Mo Hayder - Skin

‘What’s happening?’ She’d got up as he came in. ‘Did she kill herself? Did she leave a note?’

‘Darcy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m Jack. Jack Caffery.’

She shook the hand he held out. Her palm was damp, cold. ‘Did she say why? In the note?’

‘Sit down.’

She did so and he sat next to her, his feet set slightly apart, his knee not far from hers, his head bent down a little so he could look up into her face.

‘It’s hit you hard, hasn’t it?’

‘It’s not exactly what I was, y’know, expecting when I came into work this morning.’

‘You up to talking?’

‘I’ve said a lot of it already – I’ve told them how I…’ She turned smudgy eyes to Caffery. ‘I keep thinking there was something I should’ve done.’

He put a hand on her shoulder. Stupid thing to do, maybe, because strictly speaking he shouldn’t even be here on his own with her. You never knew what accusations people were capable of. The East European girls in the Dover pens had developed a habit of waiting until they were on their own with a cop, shoving their hands inside their panties, then wiping their fingers on the cop’s hands before he knew what was happening. Screaming assault – and who was going to deny it when the DNA popped up from the swabs? Cops were taught to travel in pairs these days. But this girl looked like she hadn’t the resources left to go to the toilet on her own, let alone accuse him of assault.

‘I’m police too,’ he said. ‘But the questions I’ve got might be different from the ones they asked you on the phone. Is that OK?’

‘What was in the note?’ Darcy pressed a balled-up handkerchief to her nose. ‘The suicide note?’

‘She was unhappy. Said she felt abandoned.’

‘Not abandoned. I just can’t believe it. She had loads of friends. Her parents are great, really cool – for parents, y’know. And Paul was coming off the rigs. It was all she could talk about. She’d spent most of the week getting ready.’

‘You knew her well?’

‘Years ago, we used to do everything together. We had a bit of a – I don’t know – a bust-up about six months ago and since then we’ve kind of avoided each other, but not seriously, you know. We kept it light after that so we didn’t have to talk about the argument. But we’d still socialize at work – laugh and gossip and that.’

‘Control tells me you last saw her yesterday lunchtime.’

‘In the locker room. I was getting changed, ready to meet my date. She was going to the loo. I’m standing there looking in the mirror and I’ve seen her come out and wash her hands and… and that’s why I’m sort of…’ She bit her lip. ‘That’s why I’m sort of screwed up by it all because I think she wanted to tell me something and I was in a hurry so I didn’t listen. I thought about calling her later, but when I did her phone was switched off. I didn’t leave a message.’

‘Her phone was off when she was found and the log was wiped. Was she in the habit of wiping the log?’

‘I don’t think so. One thing I do know is she would never switch her mobile off. Never.’

‘So tell me again – what happened in the changing room?’

‘It was her face. She…’ Darcy paused, clearly trying to think how to explain it. ‘You know if someone has just seen something but they can’t believe what they’ve seen? They get this sort of look on their face, like they think someone’s having a laugh or something, but they’re not sure.’ She wiped her eyes again. ‘I was in a hurry so I looked in the mirror and I go, “What’s up, Suse?” and she shakes her head and she’s like, “Do you know any of the recovery nurses?” And I go, “No, why?” And she’s like, “I think they’re all a bit thick – not to see what’s going on under their noses.”’

Caffery raised his eyebrows. Darcy nodded. ‘I know. But I’m the thick one cos I was only half listening, thinking she’s getting into some bitching session about the other nurses, and then she goes: “I’m going a bit mad. I think I’ve just seen one of the surgeons stealing something.”’

‘Stealing what?’

‘She didn’t say. I don’t think it was money or valuables. It was the way she used the word “ stealing ”. Like it wasn’t quite the right word. Like it was the nearest she could come to it. And later, when I’m thinking about it, I’m convinced whatever she wanted to tell me was well weird. It was written all over her face, like she’d seen something really horrible.’

‘Where had she come from?’

‘The operating theatre.’

‘Did she say which surgeon it was?’

‘No. She’d have worked with a few yesterday, I think.’

There was a moment’s silence. She looked back at Caffery, not understanding the impact of what she had said. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not much help, am I?’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Caffery said. He had to avoid the instinct to pat her shoulder again. ‘Don’t be sorry at all. You’ve been very helpful.’

The manager of the clinic couldn’t think what Susan Hopkins had meant by ‘stealing’. The patients shouldn’t have anything of value in the recovery room: everything would have been placed in the clinic’s central safe upon admission. Signed for. She showed Caffery the register as proof. Her day wasn’t exactly working out as she’d planned it, and Caffery could sympathize with that, but he didn’t think it excused her rudeness. She was as tight-lipped as a camel’s backside in a sandstorm. And when he asked for the details of all the surgeons Susan Hopkins had been working with yesterday, that really tore the lid off for her. The clinic rented the space and facilities to the surgeons, she insisted, that was all. She’d happily give him the names of the three surgeons Susan Hopkins had been rostered with, but absolutely no details of the operations performed and under no circumstances details of the patients. He was welcome to takes his chances with the surgeons’ secretaries, but medical secretaries were notoriously hidebound about things like this, and, she explained, looking down her nose at him, she didn’t fancy his odds without a warrant.

But she was wrong, as it turned out. The secretary who managed the books for two of the surgeons, Davidson and Hunt, was sweet-faced. She knew Susan Hopkins and had heard what had happened. The whole clinic was talking about it.

‘I want to look into their records.’

‘I’m not supposed to tell you anything.’ She stood at the door of her office anxiously, her back to it as if she was guarding a treasure. ‘You know that, don’t you? I’m supposed to wait for a warrant.’

‘Susan didn’t commit suicide. Has that part of the news reached you?’

‘That’s what some of them have been saying.’

‘There might be other cases we’re linking her death to. Can you see what I mean?’

She didn’t answer. She was so pale even her mouth had lost its colour.

‘A serial killer.’ He leant in to hiss the words. The silver bullet. The most frightening words a woman could hear. ‘I’m saying we might be talking about a serial killer.’

The secretary bit her lip. Looked down the corridor to check they weren’t being watched. ‘Oh, Christ.’ She stood back to let him in. ‘I could get the sack for this. Quickly. Close the door.’

She went to the other side of the desk and leant over the computer, shook the mouse and the screen came to life.

‘We’ve been having trouble with the server. The men are due this morning, but it’s still… Ah – there. Now, what am I looking for?’

‘Both surgeons’ lists for the beginning of May two years ago.’ Caffery came to stand next to her and watched her scrolling through. ‘Specifically a tummy tuck and a sympathectomy in the same op.’