Skin

66

The call came at half past eight in the evening when Caffery was lying on the bed in A and E, face down, head on his arms, his ripped trousers on the chair next to the bed. He was a cop so they’d triaged and assessed him double-quick. It was a superficial wound, no nerves, ligaments or bones involved, but even so if he wanted his leg to look near-presentable in a year’s time he’d need specialized surgery. He should be admitted. He’d refused. He just wanted to be patched up and get out. So now he had a junior doctor who looked like a surly male catalogue model sitting on the bed behind him, jacking Naropin and sutures into the back of his leg and sniffing loudly at the foul clothes Caffery was still wearing. When the phone rang Caffery had to push himself up on his elbows to get at it in his breast pocket.

‘Yeah – DI Caffery,’ he mumbled.

‘There’s another.’ It was Turnbull. ‘Came in this afternoon. First attending thought it was a suicide and sent it over to the Royal United, but someone in the call centre got thinking about it after work and – bright spark – put it together with our job, did a Crimesnitch number and picked up the phone. It’s the same MO. They found her in her car – pills, knife, same shit as before.’

For a moment Caffery didn’t answer. The doctor had stopped his work and was standing at the head of the bed, arms folded, eyebrows raised at the sign on the wall – a picture of a phone with a line through it. Caffery held up his thumb, giving him a bear-with-me-I-won’t-be-a-minute look, and stuck his finger in his left ear.

‘Yeah, go on. Who is it?’

‘Woman called Lindermilk.’

‘Lindermilk? I’ve seen that name somewhere.’

‘Ruth Lindermilk? Lives out near Farleigh Hall in one of those hamlets we were searching. She was kind of a recluse. You’re going to love who her niece is. Was, mind.’

‘Let me guess. It was Mahoney.’

‘No. It was Hopkins.’

‘Christ.’

‘Yes, and Lindermilk had an appointment at the Rothersfield clinic this morning. Surgeon’s name?’

‘Gerber. That’s where I saw her name – in his records.’

‘And meantime,’ said Turnbull, ‘while they’re giving it duhs at the site they found her, another call comes in. Lindermilk’s house has been screwed. Place is trashed.’

‘From when Gerber killed her?’

‘Don’t think so. From her body it seems like she went without a struggle. We’re thinking this happened afterwards. He did her, then went back and screwed her house. Just like with Mahoney, ’cept not as discreet.’

‘Who found it?’

‘Lindermilk’s son. He hears what’s happened to his mother and – get this for the calibre of human being we’re dealing with here – because she’s got some property or other he wants before the police seal the place off, he goes straight over and lets himself into the place. He’s got a key apparently. Except when he gets there, someone’s beaten him to it. Nearly catches them too. He hears them jumping out of a window at the back. That’s how close he came.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Two or three hours ago.’

‘Then it can’t have been Gerber.’

‘Lindermilk’s got some history of pissing off the neighbours. Couple of disputes there. Maybe it was one of them.’

The doctor, apparently at the end of his tether, walked out of the cubicle, leaving only a half-stitched wound, a few syringes in the kidney bowl, a blood-soaked sheet and a little sway of the curtain to prove he’d been there.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Turnbull said.

A huge wave of tiredness came over Caffery. He didn’t think he had it in him to get up and keep going. He wanted to eat, drink and sleep. Nothing else. ‘Dunno,’ he muttered thickly. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘Up at the mortuary. We’re waiting to hear when the PM’s going to be. The CSI are heading down to the house now. Do you want to have a look at it?’

Caffery inched his legs around, easing them carefully off the bed. He waited a moment or two for his head to stop spinning, then looked around for the call button. ‘I’ll be there, just as soon as I can find a doctor in this place.’