The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(39)

“I-I got into a bit of trouble at the hospital,” he stammered, showing the first signs of stress either of them had seen. “They accused me of lifting drugs from the pharmacy and selling them on the campus. Nothing’s been proven,” he said, forcefully. “They’re investigating it all now, speaking to people, I guess. Anyway, they rang my mum when it all kicked off.”

“And she wasn’t very happy about it?”

“Understatement of the century,” Cooper said, running both hands through his hair in an agitated gesture. “Look, they don’t have a leg to stand on. I didn’t do it.”

Phillips looked into the man’s eyes and felt the same disappointment Sharon must have felt, because every instinct told him that Will Cooper was lying. Again.

“You’re the injured party, then,” Lowerson said, in bored tones. “Let’s get back to your mum. Did you see her the night before she died?”

Cooper looked away and then back again.

“Yes. Alright, yes, I did. Look, there was a huge argument. All I wanted her to do was write a letter to my supervisor to say I’d been with her some of the times they’re saying I was on campus. She wouldn’t, and we had a few words about it. That’s all.”

“You mean, she refused to falsify a statement?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Cooper mumbled. “I’m her son. She should have helped me out.”

“And now she’s dead,” Phillips said, laconically. “Don’t you think that’s more important?”

Cooper looked at his hands and then ran them through his hair again, looking lost.

“Of course it is,” he said quietly. “It—I guess, it doesn’t feel real, yet, y’ know? I keep thinking she’s going to call and tell me to get my act together.”

Unexpectedly, his eyes filled with tears.

“The last thing I said to her… it was awful. Terrible. I can’t get it out of my head.”

“What was it?”

But Cooper only shook his head and used the sleeve of his shirt to swipe at his eyes.

“I go to sleep thinking about it, and I wake up thinking about it. I’ll never forgive myself, knowing that she died thinking I hated her.”

Phillips let him gather himself together again before asking another question.

“What time did you leave her house, Will?”

Cooper raised tired, tear-stained eyes.

“I don’t know. Maybe around ten, ten-fifteen? I needed to get back here to—I just needed to get back.”

“Okay, Will. We appreciate your time,” Phillips stood up to leave and Lowerson followed suit. “I want you to think carefully about what you’re doing, think about whether it would have made your mother proud. When you’re ready to do the right thing, you know where we are.”

Cooper sucked in a shaky breath and nodded, not looking at either of them.

“We’ll let ourselves out. Thank Petra for the water.”





CHAPTER 15


Frances Dobbs lived in the scenic commuter village of Wylam, ten miles west of Newcastle. Aside from its convenient location, the village laid claim to being the birthplace of George Stephenson, the nineteenth-century engineer known as the ‘Father of Railways’.

“This is the place,” MacKenzie said, as they pulled up alongside a large, stone-built cottage with trailing wisteria.

Ryan peered through the window. In cases such as these, he expected to find John Dobbs’ ageing mother struggling to make ends meet, heavily reliant on her son. It would go some way to explaining Dobbs’ inability to socialise with members of the opposite sex; it was all there, in the criminology textbooks.

When Frances opened the door, he found his suspicions partly confirmed. Dobbs’ mother moved with extreme difficulty, leaning on a polished walking stick carved in the shape of a totem pole. She was hard of hearing and, they came to realise, in the early stages of dementia.

“Who?”

“DCI RYAN AND DI MACKENZIE, MRS DOBBS. FROM NORTHUMBRIA CID.”

“Alright, alright. No need to shout at me,” she muttered. “Come in.”

They followed her slow progress along a dim passageway decorated in the style of thirty years ago, packed to the rafters with objets d’art and what Ryan’s mother might have called ‘collectibles’.

They found themselves in a room that smelled heavily of cats and spotted an overflowing litter tray tucked behind one of the frayed chesterfield sofas. Overall, it spoke of faded grandeur and the ravages of old age.

“Sit down, sit down,” she said.

They perched on the extreme edge of a sofa.

“Mrs Dobbs, I understand one of my colleagues, DCS Gregson, has already been in touch—”

“What? Speak up a bit.”

Ryan took a deep breath.

“DCS GREGSON HAS ALREADY BEEN IN TOUCH?”

“Yes, yes. Nice man, very smart-looking. Good with the cats.”

Ryan looked away, stifling the urge to laugh.

“WE’RE VERY SORRY ABOUT JOHN,” he began again.

Frances turned away to call one of the cats across to her.

“Here, Mabel. Here, sweetie.”

A bundle of fur the size of a small horse bolted across the room. Its fur was matted, and Ryan didn’t like to think when it had last seen a flea treatment.