Cross found a message from Clare the pathologist to call him. The post-it was written in her hand which meant she’d come over personally. It must be important. He’d asked her to look out for anything unusual or out of the ordinary. Something he often charged her with.
‘DS Cross,’ she said as she took the call.
‘It is,’ he confirmed. ‘You left me a message to call. Have you heard that the neighbour has been charged?’
‘I hadn’t, no. Did you charge him?’ she asked. A very perceptive question, Cross thought. Not untypical of her.
‘I did not. It was DI Warner,’ he replied.
‘Are you happy he’s been charged?’ Clare asked.
‘I’m never happy when someone has been charged with murder as it means someone else has been killed.’
‘Fair point,’ she replied, kicking herself. ‘Were you part of the decision?’
‘I was not.’
‘Had you been, would you have agreed with it?’ she asked.
‘I would not.’
‘Okay, in which case I think I may have discovered something which may be of interest to you,’ she said, then paused for dramatic effect. Waiting for him to prompt her to elaborate. Which he didn’t.
‘I just received the toxicology report on Alistair Moreton. He had an unusually high amount of oxycodone in his system. It’s a synthetic opioid,’ she informed Cross.
‘Enough to kill him?’
‘No. Do you know if he was being prescribed it by his local GP?’ she asked.
‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘Was that the reason for your call?’
‘It was,’ she replied.
He ended the call summarily. Not because what she’d said was of no interest to him. Quite the opposite, in fact. He wanted to follow up on this information urgently.
Cross got up and walked over to Mackenzie’s desk.
‘Alice, take me to Crockerne,’ he announced at his door before turning back into his office. She hesitated. Wasn’t the case closed? The pulsating headache knocking on the back of her eyeballs like an angry neighbour banging on the wall told her she’d gone to the pub the night before with the team and stayed too long. Until Warner’s persistent advances towards her, despite the unmissable presence of Swift looming over him, had become too much and she left. She looked over at Swift, who had just fulfilled his daily caffeine run, for some assistance.
But instead of helping he volunteered, ‘If Alice is busy, I can take you.’
‘Wouldn’t your forensic skills be best deployed somewhere other than at the wheel of a car?’ replied Cross, who had turned at his office door.
‘Of course, but as it happens, I’m here to inform you of some forensic findings I have which we could usefully discuss in the car,’ said Swift.
‘Michael, Barnaby Cotterell has been charged. If you’ve got any forensic evidence you should give it to Warner,’ said Mackenzie mischievously.
‘It’s evidence that was requested by DS Cross and as something is obviously still bothering our great leader, I’d like to help him get to the bottom of it. Things are possibly not as clear as everyone in the pub last night thought.’
Cross thought about this for a minute, looked at the coffee on Mackenzie’s desk then walked away from his office.
‘Very well. I am convinced.’
Swift scampered after him, as well as anyone at six foot eight is capable of. A couple of seconds later Mackenzie also ran after them.
*
‘What have you found, Dr Swift?’ Cross asked as they drove out of Bristol.
‘A couple of things which both revolve around our canine friends. The blood on Ricky’s teeth and gums wasn’t human.’
‘Another dog?’ asked Cross.
‘Exactly, and it’s obviously unlikely to be his own.’
‘According to the vet, he also had a bite wound on his rear hip.’
‘Which all but confirms the presence of another dog. Tricky thing is, I need a sample of Ricky’s blood,’ said Swift.
‘Tom Holmes, manager of the Hobbler’s Arms, will have it. I took the precaution of asking the vet to draw one when he was inspecting Ricky the other day,’ Cross informed him.
‘Wow, good thinking,’ replied a relieved Swift, who couldn’t have loved Cross more in that moment.
‘Anything else?’ asked Cross.
‘Yep, the spare bed. I examined it as requested and found a number of dog hairs on it.’
‘Are they a match for Ricky?’
‘They are not, so the implication is that there was someone else there with a dog at some point. Unless he had a predilection for taking in strays,’ joked Swift.
‘Is there any evidence for that?’ asked Cross.
‘No, I was…’ but Swift stopped himself. ‘Not at the moment,’ he said.
‘We should check with Dr Hawkins to see if there are any dog hairs around the bites to Mr Moreton’s legs.’
‘We don’t need to. I found some on Moreton’s trousers at the bite sites,’ he said a little too triumphantly.
*
Swift dropped Mackenzie and Cross at the GP surgery while he went to the pub to retrieve Ricky’s blood sample from Tom Holmes. They had to wait until the end of an appointment before Dr Sebastian Gower was able to see them. Mackenzie reflected how different GPs’ waiting rooms were after Covid. Before, they had been a real reflection of people in communities, both old and young. But now people seemed to come exactly on time for their appointment and not early. Surgeries had advised this as soon as they reopened but the pandemic meant that everyone now had an aversion to sitting in a roomful of other people’s germs. That was if they could get an appointment with their doctor at all. Dr Gower was in his thirties and still had the earnest enthusiasm and concern of the young GP not yet worn down by the job. He had quite a pronounced bald patch and Mackenzie thought it wouldn’t be long before the inch-long semicircle of hair around his head added a decade to his appearance. If she was his partner, she’d have given him a pair of hair clippers for his birthday. She tried to imagine what he’d look like with a shaved head and came to the conclusion he had a good pate for it. She made a mental note to check if there was a suggestion box in reception. If there was, she would leave a note offering some sage hair – or lack of hair – styling advice before they left. She then realised that Cross was talking. This brought her back to reality with a jolt.
‘I’d like to talk to you about Alistair Moreton,’ Cross was saying.
‘I assumed that was the case but as you’re aware I’m bound by doctor–patient confidentiality,’ replied Gower.
‘Is this the first time a patient under your care has been murdered, Doctor?’ Cross asked.
‘It is,’ Gower replied hesitantly.
‘Now, although confidentiality continues after death, this can be waived in the event it is in the public interest to do so. Would you think solving Mr Moreton’s murder might be in the public interest?’ Cross asked.
‘Of course,’ replied the doctor.
‘Were you prescribing any pain relief for him?’ Cross asked.
‘I had been, yes.’
‘What, exactly?’
‘OxyContin.’
‘Why?’
‘To help him recover from his hip operation. He was in considerable pain.’
‘When was the surgery, exactly?’ Cross asked.
‘About a year ago.’
Cross paused for a moment.
‘When you say you “had” been prescribing it, does that mean you’d stopped?’ Cross asked.
‘Yes,’ replied the doctor who then typed into his keyboard. ‘I tapered his dose and took him off it six months ago.’
‘Was he happy about you taking him off the drug?’ asked Cross.
‘Not initially, no. But that’s not uncommon. People are often worried about the return of pain and not being able to manage without it.’
‘And then there’s the question of dependence,’ Cross added.
‘Yes, sometimes a physical dependence but mostly an emotional one.’
‘Did you see Mr Moreton in the months after you took him off pain relief?’ Cross asked.
‘A few times, yes.’
‘Why did he come to see you?’
‘He didn’t. It wasn’t in the surgery. I saw him in the pub. I think it’s important for a local GP to have a presence in the community. So I tend to pop into the Hobbler’s once a week. It’s also handy as it’s where I tend to find my less cooperative patients who make a habit of missing follow-ups and hospital appointments there,’ the doctor told them.
‘Was Mr Moreton one of those?’ asked Cross.
‘No, far from it. He was very reliable.’
‘Did you speak with him on the occasions you saw him in the pub?’ Cross asked.
‘A couple of times.’
‘And how did he seem to you?’
‘His usual self.’
‘How was his pain?’
‘He said he was managing it,’ Gower replied.
‘Did he say how?’
‘No.’
‘But he didn’t complain?’ Cross asked.
‘Unlike other patients he was very good at being told no. Once I told him I would no longer prescribe him opiates, he never mentioned it again.’
Cross made a note of all this. Then looked up.
‘Would it surprise you to know that a high level of oxycodone was found in his blood at the autopsy?’ he asked.
‘It would both surprise and concern me.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s just not possible,’ the doctor replied.
‘Apparently it is,’ said Cross.
The doctor thought about this for a moment then shook his head slowly.
‘I didn’t see anything,’ he said quietly. ‘I should’ve spotted it.’
‘But it wasn’t the oxy that killed him, Dr Gower. He was murdered,’ said Mackenzie trying to console him.
‘Even so. I should’ve spotted the signs he was using. It’s my job, for heaven’s sake.’
Cross agreed with his sentiment and was about to say so when he noticed Mackenzie shaking her head at him. As a result he said nothing. Not because he was doing as he was told, but because he was shocked at the possibility she might have known what he was about to say and had warned him off.