Poisoned Ground: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery 3) (20 page)

He took a deep breath in. For a moment he said nothing and then he murmured, ‘All of it.’

‘All of what?’

‘All of the money I got for the flat.’

‘Which was?’

‘Fifty grand.’

Nobody said a word. Frith pulled a face. Even though Ken lived in a shit part of town in the middle of a recession, he lived in a two-bedroom flat, which had to be worth at least double what he’d been paid.

Cobbett broke the silence. ‘Warner saw you coming.’

Even the solicitor shook his head.

‘But even so, to blow fifty grand in what, four …’

‘Three.’

‘Three months, is impressive,’ Cobbett said. ‘So did you have fun doing it or—’

‘They always ordered me cabs,’ Ken said.

‘The casino?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I suppose they would. You being such a massive loser. Christ, Ken, it was the least they could do! Make you feel special, did it?’

Lee remembered what he’d been told by Sandra Rivers and Derek Salmon about Ken, how hard he had taken his redundancy from the docks. Then Bette had got sick. Had the gambling given him some sort of purpose? The illusion of being a man who was successful enough to lose money and still come back to high roll again?

‘So what do we have so far?’ Cobbett said. ‘You, Ken, sell your flat to a gangster who gives you half its value. I assume you owned the flat with your wife and I imagine, knowing him, that Shane Warner had her sign on the line to approve the sale using all the charm and guile I know that he has.’ He smiled. ‘Not. After that you spend as if your life depends on it and a month or so ago Bette went missing. Am I right so far?’

He still looked at the floor. ‘Yeah.’

‘Good. Only fly in the ointment, however, is the woman melting into your bed,’ Cobbett said.

‘Well, him, Arnold, he must’ve killed her. Yeah?’

Cobbett didn’t answer immediately. Lee saw Frith cringe and wondered what would happen next.

‘Mr Arnold couldn’t have killed her, she’d been dead for a while,’ Cobbett said in a low, almost growling voice. ‘She was long dead when he found her. In your flat. On your bed. Now, Mr Rivers, our pathologist doesn’t yet know how the elderly lady Mr Arnold found – who, by the way, was wearing a bracelet with the name “Bette” engraved on it – died. Hopefully we’ll find that out later on today. But we’ll assume that the woman was your wife. So you’d better stop prattling on about her “going missing” and tell me what really happened.’

This time there was a very long pause. Then Ken Rivers said, ‘She died. I weren’t ready. I needed a big win to sort meself out. Know what I mean?’

Shirley said that Mandy had ‘let her down’. She’d got very upset about the Dylan Smith situation the previous day and probably needed to rest. Now Mumtaz was covering for Mandy on the chronic ward where, as usual, Terry had issues.

‘They scatter ashes around my bed to send me out of my mind,’ he said.

It was the same old thing with the aeroplanes and the cremated ashes of his father. Except that this time the staff were apparently not just failing to stop the planes from dropping the ashes, but were actively throwing them around his bed. Terry was intensely agitated and, if anything, sicker than the first time Mumtaz had seen him.

‘Terry, no one wants to send you out of your mind,’ Mumtaz said. ‘You know what the aim of the hospital is, don’t you? It’s to get you back into the community.’

‘Into the community? I don’t want to go back there,’ he said. ‘I just got shit out there.’

‘I think you need to try to relax.’ Even as she said it, Mumtaz felt stupid. She’d always thought of chronic wards as places where most of the patients were almost in medication-induced comas. But at Ilford they were all more active than she had
expected. How anyone could relax around so much activity and agitation was impossible to imagine.

But Terry ignored her. They were standing outside the ward so that he could smoke. It was drizzling lightly and the sky was grey. Mumtaz couldn’t help feeling that the weather was appropriate.

‘What are you going to do about it?’ Terry said. ‘You’re the advocate. You’ve got to get them to stop doing it.’

She tried to replicate Shirley’s speech about how some people saw the world in different ways and how that was valid, if not necessarily the way things really were, but she just couldn’t. It was true but it was patronising too. In the end Mumtaz said, ‘I’ll have a word.’

Terry finished his fag and then went back on the ward. Mumtaz silently wondered how much longer she could keep up her nice Miss Huq persona. She’d spent the previous evening with Vi Collins, who’d almost driven her to distraction with her moaning about ageing and the menopause.

‘Hi, Mumtaz. How’s it going?’

It was Kylie, the care assistant Mumtaz had met on her first day at Ilford. On that occasion she’d been smoking a cigarette. She’d also been in a lighthearted mood. This time she was still smoking but she looked grave.

‘OK,’ Mumtaz said. ‘You?’

Kylie leant against the ward door. The drizzle had made her hair go flat and she looked exhausted. ‘I’ve just got off Forensic,’ she said.

‘Busy?’

Kylie shook her head. ‘Mental,’ she said. ‘When I got in Dr Golding and Mr Pool were having a row about something in Mr Pool’s office. All the patients were agitated. One of them told me that it was all to do with Dylan Smith. He’d kicked off or
something in the night and Dr el Masri was called. I dunno what it was all about. But Mr Pool should’ve gone home hours ago.’

Shirley had made a request for Dylan to be examined and Dr el Masri was the one who had agreed to do it. Had he done it? Or had he just gone out to see the patient in the middle of the night because he’d become agitated or violent? And why had Dr Golding got involved?

Kylie finished her cigarette and then lit another. ‘I’ve been here a year,’ she said. ‘And so I know most people. But I still don’t know how this place works or what’s really going on.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well,’ Kylie said, ‘take Dr el Masri. Everyone says that he’s a bit of a lech, you know. When that girl threw herself out the window, over on Acute, people were saying that el Masri’d be questioned by the police, that he’d forced her to have sex with him and blah, blah, blah. They all went on about how he’d put her on fifteen-minute obs because he was frightened she’d top herself after what he’d done. But he never put her on obs. Her mate did that.’

‘Her mate?’

‘That other Egyptian, the nurse who’s in prison.’

‘El Shamy?’

‘Yeah,’ Kylie said. ‘He put her on suicide watch.’

‘If he was worried about her, he would,’ Mumtaz said.

‘Yeah, but then why would he lie about it later?’ Kylie said. ‘The nurse who tried to save the girl, Michelle something, she said that when she looked at the girl’s obs notes after she’d died she saw that someone had crossed out el Shamy’s name and put Dr el Masri’s in its place.’

If that were true, then it was strange and illegal. And why had it even been done? To frame Dr el Masri in some way?

‘Who told you all this?’ Mumtaz asked.

‘Oh, Daria,’ Kylie said. ‘She’s a cleaner.’

‘And how does she know?’

‘She overheard Michelle talking about it to one of the other nurses,’ Kylie said. ‘Mind you, Daria don’t speak English too well. Interesting, though, innit?’

*

Lee wasn’t surprised when he got the call from Derek Salmon telling him that Sandra Rivers wanted to give up looking for her ex-husband.

‘The whole homosexual thing just blew her brains out,’ Derek said.

Lee, who had left the police station to have a cigarette said, ‘I can understand that. But I’m still sort of involved because of Phil’s dad.’

‘What did the stupid sod lump you one for?’

‘He says the plan was to knock me out and then do a runner,’ Lee said. ‘Trouble was he got pissed instead.’

‘Arsehole.’

‘I can go home, but I’ll have to stay in touch. Hopefully we’ll find out who the body on the bed was soon. I’m sure it’s Ken’s wife. Who else could it be?’

‘Did he kill her?’ Derek asked.

‘Don’t know yet. He says not. He also says he doesn’t know where Phil is.’

‘What a fucking mess. But look, Lee, when you get back swing by my office and I’ll pay you what you’re owed. All right?’

‘Yeah. Cheers, mate.’

Lee ended the call. Giving up on finding Phil was probably best for Sandra Rivers if it was distressing her so much. It was a
bit of a pain for Lee – her money had been limitless and freely available. And there were niggles. The biggest one was why he’d got beaten up when he’d gone to see Barry Barber in Dagenham. Who’d done it? Had it been ordered by Phil Rivers himself? Maybe he’d been watching his parents’ place and had identified Lee as a threat?

Lee got the front-desk sergeant to let him back into the station. Cobbett was waiting for him and he was holding a piece of paper.

‘Mr Arnold, thought you might like to see this,’ he said.

Lee took it from him. It was a letter from Phil Rivers’ bogus solicitors, Myerson & Jackson. It was addressed to Ken and it told him that his son Philip didn’t want to see him or his wife any more. Worded in cold and efficient legalese, the letterhead was decorated with a ton of industry award marks and logos. It must have hurt Ken and Bette a lot.

‘Found it in his coat,’ Cobbett said. ‘Thought you might be interested.’

‘Did he say anything about it?’ Lee asked.

‘Only to tell me that it proved what he’d told you about not knowing where his son is.’

Lee shook his head. ‘All irrelevant now anyway,’ he said. He gave the letter back to Cobbett. ‘My client doesn’t want her husband found any more.’

‘Philip Rivers should serve time for what he’s done,’ Cobbett said.

‘But if the wife has paid off the victims and won’t make a complaint herself …’

‘Nothing we can do.’

‘No.’

Later that day Lee was packing his clothes away at Susan’s flat when his mobile rang again. It was Cobbett.

‘Just thought you’d like to know,’ he said. ‘The corpse in the bed died from natural causes.’

‘So Ken’s off the hook.’

‘For murder, yes,’ Cobbett said. ‘But if that is his wife’s dead body, he kept it for at least a month, during which time he carried on collecting her pension. And he hit you over the head.’

*

Sulky, spotty but not bad-looking, Antoni Brzezinski was either not the brightest star in the sky or he was working hard to appear that way. His mates, an Asian boy whose name Amy hadn’t yet been able to catch and a white kid called Puffy, hung around the shops at the end of Freemasons Road near Custom House station. She noticed they made a point of not lurking around the off-licence, which was their ultimate goal. Instead they stood outside the baker’s and hassled older girls from the estate, usually with babies in tow, to go and buy cheap cider for them. Sometimes the girls complied and sometimes they didn’t. But the boys got moderately pissed and then sort of grunted at each other, noises that she imagined passed for speech. Amy had seen them do it before. But then something different happened.

A boy, well-dressed, lanky and dark, pulled up in a BMW sports car. A few years older than the others, he had a swaggering vibe, which made people look at him. When he yelled at the boys to ‘Get in, you fuckers!’ he had an accent Amy couldn’t place. The boys did as they were told. They jumped into the car while their driver said, ‘Careful of the paint! Be careful of the fucking paint!’ Then he put his foot down and roared towards Victoria Dock Road. When he got to the bottom of Freemasons, he turned left. Amy, in her Renault Clio, followed at a much more sedate pace.

*

Shirley wasn’t prepared to give up without a fight.

‘He’s sectioned,’ she said. ‘Dr el Masri didn’t need Dylan’s permission to examine him.’

‘The patient wasn’t complaining of pain or discomfort and Dr el Masri had not been asked to perform a medical,’ Mr Cotton said. ‘Our hands are tied.’

She’d been summoned to the chief consultant’s office as soon as she arrived for work. Dylan Smith was still, as far as she knew, in bad physical shape and not being treated. In a way, Shirley wished she’d stayed at home.

‘And if Dylan collapses?’

‘That’s another matter entirely,’ he said.

‘When did Dr el Masri try to examine Dylan?’

Mr Cotton looked down at some notes. ‘Six-thirty yesterday evening. Just before shift handover.’

‘To Timothy Pool?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Prior to that. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but Dylan Smith also told Dr el Masri that he doesn’t want to have any more input from the Advocacy.’

Dylan had already made that very clear to Shirley. But it was still hurtful to hear it from a third party.

‘I will, of course, have to report the entire incident to the Trust,’ Mr Cotton went on.

Which meant that, depending on how he reported it, the Advocacy could be sanctioned or perhaps even shut down. Shirley said nothing. So much for her one and only attempt to do some real representative work. She felt as if he’d just stuck his boot through her head.

The walk back to the Advocacy office seemed endless. But when she found Mumtaz waiting for her, Shirley made herself smile.

‘Hi, Mumtaz. Thanks so much for coming in. How’d it go with Terry?’

‘He’s very agitated,’ Mumtaz said.

‘He often is.’

‘I’d say he needed a medication review, if that were my place,’ Mumtaz said. ‘His meds don’t seem to be doing much to alleviate his condition. In fact, to me, all the chronics seem agitated. I’m not saying they should all be medication zombies, but they shouldn’t be as distressed as Terry and some of the others appear to be.’

‘It’s hospital policy to try to reduce medication.’

‘Which is admirable. But maybe they’re going too fast?’

Shirley didn’t reply.

Mumtaz said, ‘Shirley, I’ve heard something this morning I think you should know.’

‘What?’

‘About Dylan Smith. Dr el Masri had to be called out to him in the early hours of the morning, apparently,’ Mumtaz said. ‘Dylan “kicked off” for some reason. I don’t know whether the doctor sedated him.’

Shirley breathed in deeply to try to calm her nerves. Mr Cotton hadn’t mentioned any sort of incident. ‘How did you find this out, Mumtaz?’ she asked.

‘It’s only hearsay,’ Mumtaz said. ‘Someone told one of the cleaners over there.’

‘Who is?’

‘They might not want me to say.’

‘Dr el Masri went over to Forensic to examine Dylan physically at my request yesterday evening,’ Shirley said. ‘That’s why I was seeing Mr Cotton this morning. Dylan refused the examination.’

‘Maybe that was what it was about?’

‘But it wasn’t in the middle of the night,’ Shirley said. ‘It was six-thirty in the evening, just before Timothy Pool came on duty. I was assured by Mr Cotton that was the case.’

‘So maybe Dylan kicked off later on.’

Shirley frowned. ‘Even if he had, Dr el Masri wouldn’t have been called. Dr Golding was on duty on Forensic last night.’

‘Was he? Apparently Dr Golding and Timothy Pool were having an argument about something in Pool’s office this morning. Maybe it was about why Dr el Masri was called out to Dylan and not Dr Golding.’

‘Maybe. If that’s true.’

‘If it is.’

‘I can’t see why Dr el Masri would have been called out instead of Dr Golding,’ Shirley said. ‘Unless Dylan suddenly wanted to be examined after all. But then, if that had happened, Mr Cotton would have told me about it.’

‘You think he would?’

‘Yes.’ But Shirley wasn’t sure. Mr Cotton had never enjoyed advocacy intervention in his hospital and, because she was beginning to pursue matters properly now, he was feeling under threat. Had she picked up some satisfaction in his voice when he’d told her he was going to report her actions with Dylan Smith to the Trust?

*

The BMW roared along the Royal Albert Way, past the University of East London campus, and at Gallions Reach it turned into one of the entrances to the new Gallions housing development. This was a maze of apartment blocks in what Amy always thought of as ‘loud’ colours, most of which cost more than the average Newham resident could even imagine. She knew the development a bit,
mainly because it pissed her off. Right at the middle of the site was the old Gallions Hotel, a graceful Edwardian building which, surrounded by the new apartments, looked as if it was being hassled by a gang of incomprehensible children’s TV characters.

The whole site was controlled by double yellow lines, which meant that only the residents, who had underground parking facilities, could leave their cars in safety. Visitors risked a ticket. But that didn’t seem to bother the driver of the BMW. He just dumped the car by the side of the road and he and the boys got out. They all went into a white apartment block to the left of the old hotel. Amy drew up on the opposite side of the elegant Edwardian pile and kept watch both for the boys and for traffic wardens.