Barbara drew in a breath through her teeth.
‘What sort of financial information?’ she asked. ‘We don’t normally keep any paper records beyond seven years. We don’t have the space. And 2002 was before we switched over to the computers.’
‘I’d like to know who paid for a certain procedure,’ I said.
‘How did they pay?’ Barbara asked.
‘I’ve no idea.’
She noisily sucked in air again. ‘In 2002, you say?’
I nodded. ‘August.’
‘The only record we’d have left would be the receipt book. That’s if a receipt was issued. Dr Andrews didn’t always bother.’
‘Perhaps I could ask him if he remembers,’ I said.
‘That wouldn’t be possible,’ Barbara said. ‘Not unless you have a direct line to the hereafter. Dr Andrews died in post. Literally. Had a heart attack while sitting at his desk in the next room. He’d been here for twenty-five years but he was still only sixty-two. It was a dreadful shock for us all.’
Barbara was obviously still upset by it.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Shall we look in the receipt book?’
The receipt book actually turned out to be a cardboard box full of lots of receipt books stored in a cupboard behind Barbara’s desk.
‘What date did you say?’ Barbara asked.
‘August 2002.’
She shuffled through the box and lifted out one of the books. It had about fifty pages with four receipts on each. The top copy of the receipt had clearly been torn out and handed to the customer while the carbonless duplicate beneath remained.
‘Name?’
‘Chadwick. Zoe Chadwick.’
She scanned through the pages.
‘Ah, here we are,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Chadwick. Two hundred and sixty pounds, received on 4th August 2002. But that’s a bit odd.’
‘What’s odd,’ I asked.
‘Dr Andrews wrote “Do NOT inform the patient” across the bottom in bold black ink and he underlined it twice. I recognise his handwriting.’
‘So who was the receipt issued to if it wasn’t to the patient?’ I asked.
‘Mr Chadwick,’ Barbara said. ‘Mr Oliver Chadwick.’
31
Yvonne had stated that she wasn’t aware until a year after the event that Zoe had had an abortion. But Oliver had known, all right. Indeed, he had paid for the procedure four days before it had been carried out.
Do NOT inform the patient.
Perhaps Zoe really had thought the termination had been carried out for free on the NHS. Maybe she also believed that it was her secret. That’s what she’d implied to her mother: She never meant to tell anyone, ever.
Did that suggest that someone other than Zoe had told Oliver?
If so, I reckoned there were only two names in the frame — the two doctors, Andrews and Benaud.
I was once more in the Mercedes, on my way back to Newmarket.
I called Kate again.
‘Hiya,’ she said with happiness in her voice. ‘I was just thinking of you.’
‘Good,’ I replied with a laugh. ‘Could you do me another favour? Call Janie again and ask if she knows if Oliver knew either Dr Benaud, who was a GP in Newmarket seventeen years ago, or Dr Andrews, who used to run a clinic in Cambridge.’
‘The Healthy Woman clinic?’
‘Yes, but try not to tell Janie that.’
‘Dr Benaud or Dr Andrews?’
‘Yes. Gavin Andrews died about six years ago. And Benaud is spelt like Richie Benaud, the cricketer, with a silent “d” at the end. I don’t know if he’s still practising medicine or even if he’s still alive.’
‘I’ll call Janie right now.’
‘Thanks.’
Next I called ASW to bring him up to speed with what I’d found out.
He waited until I was finished before he said anything. ‘So you think you know why the horses died.’ He said it more as a statement than a question.
The horses, after all, were why we were retained by the Sheikh.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do.’
‘And who killed them?’
‘Yes. But I probably don’t have the legally required evidence to prove it.’
‘How about the dead girl?’ he said. ‘Did the same person kill her?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m still working on that.’
‘How about the police?’ ASW asked.
‘They will obviously need to be involved,’ I said. ‘I haven’t yet decided how or when. I have to get some hard evidence first. Everything is circumstantial.’
‘Be careful,’ he warned.
‘I will,’ I said... but just how careful? I required confirmation and perhaps the only way of getting that was to make the perpetrator show a hand.
‘Anything we can do this end?’ ASW asked.
‘Yes. Two things. First, get on to the Chancery Lane Medical Laboratory. See what you can find out about a sample sent to them from the Healthy Woman Centre in Cambridge on 8th August 2002. Specifically, did the lab do a DNA test on the sample and, if so, do they still have the results? And also did they do any other tests associated with it?’
‘Other tests?’ ASW asked.
‘For comparison.’
‘Yes, of course. Right. I’ll get on to it myself straight away. What’s the second thing?’
I hesitated, wondering if my other request would be a good idea after all.
‘Is Denzel in the office?’ I asked.
Denzel was of West Indian descent and was number 9 of the Simpson White operatives. He was our ex-special-forces man, our former Royal Marine commando, our fixer.
Denzel wasn’t his real name but a nickname he’d been given in the military due to his uncanny resemblance to the actor, Denzel Washington. But our Denzel was not just a pretty face. He was six foot four inches tall with big muscles, and he knew how to use them. Hence he got results.
‘Ask no questions, get told no lies’ was Denzel’s favourite catchphrase.
So we asked no questions.
‘He certainly is,’ ASW replied. ‘He’s kicking his heels around the office like a bear with a sore head. He’s desperate to be doing something.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I can use him. I don’t think the laboratory is likely to play ball even if they’ve still got any results, so can you send Denzel off to Ealing to put the thumbscrews on Peter Robertson. I’d like to know how much he knows and, in particular, if he’s aware who was the father of Zoe’s aborted foetus.’
There was a slight pause from the other end as if ASW was mentally evaluating whether the possible gain of information outweighed the potential for any future legal complications.
I was not averse to attempting a touch of blackmail of my own.
‘Tell Denzel to convey most fervently to Mr Robertson that I have proof of his extortion activities and, unless he gives us what we want, I will present all the evidence not only to the police but also to the benefit authorities and the child-protection people. Then he’ll lose both his house and his kids, as well as his liberty. However, if he helps us, I will keep it all to myself.’
‘Is that possible?’ ASW asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I would try my best. Either way, Peter’s little earner is about to come to a sudden and complete halt as the lever he is using will become public knowledge, one way or another. Either he tells us or he’ll have to explain his swollen bank balance to the cops.’
‘Right,’ ASW said, making a firm decision. ‘I’ll brief Denzel and send him over there immediately, but I must stipulate that he is to refrain from using any violence, especially if there are young children about.’
That’s fine, I thought. I knew that Denzel avoided violence unless it was absolutely necessary, say in self-defence. The threat of it was usually sufficient and anyway, in this case, there were more potent dangers to Peter’s welfare than just a few bruises.