Chilling Out Read online

  Chilling Out

  Andrew Puckett

  Sharpe Books

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  © Andrew Puckett 1999

  Andrew Puckett has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1999 by Constable & Company Ltd.

  This edition published in 2019 by Sharpe Books.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge the help I have had in writing this book, as always, from Carol Puckett.

  Also thanks are due to Dr Hugh White and John Croxton.

  For Holly and Bryony

  Chapter One

  On a cold Monday morning in January, two boys who should have been at school were standing on the edge of a jetty skimming stones into the River Tamar.

  'Wow! D'you see that? Ten!' said one of them, looking triumphantly at his companion. 'Better than borin' ol' history, eh?'

  'Yeah,' said the other. He was called Ryan and was already wondering whether perhaps the joys of truancy were overrated. He threw his own stone, which to his surprise seemed to take on a life of its own, skimming away into the tendrils of mist that still ghosted the surface of the flood-tide river.

  'Thirt – ' he began, then said, 'What's that?' He pointed to where the stone had sunk.

  'Dunno,' said the first boy, uninterestedly. Then, in a different tone, 'I reckon it looks like…'

  The mists parted for a moment as a stray current took the object and turned it… and as they watched, a hand sprang up from the muddy, tide-churned water, waved for a moment like some demented Lady of the Lake waiting for a sword, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The boys stared open-mouthed, then, at last, looked at each other.

  'We oughta tell someone,' said Ryan.

  'You can if you want,' said the other boy. 'I'm going to school.'

  Thus it was that only Ryan caught the wrath of his father (although the thanks of the police) and learned to choose his friends more carefully in the future.

  Two hours later, the body had been taken from the water and was on the bank behind screens. The police surgeon had arrived, declared the man dead and gone again, but not before he'd had something interesting to tell Inspector Bennett.

  'This body has been frozen, put in a deep freeze or freezing-room after he died. You'll need the Home Office in on this.'

  Forensic Pathology arrived an hour later in the person of Dr Ewan Randall, a short, plump man with greying sandy hair. He knelt down and studied the body from as many angles as he could before saying anything. The body itself was quite rigid, the knees drawn up as though the man had been kneeling, with one arm across his chest and the other, the one the boys had seen waving, outstretched.

  'Well, the body's certainly been frozen,' Randall said at last. 'As you can see, it's still completely virgate.' He paused a moment. 'There's no obvious cause of death that I can see, and I won't be able to look for one until it's thawed out.'

  'How long is that likely to be, doctor?' asked Bennett diffidently – he'd met Randall before. Bennett himself was a man of about fifty with white hair and moustache and a face that always reminded Randall of a ferret.

  'Tomorrow at the very earliest,' Randall told him, 'maybe even longer, so I'm afraid you'll have to curb your impatience.' He glanced at the detective, took pity on him and added, 'But we should be able to look through his clothes before then, which might help you with the identification.'

  He ordered the Scene of Crime people to photograph the body and its surroundings, and also take samples from the ground and river.

  Later that day, after another photographic session in the mortuary, he did go through the man's pockets, but they weren't much help – if there had been a wallet or any other form of identification, it had either been taken or slipped out into the river.

  It wasn't until the following day, Tuesday, that Dr Adam Goring, normally resident in Surrey, was reported missing by his wife. He had come down to Tamar the previous Thursday to visit the Blood Transfusion Centre and take part in a TV programme about its impending closure. After that, he was to have flown to America for a conference, which was where his wife had assumed he was until, after two days without contact, she'd phoned his hotel there to be told he'd never arrived.

  Bennett showed Dr Goring's description to Randall, who agreed it was very similar to that of the dead man.

  'And I think I know the name,' he said. 'Adam Goring…isn't he the man who's behind the closure of a lot of the transfusion centres?'

  'I'll take your word for that, doctor.'

  Bennett had the director of the Tamar centre, Dr George Medlar, brought to the mortuary to see if he could identify the body.

  'Yes, that's Adam Goring,' Dr Medlar said at last looking down at the body. He spoke with a distinct northern accent and, as the detective watched him, his angular face seemed to register a range of emotions – first, incredulity, then sadness, suffering and, finally, guilt… He turned suddenly to Bennett.

  'You said he was found in the river – did he drown?'

  'We don't know how he died yet, sir,' Bennett said noncommittally.

  'Has his wife been told?'

  'We were waiting on your identification.'

  Medlar's eyes swivelled back to the body and he said slowly, 'I know her, and she'll take it badly…'

  For a moment, Bennett thought he was offering to tell her himself, then he looked up and continued. 'Could you arrange for some support for her, for a WPC to be there?'

  'That'll be done as a matter of course.'

  'Good.' He paused. 'D'you need me here any longer, inspector?'

  'I'll need a statement from you, sir. At the police station, if you wouldn't mind.'

  'Yes, of course.'

  As they walked out to the ante-room, something occurred to Bennett. 'Would there by any chance be a freezing-room at your establishment?'

  'Yes, there is – why?'

  ‘I’ll explain later, sir.' He found his sergeant, Mulholland, told him to go to the transfusion centre and have the freezing-room sealed off, then found Randall and explained what he'd done. Then he went back to Medlar.

  The doctor's reactions to Adam Goring's body had aroused Bennett's interest and, although he hadn't intended to start questioning him until they were down at the station, something made him say now, 'You've obviously known Dr Goring a long time, sir?'

  'Oh yes…' Medlar was trying to speak lightly, but failing. 'Adam and I go back a long, long way – went back, I mean – why does everyone make that mistake? Is there somewhere I could wash
my hands, please?'

  After they'd gone, Randall decided he could start the PM that day, provided he opened up the body to hasten the thawing process, so he and his technicians gowned up and got down to business. Let's see if we can find out what happened to you before you were dumped in that freezer, he thought to himself. And perhaps even why you were dumped there…

  Adam Goring had been an overweight, but otherwise healthy man, and his body showed no signs of external injury, other than some bruising and minor laceration to the hands. His skin was slightly discoloured and there were signs of peripheral frost-bite. There were no internal injuries – other than the tissue damage caused by the freezing – and no sign of disease. There were, in fact, no indications whatsoever of the cause of his death.

  Chapter Two

  'So when was the last time you saw him, sir?' Bennett asked. He and Medlar were in an interview room at the police station.

  'It would have been on Friday afternoon at about three, I suppose.' Medlar had recovered some of his composure now and was speaking naturally. He was what Bennett thought of as a 'middle man': middle-aged and of middling height and build. He had grey eyes, greying hair and moustache, and his face, Bennett noticed, although naturally rather angular, held the haunted expression of a man under severe stress.

  'And that was at the transfusion centre?'

  'Yes, in my office.' He'd already explained to Bennett how Goring had come down from London the day before to take part in the TV debate.

  'D'you know where he went after that?'

  'I assumed he'd gone back to his hotel. He was due to fly to America on Sunday, which is why I was so surprised when…' and he tailed off.

  Bennett paused for a moment, then said, 'I believe he was the man behind the closure of your centre, sir?'

  Medlar looked up, his grey eyes meeting Bennett's. 'Yes, he was, but how did you know that?'

  'Dr Randall recognised the name and told me. So he wouldn't have been a popular man there?'

  'No, but – ' Medlar gave a half-laugh – 'I'm sure that has no bearing … Surely Adam's death has to be some kind of accident?'

  'Perhaps.' Bennett paused again. 'When you last saw him, was he upset about anything, depressed?'

  'Depressed, no – Adam didn't recognise depression. He was certainly angry.'

  Bennett's expression became alert. 'Angry about what, sir?' Medlar, he noticed, was suddenly looking uncomfortable. He pulled a battered pipe out of his pocket and applied a lighter to it, obviously giving himself time to think.

  At last he said, 'The television debate he'd taken part in hadn't gone very well from his point of view and he was upset about it.'

  'Hadn't gone well in what way, sir?'

  Medlar blew smoke. 'He was accused of… doing something dishonourable.'

  'What, exactly?'

  'Look, inspector – ' he took the pipe out of his mouth – 'I really don't think it's relevant.'

  'Perhaps you'd let me be the judge of that, sir. What was he accused of?'

  Medlar's lips pursed, then he shrugged and said, 'Nepotism, I suppose.'

  'By whom? Who accused him?'

  'My laboratory manager, Jessie Pengellis.'

  'And this was live, on local television?'

  'It was broadcast nationally.'

  'I see.' Bennett paused again. 'You said Dr Goring was angry – in what way was he angry?'

  Medlar shrugged. 'Just angry…'

  'But how did he express his anger? Did he threaten Miss Pengellis? I'm assuming it's a Miss…?'

  'Yes.' Medlar sucked at the pipe, which had gone out, then took some tobacco from his pocket and began filling it. 'He had her suspended, pending an enquiry… and he told me that after she was sacked, he was going to sue her for slander.'

  'Did he mean it?'

  'He probably did at the time, although I'm sure he'd have cooled off while he was in America.'

  Bennett assumed the pun was unknowing. 'Is that what you really think, sir?'

  Another pause, then Medlar shrugged again. 'I don't know.'

  'Did Miss Pengellis know what was in store for her?'

  'Yes. I had to tell her myself, that afternoon.'

  'Was she upset?'

  'Of course she was upset, how would you have expected her to be?'

  'What time was this?'

  'I'm not sure exactly. It wasn't long after Adam left, say about quarter-past, half-past three.'

  'D'you know what she did after that, where she went?'

  'Not offhand, no. Home, I assumed.'

  'Was she upset enough to go and have it out with Dr Goring?'

  'I'd very much doubt it,' Medlar said firmly. 'Her main priority was to avoid being sacked, in order to avoid being sued for slander. She knew that.'

  'But with Dr Goring dead, she won't be sued now, will she, sir … ?'

  'Inspector,' Medlar said, an edge to his voice, 'I think you might be in danger of jumping to conclusions. I think we should wait until we know exactly how Adam died before engaging in this kind of conjecture.'

  Bennett tried to swallow his own irritation. He was more certain than ever that Medlar was trying to stall, cover something up… 'And I think I'd like to know more about how this dispute between them came about, sir.'

  Chapter Three

  The Previous Thursday … Jessie was so absorbed in what she was writing that she didn't hear the phone at first. When it did force itself on to her consciousness, she snatched at it and snapped 'Yes?' before remembering herself and saying, 'Sorry, Jessie Pengellis speaking.'

  'It's Dr Medlar, Jessie. Would you come along to my office, please?'

  'Yes, doctor…' She was about to say more, but a clunk in her ear told her he'd put the phone down.

  She replaced her own phone, then slowly took off her reading glasses and put them in their case. What did he want? She and the director, George Medlar, were on first name terms, in private at least, which included the phone – unless he had someone with him…

  Who?

  She put the file she'd been working on away and looked into the lab office.

  'Nina, I'll be with Dr Medlar. If there're any problems, ask Dominic – OK?'

  She set off down the corridor past the laboratories: Cross Matching, Plasma Products …Tomorrow, she thought, It has to be about tomorrow. A bulky, slightly rumpled figure materialised in front of her.

  'Jessie, did you see the memo I left for you?' Paul Bannister, head of Donor Grouping.

  'Er – not really, Paul, I haven't had the time. I'll deal with it when I get back, OK?'

  He didn't move. 'It really is urgent, Jessie, I can't even guarantee to get today's blood banked.'

  'I'm sorry,' she said firmly, 'but it'll have to wait.' She smiled, a twist of the lips. 'I've been summoned to the presence. As soon as I get back, OK?'

  Still he wouldn't move. Determined not to give way even to the degree of going round him, she said, 'Excuse me,' and he reluctantly stepped back.

  Why was it he still had the power to intimidate her? she wondered as she started walking again. She was his boss, wasn't she…? Ah, but that was the trouble, sod him! She took a breath, she had a strong feeling she was going to need a cool head for what was coming…

  She paused outside the director's suite.

  'Who's with him, Annie?' she asked his secretary.

  'Dr Goring.' Annie looked meaningfully back at her.

  So that was it! No wonder he'd been so formal… So what was it to be? Threats? An appeal to her better self? No point in hanging around… She tapped on the door and pushed it open as Medlar called, 'Come in.'

  He was at the conference table rather than behind his desk. Goring was sitting beside him.

  'Sit down, Jessie.' He gestured at a chair. 'You know Dr Goring, of course.'

  'Of course.' She sat down.

  Medlar paused as though not quite sure how to begin, then said, 'It was Dr Goring who requested this meeting, so I'll hand over to him. Adam?'

  G
oring looked at her without speaking and she found herself comparing the two men, thinking how different they were. Both in their early fifties with that age's stigmata, both conservatively dressed, but Medlar's grey eyes and moustache somehow made him the gentler of the two – in any hard man/soft man scenario, it would always be Goring cast as the former.

  His eyes – hard eyes, they were – didn't leave her face and at last he spoke. 'Miss Pengellis, I did indeed suggest this meeting because I hope that, even now, we can find some accommodation.'

  They were brown, his eyes, a colour you'd normally associate with softness…

  'You see, I don't want the Transfusion Service to lose someone of your obvious talents. We're going to need people like you in the future.'

  Soft words from a hard man – soft lies to soften her up?

  'So please, can we try and find some position we can agree on?'

  'We can certainly try, Dr Goring.'

  Another silence, while still he stared. She stared back. Jowly, she thought, ugly as a turnip, but that face has power.

  'I've come down today,' he said, 'because I've decided to accept Western TV's invitation to participate in tomorrow's programme.'

  Great! she thought, trying to keep it hidden.

  Medlar saw the triumphant flash in her dark eyes and suppressed a smile. Adam doesn't know what he's taking on, he thought. Never underestimate a Cornishman, never mind a Cornish-woman. Her eyes were as brown as Goring's, but deep rather than hard or soft. She was thirty-three, had springy brown hair and a watchful Celtic face. She wore a dark blue dress with the sleeves buttoned at the wrists.

  'However,' Goring continued, 'I'm going to suggest to you that it won't be necessary.' Another pause, then, 'In fact, it can only do both of us harm.'

  You speak for yourself…

  'So let's try and sort out something between us now, shall we? What can I offer you, how can I help break this deadlock?'