not be important, but …’
McAvoy listens to the rest of the message. Pinches the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.
Calls her back.
She answers on the second ring.
‘Miss Mountford, hi. Yes, sorry. Vicki. I got your message. You mentioned that somebody else might have been aware of Daphne’s essay. Is that right?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she begins. ‘Well, I was talking to my sister, like I said in my message. It was a day or so after you and I talked. And anyway, I was telling her what we talked about and told her all about what had happened to Daphne and we were just gabbing about it and saying how creepy and terrible it all was, and then she remembered having told her bloke about it. Well, after I put the phone down she called me back and put me onto him and he sounded really sheepish and anyway, long story short, he remembers having a few drinks one night and telling a couple of blokes about this poor lass who’s wound up in Hull and wrote this gorgeous essay about all the horrible things that had happened to her and how it would make a brilliant book …’
McAvoy closes his eyes. He’s nodding, but saying nothing. Already he knows where this is going.
‘And this was where?’
‘Southampton,’ she says, and from the wonder with which she says the word, she might as well be saying ‘the moon’. ‘He’d gone there for a job interview. He’s your eternal student, is Geoff.’
‘And?’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ she says. ‘Geoff doesn’t remember how it came up or what led to it, but this guy he got talking to was really interested. Said he was a writer. Well, Geoff’s got a bit of a fancy for writing a book some day. So he sort of chatted this guy up. Told him what he knew, not that there was much. And he forgot about it, like. Until …’
McAvoy gives a cough. Suddenly feels horribly hungry. Finds himself longing for sugar.
‘Until?’
‘He logged on to the
‘… and it’s the same man?’
There’s silence again, but McAvoy can hear the nod.
He says nothing for a moment, then takes Geoff’s details. Tells her she’s done the right thing. That he’ll get an officer to take a formal statement from her sister’s boyfriend and that perhaps the lad will have to view an identity parade. Considers, for a moment, the difficulties of assembling a line-up of one-legged drunks.
When he hangs up, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the dark glass front doors of the maternity unit.
Notes that he is smiling.
It’s beginning to sink in, now.
Colin Ray’s case is just waiting to be stamped on, and he knows exactly where to start.
He raises the phone again. Rings the CID office at Priory Road, where he knows there will be nobody around to answer. Leaves a message explaining that Roisin has been ill. That he hasn’t been able to get away from her bedside to phone in. That he’s going to be away until at least after Christmas.
Hangs up, slightly short of breath.
He’s covering his tracks, now. Nobody at the CID office will think to check the time and date of the message. They’ll just jot it down and eventually remember to pass it on to the brass. If it ever comes to an investigation, he’ll be covered.
And he’s bought himself a few days in which to find out who really killed Daphne Cotton.
He brings the phone up to his face. Rings the number that has just been breathed softly into his answering service.
It’s answered on the third ring.
‘Bassenthwaite House.’
McAvoy rubs a hand over his face and is surprised to discover that he is perspiring. Wonders whether this is a fool’s errand. Whether this private medical centre on the edge of the Pennines has anything to do with any of this. Whether Anne Montrose matters. Whether she could be next. Whether he’s just fucking wrong and Russ Chandler is indeed the man behind these deaths.
‘Hello. This is Detective Sergeant Aector McA …’
He’s met with a bright, heard-it-all-before ‘hello’.
‘It’s concerning a private patient of yours. An Anne Montrose. I understand she’s on your neuro ward receiving long-term care?’
There is silence at the other end of the line.
‘One moment, please.’
Then he is placed on hold, and spends a good five minutes listening to a classical piece that, were he to really push himself, he would remember as being one of Debussy’s more sombre works.
Suddenly, a deep, male, upper-class voice snaps a curt ‘hello’. He announces himself as a Mr Anthony Gardner. By way of job title, he brushes over a word that might be ‘liaison’.
‘Mr Gardner, yes. It’s regarding an Anne Montrose. I have reason to believe that she may be a patient of yours.’
After the briefest of pauses, Gardner clears his throat. ‘You know I can’t tell you that, Detective.’
‘I appreciate your obligations to your patients, sir, but there is a chance that Miss Montrose may be in danger. It would be a huge help to an ongoing murder investigation if I was able to speak to a member of her family.’
‘Murder?’ Gardner’s voice loses its composure. McAvoy feels oddly pleased that, even in these times, the word retains its ability to shock.
‘Yes. You may have read about the case. A young girl was killed in Holy Trinity Church in Hull last Saturday. And the same person may be responsible for several other killings …’
‘But I’m sure I read that somebody had been charged over that,’ he says. McAvoy hears the tell-tale tapping of fingers on a keyboard. He wonders if the hospital exec is logging on to a news site.
‘We have several loose ends to tie up, sir,’ says McAvoy, with as much sinister foreboding as he can muster.
Gardner says nothing, so McAvoy plays a trump card.
‘You may also have read that one of the victims was burned alive while in a hospital bed, sir.’
There is silence for a time. McAvoy hopes Gardner is considering the cost of being unhelpful. Wonders if he is weighing the angry phone call he may receive if he gives out patient details without going through the proper channels against the shit-storm that will descend if one of his coma patients gets herself immolated.
At last, Gardner gives a sigh. ‘Can you leave me your number, Detective? I’ll phone you right back.’
McAvoy thinks about saying no. And protesting that he’ll stay on the line while Gardner does what he needs to do. But his approach seems to be working, and he doesn’t want to push things hard enough to make them fail. Not yet. So he leaves his number and hangs up.
Paces for a while. Texts Tom Spink and Trish Pharaoh. Tells them Roisin is much better. That Lilah is thriving. Asks about Helen Tremberg.
His mobile rings. Anthony Gardner, sounding like he’s giving out the combination to his safe, is curt and quiet, as though afraid to be heard. He’s on the phone less than twenty seconds, but he gives McAvoy what he needs.
McAvoy gives a little nod to himself. Says nothing as he hangs up and immediately dials another number.
The call goes to voicemail.
‘This is Sergeant McAvoy. Many thanks for those details. I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot the other day but I appreciated your change of heart. You were right. Anne Montrose is indeed a patient at that centre. And you won’t be surprised to learn who’s paying the bills. I think there may be a story in all this. Give me a call if you’re interested.’
He ends the call. Counts to twenty. Enough time for Feasby to listen to the message. To mull it over. To give
