Greg gazed at Peter Spencer, needing to hear again what the man had said earlier. ‘But it does fit a Mini?’
‘Yes. I’ve got the report here.’ He held up the sheet of paper and started to read it. ‘Pirelli 205/45 R17. It—’
‘—and this tyre make is the one that made the impression on Lillian Armstrong’s jacket?’ Greg said, repeating Peter, as if to cement the fact in his brain.
‘Yes.’
Greg’s mind was not eased. The likelihood of it being Alex Taylor’s car was increasing. ‘OK. So let’s begin checking all the occupants of the building first.’
Peter Spencer nodded, but his expression was doubtful. ‘Do you not think we should start with Dr Taylor’s car? At least to eliminate her?’
‘So you’re buying into DC Best’s theory? Dr Taylor ran the woman over to gain attention?’
‘I’m not buying into anyone’s theory. We haven’t proved the tyre came from her car, I haven’t even seen what tyres are on her car. She may have Pirellis, she may not. If she has I’ll be looking for fresh bitumen. That’s what made the impression so clear. Although it may be too late for that, given the doctor had her car cleaned. We really need to just take a look and take her out of the frame. Or .?.?. I’m letting you know the facts, Greg. Not joining the dots.’
Greg stared around, looking at the spacious CID suite, and saw that even at seven o’clock in the morning the place was busy. Officers were sitting at desks, checking information on their computers or preparing hard copy notes for the morning briefing. Laura Best’s desk was still empty, giving him a few minutes’ grace. She was late, which was unheard of.
Greg nodded appreciatively. ‘Thanks, Peter. Keep at it. We need a location with fresh tar laid. In the meantime let’s keep quiet on the tyre information. Laura Best is out to hang the doctor and I do not want any wrongful arrests, especially not of a doctor. The media will have a field day if we’re wrong.’
‘It’s your decision,’ Peter Spencer answered. ‘I’ll do what you want.’
He turned to leave, then stopped. ‘It still doesn’t make sense to me – why Dr Taylor would run the woman over and then tell you about the tyre mark on her jacket. It all seems a bit strange.’
Greg nodded. ‘My sentiments exactly. Which is why we need to check our facts first.’
‘Do you think it’s possible someone borrowed her car while she was shopping?’
Greg shrugged. He had no answer.
‘If Lillian Armstrong was in Dr Taylor’s car there will be evidence.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Greg replied. ‘And of the fact that we still have no answers.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Do it, Peter. But do it discreetly. Check out what tyres her car has. And then we’ll know.’
Chapter thirty-seven
Maria Asif elbowed the door open, taking care not to drop the tray of dirty instruments she carried. It was the final tray she needed to bring into the room. She had piled the others up on the counter so that she could do another quick check and make sure there were no needles or blades among them before they were sent back for sterilisation.
It had been a busy night, especially the last few hours, and an unsuccessful one at that. The body of a young man was still lying on one of the operating tables waiting to be collected by the porters and taken to the mortuary. He was nineteen years old, but looked even younger. He had been brought into A & E with virtually every bone in his body broken after coming off his motorbike at high speed.
There had been little they could do for him, and the attempt to stem bleeding from severed arteries, damaged organs and broken bones had been more of a token gesture. In her opinion it would have been better to have left him to die surrounded by his family, instead of in a cold and sterile operating theatre surrounded by a dozen professionals, desperately wanting to help, but clearly unable to.
Maria Asif had said a prayer for him and had stood with his crying parents as they hugged and kissed him goodbye. It was two days before Christmas and their child had died, and there were no words that could help them. Maria had nothing to say that would lessen their sorrow. She now wanted to get home to her own babies. She wanted to kiss her eldest son while he was still at an age to let her, and hold her two youngest children for the rest of the day.
It was moments like this that made her hate her job. As she checked over all of the instruments that had been used on the dead boy she felt tears run down her face. It was unfair. Sudden death in someone so young was so unfair. There were no answers, only ‘what ifs’. With the sleeve of her surgical gown she quickly wiped away the tears.
Moving over to the waist-high dumb waiter she saw blood on the wall beneath the lift. It must have leaked from the lift, and run down the wall.
Staff were continually reminded about the importance of hygiene, the seriousness of cross infection and the out of control MRSA sweeping through most hospitals, and yet a simple thing like cleaning up the mess left by bloody instruments was ignored. Someone had obviously put a tray of dripping instruments into the lift without wrapping them first. She would report this when the day staff came on, because the mess had been left from yesterday, not during the night.
Angry at the state of the lift, which would keep her from her family longer, she raised the outer door. She would send the instruments down to the sterilising unit, bring the lift back up and then clean it. Gripping the inner door, she raised it and saw that the blood was not caused by dripping instruments, but by a body curled up tight, wearing clothes drenched with it.
Maria Asif’s screams reached the ears of her colleagues and she stumbled away, backing out of the room and into the corridor, where she vomited.
*
Greg looked at his watch again. The morning briefing was nearing an end and Laura still hadn’t shown up; he was now worried. He had called her on her mobile and tried her home several times and she wasn’t answering. It was so unlike her, and as much as he disliked the woman he had a responsibility for her.
Every officer knew the importance of staying in contact. All police officers were targets and knew that at any time in their lives they could find themselves in a situation where they faced danger. Reprisal and revenge from people who felt the police had wronged them, or cornered perpetrators trying to escape a capture, were all a source of potential danger.
Greg had sent an officer over to her home, but she seemed not to be there. When the briefing was over he would get someone to call again and, if necessary, get a doorman to let them in.
He saw Dennis Morgan checking his mobile again and felt irritated by the young officer’s rudeness. Walking behind his chair, Greg adopted the manner of a teacher and snatched the mobile out of his hands. ‘You need to pay attention when you’re in this room, Morgan. You shouldn’t be checking up on your love life. Get it back from me at the end of the briefing.’