“Dr Slone, can you report to reception?”
The voice crackled the command over the intercom. Slone registered it, looked
up, and signaled to the nurse to come to him. She walked over with a grin
on her face.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Nurse, I want you to take Mr. Smith’s blood pressure, then take his temperature
and write it up. If the BP is higher than the last time I took it, page me.
If it is about the same, don’t bother.”
“Okay, Doctor.”
Slone walked out of the ward and down the long Victorian corridor to the
reception. As much as he loathed traveling to Whitechapel
every day, the architecture of the Royal London Hospital was pleasant enough.
When he arrived at reception, he got a bit of a shock. Albert Drake, the
head of surgery from Kings College, was standing there.
“Albert, what are you doing in this neck of the woods?”
Drake regarded Slone, and offered his hand to shake. Slone refused the invitation.
“I’ve just come from the ward.”
“Okay, look, John, is there somewhere we can talk?”
Slone realised Albert’s tone was dark -- the
usually jolly man seemed bothered. He picked up a clipboard from the reception
desk and looked through the records.
“Consulting room three in outpatient is free. Of course, there is my office,
but Dr Singh shares that.”
“The consulting room will be fine.”
This worried Slone: Whatever Drake had to say, he didn’t feel he could say
in front of Singh. Slone had known Drake for almost twenty years, having
tried under him as a houseman. In all that time, he had never known Drake
to be this mysterious.
He guided the old man towards the room. Once inside, Drake sat heavily at
the desk. Suddenly, he looked his age -- at seventy, Drake was a legend,
having performed surgery for 40 years. The British Medical Council had given
him more honours that anyone else in history.
To Slone, he had been a hero. Someone to look up to.
But suddenly Drake seemed old and frail. He had something on his mind, something
that couldn’t wait and needed privacy. Tentatively, Slone sat opposite the
old man.
“You look worried, Albert. What is the matter?”
“This is the matter, John.”
He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and took out a sheet of paper.
He folded it into thirds and handed it to Slone. It was a photocopy of a
letter.
“What is this, Albert?”
“Read it.”
Slone read the letter, and his heart sank. He knew now why Drake was so upset.
The letter was a copy of an affidavit written by a woman Slone had known
ten years before. Julie Dark, she had called herself.
Of course, that wasn’t her real name. He’d met her near a nightclub in Covent
Garden. The Blitz or something. They had talked
and got on. She had just turned 16, and was getting bored with the New Romantic
scene. Like many others in the early ‘80s, she migrated into the improvised
Jazz clubs around Soho. Along with some of her
friends, she started to see Slone as a bit of a guru.
They were happy that someone of the old school would give them the time of
day. Slone always had an eye for a pretty face, but Julie was stunningly
beautiful, like a young Brigitte Fontaine. Slone was more than flattered
that she seemed to find the attention from a successful
thirtysomething doctor a turn on. She fell pregnant by him and he
helped her get rid of it -- it was the only termination he had ever performed.
He gave her the money to get to Australia, and that was the last he’d herd
of her till now.
“What is this, Albert? You don’t take it seriously do you?”
Drake shook his head.
“I don’t know, John. I have to take it seriously. So do you.”
“Come on; it’s ludicrous. She must be some kind of nut. Watched that documentary
I did about transplants, and thought there could be a bob or two in blackmailing
me.”
Drake looked at Slone.
“I need proof, John, that you never knew this girl. Right now, only you and
I know about this letter. The original is locked away in my safe at home.
If you can prove that you’re innocent, then that will be the end of.”
“Look, I can try and find my journal for 1981, but it’s
ten years ago. I guess there would be records of my shifts...”
“John, I take this seriously. I’ve done a lot to help your career over the
years. I like you; I think that you are a good medic. Can you get proof to
me at home on Saturday?”
Slone sighed.
“I’ll have to look through some stuff, see what I can dig up.”
The old man stood up. He suddenly looked as frightening to Slone as he had
two decades ago when he addressed the anatomy class at Kings.
“Albert, thank you for not going straight to an investigation with this nonsense.”
“Don’t thank me yet, John. If I’m not satisfied with what I see on Saturday,
I shall make sure you are struck off.”
**
Walking back to his office, Slone mused on the meeting with Drake. Could
he get together enough evidence to convince the old man that her story was
a fiction? Probably, but would he believe it?
Drake could be stubborn. It wouldn’t be the first time he had brought down
a career. For even less than this. James
McNish had been a promising doctor trying to
specialise in gynecology at Kings. Just three years before, he had
a brief affair with a nurse. Drake took him to task. The last Slone had heard
,McNish was working as a GP in the
Gorbles area of Glasgow.
As he walked into the office, Dr. Singh looked up from his notes. He smiled
at his colleague.
“Still at it, Sanjeev?”
“Yes, seems to me that I have to fill in more insulin orders every week.
Did old man Drake catch up with you? He said he wanted a word when he came
in for his appointment.”
This puzzled Slone. Why would Drake have an appointment with Dr. Singh?
“I didn’t know Drake was consulting with you, Sanjeev
.”
“He isn’t, the diabetic clinic at Kings has closed, so a lot of there patients
have been transferred to me. Drake comes in once a month.”
Of course, Slone thought. Drake’s diabetic.
“I guess I thought he’d have private treatment.”
“No, you know Drake -- he believes in the NHS. If it is good enough for the
man in the street, it is good enough for him.”
Dr. Singh stood up, looking in the mirror he adjusted
the wrap of his turban. Took his white coat off the hook and headed to the
door.
“I have a ward round now, and home visits tomorrow. So that’s me for the
week. You coming out for a drink on Saturday, John?”
“Sorry, Sanjeev
, can’t make it.”
“See you Monday, then”
**
As Dr. Singh left, Slone sat at his own desk, and took the copy of the letter
Drake had given him out of his pocket. Rereading it, he noticed something.
The letterhead had started to bleed off the copy, but was just about visible.
Slone took his magnifying glass from the top pocket of his white coat and
tried to make out the words.
‘Warracknabeal State Prison, NSW.’
Slone contemplated this, then looked at the name
under the signature. This, too, was almost bleeding off the page, but he
could just make out a series of numbers. She must be in prison, he thought
to himself. Which would explain why she didn’t phone Drake
or the BMA.
A thought entered Slone’s head. He walked across the office and looked in
the trolley of medical records that Singh had put out ready to be filed back
away. After a couple of seconds, he located Drake’s file, and had a look
at the last page. Sanjeev had upped the dosage
of insulin by 10 %.
“What if the old man accidentally doubled his dosage,” Slone mused to himself.
“Perhaps on his way to bed after a couple of double scotches with an old
student, one Saturday night.”
**
Pulling up to Drake’s large house in Highgate
, Slone had a touch of nerves. He felt like he had when reporting to Drake’s
office as an eighteen-year-old first-year med student. He carefully drew
his Jaguar up next to the old man’s BMW and took a swig from the hip flask
he had in his inside pocket. He reached over to the glove box and took out
the leather wrap with all the things he needed. A syringe,
a swab and a 500mg dose of insulin. Then he pulled on some clear surgical
gloves. They were a new product from America. The thinking was that patients
prefer the contact of real flesh. So gloves that mimic real flesh visually
are better than normal ones.
Getting out of the car, he walked slowly to the door, each step careful and
measured. The crunch of the gravel under his feet an
even tone with each step.
Walking to the door, he pressed the bell. Within seconds, Drake was there
to greet him. The old man seemed a bit more cheerful than he had at the hospital.
As he greeted Slone, the slight scent of fine single malt could be detected
on the old man’s breath.
Good, thought Slone. He’s already been at the bottle.
Drake steered Slone into the study. Sitting in the fine, high-backed leather
club chair, Slone felt comfortable. He almost forgot what he was here to
do. Looking up at the walls, he noticed something odd.
A plaque that he had never seen before. The writing on it was in Greek.
Though he couldn’t read the words, he knew what they said.
Hippocrates’ oath -- the same oath that all doctors took across the globe.
An oath that states that they shall do no harm.
As Drake handed Slone a glass, he took a deep breath
realising that this would the first time that he would ever break
that oath.
“So do you have something for me to look at, John?”
The old man got straight to the point. Slone took a swig of his drink and
placed it carefully on the table.
“Straight to the point, Albert.As always.
I brought my journal, and my secretary was able to get the roster from files
for that week. It shows where I was.”
Slone stood and walked towards his coat on the rack. In the pocket was the
syringe that he had filled in the car. He deftly picked it up and took the
plastic sleeve from the needle with his right hand while his left removed
some papers from another pocket in the coat. He walked toward Drake, and
handed him the papers. Drake looked at them, then
looked up at Slone. The old man didn’t like to be crowded and didn’t appreciate
Slone placing his hand on the back of his chair and looking down on him.
“You’re in the light, John,” he said bitingly.
With a swift movement, Slone jabbed him with the syringe in the left leg,
and discharged the lethal dose. Drake dropped the papers all over the floor,
and slumped down in the chair. He looked up at Slone and took a deep breath.
He tried to say something, but his heart gave out.
Mr. Albert Drake, Head of Medicine and Surgery at Kings College, London,
since 1960 was dead.
**
Slone had to work quickly. The first thing to do was move the old man. With
the experience of moving patients from bed to bed, it was easy to move Drake
into the chair closer to the fireplace. Then Slone moved to the wall. A portrait
of Drake which had been commissioned when he accepted his post was hinged
to conceal the safe. Slone carefully dialed in the number 12-0-7-19-6-0 --
a version of the date when Drake had been made Head of Medicine and Surgery
and made history as the youngest man ever to take the post.
For now. The safe was to store patient records, and every houseman
who worked with Drake would have known the combination.
It was never changed.
On opening the safe, Slone saw it was crammed full of surgical files and
documents. But one thing was out of place: A small manila envelope with a
stamp on it. The picture on the stamp was of Ayes Rock.
The postmark Melbourne. A quick inspection of
the contains showed Slone that it was what he had been looking for.
He shut the safe up and put on his coat. Taking the syringe out of Drake’s
leg, he checked to see if the old man was dead. There wasn’t a pulse. Leaving
the house by the front door, he shouted behind him.
“Don’t bother to come out in the cold. I can do the gate myself.”
Slone shut the door and drove off. Five minutes down the road was a bar.
Quiet and full of locals. He went in and got a
beer. He slowly drank while watching the soccer footage on the TV in the
corner of the bar. Then he left.
Driving down a side road, he had to walk about half a mile back to Drake’s
place. Taking the back door key that he had taken from the hook in the hall,
he let himself in. The study was just how he had left it. He pulled on a
pair of more standard surgical gloves and checked the temperature of Drake’s
corpse.
Still warm, he thought to himself. The fire was dying out, and he carefully
shoveled the ash to make it die out almost completely. Then he picked Drake
up in a fireman’s lift and took him to the bathroom. Sitting him in a chair,
he undid the old man’s trousers and pulled them down a bit.
Before looked around for
something. Finally his eye fell on a yellow storage bin. On the side was
marked in red letters ‘Medical Waste - Hazard - Sharp.’
A syringe bin. Slone opened it and took out one of the used needles.
Holding it gingerly so as not to smudge any of Drake’s prints, Slone half
filled it with a lethal dose. Sticking it into Drake’s leg he pushed down
on the plunger and then ripped it away, letting it drop on the floor.
Slone placed everything back where he had found it. On leaving the room,
he almost switched the light off. Then he corrected himself. As the old man
lived alone, there was no lock on the bathroom door, so Slone just shut it
on. The back door didn’t need to be locked by a key -- that was only to open
it from outside. So Slone replaced it on the hook from which he had taken
it earlier in the evening.
**
Once back in his car, Slone looked at the clock. It read half past one in
the morning. He let out the breath that he felt he had been holding since
seven. He took the letter from his pocket and looked at it. Along with the
original of the letter which Drake had given him
was a second letter. This was from the Prison Governess. It detailed how
Julie had been having nightmares of the abortion, and the prison psychiatrist
wanted to verify the story. The psychiatrist was another King’s Alumni and
so knew Drake.
It also detailed Julie’s sentence. She had fifteen left to serve for abducting
a baby, with possible parole in ten.
I won’t have to worry about her for a while Slone thought to himself.
**
Monday morning was just like any other. But at lunchtime was the visit he
had been half dreading. Walking into his office, Dr Singh was chatting to
a well-dressed man in a dark overcoat.
“Here he is now,” Singh said, gesturing to Slone.
The man stood up and reached into the breast pocket of his three-piece suit.
And showed Slone an ID card. Above it were two
silver badges. One was of a crown and the second a small diamond-shaped shield.
“Detective Chief Superintendent Durk, Scotland Yard.”
Slone sat in the armchair that he and Singh had procured for their office
some months back from the patients lounge.
“I need to ask you a few questions if I may,” the policeman continued.
“Do you need me to leave?” Dr Singh asked.
Durk shook his head.
“No, this is informal. I’m afraid that I have some bad news. Dr. Slone. Albert
Drake died on Saturday night. He took the wrong dose of insulin.”
Slone looked over to Singh. Then up at Durk.
“You think it was murder?”
“No, accidental death -- he had been drinking and wasn’t perhaps in control
of what he was doing. I’ll need a statement from you as you were the last
one to see him alive. Can you drop into my office some time?”
Durk handed Slone a card and stood up.
“I’ll bid you good day then, gentlemen.”
Durk left the room.
**
“Sorry, sir; my fault -- can’t see where I’m going.” Looking down from the
Arrivals board, Durk saw the man he had been waiting for.
Carrying a very battered old brown leather suitcase, a blue dog bed, and
a brand new hard case. His rain coat slung over an arm, Lieutenant
Columbo of the Los Angeles Police department struggled with his load to get
across to the Arrivals board.
“Columbo”! Durk called to his friend, The lieutenant
looked up and raised his left hand to signal that he had spotted Durk. As
he did this, the battered brown suitcase fell to the floor. As the lieutenant
bent down to pick it up, he dropped the dog basket.
“Let me give you a hand with that, Columbo,” Durk said as he approached.
“No it’s okay, I got it all...” The other suitcase fell to the floor.
“Oh, no; Mrs Columbo has some breakables in that
one.”
Durk carefully picked it up. Looking around for the lieutenant’s wife, he
realised that he wouldn’t know her if he saw her.
He had spoken to her on the phone once or twice, but never met her.
“Why didn’t you get a trolley?”
“Well I was going to get one at LAX, but you have to put a coin in. I guess
they’re the same here. I don’t have any coins. Just American
ones.”
Durk grabbed a empty trolley, and put the case
he was holding on to it.
“No, they seem to be free here.”
Columbo unloaded his baggage onto the trolley and started to push it.
“Where is your wife?”
“Mrs Columbo, she had to go to the Animal Reception
place to get Dog. I mean, the trouble it took
to get him over here. She has to go through some paperwork. I’m telling you,
though: It took us six months and three vet visits to get the passport for
him.”
Columbo pulled the lever on the trolley, making it brake suddenly.
“We’re going in the wrong direction... I said we’d go to Gate 3 and meet
her there.”
With a swift movement that almost knocked over a few people, Columbo swung
the trolley around and headed off in the opposite direction. Durk eventually
managed to catch back up with him.
“Gate 3, here we are.”
Columbo stopped the trolley and looked around. But there was no sight of
Mrs Columbo. Or Dog.
“I guess she isn’t here yet”
Durk sat down on one of the seats to wait. Columbo sat next to him.
Durk was just about to ask Columbo how his flight had been, only to be interrupted
by the tannoy.
“Could Lieutenant Columbo please go to the information desk at Gate 3, Lieutenant
Columbo to the information desk at Gate 3.”
“Was that me they wanted?” Columbo asked. “It was, wasn’t it? Can you mind
the bags for me?”
“Yes, of course,” Durk replied.
Columbo went up to walk toward the desk. After taking a couple of steps,
he turned back to Durk.
“I think I can trust a Scotland Yard commander with a few bags”
Columbo laughed, and Durk smiled.
**
Clara Jane Smyth was just about to page for Lieutenant Columbo a second time
when a shabby-looking man in a raincoat came up to the information desk.
Not another one, she
thought. Although the airport didn’t encourage it, some people with the airlines
and the food outlets would insist on feeding the homeless people that found
their way to Heathrow through the tube.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any food for you. Perhaps you could try Costa Coffee.”
The man in the raincoat looked around to see who she was addressing before
he realised she was talking to him.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m not looking for food. You paged me just now.”
He made a wild hand gesture to single that the sound of the page had come
from above.
Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small leather wallet. Inside was
a American police shield, Clara Jane
recognised it from the various police shows her boyfriend would make
her watch. Also there was a photo ID, with a picture of the man.
“I’m Lieutenant Columbo.”
Clara Jane looked at the ID -- she could just make out the word Columbo,
but the lieutenant’s thumb concealed the rest of the name.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Clara smiled at the shabby-looking detective.
“Your wife is on the phone, from Animal Reception.”
Clara Jane handed Columbo a phone, and motioned that he should pick it up.
She then transferred the call from AR.
“Hello, you there. Oh, yes, you are,” Columbo said into the phone, giving
Clara Jane a thumbs-up signal. “You have to wait for what
?...Ticks, I spent $300 on getting him checked for ticks, how can
he have ticks?...Oh, I see, they have to check him again? Okay, Honey; I’ll
have to work something out.”
Columbo replaced the phone and handed it back to Clara Jane. He then put
the back of his hand to his forehead, patted the top of his head, and clicked
his fingers. Looking up at Clara Jane, he said, “Thank you very much.”
He turned on his heel and headed off.
**
Having gone a couple of paces, he turned back.
“Excuse me miss, can I just ask? What time does the last bus for central
London leave?”
“01:30 hours, sir”
“01:30, that would be half one in the morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you very much.”
This time, the lieutenant walked out of sight.
**
Durk looked up and saw Columbo heading toward him. He looked slightly worried
and was scratching his head.
“Is everything all right?” Durk inquired.
“Yes, it will be. My wife, she has to stay at Animal Reception while they
check for ticks. Dog, that is. Mrs Columbo doesn’t
have ticks. Can you drop me at the hotel as we planned, then I can check
in, get the train back here, and pick my wife and Dog up.”
Durk nodded.
“I’ll take you to the hotel to check in and I’ll bring you back to collect
Mrs Columbo. I wouldn’t hear of you spending
your first few hours of holiday shuttling around on trains. Besides, we can
talk shop while we drive.”
Columbo made a wide gesture with his hands and collected the trolley. Slowly,
they walked off toward the car parks.
**
As Durk was helping to get the luggage into the back of his Rover 75, he
couldn’t help but ask his friend why he had one seemingly brand new case,
and one that looked like it had been about a bit.
“Well you see, the brown one, that’s mine. Back when I left New York to go
to the LAPD, the boys in the precinct got me that. I don’t want to change
it. Mrs Columbo, well, she likes to shop and
she likes her clothes.” Columbo shrugged his shoulders in
a expressive way. “What can I say? She gets a new case each time we
go away, then she gives it to her sister.”
Durk smiled knowingly.
They got into the car and after a bit of time with traffic out of the airport.
As they sped down the M11, Columbo opened his eyes for the first time since
they had pulled out of the parking space. He looked across at Durk.
“So tell me, now that you’re a commander, what does that mean, exactly?”
Durk thought for a moment.
“Basically, it’s the same job as I was doing before. Just with a bit more
responsibility. I have my own division now.”
Columbo nodded.
“You said something to do with cold cases.”
“Yes I run the new Cold Case Division at Scotland Yard.
Reporting straight to the Government Committee.”
Columbo made a impressed noise as he exhaled.
“That’s a pretty high-powered job. Although don’t you find that cold cases
can be a bit frustrating?”
“Sometimes, yes. When you know that someone is guilty but you can’t
get the evidence.”
Columbo reached into his jacket and took out a scratched and battered
Altoids mint tin.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
Durk looked across to see that the tin contained about five short cigars
and a beaten up matchbook which had the logo of
Bachelors World magazine.
“Not at all,” Durk replayed with a smile.
Bachelors World -- the name meant something, he couldn’t quite place
it. Then he realised. The last case he and Columbo
had worked on together was when the co-owner of the magazine had gone missing
on her way to a business meeting in London.
“Urm, hang on. Oh, where is the window thing?”
Durk pressed a button on the steering wheel and Columbos
window opened about halfway. Columbo then bit the end off his cigar, and
spat the derbies outside before lighting a match. At 70 mph, the breeze from
the window extinguished the match before the lieutenant could get the match
to the end of the cigar. He was about to try again when Durk put up the window.
“Don’t worry with the matches. Use the lighter in the dash.”
Reaching down Durk pushed it in, and a green light shone in the gloom.
“You know, in my car, I don’t have a lighter,” the lieutenant said. “They
gave me one of those lights to put on the roof, so they know I’m a cop. I
can’t use it.”
The lighter switched off and Columbo was finally able to light the cigar.
“Well, all the police over here use these at the moment,” Durk explained.
“They come kited out from the factory. I have lights behind the grill at
the front, and a siren.”
Columbo looked impressed.
“So you were saying, about how frustrating things can be in Cold Cases. I
mean, boy, I know what you mean. When you know the guy’s guilty but you have
to prove it.”
“Exactly. Of course, the advances in forensics in the last 20 years
have helped us close a lot of the books. I think at times, I have more pathologists
working for me than I do constables.
“Ain’t that the truth.
I had one case, you remember. Nine years, four months. Then right at the
end, I get something that had been stored in the basement rechecked with
some new fangled doodad. Bam, I got the evidence to convict. See, if he’d
committed that murder now, I’d have got him.” Columbo transferred his cigar
from his right hand to his left and held up his right hand to click his fingers.
“Just like that.” As it was, he had spent almost
ten years wrapping the case.
Durk nodded.
“I know just what you mean, Columbo. I like to feel that even if it is a
bit late, my department can bring justice and
closure for the victims.”
Columbo nodded his agreement as Durk continued.
“Right now, I have a case, very interesting. Originally, ten years ago, I
investigated it. Pathology said accidental death. It all seemed to check
out. So that was that. Then last week I got given a letter. It had been addressed
to the Commissioner. Took almost a year to get through
the system. From a girl who had been in Australia. She believed that
this death was a murder.”
Columbo exhaled a large puff of smoke deep in thought.
“And you believe her?” he asked.
“I don’t know, you see that’s the thing. She can’t
be found. Officially, I can’t reopen an investigation on the strength of
a letter. I’ve pulled in some favours with Missing
Persons to try and find this girl, but so far no luck. The address the letter
was sent from was a hostel in Aldgate. Just up
the road from the Royal Hospital. And she disappeared from there over six
months ago.”
“I can tell from the sound of your voice that you think her disappearance
is suspicious.”
“I do. In the letter, she accuses a doctor of misconduct and of murdering
to cover it up the last time she reported it. This doctor is now a consultant
liver surgeon at the Royal Hospital.”
Columbo took a long drag on the cigar as he thought.
“It’s a sticky one, all right.”
**
After arriving back to his rooms at the club at just past midnight, Durk
poured himself a glass of scotch. It had been a long day. The trips out to
the airport had been very exhausting. Perhaps more so,
as the second trip was for nothing. By the time they returned to the
airport. Mrs Columbo had left by tube for the
hotel.
As he sank into his chair, he thought back on the case that he had mentioned
to Columbo. It was a puzzler. Somehow he had never quite believed Dr. Slone’s
story. But he had no evidence to pursue a murder inquiry at the time. He
hadn’t even had a motive to start with.
Now he had a perfect motive, but no witness. He thought back over the initial
investigation. Slone’s story had checked out, apart from one thing that he
had never understood. Why Slone went to a bar to watch the football that
night. He’d watched the whole match, according to witnesses,
He could easily have driven home between the time he left Drake’s house
and the kick off. It just seemed odd.
Finishing his drink, Durk started up the stairs to bed. It had been a long
day, he thought. Instantly falling into a deep sleep.
Suddenly, the sound of the phone woke him. Looking at the clock on the night
stand, he saw that it was only 5:30. Picking up the phone rather grumpily,
he barked into the receiver.
“Commander Durk.”
The voice on the other end of the phone sounded shaky and not a little scared.
“Sorry, to wake you, sir,” It was D.S. Morley, one of
Durks subordinates.
“What do you want at this time in the morning, Morley?”
“They have found a body in Aldgate. From the
clothes, they think it might be Julie Knight, the Australian girl we were
looking for.”
“I’ll be right there.”
As he got ready to leave the house, he couldn’t help thinking that it was
strange that a new development in the case would come up just after he had
discussed it with Columbo.
Perhaps he’d have something interesting to tell the lieutenant when they
met up the following day for a trip on the London Eye.
**
As he drove down the Commercial Road, Durk was greeted by a young uniformed
officer. He showed his badge, and the young constable blearily jumped out
of his skin as he stood to attention. He’s probably never seen a Commander
before, Durk thought.
He was guided into a car park next to the old London College of Furniture
building. The College had long since been eaten up by London Guildhall University,
although now it seemed to be braking away from the new Metropolitan University.
The car park was really just a muddy patch of undeveloped land. Durk guessed
that once, the row of Georgian shops and flats had continued to this block.
But it had been bombed out during the second World War.
It was surprisingly common to find deserted bits of land like this in the
centre of the city. After the war, no one could find out who owned the land,
or if they could, the owner couldn’t afford to rebuild and didn’t want to
sell. Usually, the car parks and such that sprung up on these sites were
illegal.
Spotting Morley talking to a DC and a pathologist, Durk walked up to them.
“What do you have for me?” he asked.
“Female, mid-thirties, died of an overdose of something. Drug user, you can
see the marks on the arm.” The pathologist, Steptoe, used his pen to raise
her arm so that Durk could see the scarring.
“I would guess that she overdosed with her ‘friends’ and
they brought her here, about a week ago.”
This puzzled Durk.
“She’s very well preserved?”
“It’s the clay in the soil, it acts almost like
a preserving agent.”
“How come no one noticed her till now?”
“Well sir, there was a pit in the surface and an abandoned car was parked
over it. Although some attempt had been made to cover her with earth,” Morley
replied.
“Who’s car was it?”
“It had been stolen about a month ago,” Morley looked at his notes. “June
the 24th. It was stolen from the hospital car park and dumped here.”
“Do we have the owner?”
“No sir, the car was owed by a
Armud Basra, but he had died while undergoing treatment at the hospital.
The car was reported missing, but nothing was done about it.”
Durk nodded.
“Okay Morley, you can go to the hospital tomorrow and find out everything
you can about Mr Basra. I want to know when he
checked in, when he died, and whom his doctors
were. Steptoe, I want you to tell me exactly what she died of, and if possible,
when she died.”
They both gave Durk a positive ‘Yes, sir,’ and went off on the business.
Durk got back into his car and contemplated this new turn of events. He was
convinced that it was a murder, and he had a fair idea of who the killer
was. This time he wouldn’t let Slone slip through his fingers. But he would
need to be clever.
He couldn’t reopen the Drake case, as that was closed. Maybe Columbo could
help him get to the bottom of both cases.
**
It was a hot August day when Durk arrived at the London Eye. So hot that
he had left his jacket in the office and was down to his shirtsleeves. At
the base of the large Ferris wheel that had become one of the newest and
tallest structures on the London skyline, he saw Columbo. The lieutenant was
looking very agitated, and perhaps more than a little warm.
“Columbo!”
Durk called to him. The lieutenant looked round and gave him a Roman salute.
As he got closer, Columbo looked up at the wheel.
“I didn’t think it would be so high.”
“It is the largest one in the world, you know.”
Columbo just nodded at this and shook his head.
“Is Mrs Columbo not with you today?” Durk inquired.
”No, no she had to go and do something more important.” Columbo ran his hand
through his hair. “Last night, we were watching the TV, and you know she
saw a piece about the pet centre in Harrods. So today, she’s taken Dog there
to get a wash and stuff.”
Durk smiled to himself. They moved toward the queue to get into the bubble
for the Eye.
“This thing is safe, isn’t it?”
Columbo had a slightly worried tone in his voice.
“Yes, quite safe. You needn’t worry. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
“Well, yes, sir; a little. I mean, sometimes I’m okay. When there is something
to distract me. But most of the time.”
“Well, I might have the perfect distraction for you.”
“Oh, really, what’s that?”
There has been a interesting development in that
case I was telling you about the other day.”
Columbo realized that he had to get the ticket out of his pocket and started
to go through all of the pockets of his raincoat, suit, and trousers. Durk
calmly took the tickets from his pocket, and handed one to Columbo.
“Oh, yes, that’s right -- I got them sent to you at Scotland Yard to save
risking them getting lost mid-Atlantic”
The girl in the booth took the tickets, checked them off on the computer,
and said, “You’ll be in group C -- Just wait over there, by the sign.”
Durk and Columbo thanked her and moved to the sign to wait for the rest of
their group.
“Are you not hot in that coat?”
“Oh, well, not really. I’m used to the heat -- it’s usually a lot hotter
than this in L.A. I mean, I’m not that keen on it. Now, Mrs. Columbo, she
can take the heat. But me, I prefer the shade. I guess that came from growing
up in New York. Well, you know what it’s like there.”
Durk nodded. He had only spent a month on detachment with the NYPD, but had
found the city to be very much like London when it came to the climate.
As they were talking, five other people joined their group, which made the
maximum number of eight, and then a guide came to help them to embark.
**
Julian Childes walked up to Group Three, the second group that he would be
taking on the Eye that day. He looked over the eight people who would be
in the car. Mostly the normal-looking tourists with their
cameras and “I love London” hats.
At a guess, there were a family of three from the U.S. and
a slightly smarter-looking couple whom he could hear were speaking
in French. A teenager wearing a German soccer shirt, and
then two men who looked very out-of-place. One was quite tall and stood
upright and properly. He was wearing a smart shirt and trousers, and had a
small and very well kept mustachio. Something about the way he looked made
Julian think that he might be a policeman.
With him was a shorter man, with a unruly mop
of dark hair. He stood in a very slouched manner,
and for some reason was wearing a very grubby raincoat. They looked a slightly
odd couple. Julian guessed perhaps the taller man was actually a prison warder,
and the shorter man in the raincoat was on a day release to rehabilitate
him into society. Standing on his box next to the sign, Julian got into character
and started his spell.
“Okay, Group Three. We are in the next but one capsule, so I have to go over
the procedures with you. The wheel itself is the world’s tallest freestanding
observation wheel. From you can see up to 25 miles in each direction with
views over some of the world's most famous sights, including St Paul's, the
Palace of Westminster, and Windsor Castle. The wheel itself is in constant
motion, so the ride is smooth and uninterrupted.”
Moving the group to the dock, Julian continued.
“There will be plenty of time for you all to get on and off the wheel. You
do not have to jump. Once we get inside, I will explain some of the other
features of the wheel and point out interesting places that you will be able
to see. Are there any questions?”
“Yessir, I have one.”
Julian looked to see that the man in the raincoat wanted to ask something.
He had a deep gravelly voice and a very American accent.
“What happens if the whole thing breaks and we’re stuck at the top?”
“So far, that hasn’t happened. If the main motors were to stop, the backup
could be used. Other than that, the fire brigade have
equipment to get the wheel turning and get everybody out safely. We have
a drill with them once every three months.”
“Oh, okay, thank you.”
Just then the capsule came up behind Julian and the doors opened.
“Okay, would everyone like to climb on board.”
**
Once they had got into the capsule, Durk and Columbo found themselves seated
by one of the edges. Durk looked across at his friend, who was looking quite
nervously out the window. Because of the speed of the wheel, which took a
full hour to rotate, it took about ten minuets for them to feel as if they
were off the ground.
“You know, this isn’t so bad,” Columbo commented after about five minutes.
“Although I could do with a cigar. When ever I
feel a bit nervous, I like to have a cigar. Helps relax me. But all the things
that make me nervous are places where you can’t smoke. Like the plane on
the way out here.”
Durk smiled to himself as Julian started his talk.
“Now, ladies and gentleman, if you look to my right.” He held out
his right hand “You can see the new Greenwich housing development, which
had been designed by the same architect who designed the London Eye. It is
due for completion in 2005.”
As Julian went on with his spiel about the various sights visible at this
height, Columbo turned to Durk.
“So you said you had some interesting developments in the case that you’re
working on.”
Durk nodded. “Yes, we found the body of the Australian girl I was telling
you about. She had all the signs of a drug overdose, and was dumped on waste
ground.”
“But I get the impression that you don’t think it was a drug overdose that
killed her.”
“Well, she did die of a overdose of morphine,
there is no doubt about that. But my pathologist said that she showed none
of the usual signs of being a long-term user. Apart from
needle marks in her arms and thighs.”
“Track marks?” Columbo enquired.
“At first, that is what we thought, but she had spent time in
a institution in New South Wales where she was regularly given a sedative,
via a needle.”
Columbo clapped his hands together and shook his head.
“This sounds like a real tricky one -- you have to prove that it is actually
a murder, then you have to try and find who did
it.”
Durk nodded.
“That is half the problem. Right now, I’m looking for people who may have
given her drugs. But I want to investigate the doctor she accused. Right
now, I can’t get near him. And I have to move fast.”
“Oh why is that?”
Just then a gust of wind jolted the capsule, Columbo instinctively made a
grab for something to hold on to. Finding the edge of
the seat and Durk’s right leg.
“Sir, this thing isn’t going to fall, is it?” he called to Julian.
“No sir, it is quite normal to get a bit of buffering at this height. We
are now at the two o’clock position, or from the south, the ten `o’clock
position. If you look north, you can see Lords Cricket Ground, the home of
cricket. And to the south, you can just make out The Oval, the largest cricket
ground in England.”
Columbo resumed his normal sitting position, and turned to Durk.
“You were saying you had to move quickly?”
“Yes. At the end of the month, Mr Slone will
be leaving to take up a three-year residency in the USA.” Taking his notebook
from his shirt pocket, Durk read. “The New York Hospital
of Queens.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do you know that hospital, Columbo?”
Columbo breaks into a big grin and claps his hands a couple of times.
“Do I know the Queens Hospital. I was born there,
in that hospital.”
Durk smiled. “Really. Well he is to go there at
the end of the month. I would like to eliminate all suspicion from him.”
Columbo nodded. “Do you want me to try and talk to this guy? He might give
something away.”
“I can’t authorise anything. Officially he isn’t
a suspect.”
Columbo nodded.
“Well, maybe I could unofficially talk to him. I mean, perhaps someone with
a connection to the Queens Hospital wants to do some checks.”
Durk nodded.
Julian stood back up and made a wide gesture with both of his hands.
“Now, ladies and gentleman, we are at the very top of the London Eye. From
here on this beautiful clear day, you can see for a distance of approximately
25 miles.”
Columbo looked out the window, then quickly turned
his head back to the floor.
“That’s a long way down,” he commented.
**
Sitting in his large leather chair, Slone closed his eyes and using the remote
control switched on the CD player. The sound of John Coltrane’s saxophone
filled the air as Slone tried to shake off the fatigue from a long day in
surgery.
Since getting the seat with the Royal College of Surgeons and becoming the
Royal London Hospital’s chief Consultant in Liver Surgery, Slone hadn’t felt
like he had a day to himself. Not that he was complaining: The money was
good, and it had afforded him the opportunity to go to New York for a three-year
residency.
Part of the reason he was so tired just now was that he was trying to finish
the urgent case on his files and, at the same time, hand the remaining cases
over to his replacement, Mr. Clark. Clark was from Glasgow Royal Infirmary.
The top man in the field in Scotland.
And was looking to spread his wings. Slone liked Clark, although the
commuting that he had put in to Glasgow and back while getting ready to hand
his surgery over was starting to get him down a bit.
That and the business with Julie Dark.
Slone didn’t like killing. After he was forced to kill his mentor, Drake,
he had sworn to himself that he would never again take a life.
Even when a terminal patient on his ward had asked him to leave her drugs
in easy reach so that she could end her suffering. He hadn’t done
it. Before that day in 1991, when he had killed Drake, Slone had been a mild
supporter of the Double Effect approach to euthanasia. Now it left him cold.
But Julie’s reappearance couldn’t have come at a worse time for him.
The negotiations with the Queens Hospital in New York were tricky. There
was some difference in working practice, and he had to make sure that he
was up to speed with how things were there. At the same time, they had run
some very intrusive checks into his background. When he had laughed off the
record of his being drunk one Christmas, the Hospital Director had looked
at him with total contempt, although it seems that the actions of a 19-year-old
student wouldn’t be a factor in his not getting the post.
The reappearance of Julie Dark, telling her little tale of woe, on the other
hand could have seriously messed up his chances. He had tried to reason with
her, offer her money to keep her mouth shut, but she wouldn’t take it. So,
eventually, he had to silence her. It had been easier than the first time.
Which bothered Slone.
He had noticed that she had track marks on her arms. He didn’t know weather
this was from an addiction or tranquillizers that she had been given while
serving her sentence. He suspected both. It had been easy to administer the
lethal dose of morphine. She had died quite quickly.
Then it was just a case of getting rid of the body. One of his patients had
died on the table, but his car had been left in the hospital car park. It
had been easy for Slone to steal it, and no one would
suspect anything. Especially as five other cars in the
car park had been broken into that night and one other taken by
joyriders.
It was for that reason that Slone parked his own car in the commercial road.
The car park wasn’t great. Really just a sand-covered
scrap of earth where a row of shops had stood until one night in 1940, when
the Luftwaffe had flattened them. Since then, strange legal problems
meant it was deserted, and someone had set up a small car park there. But
it was safer than the Hospital one, as during the day, till about seven in
the evening, there was always someone there.
Slone had no trouble getting into the car park, as the only barrier that
prevented people from getting in at night was a traffic cone. He had noticed
a few days ago that there was a small ditch forming. A goods vehicle had
been parked there when it had rained and the ground had started to subside.
Slone dumped Julie’s body into the ditch and kicked some sand over her. Then
he parked the car on top of her. Taking a rock from the ground, he smashed
the windscreen of the car. He would have broken the rest o the windows if
something hadn’t distracted him. A yell from the University building
“Oi!”
Slone at first froze, then hid himself from view.
“Oi!” came the shout
again, this time there was a reply.
“What?”
A scruffy looking kid in the street, wearing dark glasses even though it
was gone midnight and a black motorcycle jacket, was looking up at an attractive
young woman with raven black hair and the most amazing almond eyes who was
leaning out the window.
“Have you got the keys to the rooms?” She shouted.
“Yes.”
“I forgot mine. Can you wait for me?”
“Okay I’ll go to the entrance.”
With that, the kid walked off back to the Commercial road, and out of Slone’s
view. But this had rattled Slone. He didn’t bother with the car any more.
Just got out of the car park and started to walk. Not straight back to the
hospital, but back along the back streets through the factories and back
that way. As he got to one junction, the two students he had witnessed shouting
at each other were messing about in the road. Slone guessed they had been
drinking. They paid him no attention, which he took to be a good sign.
It had been almost a week before the police had found the body. Slone had
started to ride his bike into work. On the pretence that in New York he would
have to, as there wasn’t any parking. He hadn’t been back to the car park
since. The police had found the car had belonged to one of his patients but
that had been dealt with by his secretary, who had a call from a young Detective
Sergeant. As far as Slone knew, that would be the end of that.
His only worry now was a meeting he had scheduled for this afternoon, with
a man named Columbo. Something to do with the Queens
Hospital supporters. Slone had thought that he was done with the checks
and questions. But he guessed that the elected body of fundraisers wanted
to check up that the money they raised for the hospital was going to pay
for a good surgeon. Though why send someone all the way to London to talk
to him, when he cold have answered all the questions
on the phone? That was a puzzler.
But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now he was going
to get some lunch.
**
Returning from lunch, Slone was surprised to find someone sitting in his
office. A scruffy looking man with unkempt hair, wearing
a raincoat.
“Can I help you?” Slone enquired of the man.
“Yes sir. My name is Columbo. I’m here from the Beneficiaries Fund for the
Queens Hospital.”
Slone nodded his head, took off his jacket and hung it on the hat stand before
walking round the desk to sit.
As he sat, the man seemed to notice something.
“You wear a pocket watch, sir?”
Slone looked down slightly confused by the odd observation.
“Oh yes. It is easier to read than a wristwatch. Plus, sometimes, I have
to use both hands and keep the time.”
“That looks like a very beautiful watch, antique.”
Slone took the watch out of the pocket of the waistcoat and opened the case
to show Columbo.
“Well, will you look at the from the outside it looks old, but inside there
it’s all digital”
Slone smiled as he put the watch back in his pocket.
“The case is indeed antique, I brought it without
a movement in an auction. The digital part is a watch and a stopwatch. It
has other features that are useful to me professionally.”
Columbo looked suitably impressed.
Slone leaned back in his chair and looked at the man. There was something
about him that he couldn’t quite place. A certain air
of observation. Slone reached over to the large box on his desk and
took out a cigar. He knew that smoking wasn’t the best thing in the world.
But like most of the medical profession he didn’t seem to bother about it.
He offered the box to his guest, not expecting the man to take one, and was
a little annoyed that he did.
“Can I smoke in here?” the man asked. “When I came in, there were all these
signs, so I put mine out.”
Slone offered Columbo the cutter, but he waved it away.
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll save this one for later.”
He then produced a small half-smoked cigar from his pocket.
Slone looked at this with a cocked eye as he passed Columbo the lighter.
“Can I ask you something, though, sir?”
“Yes, of course”
“Where do you get your cigars from?”
Slone pondered the question.
“I think that they are from Virginia, although I am not sure where they are
rolled. I just get the boxes sent to me.”
Columbo nodded. “Only I’m only here for a couple of weeks, and I was looking
for somewhere to buy cigars. Of course my wife, well, she would be happier
if I did run out all together. You know, she wanted me to get a pipe. But
I said...”
“I hate to interrupt this, but I only have an hour till my afternoon clinic.
Could we get to what you wanted to discuss?”
Columbo made a hand gesture of apology.
“I’m sorry, sir, I got a bit carried away.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Columbo fiddled about in his pocket for a moment and came out with a small
folder with some papers in.
“It’s just to go over some small details.”
Slone nodded.
“About ten years ago, you were a suspect in a suspicious death.
A Professor Drake. You had been drinking with him the night he died.”
Slone went cold, but he had his cover story. The hospital director hadn’t
mentioned Drake. This was a bit of a shock.
“It was a terrible thing to happen. Drake was a diabetic, he had to take
insulin. Unfortunately, that night, he took slightly too much and it caused
a embolism in the heart.”
“But the police seemed to think you had something to do with it,” Columbo
asked.
“Yes, they did. Perhaps, in a way, they were right. I do partly blame myself
for Drake’s death. We were drinking and he was perhaps too drunk to see what
he was doing with the insulin.”
Columbo nodded and made a gesture “So it was just an accident.”
“A tragic accident.”
Columbo made a note, then looked up at Slone.
“Did you benefit at all from Drakes death?” he asked.
“No, all of his money went to a charity -- he was a great man, a friend and
a colleague. Are these questions relevant?”
Columbo held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry; I didn’t
mean to upset you.”
“Perhaps we could reschedule for later. I have to get ready for my rounds.”
Columbo got up and walked towards the door.
“I don’t think that I need to talk with you again, for now. Perhaps someone
in New York will phone you.”
He left the office, then opened the door and walked back in.
“I’m sorry, could I use your ashtray?”
Slone pushed the ashtray towards him, and Columbo proceeded to put out the
cigar he had been smoking.
“Were you smoking cigars that night with Mr. Drake, sir?
A few whiskeys and a couple of cigars, a ball game on the TV?”
“No. We just had a few drinks. I left early as I wanted to watch a football
match. Or as you would say, a soccer match. I
went to a bar to watch the match.”
“I know what you mean, it’s much better to watch a game,
er, match in a bar. Well, I’ll leave you to get on with things.”
He again left the room. Only to knock a moment later.
“I’m sorry, sir, Just one more thing?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a car, in the parking lot here?”
“What has that got to do with anything, Mr. Columbo?”
Columbo held up his hands.
“It’s just that I noticed the police were looking at cars here.
On my way in. I thought you might want to check your parking.”
“I’ve started to ride in on bicycle. Good for the heart.”
With a wave, Columbo finally left.
**
At the door to the hospital, Durk waited for his friend to emerge. His
team were busy checking the cars in the car park, hoping to find something
to tie one of them in with the car park down the road.
Columbo came out of the door. Looking puzzled.
“How did it go, Columbo?” Durk enquired.
“It was interesting, I see what you mean about
him. But you won’t find his car here. I asked him. Said
he was biking in.”
Durk nodded his head.
“Did you ask him about Drake?”
“Yes, that I did. He gave me a very convincing
reply about that night.”
“So you don’t think that he had anything to do with Drake’s death.”
Columbo shook his head.
“No, it was like playing poker with my wife’s brother. That guy, he’s the
worst bluffer ever. Spends hours in the bathroom perfecting
his look in front of the mirror. But you can tell when he’s bluffing.
It’s nothing obvious, nothing you can fix in front of the mirror, but you
can tell.”
Durk looked puzzled.
“And you think that Slone was bluffing?”
“That story he had about that night ten years ago. Man, I can’t remember
with that detail what I was doing June 1990. Probably
the Barsini case. But Slone, oh, he had
it all worked out. He’d rehearsed it.”
Durk nodded. He usually trusted his instincts, but in this case, Slone had
a very good alibi and no real evidence against him. It was reassuring that
Columbo had come to the same conclusions about Slone as he had.
**
The man from New York, Columbo, had rattled Slone. There was something about
him that he didn’t like. He couldn’t put his finger on it. But it was the
questions that he had asked.
He had ‘way too much information about that night. It reminded him of that
policeman whom he had spoken to at the time. Detective
Chief Superintendent Dick or something or other. Pulling on a white
coat over his suit, Slone prepared for his round of the liver ward. He liked
to keep in touch with the patient. Some people, once they made consultant,
left the ward duties to the others.
Walking down the corridor, Slone noticed something out of the window that
shouldn’t have been there. A blue light.Columbo
was right. He thought. The police must be here.
He looked out from the window and saw a van and a couple of
cars. Then he noticed Columbo in his raincoat talking to another man. This
man was taller and even from the back familiar to Slone. But he couldn’t
place him.
After a few moments, Columbo made a large gesture with his hands. Slone had
noticed that he seemed to communicate half by gesture as well as by
verbalisation. Neither of them seemed to spend too much time getting
to the point. This hand gesture seemed to communicate that didn’t know something.
But it forced the other man to get out of the way.
He turned to the window slightly, and Slone could see who it was.
The policeman who had interviewed him ten years ago.
Durk. That had been his name. He seemed to know Columbo well. They
eventually got into the same Rover and speed off.
Slone thought about this. He didn’t like it. Was Columbo actually some ruse
on the part of Scotland Yard to get to the bottom of the Drake case? He had
always suspected that Durk had suspicions about him.
But no evidence, and therefore no case.
But he had been careful when talking to Columbo. Careful
enough. He knew his story well enough to be confident that he could
fool a Scotland Yard detective, and Columbo was probably a civilian worker
that they got to play a ruse to see if they could squeeze a confession out
of him.
It wouldn’t work. And in three weeks, Slone would be in New York.
Which should mean that Scotland Yard wouldn’t be able to peruse him on the
grounds of speculation.
Slone headed off on his round and tried to put the strange man from America
and Detective Chief Superintendent Durk from his mind.
**
Eventually, after a long round, Slone felt the need to go for a walk. Just
down the road from the Hospital was a small park. Not
very big. It was where a church had stood before the war, and after
the bombing, it had been left as parkland.
It was nice to get out of the hospital for an hour or so before going back
to wade into the paperwork that the day had thrown up. Slone doubted that
he would get home before 10 p.m. The last month or so,
he felt like his hours were back to what they were when he was a houseman.
But with the move to New York coming up, he had to get everything in order
here. It was wor
