Of course, Debbie Smith was bound to know, but Callie wasn’t sure she wanted to enlist the help of the reporter at this point. She had already given her a heads-up about the probable fake news.
Callie left a phone message, asking for an appointment at his next advice surgery, saying that she wanted to discuss the future role of police forensic physicians. She thought it sounded a reasonable request seeing as the role had changed and in some areas of the country, police doctors had been almost entirely replaced by specially trained nurses. She also suggested that they could meet earlier or at his convenience, but agreed to a surgery appointment if not.
With nothing more that she could do on that front, Callie decided to see if the police were getting anywhere with identifying body number nine as she thought of him. It would be good if they actually had a name rather than just a number.
“Hi, Mike,” she said when she finally got through to the coroner’s officer. “I wondered if you had heard anything about the body found on Fairlight Beach? Body number nine?”
There was a pause before Parton answered.
“I wish there was, but it’s going to be difficult identifying any of them.”
“I fully understand that, Mike. I just thought this one might be easier, as it looks like he wasn’t one of the refugees, what with the tattoos and the drugs and that.”
“Well, the official view is still that he was one of them and that the tattoo and things could be because he had lived over here in the past. It’s not uncommon for people who have been deported before to make their way back. Particularly if they have contacts or family over here.”
Callie hadn’t thought of that possibility and it certainly could explain the tattoo, if not the drugs.
“But if he’s been deported already, wouldn’t he be on a database somewhere?”
“Of course, and I’m sure that the police are checking them, but−”
“It’s not a priority.”
“Catching the people smugglers before any more die has to be their number one concern,” Parton gently chided her.
“Of course, I know that. It’s just that I can’t help feeling that he doesn’t belong with the others, not that he’s more important than them, or anything like that.”
“I know, but I can promise you, he hasn’t been forgotten, and I, as well as the police, will be doing everything we can to identify all the bodies as quickly as possible. In fact, I think we do have an identification on one of the younger men. He’s from Syria, sixteen years old and most of his family are dead, but he has an uncle who came over two years ago and has already been granted asylum. He was coming to join his only living relative.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes, it is. And I’m sure most of the others have similar stories. That’s seventeen young men dead now.”
“I’m sorry, Mike. I shouldn’t be poking my nose in and disturbing you all when you have so much to do.” Callie really did feel bad for interrupting him. After all, he had many more bodies that he needed to identify, every one of them somebody’s son, brother or father, and every one a tragedy.
Callie needed to worry about doing her own job and stop trying to do others’ work as well, she told herself firmly and settled back to an online tutorial regarding new guidelines for diagnosing dementia.
Chapter 13
Next morning, Callie got a message from the woman who was in charge of Ted Savage MP’s diary. At least, that was the way she described herself. Callie was told that he could see her that afternoon, when he would be in his constituency office after a visit to a local primary school, or he could see her at his next advice surgery, the choice was hers. The woman made it clear that it was a very great honour to be given the choice and be allowed to decide for herself.
Callie checked her work schedule and accepted the appointment for that afternoon.
Before her own morning surgery, Callie checked the visit list and put her name beside a couple that she knew would be quick check-ins. Then she rang David Morris to make sure that he was still okay, and wasn’t surprised that he didn’t answer the phone. She left a message on his answer machine asking him to check in with the surgery, just so that she could be sure he didn’t need another home visit, and then did a glance through the pile of prescription requests to make sure that Anna Thompson hadn’t asked for any more asthma inhalers. It was a relief to find that she hadn’t, so far.
After a deep breath to compose herself, Callie pressed the buzzer for her first patient of the day.
* * *
The MP’s constituency office was on an industrial estate and nothing like Callie had been expecting. The parking area was rutted and had weeds growing up from cracks in the asphalt. There was only one car parked outside, a small flashy red hatchback. A quick glance through the windows showed that it was immaculate inside, as if it had been recently valeted. As if it was always recently valeted.
In contrast, the entrance to the office looked as if it had seen better days, like the carpark. Callie opened the door and went inside.
The woman in charge of the MP’s diary turned out to be older than Callie expected. She looked to be in her early forties and was very conservatively dressed in a knee-length skirt and a flowery blouse done up almost to the neck.
“I’m Teresa Savage,” she introduced herself, holding out a hand and making a quick grimace that could have been an
