Poisoned Ground: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery 3) (22 page)

Amy still didn’t know what was wrong with Puffy. Unless he’d suddenly developed a previously undetected condition out at Gallions, she assumed it had to be drug-related. As far as she could tell, Puffy was still alive, or rather nobody had come to let her know that he wasn’t. And the doctor had said that he would keep her informed.

A man wearing a traffic warden’s uniform walked up to the reception desk. His face was red and he was out of breath. The receptionist looked at him as if she wanted him dead. A lot of people had that sort of reaction to traffic wardens. ‘Yes?’

‘You’ve, er, got my son ’ere,’ the man said. ‘He was brought in from Royal Albert Way. His name’s Paul Hall.’

‘Oh, right.’ Her demeanour changed immediately. ‘Come through here, Mr Hall, doctor’s waiting for you.’

So that was Puffy’s real name, Paul Hall. Plain and boring. No wonder he’d embraced a nickname. It was hot in the waiting room and, after a while, and in spite of argumentative mothers of asthmatic kids, howling alcoholics and a very suspicious bloke who claimed that the police had banged a nail into his knee and then super-glued his eyes shut, Amy went to sleep. What turned out to be a considerable time later, she was woken by Dr Banerjee. ‘Can we have a chat?’ he said.

She followed him to a small office at the end of the admission ward. ‘I know I’ve asked you this before,’ he said, ‘but did you see the boy take anything?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I saw the group go into a flat at Gallions Reach and when they came out the boy they all called “Puffy” was falling about. The rest you know.’

‘Do you know which flat they went into?’

‘I’d know the block, but not the flat,’ Amy said. ‘Does this mean that drugs are involved?’

‘If only it were that simple,’ he said.

‘Then …?’

‘I can’t be specific. We’re still treating the boy. But I can tell you that Antoni Brzezinski is fine.’

She’d thought that only Puffy had indulged. But in what? If it wasn’t some sort of illegal substance, then was it one of those legal highs she’d heard about? Some of those were lethal. Some, like a thing called ‘krokodil’, which rots the skin on users’ bodies from the inside out, had been developed in Russia to mimic the effects of expensive illegal drugs like heroin.

‘Will the sick boy be all right?’ Amy asked.

‘I don’t know. Time will tell. But he isn’t out of the woods yet,’ the doctor said. ‘You’ve been watching Antoni and his friends for some time, have you ever seen them take anything before?’

‘No. They just drink cheap cider. Or they did until today.’

‘What changed?’

‘Another boy turned up,’ Amy said. ‘Older, with the car that Puffy was in when he got sick. I’ve got the registration number.’

The doctor shrugged. ‘Antoni has told us that neither he nor his friends took anything at the flat in Gallions Reach. He said it was just the boy Puffy. None of the others, he claims, saw what he did or when.’

‘Then why did they abandon him?’

‘A good question. But I’m not the police and neither are you. And as I say, illegal drugs are not the issue here.’

‘So will you call the police?’ Amy asked.

He thought for a moment and then he said, ‘I will. But quite what they’ll do about it, I can’t predict. Especially if the boy doesn’t wake up.’

It was well past seven p.m., but Shirley couldn’t go home. She sat at her desk, staring out into the corridor and the darkness beyond the windows. Long ago, Ilford Hospital had possessed even more extensive grounds that at one time had also included a small farm. Back then, patients had been encouraged to work outside, growing vegetables and tending to a flock of chickens. But since the ultimate aim of treatment at the unit had changed, and was now focused on returning people to their communities, such elaborate rehabilitation had ceased. Now residents had little to divert them and Shirley found herself wondering whether the old days had not been better in some respects. Of course, there had been a very large down-side, exemplified by barbaric restraints like straitjackets and manacles. If only abuse had been stamped out along with those instruments of torture. Shirley thought about Dylan and wondered how he was getting on.

Had he complied with Timothy Pool and let whatever injuries he had sustained remain a mystery? And had Dr el Masri in some way colluded with that? She had heard that el Masri was a sex pest, but she’d never heard anything about actual cruelty. The doctors had limited contact with the patients, so it wasn’t usually an issue. But other staff members, who worked on the wards day in and day out, were much more liable to take their
frustrations out on those in their care. Like Timothy Pool, for instance. But how could she, or anyone, stop it?

The major problem was that unless perpetrators of cruelty were actually dismissed, or suspended immediately from duty, there was always the chance that they could silence a complainant. If a service user complained, his or her life could be made hell; the abuse could escalate. If it was a member of staff making an allegation, they could be putting their career on the line. She thought about Nurse Denna and wondered where she was. She’d not seen her that day. Of course, she was agency, so she could be almost anywhere. Shirley knew she had to keep whatever was happening at the hospital in proportion.

She had her office door open because she was afraid she’d get locked in again. She still didn’t know who had trapped her in there or why, although the caretaker had said that the door did stick. But even if she told herself very firmly to be rational, she was still sure that someone had locked it from the outside. And then unlocked it. At the time she had reasoned it had been done to frighten her. She’d just had an altercation with Timothy Pool and she wouldn’t put such a cruel and childish prank beyond him. He wasn’t subtle, after all. Shirley was sure that with his staff under his thumb, Timothy felt he was untouchable.

Shirley was about to pack her stuff away and leave when she heard voices in the corridor outside. Or rather, whispers. And whoever was there sounded angry. For a moment she just sat, straining to try to make out individual words – but she couldn’t. It was spooky and it made Shirley want to stay where she was, in case they, whoever they were, found her. But eventually her curiosity got the better of her. Slowly, in case she inadvertently scraped a chair leg on the wooden floor, she stood up. The voices, which both sounded male, got a little louder, She moved towards
the door. When she reached the Advocacy’s filing cabinet she stopped.

Although she still couldn’t hear any words, she noticed that the voices were getting louder, the anger had increased. The hairs on her arms stood up and Shirley licked her dry lips. Then she did hear something very clearly.

‘I’ll fucking kill you!’

*

Lee was so pissed off he was almost tempted to go back to the office. But he was also tired and the fridge needed defrosting. He’d taken all the food out and put it in a box on the worktop when Tony Bracci had come in. First of all he’d taken the milk out of the box to put in his coffee, which was reasonable, then he’d just left the bottle on the side of the sink, which was not. But Lee had ignored it. Tony had gone out to get fish and chips, which they’d eaten together, and then Tony had gone to his room. When he’d come out, he’d brought five filthy coffee cups with him, which he had just flung in the sink. Then he’d gone into the living room and put on the TV. As Lee refilled the fridge, all he could hear was the sound of Bruce Forsyth patronising some blonde woman and Tony farting. He couldn’t go back in there!

But if he didn’t, when Chronus woke up he’d start screeching. If it was evening and the lights were on, he expected to see Lee. If he didn’t, he showed off. Lee put the last piece of cheese back in the fridge and took his courage in his hands. As he walked in, Tony said, ‘It’s just the
Strictly
catch-up. You don’t mind, do you, mate?’

He should have said ‘yes’ but it wouldn’t come out. ‘No.’

‘Ta.’

Lee picked up Tony’s copy of the
Sun
. But it too was full of
Strictly Come Dancing
nonsense, as well as a load of other reality TV garbage. He put it down. Vi was still not fit enough to return to work and so he didn’t have anyone he could talk to about this situation. He liked Tony Bracci and he didn’t want to fling him out on the street. But he had to have some feeling of control in his own home. The dirty coffee cups were symptomatic of a general slackness towards life that Lee couldn’t take. Tony noticed nothing. Things didn’t niggle at him. He could walk into a room full of shite and just lie down and go to sleep. He was a nice bloke, but Lee could see why his wife had had enough.

‘I’m just going to have a bit of a tidy up in the bedroom,’ he said to Tony.

‘All right, mate.’ Tony waved a hand in the air but he didn’t look away from the telly.

Lee closed his bedroom door and sat down. On top of the whole flatmate thing, the abortive Phil Rivers case was still bugging him. How could someone just get away with 1.2 million quid of somebody else’s money? How could they be allowed to do it? And what had that letter to his father from Phil’s non-existent solicitor been about? According to Ken they hadn’t been close and Lee was inclined to believe him. So why bother with the letter? It was as if he was making sure his parents didn’t contact him. But if they didn’t know where he was, how could they? Then again, maybe stupidity ran in the family. How Ken had thought that anyone would have been able to connect Lee to Bette’s long-dead body in that bedroom was a mystery. How he had ever imagined that he was some sort of modern man who broke the bank in Monte Carlo was another puzzler. Professionally as well as financially, Lee wished he’d been able to find Phil Rivers and bring the whole business to a successful conclusion.
But if Sandra Rivers didn’t want him to then nothing more could happen. One thing was for sure, Phil Rivers, wherever he was, didn’t have to sit in his bedroom like Nobby No Mates listening to a middle-aged bloke farting in front of his telly. Money bought you out of experiences like that.

*

The Barley Mow was one of those pubs that had been taken over by a large brewery chain. The pubs this chain bought up tended to then be ‘ruralized’ – bits of old plough hanging on the walls, a surfeit of straw and horse brasses around faux fireplaces. But this one was excessive. There were even, Mumtaz noticed, plastic milk churns in the beer garden. But Kylie liked it and Daria seemed to think it was some sort of palace.

‘If this was Kosovo, everywhere would be full of smoke from men’s cigarettes,’ Daria said. ‘This is so clean. I still can’t believe it.’

When Mumtaz had walked in with Daria, she’d seen the look of alarm on Kylie’s face. She was almost certainly wondering whether she’d told Daria what Kylie had told her about Hatem el Shamy and Dr el Masri. And it was bothering her. Did this mean that Kylie had lied? She was certainly slurping down her beer as if her life depended on it.

‘The toilets have soap that smells like heaven,’ Daria said. She got up from her seat. ‘I go now to use it.’

When she’d gone Kylie said, ‘You know I told you what she said to me in confidence. I hope you haven’t …?’

‘I’ve said nothing,’ Mumtaz told her. ‘But, Kylie, I have to find out whether that story is true.’

‘Why? What’s it to you?’

‘I’m with the Advocacy.’

‘Sara Ibrahim’s dead. You can’t advocate for her, can you?’

‘No, but …’ Mumtaz leant forward across the table. ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure that you’ve had your fair share of problems with el Masri in the past.’

Kylie frowned. ‘What? Looking down me top and that?’

Mumtaz knew she had to make this seem as if she was engaged in some sort of investigation on behalf of the Advocacy into Dr el Masri’s sexist behaviour. In a sense that was the case. She just wasn’t doing it on Shirley’s orders.

‘We want it to stop,’ Mumtaz said.

‘I don’t like it but …’

‘I need to know whether Daria’s story about el Masri changing Sara Ibrahim’s medical notes is right,’ Mumtaz said. ‘Because if he’s doing that, then who knows what else he’s up to?’

Kylie shrugged. ‘So what?’ She drained her beer glass. ‘That girl’s dead. Her notes will’ve gone to the basement, nobody ever looks at old cases.’

‘Yes, but if what Daria heard about what was done is true then I could get those notes brought up and—’

‘And what? So he changed the notes, he—’

‘It’s illegal!’

A man over at the bar gave Mumtaz what she could only describe as a ‘funny look’. You didn’t get too many covered women in pubs. And they certainly didn’t usually get into heated discussions. Mumtaz lowered her voice. ‘As you said yourself, there are a lot of things that happen in the hospital that none of us understand. The job of the advocates is to uncover things that disturb people and combat things like cruelty and sexism.’

‘And have me lose me job? No,’ Kylie said. ‘And don’t you go questioning Daria neither! She’s my friend, we go drinking together.’

As far as Mumtaz could see, Daria took Kylie out and bought her drinks – she hadn’t seen Kylie return the favour yet.

‘Then how do I know if what you told me about her is true?’ Mumtaz said.

‘You don’t.’ Kylie put a stick of chewing gum in her mouth. ‘Just forget it. Dr el Masri’ll screw up some other time, you’ll just have to wait.’

They sat in silence for a moment and then Mumtaz said, ‘Kylie, why did you tell me that story about Daria if you didn’t want me to take it further? You know what I do at the hospital.’

Kylie looked down at the table. ‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘Just gossip. You know how it is.’

‘Yes, but if you didn’t want me to challenge Daria …’

‘I know! I know!’

Mumtaz saw Daria walking back from the toilets at the same time as Kylie. ‘Just don’t tell her! All right?’ Kylie said. ‘I need her.’

For her money? Mumtaz couldn’t help looking at Kylie with a cynical eye. But she agreed. She could hardly do anything else. By that time she’d had an idea that, on the face of it, was probably much better than trying to get accurate information out of an Albanian woman with poor English language skills.

*

Drink was Susan’s poison of choice, but it wasn’t doing enough. She’d never been into drugs but she had friends who were. She knew dealers, too; some were regulars at the casino. But this was her night off and she was supposed to be enjoying herself, not giving a shit about work. She was distracted and she wasn’t having anything like a good time. Lee had gone back to London and she feared he wasn’t coming back. She asked herself whether
she could blame him and decided that she couldn’t. Why had she made those calls to Vi Collins? Why did she do mad, strange things like that to any man who came into her life?

Susan put her bottle of Stella to one side and opened the gin. She poured herself a large one and splashed a bit of orange juice on top. Then she drank most of it. The truth was that no man had ever cheated on Susan before she’d started the stupid jealous behaviour. But as soon as she got a bloke, it was as if she couldn’t help herself. She had to know where he was going, what he was doing and who he was seeing. Where such insecurity came from she didn’t know. Her dad had always been faithful to her mum, it wasn’t as if there was some sort of childhood trauma. Just an innate insecurity.

She looked at her phone and wondered. Should she call Lee? He had to come back to Southend at some point because of Kenny. Should she invite him to stay at her place? She was being ridiculous. Susan drank more gin. Or should she phone that Vi Collins and apologize to her? Surely that’d make Lee happy?

She still had the number. She looked at it. Best would just be to leave a message but then Vi might answer and she couldn’t end the call like she’d done before. That would be weird. But could she talk to the woman if it came to it? She knew she couldn’t. What about texting? Susan poured herself some more gin, this time without orange. Texting was a good idea. She composed all sorts of elaborate phrases before she came to the conclusion that it was probably best to just say ‘Sorry’. Vi would know it was her. So she sent it. Then she regretted it.

Then Susan cried.