Cross was scrutinising all the information they had about Sutton on a whiteboard. The number of deaths in his care, against the average number for a therapist in the same field. The death certificates. Having reviewed everything, the doctor had now become his prime suspect. He just needed one more piece of the puzzle to convince himself to bring Sutton in for questioning. Clare, the pathologist, was confident she could conduct tests on the remains of Sutton’s deceased patients and find out if diamorphine was present. Cross applied to exhume the remains of those patients who had committed suicide over the last two years. The problem with this, however, was that those patients had been cremated. When he looked into it further, he discovered that all of Sutton’s deceased patients had been cremated.
‘That’s odd. All of them?’ Ottey asked when he told her.
‘All the orders were signed by him,’ Cross informed her. She waited as he further examined the orders, one by one. Ten minutes later he suddenly grabbed his coat and left the office.
Ottey sighed and followed him.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘I wasn’t aware “we” were going anywhere.’
‘All right, where are you going?’
‘To bring Sutton in.’
‘Why?’
‘He signed all of the cremation orders within a couple of hours of their deaths. Does that strike you as normal? Why such speed? Such urgency?’
‘Because he’s covering up evidence?’ she said, almost thinking out loud.
‘Exactly.’
‘Cremation orders need to be countersigned by another GP. There’s one doctor who crops up regularly on these forms, then all of a sudden stops. I’d like to know why, Alice.’
‘Sure. Maybe he’s retired,’ Mackenzie suggested.
‘No, he’s still practising.’
Ottey looked at her watch. ‘You’re due before the complaints’ panel at two.’
‘Alice, would you tell them I’m not able to attend?’ said Cross.
‘George, it’s not voluntary,’ said Ottey.
‘I’m working a murder case. It can wait.’ Cross continued walking.
‘So can Sutton’s arrest,’ Ottey said.
He stopped and turned to Mackenzie. ‘Alice, please inform the board that my presence may be compulsory, but it isn’t necessary. Please apologise.’
He looked at Ottey, expecting her to be impressed that he had remembered this social nicety, but she wasn’t.
‘And tell them that I refute everything that DI Campbell has alleged, and if they cross reference his complaints with the relevant cases they’ll rapidly conclude that I have no case to answer.’
*
On their way to Sutton’s office, Cross found himself reflecting how Sutton was a very intelligent, articulate individual. It was a robust shield, but he knew he’d find a chink in that intellectual armour, given time, in the interview room; his vanity perhaps. Sutton was used to being the manipulator of others’ thought processes in his office. He was, in effect, the interviewer. He was in control of the narrative and took it wherever he wanted to, in the same way that Cross did so effectively. But he was now going to be placed in the opposing, unfamiliar position in the interview dynamic. Cross was interested to see whether this would have an unsettling effect on the psychotherapist.
*
‘You don’t have an appointment,’ said Diana emphatically.
‘We don’t need an appointment,’ replied Ottey.
‘Everyone needs an appointment to see Dr Sutton.’
‘Not when they’re here to arrest him,’ said Cross.
‘What?’ she replied with some consternation.
But Ottey had already walked over to Sutton’s office door and knocked.
‘Come!’ commanded Sutton’s voice from within.
Ottey and Cross walked into the office. Sutton was sitting behind his desk writing some notes with an elegant fountain pen. His jacket was hanging immaculately over a chair nearby. He was wearing a waistcoat. His shirt had such sharp creases in it, he probably had to take extra care when putting it on not to get paper cuts.
‘Detectives…’ he said. If he had any idea why they were there he didn’t give it away in the moment before Ottey spoke.
‘Dr Benedict Sutton, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Felicity Wilson.’ She then read him his rights.
Sutton stood up and smiled in the way that someone does who has just won the lottery and been presented with a giant cheque. A smile of amazed, amused disbelief. He walked around the desk and calmly put on his jacket.
‘I’m not entirely sure what to say except that this exercise is going to be an unnecessary waste of your time – not to mention mine. Having said that, though, I am curious about the whole experience, so possibly it’s not a complete waste of my time. Please continue.’
To Cross it seemed like this wasn’t simple feigned bravado. It came across as genuine bemusement, with no bluff or even condescension. The man was neither angry nor offended, which Cross immediately sought to change. Ottey produced her handcuffs.
‘Could we dispense with the handcuffs, Sergeant? I can assure you I’m no threat, nor am I a flight risk. It’s just that we are in the midst of a lot of medical practices here and I’d rather not have my reputation sullied unnecessarily,’ he said charmingly.
‘Very well,’ said Ottey, putting her handcuffs back.
‘On the contrary, I insist.’ Cross immediately got out his handcuffs and walked across the room to Sutton.
The doctor looked at him for a moment, almost as if he was accepting the gauntlet that had been thrown down in front of him. Cross turned him round and cuffed his hands behind him. He was enveloped in Sutton’s lemony, musky scent, which he immediately recognised as Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet cologne.
As they walked past the shell-shocked secretary, she said, ‘What are you doing? He hasn’t killed anyone. What evidence have you got? This is ridiculous!’
But the detectives walked past, in silence, with her employer.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said to Ottey. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’
‘I’d start by cancelling all his appointments for today and tomorrow and getting hold of his lawyer,’ Ottey suggested.
‘But his lawyer is a media lawyer,’ protested the secretary, whose authority seemed to have fled the building in a hurry in the past five minutes.
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Ottey replied. ‘Call his media lawyer, tell him the situation and ask him to get hold of a criminal lawyer.’
‘Criminal?’ Diana echoed in disbelief.
*
Ottey thought there was a renewed vigour in Cross that morning. Not determination – he was always determined – just purpose. She wondered if Esther’s death was still playing on his mind. He had been very matter-of-fact when telling Ottey of her death, as was his way. But she felt sure that he was concealing something.
As she watched Cross load Sutton into the car, pushing his head down lightly so he didn’t bang it on his way in, she realised that he was already working him. On the whole… no, pretty much in every arrest they had made together, she’d noticed that Cross always backed off at the point of arrest, as if he didn’t want to get involved physically; get too close to it. She thought it must be an aversion to the necessary physical contact and proximity to the suspect. She’d brought it up with him once and he had said it had nothing to do with that. He just wanted to observe the suspect’s reactions throughout the process, as they were often quite revealing. They also gave him the first clue as to how he should proceed in the interview room.
On this occasion Cross had pushed himself forward, right in Sutton’s face, insisted on the cuffs and then led him in what the Americans called a ‘perp walk’. This was going to be a really interesting interview, she realised.
In the car Sutton was as charming as he had been in their first two meetings. It was as if he hadn’t been arrested. A passer-by would never have known had it not been for the handcuffs.
‘These things really aren’t designed for comfort in the car when they’re behind your back, are they?’ he laughed, indicating the cuffs and how he was having to sit sideways.
‘I have a question,’ he continued. ‘I know the perceived wisdom is that when arrested on suspicion of a crime one shouldn’t speak to the police before the arrival of one’s lawyer – but don’t you think it would save a good bit of time if we just got on with it and sorted this misunderstanding out?’
‘That’s entirely up to you,’ replied Ottey.
‘Okay.’ He paused for a second as he thought this through. Then something else crossed his mind. ‘Will you be putting me in a cell?’
‘We will,’ answered Cross, before Ottey had a chance.
‘How marvellous! This is going to be quite the experience,’ Sutton said.
‘I’m glad you find it so amusing,’ said Ottey.
‘How else should I treat it, Sergeant? It is, after all, somewhat farcical.’
‘Interesting choice of adjective,’ said Cross. ‘Not one that you hear applied to a murder often, let alone to the death of a young woman supposedly under your care.’
Sutton didn’t react to this.
*
Again, in the custody suite, Cross insisted on booking Sutton in and being by his side all the time. This was something he normally, to Ottey’s habitual annoyance, left her to do. But he wanted to be there. He told Sutton to remove his tie and surrender any jewellery, his pocket watch, his pocket square, his shoes. Cross also insisted on Sutton removing his jacket and waistcoat.
‘Is that really necessary?’ Sutton implored the desk sergeant. But the officer simply deferred to Cross.
‘Jacket and waistcoat,’ Cross intoned neutrally.
Cross was taking away as much of Sutton’s outward appearance as he could, removing his bespoke outer shell, his identity, the comfort blanket of Sutton’s pride in his appearance. He wanted him in just a shirt and trousers. No longer a curated, manicured, exterior. His cologne, the last vestige of confident self-sophistication, would soon fade and nothing would be left.
Cross wanted Sutton to know it was him who was responsible for it. That he was in control. He was in charge. What he said, went. He stood beside the camera as Sutton’s mug shots were taken, front and profile. He stood at his side when his fingerprints were taken. It was Cross who took him to his cell and locked the door. Ottey was tempted to comment but didn’t want to break the spell. She wanted to see how this one would pan out in the interview room.