Body Heat Read online

  Callie was just getting to the last report and the receptionist hadn’t even looked at her watch or started muttering about time to close up, when Gerry Brown, the locum, came over to her. She was surprised he was still there, given his reputation for leaving strictly on time.

  “Hi Callie, had a patient of yours earlier, only needed a repeat prescription and seeing as you were running late, Linda asked me to deal with it.”

  “Thanks, Gerry, who was it?”

  “Can’t remember the name, needed Thyroxine. Anyway, you know me, always happy to do you a favour.” He hurried on, seemingly oblivious to Callie’s look of disbelief. “I’m sure you’d do the same for me. Speaking of which, could you take a couple of patients for me tomorrow morning? I have to finish early for my half day. I’ve sorted it on the lists for you. Cheers.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, which he probably sensed wouldn’t be polite, but grabbed his bag and hurried out of the office, leaving Callie irritated and wondering why he thought that doing one repeat prescription constituted such a big favour that he could dump a couple of patients on her tomorrow. She checked her list and saw that he had actually moved a total of five patients across to her list, meaning that he would finish at eleven and she would probably still be there at two. Silently seething, she had to admit it was probably Karma for the many times she had got colleagues to see patients of hers whilst she rushed off to do police work. She just hoped whatever Gerry Brown was up to at lunchtime was worth it.

  Callie looked round at the receptionist who nodded towards the doorway Dr Brown had just left through and mouthed the word “Tosser” before looking pointedly at the clock, prompting Callie to hurry up and finish so they could all go home.

  * * *

  Later, once she was home, Callie picked up her post and the copy of the Hastings Advertiser from the hall and ran up the stairs. She lived in the penthouse, taking up the whole top floor of a large, brick-built, Georgian house situated in a commanding position high up on the East Hill. At some point in the past twenty years it had been converted into flats, or apartments as the estate agent had insisted on calling them when Callie went to view it. The house had surprised her with its tall windows and graceful lines. It stood out as being different from the Victorian villas more usual in this part of town. Although it consisted of just three rooms, a bedroom, a bathroom and a living room with a kitchen area along one wall, the rooms were large and well-proportioned, the conversion having been sympathetic and the period features left intact. But it wasn’t the corniced ceilings, the sympathetic conversion or even the balanced proportions of the house that had sold it to Callie the moment she walked into the main living room, it was the views.

  Through the two large windows, the coast was visible from the funfair on the far left, along almost to the new town until the West Hill blocked a view that would otherwise include St Leonards, and Marine Court, the block of flats built to look like a majestic liner sailing towards the Old Town. Down and to the right of her was the Old Town nestling in the valley, crowded and compact, and further, across to the West Hill, the castle ruins, and the swathe of green parkland crested by a terrace of white houses. It was a view that never ceased to impress her, whether it was early morning with the rooftops floating on a sea mist, the castle back lit by a setting sun, or with the streetlights in the valley twinkling invitingly below. She had bought the flat for these views, paying more than she had planned, but they had been worth every penny.

  Callie made tea and then leafed through the Hastings Advertiser. The story of the body in the burnt-out car had made the front page, as expected. They had used a picture of Sarah Dunsmore in a strappy evening dress that revealed a large amount of décolletage, and the suggestion of a nipple underneath the thin fabric. She looked a lot more attractive in this photo than the charred corpse that Callie remembered all too well. She took a sip of tea and read the accompanying text:

  The body found in a stolen car, early Sunday morning, has been named by police as being that of Sarah Dunsmore, 31, of Ashburton Close, Hastings. Forensic experts used dental records to identify Mrs Dunsmore. Her husband, Brian, a salesman, said he had no idea why she was in the car and that he had thought she was on a girls’ night out. He then asked to be left alone, so that he, and his two children, Molly, 5, and, Alfie, 3, could grieve in peace.

  A girls’ night out? Callie wondered who ‘the girls’ were and if Miller had asked them why Sarah hadn’t been out with them. She was sure he would have done. It was possible it was an innocent mistake and that they knew nothing about it, of course, but Callie was willing to bet that at least one of them knew where she had really been. That this night out was an alibi to cover whatever Mrs Dunsmore had been doing, or who she had really been seeing.

  Chapter 4

  “It’s just not right, Hugh.” It was Wednesday lunchtime before Callie managed to get Dr Hugh Grantham, senior partner at the practice, on his own. “He skives off at the drop of a hat, and even when he does do something helpful like a repeat prescription for my patients, he expects something in return.”

  They were standing in the tiny kitchen, Callie effectively blocking Dr Grantham’s escape by standing in the doorway. During her morning surgery, Callie had checked which of her patients had been seen by Dr Brown the night before, only to discover that he hadn’t actually seen any, all he’d done was dealt with a repeat prescription request over the phone.

  “He’s a locum, Callie, what do you expect?”

  “I expect him to behave like a decent doctor,” Callie responded angrily. “He brought up Jill Hollingsworth’s records to print the prescription, so he would have seen that she was well overdue for a medication review. If it was you or I, we would have added a note to that effect, and printed out a blood test form for her as well, but no, just because he’s only here temporarily we have to put up with a job half done.”

  Hugh sighed.

  “I agree, but you know how difficult it is to find anyone in the current climate. It took us three months to find Gerry.”

  Callie knew he was right. Hugh looked pointedly at the corridor, clutching his mug of coffee and hoping she would let him get away.

  “I’m just saying we need to keep on trying to find someone permanent.”

  “Well, we haven’t given up hope that one of our part-time GP contractors will decide to give up her work on the side and join us as a full-time partner.” He gave her a meaningful look and slipped past her into the corridor and the office beyond.

  Callie sighed. He had a point, just not one she wanted to consider at the moment.

  She opened the biscuit tin, nothing but some broken rich tea fingers were left, but she took one anyway. When in need…

  * * *

  Benji the pug settled down next to Callie and refused to take any notice of her subtle efforts to show that he wasn’t wanted. The more she delicately pushed him away, the more he lovingly leant up against her and slobbered, covering her with slime and hair equally. Her suit would have to go to the cleaners. Finally, deciding that a more direct approach was needed she gave him a shove. He yelped as he landed on the floor.

  “That’s right, dear, be firm with him,” Mrs Tomkins said as she hobbled back into the room carrying a plate of biscuits in one hand and using a stick with the other. Callie was embarrassed to have been caught, but Benji didn’t seem to be worried. He was much more interested in the biscuits.

  “Do you want a biscuit, then, my love?”

  For a second Callie thought the old lady was talking to her but Mrs Tomkins picked Benji up and sat him next to her on the sofa and wriggled to make herself more comfortable, her short, fat legs not quite reaching the floor. She had the biscuit plate between her and Benji as she chose three or four for them both while the dog sniffed and slobbered over most of the rest. Callie had a moment of disorientation as she realised how alike they looked. Flat round faces, noses so small they were almost non-existent and slightly bulging eyes.

  “Help yours
elf to a biscuit.” Having chosen theirs she held the plate out to Callie.

  “No, no, I just ate lunch. Thank you.” There was no way Callie was going to eat a biscuit that had been anywhere near the dog. Mrs Tomkins put the plate down on the table.

  “Please yourself.” She turned to the dog. “All the more for us, eh Benji boy?” And she gave him a custard cream which he swallowed pretty much whole.

  “It’s good of you to drop in, Doctor. I’ve been a bit more out of breath recently and wondered if I needed something a bit stronger.”

  As she could hear both her patient and the pug wheezing from across the room, Callie knew she was right, although fewer biscuits and more walks for Benji might help them both more than another course of steroids. Realistically, Callie knew that Mrs Tomkins was coming up for ninety and Benji was pretty old for a pug, so perhaps it was a bit late to be putting them both on a diet and exercise regimen. So, Callie sat back and drank her tea, hoping that the dog hadn’t been anywhere near it and listened as the old lady listed her symptoms, the man next door’s symptoms and some long and involved story about an Aunty Mabel, long dead.

  It was clear she didn’t really expect her doctor to do much, other than write a prescription before she left, so Callie sat and listened periodically and allowed her mind to wander. This was her final visit and Wednesday being her half day, her time was her own once she had finished. Callie was making a mental shopping list and Mrs Tomkins was recounting a story about a badly behaved poodle when her phone started buzzing. Once she had fished out her phone, Callie saw that it was Helen Austen, a local social worker and sort of friend. Callie couldn’t think why Helen was calling but it was possible that it was something urgent to do with one of her patients.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs Tomkins, but I have to take this.” Callie answered the phone and stepped into the kitchen to speak to Helen.

  “Hi, Helen, how can I help?”

  “Oh, Callie, thank goodness. The police picked up Mark Caxton this morning. They want to interview him about that awful car fire and he needs an appropriate adult. I’m pleased they realise he needs one, but angry that they didn’t give me more notice.”

  “Mark?” Callie knew the young man Helen was referring to because both he and his mother were patients. Both had mental health problems. The mother was an alcoholic who had struggled with the stress of being a single mother once Mark’s father had died of heart disease, and Mark himself had learning difficulties and had been in trouble on many occasions for arson. Callie closed her eyes. Of course, the fire investigator had recognised the method used to start the fire.

  “I know. Completely mad to think Mark had anything to do with it but the police are pushing for someone ASAP.”

  “You don’t think he’s the person who did this, then?”

  “No way. I mean, I know he sets fire to cars, but that’s a big leap to killing someone, isn’t it? And you know what he’s like, liable to admit to anything if he thinks he’ll get left alone.”

  “What about his mother?”

  “Not in a fit state and before you ask, I can’t go because I have a vulnerable child conference starting in five minutes. It seems they’ve even tried to get a volunteer in but no one is free; thankfully, because you know what Mark’s like with strangers. He gets so frustrated that he can’t articulate his needs and he sometimes comes across as aggressive.”

  “Yes, but−”

  Helen didn’t give Callie a chance to think of an excuse.

  “Look, you are his doctor and I know you have Wednesday afternoons off, so it couldn’t have worked out better, could it?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’m the best person−”

  “I understand your concerns, believe me I do, but to my mind you are the absolutely perfect person. You are Mark’s doctor and he trusts you, plus you have experience of the way the police work.”

  “It’s because of my work for the police that I might not be the right person. What if there is a conflict in my role there and being Mark’s appropriate adult?” Callie finally managed to say.

  “All you have to remember is that Mark is your patient so he comes first. Simple.”

  “I wish it was that simple, Helen. I mean, I am employed by the police−”

  “For the care and welfare of their staff and those in their care. Like Mark.” Helen clearly wasn’t prepared to listen or, at least, she wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer.

  “I’d need to check that they are all right with it first.”

  “For goodness sake, Callie, you need to get off the fence and decide whether you are a doctor or a policeman first and foremost. It’s decision time.”

  Callie had to concede. Like Hugh earlier, she had a point.

  * * *

  Miller was sitting very still, outwardly calm, and waiting for an answer, whilst the good-looking lad across the table from him sullenly and silently glared at him. Callie had tried to explain her role to Mark, but she wasn’t convinced he understood the subtlety of her position and he kept looking to her, expecting her to answer for him and he seemed to be getting more and more irritated that she wouldn’t.

  Miller himself had been angry when he had come down to the interview room to discover that Callie was there as Mark’s appropriate adult. He was sure that it couldn’t be right for a police doctor to also be present as an appropriate adult and had rung through to his superior officer and even to the CPS advisor to check that it was in order. Under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, a child under seventeen or any adult that could be considered vulnerable, such as someone with learning difficulties like Mark, had to have an appropriate adult with them when interviewed under caution. Miller didn’t want any information he gained as a result of the interview to be thrown out because Callie’s relationship with the police prevented her from being considered appropriate.

  Needless to say, this was not a situation that had much in the way of precedents and the CPS advisor had taken ages to consider his answer before reluctantly telling Miller that he thought it was probably okay. Probably was hardly definitive, but with the alternative of having to delay the interview further whilst they waited for Helen to be free or Mark’s mother to sober up, Miller decided to press ahead. If the interview was thrown out, he would blame Callie and the CPS advisor equally. Callie, meanwhile, had been getting more and more irate herself. What a colossal waste of time this would have turned out to be if she had spent her free afternoon cooling her heels in an interview room only to be sent home. An afternoon when she should have been doing something useful like her shopping and laundry for the week.

  Finally, once it had been agreed to go ahead with Callie sitting in, Miller insisted on explaining her role, making sure she realised that she was not there to interfere with the interview, but simply to support Mark, as if she didn’t already know that, but perhaps the re-iteration would help Mark understand it. A legal executive from one of the local firms that specialised in criminal law and who had represented Mark before had already spoken to him and advised him to make no comment as he knew that Mark was not competent to answer questions without the risk of incriminating himself. He intended to be present for the interview as well as Callie and, she felt, was best placed to interfere if interference was needed, quite frankly.

  And now the interview had been going on for almost an hour, going round and round in circles, with Mark constantly answering “no comment” to every question, apart from denying that he had anything to do with the car fire, or the body inside it.

  “Why did you torch the car with the woman still inside it, Mark?” Jeffries asked bluntly.

  “No comment.”

  Jeffries leaned forward as far as he could, trying to intimidate the boy, whilst continuing with a barrage of questions.

  “Did you enjoy it? Did you enjoy watching the woman burn? Get a kick out of it, did you? Get a hard on?”

  “No. I didn’t!” Mark was horrified but Jeffries was delighted to have finally got a
rise out of him.

  “Did you like it as she screamed? Or the smell as her flesh sizzled and burnt?”

  “No! No! No! Stop it!”

  Mark put his head down and covered his ears with his hands, anything to get away from this onslaught from Jeffries.

  Callie put her hand on Mark’s arm and turned to Miller for support.

  “Inspector, I must protest. Mark’s–”

  Mark snatched his arm away from Callie’s touch and raised it as if he might hit her. Miller jumped to his feet with a face like thunder and there was a tense silence for a moment before Mark lowered his arm and went back to staring at the table. Once he was convinced the threat was over, Miller sat down again.

  “I’m sorry, Mark.” Callie tried to sound normal, although her heart was pounding. She had been convinced he was going to hit her. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. Just try and stay calm. Okay?”

  Miller glowered at Mark but the legal executive was nodding, approving of Callie’s intervention, although she was thinking that perhaps he should have stopped the interview earlier and glared at him to get her point across.

  “Perhaps you could move on. My client is clearly upset by the tone of your questioning,” he finally said.

  “Not half as upset as his victim’s husband or her children,” Jeffries said, but the legal advisor heeded Callie’s look and waded in.

  “He has already told you several times that he knows nothing about the car that was set on fire at the weekend, Inspector.”

  “Let him say it again then.”

  Miller watched as the boy looked at Callie.

  She was surprised that he seemed to be asking for her approval despite his anger at her a moment before. She nodded at him encouragingly, knowing that the interruption had done what was needed and given Mark time to recover a little.

  “Go on then, Mark, once more for the tape.”

  “I don’t know nothing about the car. I was at home Saturday night from early. I didn’t torch anything, honest. I don’t know nothing. Can I go now?” Mark Caxton almost pleaded to Miller, looking out from under his long floppy fringe, all aggression gone.