Mo Hayder - Skin

‘We keep records going back five years. You never know what claims people are going to cook up. I’m pretty meticulous about it. There.’ She stopped scrolling. ‘Mr Davidson did an abdomectomy on the fifth – that’s about it. After that it was mostly rhinoplasties. Mr Hunt did three corrective operations on the fourth – that’s one of his specialities, scar revision. You know, they come in with some other surgeon’s botches. He’s good, Mr Hunt. Really good. No sympathectomies.’

‘Who did you say did the abdomectomy?’

‘Mr Davidson. Paul.’

‘Patient’s name?’

‘Karen Cooper.’

‘Nothing under the name Mahoney?’

‘No.’ She tapped her pen. Looked at the screen. ‘That’s all. The names might be fake – people get embarrassed: we can’t control that – but the ops in the system aren’t. That was the only abdomectomy in those three days. And nothing on the sympathetic nerve. Not for Mr Hunt or Mr Davidson. I don’t think I’ve ever known either of them do that operation anyway. I’m sorry.’

Caffery got up and put his business card on the desk. ‘Where’s Mr Gerber’s secretary?’

‘At the end of the corridor. There are three secretaries in there. You need Marsha. If you get lost just follow the cold air.’

‘The cold air?’

‘That’s me being bitchy. I’m just saying, good luck walking into Marsha’s domain without a warrant and asking for a peep at her surgeon’s records. If you know what I mean.’

‘Not very amenable?’

‘The words “blood” and “stone” come to mind. Or “Cruella”.’

‘Thanks,’ Caffery said. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

There were three work stations in the office but it was coffee break and only one was occupied. By Marsha. The indomitable Marsha. She was tall and stately with perfectly black hair cut in a blunt line at her shoulders, rather orange skin and oval, black-lined eyes. If she knew about the Cruella tag she was playing up to it. She was dressed in a long pencil skirt, killer stilettos and a bat-winged purple blouse. Her lips were done in dark, heart-attack magenta. Not one to be messed with.

‘Hi.’ Caffery looked round the office, found a chair and sat, his hand in his pocket, fingers on the mobile-phone number pad. ‘Are you Mr Gerber’s secretary?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Good start, Cruella. With his free hand he fished out another of his business cards and put it on the desk. ‘Is Mr Gerber here?’

‘No.’

Marsha studied the card. The computer screen was turned away from everything – from the window, from the door. She’d made sure no one would be sidling up behind her and looking at the screen.

‘Is he due in today?’

‘No. He’s already been in. Not coming back until Friday. What’s this about, please?’

In his pocket he hit the phone keypad. The ring-tone sang out.

‘’Scuse me.’ He stood, went to the door, pulled out the phone, his finger still on the ring-tone button, looked at the display then took his finger off. The noise stopped.

‘Hello?’

Marsha watched him stonily from the desk.

‘Gotta take this call,’ he mouthed. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He slid away, pretending to talk, stopping at the bottom of the corridor, out of earshot from the offices. He dialled Reception.

‘UPS here. I’ve got a delivery for a Mr Gerber. Have I got the right number?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m coming off the A432. I’m only a few minutes away.’

‘Come down the second track on the right. It’s signposted.’

‘I’m tight on time. Need to just drop and fly. Can you get someone to come out and meet me at the front?’

‘I don’t know. This is getting to be a habit with you guys.’

‘Yeah – I’m sorry about that.’

‘I can’t always do this, you know.’

‘You’d be helping me out.’

‘Oh, ho ho. Now there ’s an incentive.’ The receptionist sighed. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll get his secretary to wait for you. But just this once.’

‘Good girl.’

By the time he got back to the office the phone call had already come from Reception. Marsha was on her feet, replacing the handset. ‘I’ve got to go. I won’t be long.’

‘That’s OK.’ He sat down. ‘I’ll wait.’

She looked at him, looked at the chair he was sitting on. Then she looked at the computer. She bent over and, very coolly, very deliberately, logged out of the session. Taking her handbag off the back of the chair, she gave him a tight smile. Caffery smiled back and held up his hand. If you can’t trust a cop who can you trust?

That was what his mother used to say. It had always made his dad laugh.

When she’d gone he went to the window and waited for her to appear on the gravel driveway. She came out with her chin held high. Taut and controlled, arms crossed, looking off down the driveway. In his thirty-nine years’ experience he’d learnt that girls who dressed and behaved like Marsha never followed it up in the bedroom. Guys would get fantasies about whips and leather and being sat on, but girls like Marsha wanted more gentleness between the sheets than the ones who wore angora cardigans. Out of the bedroom, though, the Marshas of the world could be true predators. She’d got him – nailed him with logging out like that. This was going to end up with a sodding warrant. More time wasted.

He looked back at the computer. No, he thought. Not a chance he could get into it. Not a chance in hell. But then, he reasoned, it would be rude not to try. He went to her chair and sat in it, staring at the log-in screen. Two empty spaces – USERNAME and PASSWORD. The choke point – and in the movies it’d always be on the third try that the hero got the password. He searched the desk for clues. Nothing. Ran his hands over the computer, opened the drawers and felt up under them for taped pieces of paper. Nothing. He turned Marsha’s nameplate to face him. Marsha Wingett. Typed ‘m.wingett’. Thought, What the fuck? and typed ‘Cruella’ into the password box. Hit enter. The message flashed up. Oops! Have you forgotten your password?

He deleted Cruella. Typed in: ‘Cruella1’. Hit enter.

Oops! Have you forgotten your password?

It was like being heckled. And he knew there wasn’t long. Marsha wasn’t going to stand out on the gravel all morning waiting for a non-existent parcel.

‘Cold bitch’?

Oops! Have you forgotten your password?

‘Five eight seven QU zero.’

A woman stood in the doorway, watching him expressionlessly. Sandy blonde hair tied at her neck, a handbag over her shoulder and – who’d believe it? – a pink angora over her shoulders. She was holding a cardboard Starbucks carry-out tray with a coffee on it. Car keys dangled from her fingers.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, “five eight seven QU zero”.’

‘Her password?’

‘Yes.’

He typed in the sequence. Hit enter.

Have you forgotten your password?

He looked at the woman. She looked back at him.

‘Uh?’ he said, waiting for her to speak.

She made an impatient noise in her throat, tipped sideways a little and studied the screen. She had little white pearls in her ears. ‘The username’s wrong. No dot after the initial.’

‘I should have known that.’

‘Yes. You should.’

‘Server’s acting like a mule. Everything’s going snail’s pace.’

She looked at him as if he’d just changed colour right in front of her eyes. ‘I know. I was the one who reported it to you.’

Caffery closed his eyes. Opened them. What were the chances? ‘Yes. Of course you did. Thank you for that.’