Cath Staincliffe - Desperate Measures

‘No, only hearsay,’ Butchers said.

‘Suppose it was a splinter gang, a copycat crime,’ Lisa said, ‘this time they go in at the end of the day but Halliwell confronts them and they shoot him.’

‘OK,’ said Janine, ‘investigating that is one priority. The other is Halliwell’s workplace. After all, that’s where he was shot. We need to build up a picture of Dr Halliwell. What can the rest of the staff tell us? We’re talking to them this morning. But we also look at patients.’

‘Place like that you get all sorts,’ Shap said, ‘nutters, junkies.’

‘Sick people,’ Janine said. ‘You not have a doctor, Shap?’

‘Nah,’ Shap said.

‘No-one to check your bits?’ Janine said.

‘Don’t need a doctor for that,’ Shap said, ‘they’re lining up for it.’

Lisa groaned and Butchers laughed.

‘Queasy,’ Janine said, ‘spare us.’

‘How about a patient with a grudge?’ Richard said. ‘They do Halliwell’s car, then the shooting.’

‘Needs exploring,’ Janine agreed. ‘Lisa, you mentioned the Marcie Young inquest.’

‘Yes, boss. Dr Halliwell was cleared of any negligence and the verdict was accidental death.’

‘How did the family take it?’ Janine said. ‘See what you can find out.’

‘Will do,’ Lisa said.

‘Other actions?’ said Janine.

‘We’ve pulled in CCTV for the area,’ Lisa said, ‘and we’re looking for activity near the scene: people, cars. Same with house-to-house.’

‘We’re also working back through his day,’ Butchers said, ‘getting the timeline filled in.’

‘Good,’ Janine said, ‘We’ve arranged to talk to staff at the surgery now, and I intend to speak to Dr McKee again after that. And attend the post-mortem. We’ll review everything at five-thirty.’

Roy was no stranger to organizing funerals. He’d helped with his father’s, sorted out his mother’s, then Peggy’s parents and -

He was startled by a blare from the horn of the car behind him. The lights had changed to green and Roy sat there like an idiot. He drove on. He had the death certificate now from the registrar. The registrar had offered to print out extra copies in case he needed to send them to Peggy’s bank or building society or anywhere else but Roy had declined. They had a joint account, the house was rented, he wouldn’t need them.

Cooper’s, a Catholic firm were doing the funeral, there’d been an opening at the cemetery on Saturday afternoon. There was no need to wait any longer – it wasn’t as if there were any family who needed time to travel. It’d be Roy and Peggy’s friends, most of them from church. Father McDovey would do a Requiem Mass at St Edmund’s beforehand.

Roy pulled into the road at the side of the surgery. The place was closed. He had watched the news this morning, reports that someone had been shot. Later they named the victim as Dr Donald Halliwell. The main entrance was taped off but Roy could see the fire door at the side was open and a police officer stood there. He parked and lifted the oxygen cylinder out and walked along the path to her.

‘Surgery’s closed,’ she said.

‘I’m just returning this,’ Roy said, ‘it won’t take a minute.’ He had already rung up to arrange the return of the hospital bed and they would collect on Friday.

‘If you could come back tomorrow,’ the officer said.

Roy felt a flash of anger, hot across his back. My wife’s just died, he wanted to tell her, she spent the last weeks of her life hooked up to that thing and I want rid of it. Now.

He said nothing, then he caught sight of Miss Ling behind, in the hallway.

‘Roy,’ she said, ‘come in.’ The police officer glared at him but stood to one side. ‘I heard about Peggy,’ Ms Ling said. ‘I am so sorry.

‘And Dr Halliwell,’ he said.

‘It’s awful. Unbelievable.’ She had been crying.

‘I just wanted to drop the oxygen off,’ he said, ‘but then-’

‘Of course.’ She glanced sharply at the officer. ‘No problem.’

The policewoman tightened her lips and he wished he had the nerve to challenge her attitude but what if he lost his temper and caused a scene when they were trying to work out what happened to the doctor?

So he said nothing but left the cylinder where Ms Ling showed him. He could see other people in the building, a woman who looked at him as he came in. And a tall man near the consulting rooms. They weren’t in uniforms but he got the impression they were police too. Ms Ling asked when the funeral was and she said she’d try and come and that made him feel a bit better.

On the drive home he remembered going to the surgery with Peggy for the results of the tests; how they had sat side by side while Dr Halliwell told them that it was bad news, that the shadow was a tumour on the lung and that it was unfortunately very advanced.

‘How advanced?’ Peggy had said.

‘But can you treat it?’ Roy said at the same time.

‘The only treatment will be palliative,’ Dr Halliwell said, ‘to make you comfortable. I am sorry.’

Sorry, he had said but it wasn’t his fault, was it? The luck of the draw. Terminal, Roy thought. The word hadn’t been spoken but that’s what it was. Terminal.

There was a rushing in his head and he felt sick. He clamped his jaw tight.

‘How long have I got?’ Peggy had said.

‘Impossible to say.’ Dr Halliwell shook his head.

‘Roughly?’

‘Peggy,’ the doctor reproached her.

‘Please, doctor, you must have some idea. Months? A year?’

Dr Halliwell took a breath, his fingers on the knot of his tie.

Weeks, then, Roy thought.

‘A year would be most unlikely,’ the doctor had said

‘Thank you,’ Peggy said.

For what? A death sentence? Roy was furious. How could she be so accepting? Why wasn’t she full of rage at the unfairness of it all? She deserved better. God knows, she’d been through enough in the past few years.

Roy had got abruptly to his feet and let go of her hand. He had to leave.

Dr Halliwell looked up at him and said to them both, ‘It’s an awful lot to take in. Why don’t you go home and I’ll call in tomorrow afternoon and we’ll look at your care plan then.’

Care plan? How had it come to that? One minute she was a bit more breathless, had a pain in the side, next thing she was dying and had a care plan.

Peggy stood up. ‘Yes, thank you, doctor,’ she said again. Roy followed her out, the injustice of it a searing fire in his chest.

And it had been weeks. Five short weeks from that day until her death yesterday.

Dr Halliwell had called just after lunch.

Roy had been up with Peggy all night, dozing in the armchair, beside the big hospital bed. He’d had to move furniture out of the room to accommodate it but there was just enough space for the chair and the small table to put all the medicines and things on.

When it grew light, Roy had made a cup of tea. He’d asked Peggy if she’d like a drink of anything but she didn’t wake. Her breath was irregular even with the oxygen and several times she made a gargling sound. Roy worried she was choking at first, he sprang up and watched, ready to try and clear her throat if he had to but then he saw the ripple in her throat as she managed to swallow and he sat back down again, took hold of her hand.

He didn’t speak. There was no need for words. Now and again a noise from outside would pierce his consciousness: the slam of a car door, a burst of bird song, a plane overhead; but in the cocoon of the room, over-warm for Peggy, he let his mind drift.

Peggy began to cough and then her breath made a stuttering, scraping sound. He felt her hand slacken. And then there were no more breaths. Roy waited a while to be sure, an awful aching in his throat. He rubbed his eyes and he gently removed the oxygen mask and smoothed her hair back. He folded her hands on her chest and gazed at her for a few more minutes before calling the surgery.