The patient, p.27
The Patient, page 27
Chapter 57
‘I’d like to talk to you about your wife’s suicide,’ Cross began, when they reconvened.
‘Is this really necessary?’ Sutton’s lawyer practically pleaded.
‘Oh, completely,’ Cross replied. ‘It’s most unfortunate that your client has had so much experience of suicide in those close to him. But surely the relevance of that to the investigation of Flick’s supposed suicide is obvious.’
The lawyer decided to take it no further.
‘Your wife had substance abuse problems. Is that correct?’ asked Cross.
‘Sadly, yes,’ Sutton replied.
‘Which apparently developed after your marriage?’
‘It had nothing to do with our marriage,’ Sutton insisted.
‘I didn’t ask that,’ said Cross. ‘She also developed serious mental issues. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, in my opinion in all probability brought on by the substance abuse.’
‘You were a GP at the time,’ said Cross.
‘I was.’
‘And didn’t change specialism till after her death.’
‘After and because of, yes,’ said Sutton.
‘You anticipated my next question, Doctor. Thank you,’ said Cross gratefully, ticking a question off on his list. ‘And you discovered the body. Your wife’s body?’
‘Correct.’
‘So here’s where I get a little confused. You said at the inquest that her last words were “thank you”.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Right,’ said Cross almost to himself, as if he was still trying to make sense of what confused him. ‘When exactly did she say “thank you”?’
‘That morning. When I went to work.’
‘You said, again at the inquest, that in those days you used to go home for lunch,’ said Cross.
‘Yes. The surgery was just around the corner from where we lived.’
‘To save a little money and check up on her?’
‘Towards the end, yes. I liked to check on her as she was in a delicate stage of her recovery.’
‘And on the day of her death you went back at lunchtime and discovered her body. Is that right?’ asked Cross.
‘Yes.’
‘Except, with respect, that’s not what happened at all, was it? You stated on more than one occasion that her last words were “thank you”. On your way to work. After breakfast, maybe, as you were going out of the door.’
‘Yes,’ Sutton sighed.
‘But you see, in those circumstances, had that been what happened, had she said “thank you” at that point, I would’ve expected you to report that “her last words to me were…” not “her last words were…” Do you see the distinction?’
‘I don’t,’ he replied tersely.
‘Do you, DS Ottey?’ Cross asked.
‘I do,’ she replied.
‘“Her last words were”,’ Cross repeated. ‘Not “her last words to me were”. The distinction is this – “her last words were” can mean only one thing, Dr Sutton. You were there. You didn’t discover her body. You found her very much alive but having deliberately taken an overdose. She wanted to die. She’d had enough of what she saw as her miserable existence. She’d told you on several occasions, you said at the inquest, that she wanted to end her life. And in that moment she asked you not to help. Not to intervene. Not to call an ambulance. And you agreed. And she thanked you for that. She said “thank you” just before she died. “Thank you”, and then you watched her die.’
Cross said nothing further.
Sutton just sat there. Ottey wondered whether he was picturing the scene of his wife’s death.
‘Is that what happened?’ she asked.
‘No comment,’ came the reply.
A ‘no comment’ after all these hours meant that things were progressing, if a little slowly.
Chapter 58
Cross came back into the interview room with Ottey an hour later. He sat down and placed his file equidistant from the sides of the table and opened it. The sheets were now covered with several ticks against questions that had been asked. Sutton’s demeanour seemed to have changed. He was sitting back in his chair, arms folded – even someone unversed in the intricacies of body language would have been able to tell it spelt ‘defensive’.
‘How do you feel about your mother’s and wife’s deaths all these years on?’ Cross began.
‘I don’t understand the question,’ Sutton replied.
‘You were complicit in both of their suicides. How do you feel about their premature passing now?’ Cross elaborated.
‘Sadness, loss, relief,’ said Sutton.
‘Relief?’
‘Yes. That they went out on their own terms. That they were spared any further suffering,’ Sutton explained.
‘And what about your father’s death?’ Cross asked.
Sutton didn’t say anything. Cross held his gaze. This obviously didn’t fit Sutton’s thesis.
‘All right, let’s put that aside. What you are saying about your mother and wife forms the basis of your present views on assisted dying. Is that a fair statement?’ Cross asked.
‘No. Not at all. It’s part of my personal experience. Part of my personal narrative, if you like. But it doesn’t form the basis of anything. Nor can it be said to prove anything. Am I happy in my role in their deaths? Yes. Can I see any alternatives to the manner of their deaths? Yes: an officially sanctioned means for them to have done it without fear and in the open. Suicide was the official verdict of their deaths, together with all the social stigma and complications that come with such a finding. But it was different. They made a rational decision. I’m sure you can see that distinction, Sergeant.’
‘The verdict with your wife was “accidental death”,’ said Ottey.
‘That may be but we all know it was suicide.’
‘It surprises me that you would get the official coroner’s finding wrong in your wife’s case,’ said Cross.
‘It’s not a case of my forgetting. I felt, I feel, they got it wrong. My wife committed suicide.’
‘Your certainty in the matter presumably derives from your presence at her death when she thanked you,’ said Cross looking directly at him. Sutton didn’t flinch. He didn’t give anything away. He simply returned the detective’s stare equally enquiringly.
Cross made a note in his file. Then he turned over a page and placed it symmetrically in his folder.
‘A substantial number of your patients over the course of your career have committed suicide, have they not?’ Cross asked.
‘Without wanting to sound glib, Sergeant, in my line of work it’s an occupational hazard. The demographic of my patient list is by definition mentally vulnerable,’ said Sutton.
‘Vulnerable? To suicide?’ asked Cross.
‘No. Vulnerable in itself. “Prone to suicide” might be a better description.’
‘Look, all mental health professionals have experience of loss in this way. Are you saying that Dr Sutton’s mortality rate is disproportionately higher than others in his field?’ asked the lawyer.
‘I am indeed; very much so,’ replied Cross. ‘They are statistically much, much higher. Dr Marcus Todd first alerted me to it.’
Sutton sighed dismissively at the mention of Todd’s name.
‘Bit of a thorn in your side, Dr Sutton? Anyway, prompted by Dr Todd, we did our own research and discovered that your mortality rate is about twenty-six per cent higher,’ Cross went on. ‘Quite a significant number, I’m sure you’d agree. But on further investigation, what is even more surprising is the proportion of those deaths which are suicides.’
He stopped there, more for the lawyer’s benefit than Sutton’s.
‘You see where we’re going here?’ asked Ottey. ‘A large proportion of suicides in a therapist’s mortality rate. A therapist who is a well-known advocate for assisted dying, not only for the terminally ill, but also for those with mental health issues.’
‘Assisted dying, or suicide, as most people refer to it,’ said Cross, just to annoy Sutton.
‘There are three types of lies, Sergeant – lies, damn lies and statistics,’ offered Sutton. ‘Benjamin Disraeli,’ he elaborated patronisingly.
‘In point of fact that attribution appears to be mistaken and is a matter of some debate,’ replied Cross.
‘I have no idea of the parameters of your research; where and how you conducted it. So it is of little interest, or significance, to me,’ Sutton said drily, ignoring Cross’s correction.
‘These are numbers, Dr Sutton. Numbers that don’t lie. These are facts, not statistics, and I can assure you they are of the utmost interest and significance to the relatives of your deceased clients,’ said Cross.
Sutton made no reply.
‘So. Full disclosure here,’ said Ottey. ‘We all – you and us – believe that Flick was murdered by the administration of an overdose of diamorphine. So, bearing that in mind, we applied to have some of your late patients exhumed for the purpose of seeing if any diamorphine was present in their bodies when they died. But as you already know, we couldn’t do that.’
‘Why?’ asked Sutton.
‘Because you had them all cremated,’ answered Cross.
‘Some, yes; where there was no family involved,’ said Sutton.
‘How many, in fact?’ asked Ottey.
‘I have no idea,’ he replied impatiently, as if it was an absurd question which she should’ve known better than to ask.
‘Roughly,’ she persisted, ignoring his attitude.
‘I don’t know. Five or six?’ he suggested.
Cross looked at him as if ensuring that he’d heard correctly. ‘Five or six, you think?’
‘Correct.’
‘It was, in point of fact, twenty-two of them. All of your clients who died by their own hand were cremated,’ Cross informed him.
‘Then obviously their GPs must have signed the forms. It wasn’t me.’
Cross looked at Sutton for a moment as he processed this information. It could well be crucial, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure. He then opened his file, taking out a sheaf of documents and pushing them across the table to Sutton.
‘These are the cremation orders, and as you can see, you signed them. Every single one of them.’
Cross noted a momentary look of confusion on Sutton’s face as he examined his signature on the orders – one by one. He let out an involuntary sigh and looked up.
‘I suppose I must’ve forgotten,’ he said.
Cross said nothing for a moment. He just looked at Sutton, trying to read his expression. His manner seemed put out, as if he was less sure of himself.
‘Why did you sign the orders so promptly and have the remains destroyed in this way?’ Cross went on.
‘Just trying to be efficient,’ Sutton replied.
‘Unless, of course, you were trying to conceal something – had something to hide,’ Cross suggested.
‘I can assure you I have nothing to hide. As you’ve already mentioned, I have maintained from the very start that Flick Wilson was murdered. Why would I do that if, as you say, I “had something to hide”?’ Sutton countered.
‘Were you aware that Dr Robert James, in a neighbouring medical practice, had complained about the number of cremation orders you’d asked him to countersign?’ asked Cross.
Again there was a moment in which, it seemed to him, Sutton was deliberating how to answer the question.
‘I was not aware of that, no.’
‘Then as soon as he’d voiced that complaint, you went elsewhere for the countersignatures. Why was that? Because maybe you thought you were attracting too much attention?’
Sutton didn’t answer. Cross looked at him; Sutton seemed perplexed.
Cross thought for a moment.
‘Let’s have a ten-minute break,’ he suggested and left, gathering his files with him.
Chapter 59
Cross sat in his office awaiting the call. He didn’t have to wait long, as he’d told Dr James’s receptionist who he was and that the matter was urgent. His mobile rang.
‘Cross,’ he replied, answering it.
‘DS Cross, this is Dr James. What can I do for you?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about Dr Benedict Sutton.’
‘Oh yes,’ replied the doctor.
‘I understand you were uncomfortable at the number of cremation orders he was asking you to sign. Is my information correct?’
‘Yes, that was what I told the officer who came in the other day,’ said James, referring to Mackenzie.
‘She’s not actually a police officer.’ Cross couldn’t help himself but correct the doctor.
‘My mistake, I just assumed. Anyway, as I told her, I was alarmed by the number of cremation orders and I let him know.’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask you. Was it Dr Sutton himself who brought over the orders for your signature? Or was it someone else?’ Cross asked.
‘No, it wasn’t Sutton. I haven’t actually met the man. It was his secretary,’ said the doctor.
Cross was writing things down as James spoke.
‘Diana?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know her name, I’m afraid. Very efficient, no-nonsense kind of woman.’
‘Yes, that would be her. Thanks very much, Doctor. That’s all I wanted to know.’ Cross ended the call.
*
‘You didn’t sign most of those cremation orders, did you, Dr Sutton?’ Cross asked.
‘As far as I can see, my signature appears on all of them,’ replied Sutton.
‘Appears, indeed. Strange that you couldn’t remember,’ Cross said.
‘I’m a busy man.’
‘I’m sure you are. Too busy to sign letters at times, possibly. Cheques even, I imagine. Cremation forms, perhaps,’ Cross went on.
‘What are you talking about?’ Sutton asked.
‘Are there times when a signature may be required quickly for something when you’re not in the office? Not available?’
‘Occasionally, yes.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Diana signs them,’ Sutton replied.
‘As pp Dr Benedict Sutton?’
‘I have no idea.’
Cross turned to Ottey. ‘They’re very good, these signatures. Pretty much identical, but I’m confident that if we showed them to a graphologist…’ he turned to Sutton, ‘that’s a handwriting expert, Doctor. We often use them. So skilled. Some can even interpret personality traits from handwriting samples. Really clever.’
‘I’m aware of what a graphologist is,’ Sutton replied irritably.
‘Of course you are. Forgive me. It’s just that we get quite a lot of murder suspects in here who aren’t of your intellectual calibre. Well, almost all of them. Anyway, said graphologist, despite the similarity between all these signatures, wouldn’t, I’m sure, have much difficulty in determining that they were written by two different hands. Yours and Diana’s,’ Cross finished.
‘It’s more than possible. It’s just an administrative form. Nothing more. She was simply being efficient. As you know, she’s quite the sergeant major when it comes to the way things are done in my office. Actually, I’ll rephrase that – her office would be a more accurate description.’ He laughed nervously.
‘But why the rush?’ asked Cross.
‘Like I said – efficiency.’
‘You rely on her enormously, is that right?’
‘I do.’
‘Even to destroy evidence for you?’ asked Cross.
‘Don’t answer that,’ advised the lawyer.
‘All right, let’s move on. We’ll leave the cremation orders for now. Let’s move on to the death certificates. You signed them all,’ Cross said.
‘Is that a question?’ asked Sutton.
‘Did you sign them all?’ asked Cross, getting them out of his file and pushing them across the table.
Sutton examined them all, one by one.
‘I did.’
‘No chance of Diana doing that, as cause of death has to be ascertained and entered,’ said Cross. He paused for a while as if he was mentally asking himself the question he was about to ask Sutton. ‘Here’s my question. How did you manage to be there; to sign all these certificates? All the suicides of patients under your care were signed by you.’
‘They were my patients. Where’s the issue?’
‘How did you know they were dead?’ Cross asked. ‘Was it because you were there?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Sutton, as if stating the obvious.
‘Then how did you know?’ persisted Cross.
‘Diana called me,’ said Sutton.
‘Diana called you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how did she know they were dead?’ said Cross.
‘Because she was there,’ said Sutton.
‘Diana? Why?’
‘She does house calls to our patients. She’s like my outreach resource, if you will. She helps them with administrative social security issues, unemployment benefit, housing. Putting together a CV when they’re trying to get employment. Sorting out references. She’s extremely good at it.’
‘She must make a lot of visits doing people’s CVs,’ said Cross.
‘She does more than that,’ said Sutton. ‘Diana’s a nurse. As you may or may not know, I have a no-tolerance rule when it comes to my patients. They have to want to get clean. Recover. And they have to prove that on a regular basis. Diana does regular random blood tests on all of our patients as long as I’m treating them. If any of them have been using, it’s the end of their treatment. They get tested about once a month.’
But Cross wasn’t listening. He was thinking about the one issue they hadn’t been able to answer in this case. The last question Esther Moffatt had asked: ‘How did they get her consent?’ Why would someone willingly let someone else inject them with diamorphine if they were a recovering addict? And this was the answer – if they thought they were doing a blood test.
