The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(60)

“I understand, Mrs Spruce, don’t worry. As soon as they’ve finished, I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you. Well, I just thought I’d better let you know. It might be important, although I didn’t recognise any of the names.”

Ryan felt his heart begin to thud.

“What names were they, Mrs Spruce?”

“It was about somebody called Sebastien Draycott,” she said. “It looked like letters between a patient’s family and the hospital, agreeing to pay ￡250,000 if they dropped their complaint against him.”

Ryan closed his eyes and felt something click into place.

“What was the complaint about, Mrs Spruce?”

“Well, I didn’t like to read everything, you know. But I had a little look,” she confessed. “They thought it was his fault their dad had died. They said he seemed to be under the influence when they saw him after the surgery.”

Ryan made a scribbled note for Phillips’ benefit that simply read: ‘DRAYCOTT—DRUGS/ALCOHOL?’

She paused.

“Did I do the right thing, telling you?”

Ryan looked up at Draycott’s front door and smiled.

“Oh, yes, you did the right thing, Eileen. We’ll stop by and collect the file in about an hour, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you,” she murmured.

“Take care, Mrs Spruce.”

Ryan slipped his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and nodded towards the surgeon’s security gates.

“Come on, Frank. Let’s go and surprise Mr Draycott.”

*

Draycott took his time answering the intercom but eventually the iron gates scraped open, dragging against the paved driveway as they went.

“Chief Inspector. I don’t expect to have my home and private life invaded at all hours of the day,” he said, at the front door. “I am happy to assist with your enquiries, but you might at least have made an appointment before turning up on my doorstep.”

And put you on notice? Ryan thought. Hardly.

“Sincere apologies,” he said, with what he hoped was the right amount of humility. “May we come in?”

Draycott threw his hand up to indicate that they should enter but did not invite them into one of the reception rooms.

It made no difference: Ryan took in the minimalist décor, the framed pictures of Michelangelo’s anatomical drawings, and the polished marble floor in a single glance.

He came straight to the point.

“Mr Draycott, am I correct in understanding that, aside from the Director, you have general oversight of not only the Emergency Medicine Department but the wider hospital thanks to your position on the management committee?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“I see. Therefore, you are aware of any and all complaints or internal investigations concerning the hospital pharmacy?”

Draycott’s eyes turned cool.

“Yes, I am. May I ask where these questions are going?”

“Certainly. I’m trying to understand why you didn’t see fit to tell us about the high level of drug theft the hospital is experiencing at the moment, including large quantities of sedatives, adrenaline and various other drugs with a morphine base.”

Draycott affected an air of surprise.

“Every hospital suffers a level of theft, as I’m sure you’re aware. It’s a sad fact of life but hardly worth mentioning and nothing to do with your investigation, in any event.”

Ryan was incredulous.

“I’ll be the judge of what is relevant to our investigation. Only yesterday, you were asked whether, to the best of your knowledge, there had been any recent theft of drugs from the Emergency Department or from the hospital pharmacy. You said there hadn’t. Would you like to amend your statement now, under caution?”

Draycott’s hands were beginning to shake and he clasped them behind his back, where they wouldn’t be seen.

“To my knowledge, it’s not an unusual level of pilferage,” he blustered.

“If you fail to cooperate with us, we can do this another way,” Ryan said. “We can arrest the hospital pharmacists and compel disclosure of your records.”

“Aye, and you know what it can be like down at CID,” Phillips put in. “More leaks than a drippy tap. Wouldn’t be surprised if the papers got wind of all those drugs being stolen, and when they find out about how the killer’s victims were all drugged up before they died…well, that won’t go down well, will it? Can’t imagine what the hospital trust would have to say about it.”

“Or the General Medical Council,” Ryan added, ominously.

Draycott looked between them, trying to work out whether it was a bluff.

“Then, there’s the small matter of that complaint, Mr Draycott.” Ryan piled it on thick and watched his face drain of colour.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You should try telling the truth,” Ryan said, conversationally. “You might find it refreshing. However, let me jog your memory. I’m talking about the large pay-out made by the hospital recently in exchange for a family dropping their complaint against you, on grounds of negligence.”

Draycott relaxed again.

“Grieving families often make complaints,” he said, with a bored shrug. “They’re always looking for somebody to blame, to divert their anger onto something tangible rather than accepting that it was just their time.”