedley, for instance.'

‘She's disturbed. She rarely sleeps. She's always wandering around the place creating problems.'

‘And Sister Marshall – Jean Marshall?' Trevor hadn't said anything that wasn't common knowledge, but Dan felt elated. Trevor was talking and who knew what else he might say?

‘She's capable,' Trevor said succinctly.

‘Nurse Lyn Sullivan?'

Peter thought he saw a flicker of interest in Trevor's eyes.

‘She's young, pretty, too vulnerable for a place like this.'

‘Spencer Jordan?'

‘He's a good therapist. I'm not stupid. I know what you're doing, but I'm not in a position to help you.'

As silence reigned in the room once more, Trevor watched squads of men in white overalls move into the grounds. A police dog-handler's van pulled up in the “Doctors Only” parking bay. Bill Mulcahy in the centre of the lawn, alternately consulting the plan he was holding and an officer who hovered at his elbow.

‘How many more are buried in the grounds?' Trevor asked.

‘Who said there were more?' Dan replied.

‘It doesn't take a detective to fathom what's happening out there.' Trevor continued to stare out of the window.

‘Time you and I went to work, Peter.' Dan rose from the bed. ‘All right if we call in and see you tomorrow, Trevor?'

‘I can't stop you.' Trevor didn't turn around as they left.

* * *

‘Is he always like that?' Dan asked Peter as they headed for the main door.

‘You caught him on a good day. Today he answered your questions.'

‘Have you thought it might be him?'

‘Trevor?' Peter questioned incredulously.

‘He's in here. He had the opportunity.'

‘And what bloody motive?'

‘He's depressed, disturbed – he's here… '

‘As the result of being almost beaten to death,' Peter broke in defensively.

‘I heard he became obsessed with one of the witnesses on his last case. A woman with long dark hair.' Dan looked at Peter. ‘I saw that drawing on his bedside cabinet.'

‘They knew one another before the case – he – they – Bloody hell, this is Trevor Joseph you're talking about!' Peter exploded.

‘I shouldn't have to remind you of the first rule of detection; keep an open mind.'

‘Even where one of our own is concerned?'

‘Especially where one of our own is concerned,' Dan said firmly.

‘We've pinpointed the sites with markers, and surrounded them with screens,' Bill announced as Dan and Peter joined him.

‘Patrick?' Dan asked.

‘Standing by. He can be here in ten minutes if we need him. Peter, you work with the group closest to the building. Dan, take this one.'

Peter walked across the turf towards the group Bill had entrusted to his care. It was a beautiful early spring evening. For the first time in months he took time to listen to birdsong. The sun hung, a blazing golden ball, low on the horizon; the air was redolent with the smell of magnolia and cherry blossom.

‘I joined this force to catch criminals, not to pass out parking tickets and shovel bloody shit!'

Peter recognised the lament of the rookie. He stepped behind the canvas screen. ‘What's your name, boy?'

‘Chris Brooke, sir,' the rookie snapped smartly to attention.

‘Shovelling shit is all you're likely to do while you continue to moan.' Peter thrust a spade into his hands, and stood watching while Chris Brooke pushed it into six inches of manured soil. ‘You,' he shouted to a female constable standing on the public side of the canvas, ‘take the plants he digs up and lay them next to that tree.'

‘I haven't worked in this garden, man and boy for forty years, to have a lot of flatfoot coppers wreck it in one night.' Jimmy Herne strode across and grabbed the rose-bush Brooke was lifting over the canvas. ‘These were only planted last week. You're disturbing the roots. One hard surface frost and they'll be… '

‘How deep did you dig down?' Peter interrupted.

‘The right depth for rose-bushes,' the old man barged behind the low canvas screen and thrust his face aggressively close to Peter.

‘One foot? Two?'

‘Three foot. Always three foot.' Herne snarled. ‘And then lace the digging with well-rotted manure. Any fool will tell you that.'

‘Thank you for that lecture,' Peter replied.

‘It's hard to keep this garden going when all you have is your own two hands and two stupid boys no one else will give house-room to, and now… '

‘Sorry, Grandpa,' Peter apologised, ‘but it can't be helped. We'll put everything back the way we found it.'