Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (25 page)

‘Where to now?’ asked Jane, climbing into the passenger seat of Dixon’s Land Rover.

‘Bracknell.’

‘Betalin?’

Dixon nodded.

‘We haven’t got any evidence.’

‘Well spotted.’

‘But . . .’

‘We’re just making enquiries,’ said Dixon. ‘Besides, I want her to know we know. See what our precious Dr Ann McConnell does.’

‘And what if we’re wrong?’

‘Then we’ve lost nothing.’

‘What’s a private member’s bill?’ asked Jane.

‘Each year there’s a ballot and the successful MPs get to place their own bill before the House. A few even get it made into law but that usually only happens if the government agrees with it and allows the time.’

‘And Tom would’ve gone with the insulin thing?’

‘I get the feeling he still will,’ replied Dixon, nodding.

‘Betalin won’t like that.’

‘D’you want to ruffle her feathers, or shall I?’

‘You do it. You’re much better at it than me,’ replied Jane, smiling. She turned away when she heard the door being unlocked from the inside.

‘Yes.’

‘Detective Inspector Dixon and Detective Constable Winter to see Dr McConnell,’ said Dixon, holding his warrant card up.

The door opened just enough to reveal a woman in her late fifties, wearing a two piece tartan wool suit.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll need an appointment.’

‘Is Dr McConnell in?’

‘Not today, I’m afraid.’

‘And you are?’

‘I’m her secretary. Muriel Dummett.’

‘Well, Mrs Dummett, we have these marvellous little gadgets called automatic number plate recognition cameras. You may have heard of them?’

‘Yes.’

‘And mine tells me that’s Dr McConnell’s car,’ said Dixon, pointing to a white BMW parked behind his Land Rover.

‘Oh, yes . . . er . . . maybe she came back and didn’t tell me. I’ll just go and check.’ Mrs Dummett tried to shut the door but Dixon stepped forward.

‘We’ll wait inside, if we may.’

Dixon looked at Jane and winked.

‘You’ll have to forgive Muriel, I’m afraid, Inspector,’ came a voice from behind him. ‘She’s ever so protective of me. Cold callers, salespeople, you know how it is.’

‘I do,’ said Dixon, spinning round.

Dr Ann McConnell was older than he had expected. Maybe it was an old photograph on Google Images? Long dyed hair tied up in a bun and sickly sweet perfume. A touch of Botox too, perhaps. She was dressed casually, in black trousers and a black pullover, and looked a little bit too much like an Albanian gangster for comfort. It was only when Dixon stepped forward to shake her hand that he noticed fingernails stained yellow and the smell of stale tobacco, which explained the perfume.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.

‘We’re investigating the murder of Elizabeth Perry,’ replied Dixon.

Dr McConnell was no poker player. Seldom had Dixon seen the blood drain from a face faster, but she did her best to compose herself with a loud cough and a shake of the head.

‘Do I know her?’

‘That was going to be my next question.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Dr McConnell, thrusting her hands into her pockets.

‘Let me jog your memory. Her husband is the Tory candidate in the by-election. She was murdered on Christmas Eve.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen it on the TV. Tragic.’

‘Three months pregnant,’ said Dixon.

Dr McConnell turned away.

‘And you gave a quote to the
Surrey Comet
last year.’

‘Did I?’

‘It was an investigation into the continued availability of animal insulin.’

‘I give lots of comments to journalists, Inspector.’

‘Mrs Perry suffered some very nasty side effects from human insulin. Does that ring any bells?’

‘No.’

‘And she went to see the health minister with her husband?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘Perhaps we could continue this in your office, Dr McConnell?’ asked Dixon.

‘Yes, of course, follow me.’

Dixon and Jane followed her along the corridor into a large office with a bewildering array of certificates on the wall, in amongst the watercolours. Dr McConnell sat down at one of the desks and gestured to Jane to sit down at the vacant desk opposite.

‘Our PR consultant sits there when she’s in. Freelance, one day a week at the moment, unless we’ve got something on.’

Dixon was looking at the paintings on the wall.

‘When I was diagnosed with type 1, no one told me I had a choice of insulin . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but what has this got to do with the death of Elizabeth Perry? She was killed by a burglar. A robbery gone wrong, surely?’

Dixon turned slowly and fixed Dr McConnell in a stare Jane had seen only once before.

‘Was she?’

‘That’s . . .’ Dr McConnell hesitated, ‘what it said in the
Telegraph
.’

‘You shouldn’t believe what you read in the newspapers,’ said Dixon, turning back to the watercolour on the wall. ‘Dartmouth?’

‘Er, yes. We used to keep a boat on the River Dart.’

‘We?’

‘My husband and I. We divorced over twelve years ago now.’

Dixon nodded.

‘When I was diagnosed, I wasn’t told I had a choice of insulin. Why was that?’

‘It’s NHS policy to prescribe human insulin in the first instance.’

‘But the NHS Charter says that patients are to be consulted and given the choice about their treatment. How can we have a choice if no one tells us there is one?’

‘Well, I can’t comment on an individual case and I’m sure you’re not expecting me to, but human insulin is widely regarded as better at controlling blood sugars.’

‘Widely regarded by who?’ asked Dixon.

‘The doctors and consultants who prescribe it.’

‘But not the 2004 Cochrane Review. It said there was no evidence whatsoever that it was any better than animal insulin.’

‘Well, it . . .’

‘Why have there been no large scale clinical trials?’ Dixon had moved on to another painting of the River Dart.

‘That would have been taken into account by NICE before it was approved. Each new insulin has to . . .’

‘But weren’t you a director of the National Institute of Clinical Excellence?’ asked Dixon.

‘I’m not sure I like where this is going, Inspector.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Dixon. ‘I get a little carried away sometimes.’ He walked over to a larger watercolour above the fireplace.

‘How much does human insulin cost the NHS compared to animal?’

‘Animal is cheaper; about two thirds of the cost.’

‘And more expensive to produce?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, just to be clear, human insulin is cheaper to produce and you charge the NHS more for it?’ asked Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘Which makes for a bigger profit margin?’

‘This is commercially sensitive information, Inspector.’

‘And politically, I should imagine?’

No reply.

‘How much money changes hands for each patient prescribed human insulin?’ continued Dixon.

‘I don’t . . .’

‘Do you pay more for a patient switched from animal to human?’

‘I’m going to have to . . .’

‘We’ve been told about little bonuses. Is that not right?’

‘No. We pay some consultants a retainer for research and . . .’

‘That’s what they call it these days, is it? A retainer.’

Dr McConnell stood up. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘No,’ replied Dixon. ‘You’re helping us with our enquiries, and we are most grateful.’

Dr McConnell sat down again.

‘Tell me about the side effects of human insulin,’ said Dixon.

‘Some people report some minor side effects, but they’re usually due to them not managing their diabetes properly.’

‘And what about Elizabeth Perry?’

‘There was probably some underlying condition or allergy to it in her case. A few people have reported symptoms similar to hers, but only a handful.’

‘And what’s to happen to them if you stop producing animal insulin?’

‘DK Pharma will still be there. And they could try the analogues perhaps. We’ll give everyone eighteen months’ notice if we do stop production.’

‘Eighteen months’ notice or eighteen months to live?’

No reply.

‘And what if a member of parliament was actively campaigning to raise awareness of the side effects of human insulin, not to mention the cost to the NHS?’

‘I’m not sure I follow . . .’

‘Well, it’s hardly going to be good for business, is it?’

‘So, you think we had Elizabeth Perry killed, is that it?’

Dixon walked behind Dr McConnell, still sitting at her desk, and looked at the painting on the wall behind her. She turned her head to follow him.

‘Now that’s Haytor, isn’t it? On Dartmoor.’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, well, we’ll leave you to it, Dr McConnell, thank you very much for your time.’

‘Is that it?’

‘For now. You’ve been most helpful, thank you again,’ said Dixon, opening her office door. ‘We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.’

‘How did you know that was her car?’

‘I didn’t,’ replied Dixon, starting the old diesel engine. ‘What’s her home address?’

Jane took her notebook out of her handbag and flicked through the pages. ‘Tulkeley Cottage, Englefield Green.’

‘Find it on your phone, will you?’ asked Dixon, turning the pages of his map book. ‘We need to get there before she does.’

He turned out of the car park and headed east on the A329.

‘It’s right on the green,’ said Jane. ‘It’s not far off the A30, you can’t miss it.’

‘Good.’

‘Why don’t we just follow her?’

‘She’ll spot us in this old heap and the chances are we’d lose her anyway. Remember, I needed the helicopter last time.’

‘I’d rather not,’ said Jane, rolling her eyes. ‘We can park in the trees on the far side of the cricket pitch.’

They sped through the village and turned into Cricketers Lane.

‘That’s it there. Bloody hell. I thought cottages were supposed to be small,’ said Jane, turning in her seat and pointing to a large green house set back from the road. ‘The trees are over there.’

Dixon drove to the far end of the green and parked behind a small clump of trees. Despite the winter foliage it would be enough to hide them in the fading light. And he could make out Tulkeley Cottage in the far corner.

‘How d’you know she’s coming home?’ asked Jane.

‘She lied. And she’s sensible enough to know we’ll have spotted it, when she’s had five or ten minutes to reflect on what she said.’

‘Which is what she’s doing now?’

‘I should imagine she’s on her way by now,’ said Dixon, looking at his watch. ‘She’ll need her passport and . . .’

‘There she is,’ said Jane.

‘That was quick.’

‘Why aren’t we . . . ?’

‘We’ll give her a couple of minutes to get comfortable,’ said Dixon. ‘Get her suitcase down off the top of the wardrobe, find her passport.’ He was following the second hand ticking round. ‘That’s long enough.’

He spun the Land Rover around on the edge of the cricket pitch and raced back along Cricketers Lane, screeching to a halt across the drive, blocking in the white BMW. Then he ran up the gravel drive with Jane right behind him. The front door was ajar so he pushed it open and crept into the hall. He noticed a passport on the hall table, next to a brown leather handbag, so he picked it up. Then Jane nudged his elbow and pointed up the stairs. A light was on.