Cutting Edge

Thirty-four

MURDER HUNT WIDENS

Police are stepping up their hunt for the sadistic killer who viciously attacked pretty 26-year-old student, Amanda Hooson, and left her for dead.

They have refused to confirm or deny that Amanda, who was half-naked when her body was discovered, had been sexually assaulted.

Police Superintendent Jack Skelton admitted yesterday that he fears a connection between this cruel and senseless murder and recent attacks on hospital personnel in the city.

Amanda, who had been studying for a Social Sciences degree, had previously worked as an Anesthetist Technician.

Superintendent Skelton is anxious to contact a man whom they believe met Amanda for a drink at the university bar only an hour before the slaying. They are also urgently tracing her boyfriend, so far unidentified, so that he can be eliminated from the inquiry.

Amanda’s mother, 52-year-old Deirdre Hooson of Amber Crescent, Belper, Derbyshire, said to our reporter yesterday, “Amanda was a quiet, thoughtful girl. All she ever wanted was to help other people. I still can’t believe this has happened to her.” Mrs. Hooson continued tearfully, “I keep expecting her to come walking through the door.”

“Let’s be clear on one thing,” Tom Parker said, “no matter what you may have heard or read with suggestions to the contrary, none of the medical evidence points to a sexual attack of any kind. That’s not to say there might not have been some kind of sexual motivation; you’ve all seen the photographs.”

They were still pinned high along one wall of the room, curling already at the bottom corners. One glance was enough to remind the men sitting there of what they were engaged in and why. Aside from Resnick, the other DIs were Reg Cossall and Andy Hunt; the officer in charge of uniforms was Paddy Fitzgerald. Once this briefing was over, they would report back to their respective teams and set them on their way.

“We need something to break this open and quick,” the DC1 continued. “There’s already panic talk out at the hospital, staff phoning in and crying off late shifts if they haven’t got their own transport: the whole business will get worse before it gets better.”

“Surely, sir,” said Andy Hunt, “the dead girl’s connection with the hospital, tenuous at best?”

“That’s what we’re working to find out. Hopefully, by the end of today, we might have some answers. Meanwhile, we carry on exploring all the avenues we can.” The DCI stepped back, automatically buttoning his sports coat, unfastening it again as he sat down.

Jack Skelton got up and moved towards the Al flip chart suspended from an easel alongside the desk. “Should’ve been bloody Rommel,” Reg Cossall murmured.

“Wrong side, Reg,” whispered Paddy Fitzgerald.

“Huh,” Cossall snorted, “bugger wouldn’t have given a toss which side, long as he was running the show.”

Bernard Salt misjudged his turn, colliding with the end of the bed and banging his leg; he cursed beneath his breath and shot a fierce look at one of the nurses who was fighting hard to stifle a snigger. He’d been aware of them that morning, the way they were all looking at him, staring when they thought he wasn’t noticing, openly some of them, curious, dismissive. Salt wondered what Helen had done. Pinned up a notice in the staff cafeteria? Called a meeting? All around him he could hear the tainted wriggle of tongues. The letter Helen had sent to his former wife, crammed with accusations and half-truths. The copy which had been delivered to the hospital by hand, together with a note: so reassuring after all these years to have my worst fears confirmed. I only hope the poor woman realizes how fortunate she is that you are letting her go too.

He looked at her now, Helen, fussing down the ward in her sister’s uniform and it was beside belief that he had ever seen anything in her. A small-minded woman with a look of permanent disappointment in her eyes. Even then, when their affair had been at its height. Weekends in Harrogate and nights at the Post House near the M1. Escorting Helen down to dinner when she was wearing that awful red dress, velvet, that looked as if she’d taken it down from the curtain rail and put it through the machine. Now he despised her. One look enough to turn his stomach, the sight of her thick calves sufficient to make him feel sick. There was a way of quenching her anger, but he knew that he could never take it. Not now.

He swept off the ward and stalked back to his office; damned secretary had been the worst, the look she’d given him, anyone would think it was her he’d been unfaithful to. A typed note waiting for him at the center of his desk, cow asking for a transfer to another consultant, to be expedited as soon as possible.

Bitches the lot of them!

And there was that bloody inspector, loitering in the corridor like a shop steward from the TGWU. Man in his position ought at least to shine his shoes in the morning, see to it that, if he was going to wear a white shirt, it was decently ironed.

“All that guff you wanted,” Salt asked, showing Resnick through to his office, “lead you anywhere?”

“Not yet,” Resnick said, relieving the consultant of the chance to keep him standing by sitting down.

“Some crackpot,” Salt said, settling behind his desk.

“Possibly.”

“Damned certainty. Lunatic with a bee in his bonnet. Been put out on the streets, most likely, instead of being kept locked up, safe where he belongs. Don’t mind telling you, I think this government’s come in for far too much stick, but health policy, mental care in the community … Saving pennies by wasting lives.”

“Amanda Hooson,” Resnick said.

“Worked here, ODA.”

“You knew her, then?”

“Yes, but not well. Consultant anesthetists, registrar, that’s who you should be asking.”

“Oh, we will,” Resnick said. “We are.”

“Well, Inspector, of course I’m anxious to help. But this is an especially busy day for me …”

Resnick was already on his feet. “There’s nothing out of the ordinary strikes a chord, nothing that would have involved Amanda Hooson with either Dougherty or Fletcher?”

“Not that I can think of. She could have had contact with Dougherty, of course, dealt with patients from the ward on which he worked. But only in the natural process of things.” He signaled with opened palms that Resnick’s time was up.

“If anything does come to mind …”

“Of course.”

Resnick let himself out, past the secretary pecking away at her keyboard like a demented hen. One of the anesthetists who’d worked with Amanda Hooson quite frequently had since retired, but Resnick had spoken to two of the others and their responses had been largely identical. Neither of them could think of anything about Amanda’s work at the hospital that would have drawn attention to herself in any way; certainly there had been nothing about what she did or the way she did it which would have invited such violent wrath and anger.

Dougherty was still in bed, the number of tubes running into and out of him down to two. He smiled as Resnick sat down, then grimaced.

“What can you tell me,” Resnick said, “about anesthetic failure?”

“Simply as I can, it’s this. Patient going into theatre, okay? They have an intravenous anesthetic to start them off, but that’s not going to last for more than the first few minutes. After that they’re breathing in a mixture of oxygen and anesthetic gases. What these do, they send the patient to sleep, numb all sense of pain, absolutely relax the muscles. Now occasionally, thank God not too often, but it happens, only the muscle relaxant works.”

Dougherty paused for a while, regaining his breath, allowing Resnick time for the implications to sink in.

“So,” Resnick said, something akin to nausea starting up at the pit of his stomach, “the patient’s lying there, unable to move, and all the while …”

“Exactly.”

“Jesus!”

“Uh-huh.”

“When this happens, they can feel everything?”

“Not necessarily, not always. Most times, probably not.”

“But sometimes?”

Dougherty nodded.

“During the actual operation?”

He nodded again. “Right through it.”

“Not able to move.”

“Or scream.”

Resnick was thinking about what had happened to Amanda Hooson, to Fletcher, to Karl Dougherty himself.

“At least I could do that,” Dougherty said. He was smiling, but it wasn’t at the memory.

“Not the sort of thing that gets broadcast about, is it?” Resnick said.

Dougherty winced and eased himself forward, encouraging Resnick to lean past him and push his pillows into shape. “When I was in the States, just a twinge coming out of the anesthetic was enough to bring down lawsuits like they were going out of style. Everyone from the head of the hospital to the relief cleaner. It’s not like that over here, not yet, but with the spread of private medicine we’ll be getting there.”

“You saying that’s a bad thing?” Resnick asked. “Compensation in cases like this.”

“Absolutely not, But it does make a naturally secretive profession even more so. You know what it’s like trying to get a straight answer out of a consultant at the best of times.”

Resnick nodded and poured him some Ribena, pinched a handful of grapes, and thanked him for his help. “How about your parents?” he asked. “How are they coping?”

For a moment Dougherty closed his eyes. “My mother came in a couple of days ago. I was in a worse state than this, I don’t know if she knew what was happening. I’m not even positive she knew who I was. I mean, she said my name, stuff like that, but twenty minutes after she’d arrived she was on her way again.” He smiled gently. “My guess is, she thought it was all a big mistake.”

“And your father?”

“Doing pretty well considering. Comes in every day, sits for an hour, eats my grapes …” Resnick swallowed the last one guiltily, pips and all. “… doesn’t say much, but then I suppose he never did.”

Resnick backed away from the end of the bed, raised a hand in farewell.

“How about Paul?” Dougherty asked. “Is he still a suspect?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If he doesn’t know that already, it might help him a lot to be told. He’s not finding any of this easy, either.”

“Okay,” said Resnick, “you’re right. I’ll see that it gets done.” As he left the bay, sidestepping the tea trolley, his stomach gave a definite grumble. He wondered what the chances were of trying the new sandwich bar on Bridlesmith Gate before reporting back to Skelton.

Going into the hospital with a group of other medical students for one of their ward visits, a tasty little episiotomy to be viewed and mulled over, Ian Carew had spotted Resnick, recognized him from the rear and slowed his own pace, no wish to remind the inspector of his presence. That gormless little policewoman was one thing; Resnick, he guessed, was quite another.

Coincidence wasn’t going to bring him so close to Sarah Leonard and, visit officially over and the students beginning to disperse, Carew took the lift up to the ward where he knew she worked. Through the end doors, he saw her, leaning across some old codger’s bed and laughing; Carew only able to see the light in her eyes, dark opening of her mouth, not hear the sound. So simple to walk through, fall into step alongside her as she went back down the ward, pretty words in her ear. No. Not now, he told himself. Not now: wait for the time to be right.