Hospital Corners

  Title Page

  HOSPITAL CORNERS

  A Brough and Miller investigation

  William Stafford

  Publisher Information

  Published in 2014 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  The right of William Stafford to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

  Copyright © 2014 William Stafford

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Jamie

  1

  Detective Sergeant Melanie Miller wished they would go away. She wished she could get out of bed and go and stretch her legs. She was in such a bad mood even a cup of coffee from the temperamental vending machine in the corridor would be welcome. Perhaps the steaming brown liquid would kill her off once and for all and she wouldn’t have to put up with the incessant questions of Detective Constable Pattimore who kept asking her where Brough was.

  “I don’t fucking know; how many more times?” she said through gritted teeth. At the other side of her bed, Detective Inspector Benny Stevens chuckled.

  “Here, Mel; does this remind you of when you was in hospital six months back?”

  Miller sent the moustachioed throwback a withering glare. “And what about me lying here in a paper gown with tubes strapped to my arm could possibly remind me of that?”

  Stevens laughed. “What was it again, Mel? What was it you was diagnosed with after all that puking and passing out?”

  “You know damned well,” said Miller. “Jason,” she appealed to Pattimore, “get this wanker away from me before he winds up in a hospital bed for real.”

  “Let me see... ” Stevens tapped his chin, “What did the doctor call it? Ah, yes!”

  “I’m warning you,” Miller cast around for something to chuck.

  “Beaver fever!” Stevens clapped in delight. “I’d never heard of it before. Although it does sound like the kind of mucky film I’d watch. Sex-crazed lezzas going at it, like knives - like scissors, I suppose!”

  Miller and Pattimore exchanged long-suffering glances. Six months down the line and Stevens was still cracking the same jokes and being his obnoxious, unimaginative self.

  “Can’t you take him out and drown him?” Miller pleaded.

  “Love to,” said Pattimore, “but the boss wants us to stay put while they do the next set-up.”

  The boss in this instance was not the head of Dedley’s Serious Crimes Division, the formidable, and foul-mouthed Chief Inspector Karen Wheeler, but the assistant director who was trying, via fraught negotiations with the lighting boys, to get the set adequately and artistically lit for the master shot, in which the protagonist Doctor Kilmore would march through the ward with urgent strides before being cornered by the cantankerous but lovable Matron with some grievance or other. The detectives weren’t party to the complete script. They were present in their official capacity but no one must know, and so they’d been recruited as extras

  “It’s the perfect cover,” so said Superintendent Ball.

  Chief Inspector Wheeler had voiced a different view. “Pile of old wank,” she’d said in the briefing. “I’m already one man down and you’ve got most of my team playing dress-up and sitting around on their arses all day. I should fucking cocoa.”

  The case was centred on the filming of HOSPITAL CORNERS - once a popular, Dedley-based television soap, it was now being revived as a film and anticipation was running high. Already there’d been one mysterious disappearance: the writer had gone AWOL, taking the final draft of the script with him. Foul play was suspected and so Superintendent Ball, one of the show’s most ardent devotees, had commandeered the force’s crack detective squad to infiltrate the shoot - against Chief Inspector Wheeler’s wishes.

  “It’ll be a change for them,” he said, “They deserve an easier time of it after all that unpleasantness at the gay bar.”

  Wheeler snarled. Their previous case had been a nasty one - there was no arguing against that - but her detectives weren’t pussies. She would have eaten them up and shat them out long before now if they were.

  “It’s quiet,” Ball had continued. “Town’s in shock. No one’s doing any more murders, so I say let the team do something that isn’t so... Serious.”

  He’d walked off, smirking before the diminutive Wheeler could fetch a stepladder so she could knock his block off.

  The assistant director appeared at the foot of Miller’s bed, muttering into a walkie-talkie that crackled and squeaked, although it wasn’t clear if it was these noises or the irate voice at the other end that was making him wince.

  “No, Dabney, love. Oscar’s not here yet. Customs have still got him at Birmingham International. Yes, I thought he’d given up all that too. Are we not to believe a word Oi Magazine says?”

  Miller chewed her bottom lip. The one good thing about this job was the star of the film, Hollywood bad boy Oscar Buzz. To think: she’d be in the same room as him for a lot of the time, breathing the same air. Perhaps he’d come over and take her pulse - Miller thought about asking the A.D. if that could be written in - Buzz would find Miller’s heart beating ninety to the dozen.

  A runner approached the A.D. and said they were ready. All they needed was the leading man.

  “Can you believe it?” the A.D. looked at the detectives with a pained smile, “Haven’t shot the first take yet and we’re already behind schedule.”

  He flitted away and then flitted back again.

  “Don’t eat the fucking grapes,” he sneered at Stevens. “Continuity. You know?”

  Stevens spat out a pip and clenched his fist. The A.D. hurried away.

  “It’s so boring,” said Pattimore. “Give me a nice juicy stakeout any day of the week.”

  “I think it’s exciting,” said Miller, hoping they didn’t make her look so ill she’d put Oscar Buzz off the first time he saw her. “The magic of the movies!”

  “So tell me, Miller: how do you get Beaver Fever again? Something about a dirty toilet, isn’t it?”

  “Piss off,” said Miller.

  “Your old boyfriend not wash himself - was that it? Bet he used to come home overed in all sorts, working in that cemetery.”

  “Why haven’t you pissed off yet?”

  Stevens nodded after the A.D. “Got to stay put. Conty-wossname, isn’t it? How is... Gary, is it?”

  “Jerry,” Pattimore corrected him, earning himself a dirty look from Miller in the process.

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” said Miller. She shifted uncomfortably. “Think I’m getting bedsores already.”

  “Beaver Fever... ” Stevens reflected. “You couldn’t make it up.”

  “Just die,” said Miller. “The proper name for it is giardiasis. You’d think you’d know that, being a fucking parasite yourself.”

  A bell rang. It was the end of the day and nothing had been shot. The banks of lights were turned off and the working lights, dimmer by far, came on. Gaffers and d
olly grips and all those other people you see listed at the end of films busied around, shutting the set down for the night. Within minutes they were out of there. Miller swung her legs out of the bed and padded barefoot towards wardrobe, walking backwards so that Stevens couldn’t catch a glimpse of her backside.

  “I’m sure you could have kept your knickers on, Mel,” Pattimore gallantly held out his raincoat to cover her. “Seeing as how they were only going to film you from the front.”

  “Don’t question my method!” Miller laughed. She went into the caravan to get dressed.

  “Fuck this for a game of doctors,” said Stevens, “I’m going to the pub. Coming?”

  “Get them in,” said Pattimore. “I’ll make sure Mel gets to her car.”

  “She’s a fucking copper,” said Stevens. “Let her take care of herself.”

  But Pattimore stayed put. Sucking grape seeds from his teeth, Stevens left him to it and drove off in his ancient Ford Capri.

  Miller emerged from the caravan, thrusting one arm and then the other into the sleeves of her mackintosh. “He’s right you know; I am a fucking copper.”

  “Mel... ”

  “Don’t! Jason, just don’t!”

  Pattimore followed Miller across the car park, which was little more than a patch of waste ground cordoned off for the duration of the filming.

  “Don’t what?” he affected innocence.

  “Don’t fucking ask me if I’ve heard from him. I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? Did he tell you to say that?”

  “No, he didn’t because I HAVEN’T FUCKING HEARD FROM HIM.”

  She stabbed the car door with its key. Pattimore backed away.

  “Sorry, Mel,” he grimaced. “But do you - ”

  “No, I don’t know where he is. Leave it, Jason; he’ll be in touch when he wants to be. I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

  She wrenched open the door and threw her bag onto the backseat. “Do you want a lift?”

  “I’m meeting Benny in the Cowshed. Come with us?”

  “No fucking thank you.” She started the engine.

  “Mel... ” Pattimore held the door open. Apart from his hunger for word about his ex-boyfriend, he was also concerned about Miller. She was a lot more irritable lately and was certainly swearing a lot more than she used to - and that couldn’t just be Wheeler’s influence.

  “What?”

  “Let’s blow Stevens off.”

  “Ugh!”

  “I mean, he’s in the Cowshed; we’ll go somewhere else. Have a bottle of wine or three. Have a laugh.”

  Miller thought about it. “As long as you don’t try to pump me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it!”

  “For information, I mean. About you-know-who.”

  “Who?”

  “David Brough.”

  Pattimore gasped in mock horror. “You said his name! First round’s on you.”

  “Get in,” said Miller. “Before I change my mind.”

  ***

  At the table in his hotel room, the assistant director pored over the schedule for the next day. If he moved things around before lunch, they could catch up with what they’d missed today. Or, if Oscar Buzz was still missing in action, they could do the afternoon’s scenes first thing and the morning’s after lunch... It was a nightmare. Like playing chess with ice cubes. He glanced at his alarm clock. The chances of getting any sleep tonight were remote and getting remoter.

  His mobile buzzed and danced beside him. The name of the director appeared on the screen.

  “Dabney!” he answered as if it was a treat and a surprise. “Working on it, Dabney love. It’ll be all right. No, no; no word from Oscar as yet, my love. I’ve left messages with Eric - you know, Eric: Oscar’s agent. He assures me Oscar will be here first thing. And yes, he received the new sides. So there’s nothing to worry about. Eric assures me Oscar will have learnt them. So there’s nothing to worry about.” He pulled a face at himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door. “Yes, yes; goodnight, Dabney.”

  Making kissy sounds, he hung up and returned to the shooting schedule. What a bloody mess.

  He made himself a cup of perfectly horrendous coffee and settled into the chair for a long, long night.

  There was a knock at the door. He didn’t hear it at first, so caught up was he in reorganising the schedule. The knocking persisted. Odd, he thought, I haven’t ordered any room service.

  He opened the door.

  “Oh!” he gaped in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  ***

  Pattimore and Miller were having a good time, necking fizzy wine in The Dog’s Legs. There had been lots of speculation about the famous actor who was due to walk among them the very next day. Right here in Dedley! It was bizarre. Surreal, even.

  “I reckon he drinks from my side of the glass,” said Pattimore.

  Miller snorted. “You gays always think that. You think everybody’s gay.”

  “Well, Davey always said -” he stopped himself and slapped his own wrist. “Oops. Next round’s on me.”

  “And of course, tomorrow she’ll be there too.”

  “Who will?”

  Miller was incredulous. How could Pattimore not know who she meant right away? Then she remembered he was a good ten years younger. Hospital Corners had been decommissioned or struck off or whatever the term was, while Pattimore was still filling his nappies.

  Fond memories of watching the show four times a week with her mother made Miller happy and sad all at once. She downed the rest of her drink and despatched Pattimore to the bar, promising to fill him in on his return with everything she knew about local legend and former superstar, Bunny Slippers.

  She watched Pattimore getting served. He wasn’t a bad lad, she reflected. He and Brough had their issues - Miller wasn’t privy to all the details. She hoped they could resolve them and get back together. Although there was a part of her she kept subdued most of the time but it seemed to float to the surface whenever she filled her head with cheap wine - a part that was secretly pleased Brough and Pattimore had split up. Not that she stood a chance with the detective inspector; she was all too aware of that. It’s just that - well, I miss him, she allowed herself that thought.

  As a working partner, of course.

  Pattimore came back with another bottle in one hand, fresh glasses in the other, and packets of crisps dangling from his teeth.

  He tore the bags open, splaying them on the table like dissected frogs and took one of each flavour. “Hmm,” he said through the crunching. “You haven’t told me about Jerry. Have you seen him recently or... ?”

  Pained, Miller shook her head. “We’re estranged,” she said. “Well, I’m okay; he’s the strange one.”

  “Any signs of... ” Pattimore made faces and gestures to get his message across without actually saying the Z word.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Miller. “And I don’t particularly care.” She presumed her ex was still working in Dedley Cemetery, and perhaps even spending his nights there, pulling the dirt over him in a freshly dug grave, only to force his way out the next morning... She shivered. The full ramifications of the last big case she’d worked on were still unknown. Jerry had grown cold towards her since her diagnosis, kept his distance, until they didn’t speak any more.

  Miller took a sullen sip.

  “And do you blame him for your... ” Pattimore had to stifle a sudden outburst of laughter, “... Beaver Fever?”

  Miller scowled. That wanker Stevens was a bad influence on young Pattimore. “Not really. You know as well as I do we come across all sorts of muck in this job. I could have picked it up anywhere. Perhaps David was right to -” she broke off but Pattimore completed the sent
ence.

  “- to cover himself in sanitising gel a million times a day. Next bottle’s on you, by the way, for saying his name.”

  “Oh, not tonight. We’ll have to take a whatsit, a raincoat.”

  “Rain check,” Pattimore corrected. “Hope you’re not going to go all Hollywood on me, Melanie Miller.”

  Miller giggled. “There’s a bit of Hollywood I wouldn’t mind coming over me.”

  “He’s a gayer; I’m telling you.”

  “In your dreams!”

  They finished the bottle in good spirits and Miller regaled Pattimore with the story of Bunny Slippers. By the time they staggered from the pub neither of them was thinking about the absent Detective Inspector David Brough at all.

  Well, not much.

  2

  Director Dabney Dorridge was fuming. Not only had that rat Simon, the assistant director failed to show up, he was still short of a leading man. Do I have to do every bastard thing myself, he cried to the unheeding gods of cinema? I may as well go and sack half the bloody crew and the cast and do the bloody lot myself with wigs and finger puppets, filming the entire shit show on my bastard mobile phone.

  Jessica, his p.a. waited for his rant to subside. She knew better than to interrupt when he was in full flow. He hadn’t even had breakfast yet and he was off on one. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the day.

  “Jessica, darling! Is there any word - any word at all - on when we might expect our leading man and most expensive actor to show his pretty face?”

  “Um,” Jessica consulted her clipboard, diary and mobile phone. “I’ve sent a driver to collect him. He spent the night at a hotel near the airport.”

  “Well, I hope he’s rested and raring to go. What does that face mean?”

  “What face?”

  “That face you just pulled.”

  “Did I?”

  “Jessica... ”

  “It’s just that there was some trouble at the hotel. Noise, disturbance or something. But the paps are all over it.”