Cross sat in his office awaiting the call. He didn’t have to wait long, as he’d told Dr James’s receptionist who he was and that the matter was urgent. His mobile rang.
‘Cross,’ he replied, answering it.
‘DS Cross, this is Dr James. What can I do for you?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about Dr Benedict Sutton.’
‘Oh yes,’ replied the doctor.
‘I understand you were uncomfortable at the number of cremation orders he was asking you to sign. Is my information correct?’
‘Yes, that was what I told the officer who came in the other day,’ said James, referring to Mackenzie.
‘She’s not actually a police officer.’ Cross couldn’t help himself but correct the doctor.
‘My mistake, I just assumed. Anyway, as I told her, I was alarmed by the number of cremation orders and I let him know.’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask you. Was it Dr Sutton himself who brought over the orders for your signature? Or was it someone else?’ Cross asked.
‘No, it wasn’t Sutton. I haven’t actually met the man. It was his secretary,’ said the doctor.
Cross was writing things down as James spoke.
‘Diana?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know her name, I’m afraid. Very efficient, no-nonsense kind of woman.’
‘Yes, that would be her. Thanks very much, Doctor. That’s all I wanted to know.’ Cross ended the call.
*
‘You didn’t sign most of those cremation orders, did you, Dr Sutton?’ Cross asked.
‘As far as I can see, my signature appears on all of them,’ replied Sutton.
‘Appears, indeed. Strange that you couldn’t remember,’ Cross said.
‘I’m a busy man.’
‘I’m sure you are. Too busy to sign letters at times, possibly. Cheques even, I imagine. Cremation forms, perhaps,’ Cross went on.
‘What are you talking about?’ Sutton asked.
‘Are there times when a signature may be required quickly for something when you’re not in the office? Not available?’
‘Occasionally, yes.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Diana signs them,’ Sutton replied.
‘As pp Dr Benedict Sutton?’
‘I have no idea.’
Cross turned to Ottey. ‘They’re very good, these signatures. Pretty much identical, but I’m confident that if we showed them to a graphologist…’ he turned to Sutton, ‘that’s a handwriting expert, Doctor. We often use them. So skilled. Some can even interpret personality traits from handwriting samples. Really clever.’
‘I’m aware of what a graphologist is,’ Sutton replied irritably.
‘Of course you are. Forgive me. It’s just that we get quite a lot of murder suspects in here who aren’t of your intellectual calibre. Well, almost all of them. Anyway, said graphologist, despite the similarity between all these signatures, wouldn’t, I’m sure, have much difficulty in determining that they were written by two different hands. Yours and Diana’s,’ Cross finished.
‘It’s more than possible. It’s just an administrative form. Nothing more. She was simply being efficient. As you know, she’s quite the sergeant major when it comes to the way things are done in my office. Actually, I’ll rephrase that – her office would be a more accurate description.’ He laughed nervously.
‘But why the rush?’ asked Cross.
‘Like I said – efficiency.’
‘You rely on her enormously, is that right?’
‘I do.’
‘Even to destroy evidence for you?’ asked Cross.
‘Don’t answer that,’ advised the lawyer.
‘All right, let’s move on. We’ll leave the cremation orders for now. Let’s move on to the death certificates. You signed them all,’ Cross said.
‘Is that a question?’ asked Sutton.
‘Did you sign them all?’ asked Cross, getting them out of his file and pushing them across the table.
Sutton examined them all, one by one.
‘I did.’
‘No chance of Diana doing that, as cause of death has to be ascertained and entered,’ said Cross. He paused for a while as if he was mentally asking himself the question he was about to ask Sutton. ‘Here’s my question. How did you manage to be there; to sign all these certificates? All the suicides of patients under your care were signed by you.’
‘They were my patients. Where’s the issue?’
‘How did you know they were dead?’ Cross asked. ‘Was it because you were there?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Sutton, as if stating the obvious.
‘Then how did you know?’ persisted Cross.
‘Diana called me,’ said Sutton.
‘Diana called you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how did she know they were dead?’ said Cross.
‘Because she was there,’ said Sutton.
‘Diana? Why?’
‘She does house calls to our patients. She’s like my outreach resource, if you will. She helps them with administrative social security issues, unemployment benefit, housing. Putting together a CV when they’re trying to get employment. Sorting out references. She’s extremely good at it.’
‘She must make a lot of visits doing people’s CVs,’ said Cross.
‘She does more than that,’ said Sutton. ‘Diana’s a nurse. As you may or may not know, I have a no-tolerance rule when it comes to my patients. They have to want to get clean. Recover. And they have to prove that on a regular basis. Diana does regular random blood tests on all of our patients as long as I’m treating them. If any of them have been using, it’s the end of their treatment. They get tested about once a month.’
But Cross wasn’t listening. He was thinking about the one issue they hadn’t been able to answer in this case. The last question Esther Moffatt had asked: ‘How did they get her consent?’ Why would someone willingly let someone else inject them with diamorphine if they were a recovering addict? And this was the answer – if they thought they were doing a blood test.
Cross looked at Sutton, who suddenly smiled, an appalling victory smirk, as if he knew that Cross had just worked it out and he’d enjoyed watching it.
‘We need to take a break,’ said Cross calmly.
‘How long?’ asked the lawyer.
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Cross, getting up to leave.
‘You won’t find her at the office, Sergeant,’ said Sutton, who suddenly appeared confident again.
‘No? And why is that?’
‘She’s doing a blood test at four,’ replied Sutton.
Cross looked at his watch. That was in just under an hour.
‘For Angie. You remember Angie – you brought her to me.’ Sutton stared right at Cross as if he savoured the moment.