Father Brown - 'A Passing of Guilt' - 4/7
Oct. 31st, 2018 07:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azombiewritesTitle: A Passing of Guilt
Fandom: Father Brown (tv series).
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Inspector Sullivan, Father Brown, Sergeant Goodfellow, Mrs. McCarthy, Sid Carter and Lady Felicia.
Disclaimer: Based on the character created by GK Chesterton and the tv series/characters created by Rachel Flowerday and Tahsin Guner.
Author's Note: Set during season 3.
Chapter Word Count: 5,675
Total Word Count: 41,383
Status: Complete
Summary: A vicious, domineering wife: deceased. A husband rumoured to have a nervous disposition. A disgraced doctor surrounded by rumour. A questionable death. A meddling priest reluctant to meddle and a detective inspector who isn't feeling well. They all come together, brought into a violent confrontation when the wrong person asks too many questions.
A Passing of Guilt
Chapter Four
Inspector Sullivan stepped through the open front door of the presbytery into filtered sunlight, the rain taking a required break, Sullivan grateful, his day not over. Tilted his head back and closed his eyes, a minute or two to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his face, the chill in his limbs reluctant to depart. His headache though, had done some of its own wandering, shifting, moving into a more bearable lower degree of pain, the painkillers quick to provoke a result. Again, very grateful.
“Inspector?”
The voice of Father Brown, his tone suspicious . . . cautious. Had the priest been waiting for him? Kept his anger intact, a refusal to let loose, to accuse and berate the man. Tried to convince himself Brown thought he was doing the right thing, his faith so strong, the laws of the confessional unbreakable. Couldn’t get past the hypocrisy, the arrogance . . . took a deliberate, slow breath. Reconsidered his thoughts, his assumptions . . . he couldn’t fault the priest for something an Atheist found difficult to comprehend.
“See that, Father,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “His mind has wandered off again. Something must be wrong. A headache wouldn’t do that to a man.”
Now over his indulgence, the childish need for someone else to show concern, someone to take care of his ails. Sullivan opened his eyes, lowered his head and looked toward Mrs. McCarthy – who had no doubt rushed out to acquaint the priest with the more intimate part of their private conversation – and Father Brown . . . Not alone, Lady Felicia and Carter still present. Huddled together in a small group, a collective intrusion on his privacy. Allowed his gaze to settle on Brown’s worried expression.
“Mrs. McCarthy told me you’re troubled,” said Brown.
Sullivan pulled his gaze away from Brown, allowed it to linger on Mrs. McCarthy long enough to receive a reaction, but not the reaction he wanted. This woman seemed to fear no man.
“You didn’t ask me to be discreet about that, Inspector.”
A huff of breath. She was right; he hadn’t asked, an assumption made and a lesson learned. “I’ll remember to retain a guarantee from you the next time we converse, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“You do that, Inspector.”
Grimaced. Refused to respond. Glanced down at his watch before looking along the road. No idea what was taking Goodfellow so long, the police station not far from either church or presbytery. Considered stepping out onto the road, to make his own way back toward the station. Decided against it, not a good idea, the two men still out there. Had a thought, mulled over it for a moment then turned his gaze toward Carter.
“Mr. Carter, you mingle with the criminal element of Kembleford do you not?”
Sid, taking a drag on his cigarette, looked back at him, his voice silent.
Pursed his lips, looked away. Looked back. “Two men. Well built, one with a broken nose, both with scars on their faces. Sound familiar at all?”
“There were two of them?”
“Yes, there were two of them,” said Sullivan, body becoming tense as he waited for the insult. Surprised when it didn’t arrive.
“Well, I hope you got a punch or two in at least.”
“I did.”
Sid nodded. “Good for you, Inspector. Looking at you, I wouldn’t have thought you were capable.”
There it was, insult thrown.
Wasn’t going to let it go. “I assure you, Mr. Carter, I am quite capable. One of the two men will attest to that.”
“They don’t sound familiar,” said Sid, shrugging off Sullivan’s confidence. “But I can ask around if you like.”
“No,” said Sullivan, turning back to the road, not wanting Carter to become the focus of the two men, “that won’t be necessary.”
“Suit yourself . . . Inspector.”
An impatient glance at his watch.
“Expecting someone, Inspector,” said Lady Felicia.
“Sergeant Goodfellow.”
“A wise decision, Inspector,” said Brown.
Flicked his gaze toward Brown before looking away. He could move further up the road, gain some distance from an inquisitive crowd. Enough room to ignore and pretend he was no longer within hearing distance. A welcomed idea, Sullivan stepped onto the road, a few steps taken, about to walk past the priest, his idea coming to an abrupt halt when Father Brown spoke . . .
“Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?”
Stopped in front of Brown. “With you?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Sullivan as he took another step. Stopped once more by the priest’s words.
“Then perhaps it would be best if you were to see a doctor. Mrs. McCarthy may be right, Inspector. If your injury is something more serious it may affect your ability to do your job.”
Anger and frustration fought for control, Sullivan allowing neither to control his actions. Noticed his patience had made an abrupt departure during the struggle for dominance. Wasn’t sure he wanted to keep himself restrained, no longer sure, he wanted to wait until he was calm enough to speak to Brown; the priest always able to bring out the worse in Sullivan, drawing his temper close to the surface, rarely losing control. Decided a verbal response was required . . . a need to put the priest on the back foot.
Turned to face the priest and said, “And perhaps it would be best if you were to accompany me down to the police station to make a formal statement, Father.”
Ignored Carter’s aggressive stance.
Brown lifted his chin, his gaze steady. “About?”
“Albert Atwood’s confession of murder.”
Features impassive, Brown stood with his shoulders back, his spine stiff. He stared back at Sullivan, his silence, his lack of expression confirmation. Sullivan understood now why the man’s expression when he had first encountered him in Atwood’s living room was so familiar. Angry with himself for not recognising it sooner, taking too long for comprehension to arrive. Remembered what the priest had said to him earlier . . .
“I did work it out, Father . . . eventually,” said Sullivan, refusing to look away. “He confessed to you and you kept it to yourself because of your damn seal of confession. I could arrest you for obstructing a police investigation.”
Mrs. McCarthy stepped forward, ready to defend.
Held up his hand to stop her, his gaze clinging to Brown. “Stay where you are, Mrs. McCarthy, unless you want me to consider you an accessory. And, Mr. Carter, if you take a step toward me, I will regard your movement as an attempted assault on a police officer.”
“Now see here,” said Lady Felicia, moving to stand beside Mrs. McCarthy. “If necessary, I will have my husband call the Chief Constable about your behaviour, Inspector.”
Ignored Lady Felicia.
Waited a moment, not sure, if Carter would listen or react. When the man remained where he was, a statue of anger in Sullivan’s peripheral, he continued.
“Nothing to say, Father? Do you not have a need to defend yourself? Explain why you kept such important information from me?” Anger growing, Sullivan stepped close, turned his head slightly, placing his injury on display, holding position for a few moments before turning his head back so he could look the priest in the eye. “You’re silence caused this, Father. It wasn’t a confrontation. It was a warning. Someone wants me off the case. If you had passed on Atwood’s confession, I would have been able to make an arrest and avoid a physical assault.”
“Father Brown was only obeying the laws of the confessional,” said Mrs. McCarthy, his threat no longer keeping her silent.
Gaze still rigid, still on Brown, Sullivan said, “At what cost, Mrs. McCarthy? What if they had decided not stop when they did? What if they continued to beat me while I lay unconscious on the ground?”
That got a reaction, a flicker of emotion, of guilt but the man remained silent.
“You’re taking it too far, Inspector,” said Sid.
“I’m taking it where it needs to go,” said Sullivan, his attention diverted when Goodfellow pulled up in the police vehicle but he wasn’t done, not yet. “You once told me human behaviour speaks volumes, and your behaviour, Father Brown, is speaking in volumes. Loud and very clear. Your reaction, your silence tells me Atwood confessed to you and when this case is over, I will be back with an arrest warrant.”
“You can’t do that,” said Sid, stepping forward.
Turned his body, gaze pulled away from the priest to glare at Carter. “I encourage you to make every attempt to stop me, Mr. Carter.”
“Sid,” said Brown, shaking his head when Sid looked at him. “The Inspector is angry--”
“This isn’t on me, Father. This is your doing and I will hold you responsible,” said Sullivan, turning away and stepping up to the police vehicle.
“He’s not angry, Father,” said Sid, flicking his cigarette away. “He’s barmy.”
“Knocked on the head too hard, I’d say,” said Lady Felicia.
Ignoring the insults, Sullivan got into the vehicle. Couldn’t be bothered with niceties, knew any polite goodbyes on his part would only cause further insults, not in the mood for something so familiar. Certain he wasn’t liked, didn’t care, their emotions a part of the job, something he dealt with everyday. Refused to look in the rear-view mirror as Goodfellow pressed his foot down on the accelerator.
.
.
.
“Would you like me to call the police surgeon, sir,” said Goodfellow, standing in the doorway of Sullivan’s office, hand on the doorknob, a look of concern on his features, a flush of embarrassment across his cheeks.
“No, sergeant, that won’t be necessary.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“I’m sure.”
“A cup of tea, then?”
“Very good of you, sergeant.”
Goodfellow nodded, hesitated, a show of uncertainty. “If you’re sure, sir?
Leaning back in his chair, Sullivan frowned and said, “About the tea?”
“About the doctor.”
“I appreciate your concern, sergeant, but I’ll be fine.”
“Meaning you’re not fine now, sir?”
“If I didn’t know any better, sergeant, I would think you were being insubordinate.”
“Me, sir?” said Goodfellow, a shallow grin appearing. “I won’t kick you while you’re down, sir.”
A comfortable exchange, something more familiar, a friendlier atmosphere, something he needed. “Very benevolent of you, sergeant.”
“I’ll get you that tea, sir,” said Goodfellow as he stepped away.
“And some painkillers, please.”
Lips thinning, Goodfellow nodded and walked away, the door left open, subtle observation.
A sudden urge to lie down, to rest his head, give his headache the comfort it sought. He would wait, not wanting his sergeant to catch him in such a vulnerable position when he returned. An afternoon spent with undesirables, degenerates and drunkards had agitated his headache, pain returning to an intolerant altitude. The search for his attackers identities an unexpected failure, the men unknown, certain now they weren’t locals.
It suggested premeditation; Atwood, bringing them into his murderous plan with forewarned knowledge there would be an investigation into his wife’s death. Men brought in to stop the local police from creating assumptions . . . draw conclusions that would lead to an arrest. The two men had gone to ground, Sullivan aware they were waiting for another opportunity.
Headache shifting to unbearable, he couldn’t wait any longer. The ability to care if Goodfellow caught him with his head down now gone. Crossed his forearms on the desk and rested his head on his arms. Closed his eyes, a soft sigh, momentary relief, pain springing back after a few moments. So far, it had been a bad day, one of his worst since coming to Kembleford. The kind of day where he could easily regret filling out the transfer request that had ultimately brought him here. Impatience and frustration part of his daily routine, the anger and pain not as familiar; it put him off balance, the pain a distraction, an interruption to his thought process.
He could feel a lethargic ache in his limbs, the day long, his energy spent. Pain unable to keep the exhaustion at bay, Sullivan could feel his mind drifting, the dark shadows a disruption, an intermission created . . .
.
.
.
Voices, familiar and irritating in nature woke him. Eyes snapped open, his upper body standing upright. The movement so sudden, mind and body not prepared for movement, arms flailing. Sullivan’s fingers grasped the edge of his desk when a bout of vertigo threatened to break his balance. Nausea rolled through his stomach, felt the bile climbing his throat, the acid burning when he forced it back down. Closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing, each breath careful in its intent, cautious.
Noticed the grey image sitting at the back of his mind, a reminder of a previous life; certain he had just endured a nightmare. Lowered his head, an attempt to hide the emotion threatening to explode; fear . . . a threat of tears. Searched for the anger resting in the pit of his gut, used it to regain control. The image faded, grateful it didn’t hold on, the memory something he didn’t want, day already bad enough. Opened his eyes . . .
Realised he had company.
Office door still open, sergeant Goodfellow stood talking with the police surgeon, their bodies turned away, gazes directed elsewhere. Understood they were giving him a moment of privacy, time to pull himself back together. Couldn’t decide if he should be grateful for their consideration or angry that Goodfellow had gone against his wishes, calling in the police surgeon; must have looked a sight when his sergeant had returned, worry and concern forcing him to act. Came to the conclusion he didn’t have the energy to be angry or grateful.
Took the moment they gave him. Not yet willing to let go, the vertigo lingering, Sullivan relaxed the grip he had on the edge of the desk, blood flowing back into the knuckles. The tension fell from his arms, his shoulders, his neck, the muscles across his back. Became aware of the headache still pounding through his skull, so persistent, relentless. Accepted the fact he needed to see a doctor, something wrong if the headache he was feeling refused to abscond.
An uncomfortable theory began to form. Had they done something to him while he lay unconscious on the ground? His theory turned ugly, a waking nightmare laid bare. Had Hartford done something to him, injected him with . . . fear gripped his chest, so tight he struggled to take a breath. If Hartford had injected him with a drug . . . a poison . . . there would be evidence: an injection site, a puncture wound, bruising . . . something. Tried to think. His clothing was intact when he woke, Hartford hovering over him . . .
Jumping to conclusions, Sullivan stood up, stumbled back, chair scratching at the floor. Caught his balance before he fell. With trembling fingers, Sullivan tore at his suit jacket, struggled to remove it, a difficult thing to do. No longer calm, his emotions, his fear exposed.
The police surgeon, not as old as the previous one, or as drunk, turned to look at him with an intelligent, scrutinising gaze, the expression quickly turning to one of concern. “Inspector Sullivan?”
Headache increasing, Sullivan ignored the man. Ignored Goodfellow as his sergeant rushed to his side, Goodfellow’s features shouting his panic and concern. Shirtsleeve problematic, fingers fumbling with the cufflink. Anxiety in control, Sullivan pulled at the cufflink, tugging it too hard, the material of his shirt tearing, giving way under the onslaught. Tossing the cufflink aside, he lifted the shirt cuff away from his wrist, pulling it up, away from his forearm, past his elbow. Searched for an injection sight, fingertips grazing across his skin. Found none. Looked between his fingers, scrutinised his fingernails . . . nothing.
Remembered he had been lying on his right side. Moved the search to his left arm . . .
Fingers grabbed at his wrist, holding his right arm still, too much forced used, the grip painful. He pulled away, unable to escape the hold, the doctor too strong. Began to panic, so unnatural, usually so calm, anxiety not a familiar companion. His breathing quickened, a rushed sound, his chest heaving. A feeling of vertigo . . . his balance shifting, his world tilting.
“Sit down, Inspector,” said the doctor, pulling Sullivan’s chair closer. “Take a deep breath.”
Did as told, body collapsing back into the chair. Lifted his gaze to stare at the man standing over him. “He could have done it. He had motive. I was unconscious . . . he could have done it then. He could have . . .” Knew he was rambling, couldn’t stop the words as they tumbled over each other. “He could have given me an injection . . . a drug, a poison . . . he could . . .”
Only stopped speaking when he ran out of breath, fighting to pull more air into his lungs. Tried to swallow his fear, an emotional lump at the back of his throat, a heavy knot of pain in his chest. Felt as though he were choking. Felt as though he were back in the past, a child living beneath the wrath of a domineering father.
“Try and take a deep breath, Inspector. Calm, steady breaths,” said the Doctor, repeating his instructions as he knelt down next to Sullivan. “I’m going to loosen your tie and undo the button of your shirt.”
Made an effort to do it himself first, not yet ready to feel someone else’s fingers so close to his throat. As much as he tried, Sullivan was unable to get a grip, his fingers trembling with emotion and anxiety. Dropped his arm into his lap, his frustration evident. Nodded toward the doctor, grimacing when his headache spiked, a stab of pain, sharp in its intent, burrowing through his skull. Concentrated on his breathing.
The doctor, his touch efficient, gentle, loosened Sullivan’s tie, pulling it away from his throat and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. A frown marred the man’s features, his gaze narrowing. Long fingers gripped Sullivan’s chin, turning his head to the left. Took a moment to scrutinise the small injury on Sullivan’s left cheek before turning the inspector’s head to the side and tilting his chin up.
Goodfellow growled a soft sound of intent, of retaliation.
Sullivan flicked his gaze toward his sergeant, the man hovering over him. Goodfellow was angry; the emotion visible in his eyes, the set of his mouth . . . pulled his gaze away when Goodfellow stared back at him.
“Are you having any difficulty swallowing? Any pain?”
The pain not so bad, not enough to admit to, any small thing taking him off the case. “No.”
The doctor nodded in acceptance . . . in belief. Stood up and looked down into Sullivan’s eyes. Satisfied with what he saw, the doctor released Sullivan’s chin and stepped back. “Are you feeling any vertigo? Any nausea?”
“No,” said Sullivan. Not really a lie, the vertigo and nausea easing, no longer interested, drifting away to leave him in peace. “It’s just . . . this damn headache.”
Set his left elbow on the arm of his chair, lowered his head until his forehead rested on the edge of his palm. Took a slow, elongated breath. Another one. His panic, his fear also beginning to ease, the time the doctor had taken giving Sullivan an opportunity to gain some semblance of restraint. He had lost control; calm exterior faltering, breaking, revealing something he hadn’t felt in a long time . . . a feeling of vulnerability. He felt foolish . . .
An apology slipped from his mouth, the words stumbling, almost incoherent. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t . . . I thought he . . .”
The reminder brought a tug of fear, a need to continue his search for evidence . . . to prove Hartford had tampered with the health of Kembleford’s detective inspector. “You have to do a blood test, doctor. If he . . .”
Took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Sir,” said Goodfellow. “Who are you talking about?”
“Doctor Hartford. He and I have had previous dealings with each other. None of them . . . good.”
“Why would he try to harm you, sir?” said Goodfellow.
Waited a moment too long, his hesitation a revelation. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to admit his failure before this man. Knew he’d earned Goodfellow’s respect, the evaluation returned, even though the sergeant had his moments. Didn’t want to admit his failure to a doctor he knew little about. No real choice, an explanation required. A hidden truth would only make his situation worse; voiced suspicions suggesting he was no longer of sound mind. He had to give cause and reason, had to supply motivation, his fears more believable if he was honest.
“Five years ago, one of his patients died under suspicious circumstances. I was one of the investigating officers. He made threats . . . against all of us.”
“With all due respect, sir,” said Goodfellow. “If he made threats against you during a previous investigation, why did you go and see him alone?”
Lifted his head, a slow movement, his gaze finding Goodfellow. “I didn’t want anyone to know I . . . we failed to get a conviction.”
“It happens, sir. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“No, sergeant. No reason to feel ashamed when you allow the man responsible for the death of a child to walk free,” said Sullivan as he lowered his head, his gaze, his expression hidden once more, shame and guilt a returning companion, a heavy ache through his chest.
“You didn’t allow it to happen, sir.”
Eyes filling with moisture, a result of the headache – denial and distraction sometimes a good thing – Sullivan lifted his left hand, covered his eyes . . . hid the evidence of emotions too difficult to control.
“Inspector?”
Couldn’t ignore the man standing before him. The police surgeon held too much power; if he concluded a detective inspector was unfit for duty he would call the chief constable and make a suggestion, words used, a diagnosis given, a recommendation supplied. The chief constable, no other choice available, would remove Sullivan from his current post. His own stubborn nature made cooperation just as difficult. Torn between the need for privacy and the need to reveal the truth, an awkward impression left behind; it churned his gut, a nauseating feeling but he knew what he had to do.
He had to put his own need for privacy aside, place his emotions, his regret . . . his guilt to the back of his mind, return to it at a later time, deal with it when the case was over . . . justice for Elizabeth Atwood more deserving than a detective inspector
Eyes still damp, Sullivan turned his head, a direct steady gaze the best he could do.
“What do you think Doctor Hartford did to you?”
“He could have done anything he wanted,” said Sullivan. “He had the time. I’m sure I lost consciousness for a short time--”
Goodfellow turned and stepped away, hand slapping against the edge of Sullivan’s desk. A puff of breath, a release of anger.
“Sergeant,” said Sullivan, his gaze slipping toward his sergeant.
Goodfellow turned back, his anger replaced with guilt. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”
“I made the decision to go alone, sergeant, not you.” Held Goodfellow’s gaze until the man nodded in agreement.
“Why do you think he did something?” said the doctor.
Sullivan looked at the police surgeon, gaze narrowing as he tried to put a name to the man staring back at him. The man so new to Kembleford, Sullivan had only met him twice. Hair almost as dark as Sullivan’s, his green eyes showed an intelligence and maturity beyond his age. A few more seconds and he had the man’s name. “I’ve had head injuries before, Doctor Macey. They didn’t come with this kind of headache.”
“All head injuries come with a headache, Inspector,” said Doctor Macey.
“He did something. I’m sure of it.”
Goodfellow pulled his gaze away from Sullivan to look at the doctor. “The Inspector may be right, Doctor Macey. He hasn’t exactly been himself today.”
“How do you mean, sergeant?” said Macey, turning to look at Goodfellow.
Goodfellow, now looking uncomfortable, as though he were about to run, hesitated, his uncertainty clear. Looked down at Sullivan, quickly flicking his gaze away, back to the doctor.
“Sergeant,” said Macey, “if the Inspector is correct, I’ll need to know everything so I can determine what harm has befallen the man.”
“Well . . .”
“I give you my guarantee, sergeant,” said Macey, “that no harm will come to you if you tell me what you’ve observed in the Inspector’s behaviour.”
Goodfellow looked at Sullivan, swallowed in doubt, the inspector’s expression giving away no such guarantee.
“Sergeant,” said Macey, prompting Goodfellow.
Goodfellow let out a breath, a sigh of acceptance. “He’s been tired most of the day, dragging his feet. He’s never fallen asleep at his desk before, not even on the longest of days. Not even after Harry Gibson threw him off the roof of a barn and he . . .”
“And?”
“He’s been moody and emotional all day,” said Goodfellow, shifting his gaze toward Sullivan. “That’s not like him.”
Kept his surprise hidden, unaware Goodfellow had taken notice of his mood. His sergeant’s suspicions, his assumptions as to the cause incorrect, Sullivan certain of the cause. His past pitched into his present, a distraction at the back of his mind, taking a tight rein on his mood, twisting his emotions into a painful knot . . . closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about growing up under the influence of a domineering father.
“So his panic attack isn’t normal?”
Panic attack? Eyes wide, Sullivan stared in surprise and confusion, gaze following the conversation.
“No. He’s normally very calm . . . except when he’s dealing with Father Brown.”
“Father Brown?”
“A thorn in the Inspector’s side,” said Goodfellow.
Settled his gaze on Goodfellow, the man at least having the decency to look abashed.
“A fresh cup of tea, sir?” said Goodfellow, an apology given.
“Plenty of sugar, sergeant,” said Macey.
“He doesn’t take sugar, doctor.”
“A small amount of sugar, sergeant. Please.”
“Yes, doctor,” said Goodfellow. A quick glance toward Sullivan, before walking away, out of Sullivan’s office, closing the door behind him.
“Have you ever had a panic attack before, Inspector?”
No. He didn’t have a panic attack. He couldn’t have, not Kembleford’s detective inspector . . . not him. No. Confusion and fear filled him, his chest aching. Gaze flickering across his desk, Sullivan searched through his memory trying to find any indication he had gone through this before, certain he hadn’t but he needed to be sure. So many memories no longer available, a refusal to think about particular . . . incidents caused those memories to eventually fade away, disappear and any that refused to leave, he pushed away, forcing them into a part of his mind he refused to access. It didn’t always work, memories taking an opportunity to visit him in his nightmares, alcohol not a strong enough sleeping aid during a difficult case.
“Inspector?”
He couldn’t remember having a panic attack before . . . he’d felt fear, for himself, his mother . . . fear for others during his career as a police officer but he’d learnt to control it, use it to his advantage, the adrenaline focusing his thoughts, his actions. Realised he couldn’t control it now, no longer reasonable, his thoughts no longer rational, his fear dominating everything else, oppressing his ability to function in a customary manner.
So sure something was wrong, Sullivan turned his head, gaze staring . . . “He did something to me.”
“It could be shock,” said Macey. “You were physically assaulted this morning.”
The heat of anger curled in his gut, a welcomed feeling. He felt the need to snap, to show his anger, a way to reassert his authority, his confidence, his aptitude in dealing with aggressive suspects, his . . . a moment of insanity, an added need to lash out, to batter the man to death just to prove he was capable of doing such a thing. Looked away, made an awkward attempt to swallow down the anger, the emotion refusing to disperse. The anger uncomfortable, it reminded him of someone else . . .
“Inspector Sullivan!”
Snapped back to reality. Closed his eyes. A deep breath. Jerked back against his chair in surprise when he felt the long fingers wrap around his left wrist. A small voice in the back of his mind, soft words of assurance . . . the man standing over him was not his father. Opened his eyes, a slow movement. Lifted his head, his gaze, a small amount of fear that he was wrong, his body flooding with relief when he recognised Kembleford’s new police surgeon.
“To calm your fear and satisfy my curiosity, I’m going to look for an injection site, so please, bear with me, Inspector,” said Doctor Macey.
Breath caught in his throat, Sullivan’s gaze followed the doctor’s movements as he removed the cufflink from the cuff of his shirt, placing it on the desk. The doctor’s inspection mirrored Sullivan’s, fingers ghosting over Sullivan’s skin, searching for a puncture wound. Satisfied there was none, the doctor lowered Sullivan’s arm back on to the arm of the chair. Body becoming stiff, Sullivan suddenly uncomfortable when the man moved to stand behind him, a tight fit, a small space behind the chair, the area cramped.
“Other than the headache, is there any other pain?”
Couldn’t find his voice. Shook his head. Grimaced at the resulting pain.
“Any idea how long you were unconscious?”
Wasn’t going to move his head. Not again. No longer a choice when Macey pushed his head forward, the back of Sullivan’s neck laid bare. He shivered at the touch, the doctor’s fingers probing and searching the back of Sullivan’s neck, his shoulders.
“A few minutes, I think.”
“Have you taken anything for the pain?”
“This morning. Mrs. McCarthy gave me two pain killers.”
“Mrs. McCarthy?”
“The church secretary.”
“Did they relieve the pain?”
“At the time, yes.”
Began to relax, the tension leaving his shoulders when Macey’s fingers ran through his hair, pulling strands aside. A feeling of amusement when the man checked the back of his ears, searching locations not so obvious to Sullivan, places a detective inspector might never have thought to look. If the man was as efficient when he examined a corpse . . . made Sullivan think of something else, something to distract his thoughts.
“Has Elizabeth Atwood’s autopsy been completed yet, Doctor?”
Macey paused in his search, long fingers hovering over the back of Sullivan’s head. “All I can tell you at the moment, Inspector, is that Elizabeth Atwood was dead for a longer period than her husband claimed.”
“I made that conclusion at the scene, doctor.”
“Yes, I’ve been told you’re not as stupid as you look,” said Macey.
Ignored the comment as best he could. “How long did the coroner say?”
“He didn’t,” said Macey, moving away from Sullivan, making his way to the office door. Bending down, he lifted a small medical bag off the floor. Returned to Sullivan’s side. “But I can tell you that her muscles were already beginning to soften when her body was removed from the cottage.”
“Dead at least twenty four hours,” said Sullivan.
Normality. If felt good.
“At least,” said Macey, sitting his bag on Sullivan’s desk. “I can’t find any evidence that you’ve received an injection, Inspector, but I would like to perform a medical examination to rule out any physical indications that you’ve been given something detrimental to your health. And if the results are negative and you’re still confident Doctor Hartford took advantage of your unconscious state then we’ll do a blood test to deny or confirm your suspicions.”
“And if you do find something?” said Sullivan, catching the doubt in the doctor’s eyes.
“Let’s not worry about something we’re not sure of yet, Inspector.”
But he did worry, his heart pausing with fear, his breath accelerating. He could feel the tension, the fear building in his muscles, his limbs . . . knew he was about to lose control. Fingers finding and gripping the arms of his chair, Sullivan lowered his head and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think . . . didn’t want to believe his own suspicions. If he’d been poisoned . . . his life taken at any moment . . . he’d lived through so much, accomplished so little, nothing to leave behind except a few personal belongings.
“Breathe, Inspector,” said Macey, “and calm yourself or you’ll have another attack.”
A slow, deep breath in. A slow breath out. In. Out. His anxiety level dropping but a distraction was still required, a need to keep his focus elsewhere. Opened his eyes and said, “Were there any injuries? Old or new?”
“I don’t do the autopsy, Inspector. I only make confirmation of death.”
“Did you see any injuries?” said Sullivan.
“No, but she did have a . . .” said Macey, words coming to a halt, the hesitation showing on his face. Occupied himself with something else, going through the motions of taking Sullivan’s blood pressure and heart rate. Frowned. “Your blood pressure is a little low. Could be dehydration. Your heart rate is too fast. According to your medical file that isn’t normal for you.”
“No, it isn’t. What did she have, doctor?”
Doctor Macey sighed. “If I tell you, will you stop talking long enough for me to take your temperature?”
He wasn’t a child. “Yes.”
“She had a small puncture wound on the inside of her left elbow,” said Macey, placing a thermometer under Sullivan’s tongue.
Kept the agreement, waited until the doctor was finished. Raised an eyebrow when the man hummed.
“Elevated temperature. Perhaps you were right after all, Inspector. I’ll take some blood--”
“Send it to the crime lab,” said Sullivan, breath heavy in his throat. “It’ll be quicker.”
Macey nodded, hesitated, looked as though he needed to say something . . . “The toxicology report will tell you if there were any foreign substances in Mrs. Atwood’s blood. Anything that may have caused her death.”
Took a moment for Sullivan to realise the man wasn’t talking about the future results of his own blood test. “Hartford made a home visit the night before . . . the night she died. He said he gave her a shot of morphine to help her sleep.”
Macey stepped back. Looked down at Sullivan. “You don’t believe him?”
Swallowed, his throat dry, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt dizzy, the information too much, mind already in turmoil, emotions unsettled. “Not anymore.”
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five
Fandom: Father Brown (tv series).
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Inspector Sullivan, Father Brown, Sergeant Goodfellow, Mrs. McCarthy, Sid Carter and Lady Felicia.
Disclaimer: Based on the character created by GK Chesterton and the tv series/characters created by Rachel Flowerday and Tahsin Guner.
Author's Note: Set during season 3.
Chapter Word Count: 5,675
Total Word Count: 41,383
Status: Complete
Summary: A vicious, domineering wife: deceased. A husband rumoured to have a nervous disposition. A disgraced doctor surrounded by rumour. A questionable death. A meddling priest reluctant to meddle and a detective inspector who isn't feeling well. They all come together, brought into a violent confrontation when the wrong person asks too many questions.
Chapter Four
Inspector Sullivan stepped through the open front door of the presbytery into filtered sunlight, the rain taking a required break, Sullivan grateful, his day not over. Tilted his head back and closed his eyes, a minute or two to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his face, the chill in his limbs reluctant to depart. His headache though, had done some of its own wandering, shifting, moving into a more bearable lower degree of pain, the painkillers quick to provoke a result. Again, very grateful.
“Inspector?”
The voice of Father Brown, his tone suspicious . . . cautious. Had the priest been waiting for him? Kept his anger intact, a refusal to let loose, to accuse and berate the man. Tried to convince himself Brown thought he was doing the right thing, his faith so strong, the laws of the confessional unbreakable. Couldn’t get past the hypocrisy, the arrogance . . . took a deliberate, slow breath. Reconsidered his thoughts, his assumptions . . . he couldn’t fault the priest for something an Atheist found difficult to comprehend.
“See that, Father,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “His mind has wandered off again. Something must be wrong. A headache wouldn’t do that to a man.”
Now over his indulgence, the childish need for someone else to show concern, someone to take care of his ails. Sullivan opened his eyes, lowered his head and looked toward Mrs. McCarthy – who had no doubt rushed out to acquaint the priest with the more intimate part of their private conversation – and Father Brown . . . Not alone, Lady Felicia and Carter still present. Huddled together in a small group, a collective intrusion on his privacy. Allowed his gaze to settle on Brown’s worried expression.
“Mrs. McCarthy told me you’re troubled,” said Brown.
Sullivan pulled his gaze away from Brown, allowed it to linger on Mrs. McCarthy long enough to receive a reaction, but not the reaction he wanted. This woman seemed to fear no man.
“You didn’t ask me to be discreet about that, Inspector.”
A huff of breath. She was right; he hadn’t asked, an assumption made and a lesson learned. “I’ll remember to retain a guarantee from you the next time we converse, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“You do that, Inspector.”
Grimaced. Refused to respond. Glanced down at his watch before looking along the road. No idea what was taking Goodfellow so long, the police station not far from either church or presbytery. Considered stepping out onto the road, to make his own way back toward the station. Decided against it, not a good idea, the two men still out there. Had a thought, mulled over it for a moment then turned his gaze toward Carter.
“Mr. Carter, you mingle with the criminal element of Kembleford do you not?”
Sid, taking a drag on his cigarette, looked back at him, his voice silent.
Pursed his lips, looked away. Looked back. “Two men. Well built, one with a broken nose, both with scars on their faces. Sound familiar at all?”
“There were two of them?”
“Yes, there were two of them,” said Sullivan, body becoming tense as he waited for the insult. Surprised when it didn’t arrive.
“Well, I hope you got a punch or two in at least.”
“I did.”
Sid nodded. “Good for you, Inspector. Looking at you, I wouldn’t have thought you were capable.”
There it was, insult thrown.
Wasn’t going to let it go. “I assure you, Mr. Carter, I am quite capable. One of the two men will attest to that.”
“They don’t sound familiar,” said Sid, shrugging off Sullivan’s confidence. “But I can ask around if you like.”
“No,” said Sullivan, turning back to the road, not wanting Carter to become the focus of the two men, “that won’t be necessary.”
“Suit yourself . . . Inspector.”
An impatient glance at his watch.
“Expecting someone, Inspector,” said Lady Felicia.
“Sergeant Goodfellow.”
“A wise decision, Inspector,” said Brown.
Flicked his gaze toward Brown before looking away. He could move further up the road, gain some distance from an inquisitive crowd. Enough room to ignore and pretend he was no longer within hearing distance. A welcomed idea, Sullivan stepped onto the road, a few steps taken, about to walk past the priest, his idea coming to an abrupt halt when Father Brown spoke . . .
“Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?”
Stopped in front of Brown. “With you?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Sullivan as he took another step. Stopped once more by the priest’s words.
“Then perhaps it would be best if you were to see a doctor. Mrs. McCarthy may be right, Inspector. If your injury is something more serious it may affect your ability to do your job.”
Anger and frustration fought for control, Sullivan allowing neither to control his actions. Noticed his patience had made an abrupt departure during the struggle for dominance. Wasn’t sure he wanted to keep himself restrained, no longer sure, he wanted to wait until he was calm enough to speak to Brown; the priest always able to bring out the worse in Sullivan, drawing his temper close to the surface, rarely losing control. Decided a verbal response was required . . . a need to put the priest on the back foot.
Turned to face the priest and said, “And perhaps it would be best if you were to accompany me down to the police station to make a formal statement, Father.”
Ignored Carter’s aggressive stance.
Brown lifted his chin, his gaze steady. “About?”
“Albert Atwood’s confession of murder.”
Features impassive, Brown stood with his shoulders back, his spine stiff. He stared back at Sullivan, his silence, his lack of expression confirmation. Sullivan understood now why the man’s expression when he had first encountered him in Atwood’s living room was so familiar. Angry with himself for not recognising it sooner, taking too long for comprehension to arrive. Remembered what the priest had said to him earlier . . .
“I did work it out, Father . . . eventually,” said Sullivan, refusing to look away. “He confessed to you and you kept it to yourself because of your damn seal of confession. I could arrest you for obstructing a police investigation.”
Mrs. McCarthy stepped forward, ready to defend.
Held up his hand to stop her, his gaze clinging to Brown. “Stay where you are, Mrs. McCarthy, unless you want me to consider you an accessory. And, Mr. Carter, if you take a step toward me, I will regard your movement as an attempted assault on a police officer.”
“Now see here,” said Lady Felicia, moving to stand beside Mrs. McCarthy. “If necessary, I will have my husband call the Chief Constable about your behaviour, Inspector.”
Ignored Lady Felicia.
Waited a moment, not sure, if Carter would listen or react. When the man remained where he was, a statue of anger in Sullivan’s peripheral, he continued.
“Nothing to say, Father? Do you not have a need to defend yourself? Explain why you kept such important information from me?” Anger growing, Sullivan stepped close, turned his head slightly, placing his injury on display, holding position for a few moments before turning his head back so he could look the priest in the eye. “You’re silence caused this, Father. It wasn’t a confrontation. It was a warning. Someone wants me off the case. If you had passed on Atwood’s confession, I would have been able to make an arrest and avoid a physical assault.”
“Father Brown was only obeying the laws of the confessional,” said Mrs. McCarthy, his threat no longer keeping her silent.
Gaze still rigid, still on Brown, Sullivan said, “At what cost, Mrs. McCarthy? What if they had decided not stop when they did? What if they continued to beat me while I lay unconscious on the ground?”
That got a reaction, a flicker of emotion, of guilt but the man remained silent.
“You’re taking it too far, Inspector,” said Sid.
“I’m taking it where it needs to go,” said Sullivan, his attention diverted when Goodfellow pulled up in the police vehicle but he wasn’t done, not yet. “You once told me human behaviour speaks volumes, and your behaviour, Father Brown, is speaking in volumes. Loud and very clear. Your reaction, your silence tells me Atwood confessed to you and when this case is over, I will be back with an arrest warrant.”
“You can’t do that,” said Sid, stepping forward.
Turned his body, gaze pulled away from the priest to glare at Carter. “I encourage you to make every attempt to stop me, Mr. Carter.”
“Sid,” said Brown, shaking his head when Sid looked at him. “The Inspector is angry--”
“This isn’t on me, Father. This is your doing and I will hold you responsible,” said Sullivan, turning away and stepping up to the police vehicle.
“He’s not angry, Father,” said Sid, flicking his cigarette away. “He’s barmy.”
“Knocked on the head too hard, I’d say,” said Lady Felicia.
Ignoring the insults, Sullivan got into the vehicle. Couldn’t be bothered with niceties, knew any polite goodbyes on his part would only cause further insults, not in the mood for something so familiar. Certain he wasn’t liked, didn’t care, their emotions a part of the job, something he dealt with everyday. Refused to look in the rear-view mirror as Goodfellow pressed his foot down on the accelerator.
.
.
.
“Would you like me to call the police surgeon, sir,” said Goodfellow, standing in the doorway of Sullivan’s office, hand on the doorknob, a look of concern on his features, a flush of embarrassment across his cheeks.
“No, sergeant, that won’t be necessary.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“I’m sure.”
“A cup of tea, then?”
“Very good of you, sergeant.”
Goodfellow nodded, hesitated, a show of uncertainty. “If you’re sure, sir?
Leaning back in his chair, Sullivan frowned and said, “About the tea?”
“About the doctor.”
“I appreciate your concern, sergeant, but I’ll be fine.”
“Meaning you’re not fine now, sir?”
“If I didn’t know any better, sergeant, I would think you were being insubordinate.”
“Me, sir?” said Goodfellow, a shallow grin appearing. “I won’t kick you while you’re down, sir.”
A comfortable exchange, something more familiar, a friendlier atmosphere, something he needed. “Very benevolent of you, sergeant.”
“I’ll get you that tea, sir,” said Goodfellow as he stepped away.
“And some painkillers, please.”
Lips thinning, Goodfellow nodded and walked away, the door left open, subtle observation.
A sudden urge to lie down, to rest his head, give his headache the comfort it sought. He would wait, not wanting his sergeant to catch him in such a vulnerable position when he returned. An afternoon spent with undesirables, degenerates and drunkards had agitated his headache, pain returning to an intolerant altitude. The search for his attackers identities an unexpected failure, the men unknown, certain now they weren’t locals.
It suggested premeditation; Atwood, bringing them into his murderous plan with forewarned knowledge there would be an investigation into his wife’s death. Men brought in to stop the local police from creating assumptions . . . draw conclusions that would lead to an arrest. The two men had gone to ground, Sullivan aware they were waiting for another opportunity.
Headache shifting to unbearable, he couldn’t wait any longer. The ability to care if Goodfellow caught him with his head down now gone. Crossed his forearms on the desk and rested his head on his arms. Closed his eyes, a soft sigh, momentary relief, pain springing back after a few moments. So far, it had been a bad day, one of his worst since coming to Kembleford. The kind of day where he could easily regret filling out the transfer request that had ultimately brought him here. Impatience and frustration part of his daily routine, the anger and pain not as familiar; it put him off balance, the pain a distraction, an interruption to his thought process.
He could feel a lethargic ache in his limbs, the day long, his energy spent. Pain unable to keep the exhaustion at bay, Sullivan could feel his mind drifting, the dark shadows a disruption, an intermission created . . .
.
.
.
Voices, familiar and irritating in nature woke him. Eyes snapped open, his upper body standing upright. The movement so sudden, mind and body not prepared for movement, arms flailing. Sullivan’s fingers grasped the edge of his desk when a bout of vertigo threatened to break his balance. Nausea rolled through his stomach, felt the bile climbing his throat, the acid burning when he forced it back down. Closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing, each breath careful in its intent, cautious.
Noticed the grey image sitting at the back of his mind, a reminder of a previous life; certain he had just endured a nightmare. Lowered his head, an attempt to hide the emotion threatening to explode; fear . . . a threat of tears. Searched for the anger resting in the pit of his gut, used it to regain control. The image faded, grateful it didn’t hold on, the memory something he didn’t want, day already bad enough. Opened his eyes . . .
Realised he had company.
Office door still open, sergeant Goodfellow stood talking with the police surgeon, their bodies turned away, gazes directed elsewhere. Understood they were giving him a moment of privacy, time to pull himself back together. Couldn’t decide if he should be grateful for their consideration or angry that Goodfellow had gone against his wishes, calling in the police surgeon; must have looked a sight when his sergeant had returned, worry and concern forcing him to act. Came to the conclusion he didn’t have the energy to be angry or grateful.
Took the moment they gave him. Not yet willing to let go, the vertigo lingering, Sullivan relaxed the grip he had on the edge of the desk, blood flowing back into the knuckles. The tension fell from his arms, his shoulders, his neck, the muscles across his back. Became aware of the headache still pounding through his skull, so persistent, relentless. Accepted the fact he needed to see a doctor, something wrong if the headache he was feeling refused to abscond.
An uncomfortable theory began to form. Had they done something to him while he lay unconscious on the ground? His theory turned ugly, a waking nightmare laid bare. Had Hartford done something to him, injected him with . . . fear gripped his chest, so tight he struggled to take a breath. If Hartford had injected him with a drug . . . a poison . . . there would be evidence: an injection site, a puncture wound, bruising . . . something. Tried to think. His clothing was intact when he woke, Hartford hovering over him . . .
Jumping to conclusions, Sullivan stood up, stumbled back, chair scratching at the floor. Caught his balance before he fell. With trembling fingers, Sullivan tore at his suit jacket, struggled to remove it, a difficult thing to do. No longer calm, his emotions, his fear exposed.
The police surgeon, not as old as the previous one, or as drunk, turned to look at him with an intelligent, scrutinising gaze, the expression quickly turning to one of concern. “Inspector Sullivan?”
Headache increasing, Sullivan ignored the man. Ignored Goodfellow as his sergeant rushed to his side, Goodfellow’s features shouting his panic and concern. Shirtsleeve problematic, fingers fumbling with the cufflink. Anxiety in control, Sullivan pulled at the cufflink, tugging it too hard, the material of his shirt tearing, giving way under the onslaught. Tossing the cufflink aside, he lifted the shirt cuff away from his wrist, pulling it up, away from his forearm, past his elbow. Searched for an injection sight, fingertips grazing across his skin. Found none. Looked between his fingers, scrutinised his fingernails . . . nothing.
Remembered he had been lying on his right side. Moved the search to his left arm . . .
Fingers grabbed at his wrist, holding his right arm still, too much forced used, the grip painful. He pulled away, unable to escape the hold, the doctor too strong. Began to panic, so unnatural, usually so calm, anxiety not a familiar companion. His breathing quickened, a rushed sound, his chest heaving. A feeling of vertigo . . . his balance shifting, his world tilting.
“Sit down, Inspector,” said the doctor, pulling Sullivan’s chair closer. “Take a deep breath.”
Did as told, body collapsing back into the chair. Lifted his gaze to stare at the man standing over him. “He could have done it. He had motive. I was unconscious . . . he could have done it then. He could have . . .” Knew he was rambling, couldn’t stop the words as they tumbled over each other. “He could have given me an injection . . . a drug, a poison . . . he could . . .”
Only stopped speaking when he ran out of breath, fighting to pull more air into his lungs. Tried to swallow his fear, an emotional lump at the back of his throat, a heavy knot of pain in his chest. Felt as though he were choking. Felt as though he were back in the past, a child living beneath the wrath of a domineering father.
“Try and take a deep breath, Inspector. Calm, steady breaths,” said the Doctor, repeating his instructions as he knelt down next to Sullivan. “I’m going to loosen your tie and undo the button of your shirt.”
Made an effort to do it himself first, not yet ready to feel someone else’s fingers so close to his throat. As much as he tried, Sullivan was unable to get a grip, his fingers trembling with emotion and anxiety. Dropped his arm into his lap, his frustration evident. Nodded toward the doctor, grimacing when his headache spiked, a stab of pain, sharp in its intent, burrowing through his skull. Concentrated on his breathing.
The doctor, his touch efficient, gentle, loosened Sullivan’s tie, pulling it away from his throat and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. A frown marred the man’s features, his gaze narrowing. Long fingers gripped Sullivan’s chin, turning his head to the left. Took a moment to scrutinise the small injury on Sullivan’s left cheek before turning the inspector’s head to the side and tilting his chin up.
Goodfellow growled a soft sound of intent, of retaliation.
Sullivan flicked his gaze toward his sergeant, the man hovering over him. Goodfellow was angry; the emotion visible in his eyes, the set of his mouth . . . pulled his gaze away when Goodfellow stared back at him.
“Are you having any difficulty swallowing? Any pain?”
The pain not so bad, not enough to admit to, any small thing taking him off the case. “No.”
The doctor nodded in acceptance . . . in belief. Stood up and looked down into Sullivan’s eyes. Satisfied with what he saw, the doctor released Sullivan’s chin and stepped back. “Are you feeling any vertigo? Any nausea?”
“No,” said Sullivan. Not really a lie, the vertigo and nausea easing, no longer interested, drifting away to leave him in peace. “It’s just . . . this damn headache.”
Set his left elbow on the arm of his chair, lowered his head until his forehead rested on the edge of his palm. Took a slow, elongated breath. Another one. His panic, his fear also beginning to ease, the time the doctor had taken giving Sullivan an opportunity to gain some semblance of restraint. He had lost control; calm exterior faltering, breaking, revealing something he hadn’t felt in a long time . . . a feeling of vulnerability. He felt foolish . . .
An apology slipped from his mouth, the words stumbling, almost incoherent. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t . . . I thought he . . .”
The reminder brought a tug of fear, a need to continue his search for evidence . . . to prove Hartford had tampered with the health of Kembleford’s detective inspector. “You have to do a blood test, doctor. If he . . .”
Took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Sir,” said Goodfellow. “Who are you talking about?”
“Doctor Hartford. He and I have had previous dealings with each other. None of them . . . good.”
“Why would he try to harm you, sir?” said Goodfellow.
Waited a moment too long, his hesitation a revelation. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to admit his failure before this man. Knew he’d earned Goodfellow’s respect, the evaluation returned, even though the sergeant had his moments. Didn’t want to admit his failure to a doctor he knew little about. No real choice, an explanation required. A hidden truth would only make his situation worse; voiced suspicions suggesting he was no longer of sound mind. He had to give cause and reason, had to supply motivation, his fears more believable if he was honest.
“Five years ago, one of his patients died under suspicious circumstances. I was one of the investigating officers. He made threats . . . against all of us.”
“With all due respect, sir,” said Goodfellow. “If he made threats against you during a previous investigation, why did you go and see him alone?”
Lifted his head, a slow movement, his gaze finding Goodfellow. “I didn’t want anyone to know I . . . we failed to get a conviction.”
“It happens, sir. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“No, sergeant. No reason to feel ashamed when you allow the man responsible for the death of a child to walk free,” said Sullivan as he lowered his head, his gaze, his expression hidden once more, shame and guilt a returning companion, a heavy ache through his chest.
“You didn’t allow it to happen, sir.”
Eyes filling with moisture, a result of the headache – denial and distraction sometimes a good thing – Sullivan lifted his left hand, covered his eyes . . . hid the evidence of emotions too difficult to control.
“Inspector?”
Couldn’t ignore the man standing before him. The police surgeon held too much power; if he concluded a detective inspector was unfit for duty he would call the chief constable and make a suggestion, words used, a diagnosis given, a recommendation supplied. The chief constable, no other choice available, would remove Sullivan from his current post. His own stubborn nature made cooperation just as difficult. Torn between the need for privacy and the need to reveal the truth, an awkward impression left behind; it churned his gut, a nauseating feeling but he knew what he had to do.
He had to put his own need for privacy aside, place his emotions, his regret . . . his guilt to the back of his mind, return to it at a later time, deal with it when the case was over . . . justice for Elizabeth Atwood more deserving than a detective inspector
Eyes still damp, Sullivan turned his head, a direct steady gaze the best he could do.
“What do you think Doctor Hartford did to you?”
“He could have done anything he wanted,” said Sullivan. “He had the time. I’m sure I lost consciousness for a short time--”
Goodfellow turned and stepped away, hand slapping against the edge of Sullivan’s desk. A puff of breath, a release of anger.
“Sergeant,” said Sullivan, his gaze slipping toward his sergeant.
Goodfellow turned back, his anger replaced with guilt. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”
“I made the decision to go alone, sergeant, not you.” Held Goodfellow’s gaze until the man nodded in agreement.
“Why do you think he did something?” said the doctor.
Sullivan looked at the police surgeon, gaze narrowing as he tried to put a name to the man staring back at him. The man so new to Kembleford, Sullivan had only met him twice. Hair almost as dark as Sullivan’s, his green eyes showed an intelligence and maturity beyond his age. A few more seconds and he had the man’s name. “I’ve had head injuries before, Doctor Macey. They didn’t come with this kind of headache.”
“All head injuries come with a headache, Inspector,” said Doctor Macey.
“He did something. I’m sure of it.”
Goodfellow pulled his gaze away from Sullivan to look at the doctor. “The Inspector may be right, Doctor Macey. He hasn’t exactly been himself today.”
“How do you mean, sergeant?” said Macey, turning to look at Goodfellow.
Goodfellow, now looking uncomfortable, as though he were about to run, hesitated, his uncertainty clear. Looked down at Sullivan, quickly flicking his gaze away, back to the doctor.
“Sergeant,” said Macey, “if the Inspector is correct, I’ll need to know everything so I can determine what harm has befallen the man.”
“Well . . .”
“I give you my guarantee, sergeant,” said Macey, “that no harm will come to you if you tell me what you’ve observed in the Inspector’s behaviour.”
Goodfellow looked at Sullivan, swallowed in doubt, the inspector’s expression giving away no such guarantee.
“Sergeant,” said Macey, prompting Goodfellow.
Goodfellow let out a breath, a sigh of acceptance. “He’s been tired most of the day, dragging his feet. He’s never fallen asleep at his desk before, not even on the longest of days. Not even after Harry Gibson threw him off the roof of a barn and he . . .”
“And?”
“He’s been moody and emotional all day,” said Goodfellow, shifting his gaze toward Sullivan. “That’s not like him.”
Kept his surprise hidden, unaware Goodfellow had taken notice of his mood. His sergeant’s suspicions, his assumptions as to the cause incorrect, Sullivan certain of the cause. His past pitched into his present, a distraction at the back of his mind, taking a tight rein on his mood, twisting his emotions into a painful knot . . . closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about growing up under the influence of a domineering father.
“So his panic attack isn’t normal?”
Panic attack? Eyes wide, Sullivan stared in surprise and confusion, gaze following the conversation.
“No. He’s normally very calm . . . except when he’s dealing with Father Brown.”
“Father Brown?”
“A thorn in the Inspector’s side,” said Goodfellow.
Settled his gaze on Goodfellow, the man at least having the decency to look abashed.
“A fresh cup of tea, sir?” said Goodfellow, an apology given.
“Plenty of sugar, sergeant,” said Macey.
“He doesn’t take sugar, doctor.”
“A small amount of sugar, sergeant. Please.”
“Yes, doctor,” said Goodfellow. A quick glance toward Sullivan, before walking away, out of Sullivan’s office, closing the door behind him.
“Have you ever had a panic attack before, Inspector?”
No. He didn’t have a panic attack. He couldn’t have, not Kembleford’s detective inspector . . . not him. No. Confusion and fear filled him, his chest aching. Gaze flickering across his desk, Sullivan searched through his memory trying to find any indication he had gone through this before, certain he hadn’t but he needed to be sure. So many memories no longer available, a refusal to think about particular . . . incidents caused those memories to eventually fade away, disappear and any that refused to leave, he pushed away, forcing them into a part of his mind he refused to access. It didn’t always work, memories taking an opportunity to visit him in his nightmares, alcohol not a strong enough sleeping aid during a difficult case.
“Inspector?”
He couldn’t remember having a panic attack before . . . he’d felt fear, for himself, his mother . . . fear for others during his career as a police officer but he’d learnt to control it, use it to his advantage, the adrenaline focusing his thoughts, his actions. Realised he couldn’t control it now, no longer reasonable, his thoughts no longer rational, his fear dominating everything else, oppressing his ability to function in a customary manner.
So sure something was wrong, Sullivan turned his head, gaze staring . . . “He did something to me.”
“It could be shock,” said Macey. “You were physically assaulted this morning.”
The heat of anger curled in his gut, a welcomed feeling. He felt the need to snap, to show his anger, a way to reassert his authority, his confidence, his aptitude in dealing with aggressive suspects, his . . . a moment of insanity, an added need to lash out, to batter the man to death just to prove he was capable of doing such a thing. Looked away, made an awkward attempt to swallow down the anger, the emotion refusing to disperse. The anger uncomfortable, it reminded him of someone else . . .
“Inspector Sullivan!”
Snapped back to reality. Closed his eyes. A deep breath. Jerked back against his chair in surprise when he felt the long fingers wrap around his left wrist. A small voice in the back of his mind, soft words of assurance . . . the man standing over him was not his father. Opened his eyes, a slow movement. Lifted his head, his gaze, a small amount of fear that he was wrong, his body flooding with relief when he recognised Kembleford’s new police surgeon.
“To calm your fear and satisfy my curiosity, I’m going to look for an injection site, so please, bear with me, Inspector,” said Doctor Macey.
Breath caught in his throat, Sullivan’s gaze followed the doctor’s movements as he removed the cufflink from the cuff of his shirt, placing it on the desk. The doctor’s inspection mirrored Sullivan’s, fingers ghosting over Sullivan’s skin, searching for a puncture wound. Satisfied there was none, the doctor lowered Sullivan’s arm back on to the arm of the chair. Body becoming stiff, Sullivan suddenly uncomfortable when the man moved to stand behind him, a tight fit, a small space behind the chair, the area cramped.
“Other than the headache, is there any other pain?”
Couldn’t find his voice. Shook his head. Grimaced at the resulting pain.
“Any idea how long you were unconscious?”
Wasn’t going to move his head. Not again. No longer a choice when Macey pushed his head forward, the back of Sullivan’s neck laid bare. He shivered at the touch, the doctor’s fingers probing and searching the back of Sullivan’s neck, his shoulders.
“A few minutes, I think.”
“Have you taken anything for the pain?”
“This morning. Mrs. McCarthy gave me two pain killers.”
“Mrs. McCarthy?”
“The church secretary.”
“Did they relieve the pain?”
“At the time, yes.”
Began to relax, the tension leaving his shoulders when Macey’s fingers ran through his hair, pulling strands aside. A feeling of amusement when the man checked the back of his ears, searching locations not so obvious to Sullivan, places a detective inspector might never have thought to look. If the man was as efficient when he examined a corpse . . . made Sullivan think of something else, something to distract his thoughts.
“Has Elizabeth Atwood’s autopsy been completed yet, Doctor?”
Macey paused in his search, long fingers hovering over the back of Sullivan’s head. “All I can tell you at the moment, Inspector, is that Elizabeth Atwood was dead for a longer period than her husband claimed.”
“I made that conclusion at the scene, doctor.”
“Yes, I’ve been told you’re not as stupid as you look,” said Macey.
Ignored the comment as best he could. “How long did the coroner say?”
“He didn’t,” said Macey, moving away from Sullivan, making his way to the office door. Bending down, he lifted a small medical bag off the floor. Returned to Sullivan’s side. “But I can tell you that her muscles were already beginning to soften when her body was removed from the cottage.”
“Dead at least twenty four hours,” said Sullivan.
Normality. If felt good.
“At least,” said Macey, sitting his bag on Sullivan’s desk. “I can’t find any evidence that you’ve received an injection, Inspector, but I would like to perform a medical examination to rule out any physical indications that you’ve been given something detrimental to your health. And if the results are negative and you’re still confident Doctor Hartford took advantage of your unconscious state then we’ll do a blood test to deny or confirm your suspicions.”
“And if you do find something?” said Sullivan, catching the doubt in the doctor’s eyes.
“Let’s not worry about something we’re not sure of yet, Inspector.”
But he did worry, his heart pausing with fear, his breath accelerating. He could feel the tension, the fear building in his muscles, his limbs . . . knew he was about to lose control. Fingers finding and gripping the arms of his chair, Sullivan lowered his head and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think . . . didn’t want to believe his own suspicions. If he’d been poisoned . . . his life taken at any moment . . . he’d lived through so much, accomplished so little, nothing to leave behind except a few personal belongings.
“Breathe, Inspector,” said Macey, “and calm yourself or you’ll have another attack.”
A slow, deep breath in. A slow breath out. In. Out. His anxiety level dropping but a distraction was still required, a need to keep his focus elsewhere. Opened his eyes and said, “Were there any injuries? Old or new?”
“I don’t do the autopsy, Inspector. I only make confirmation of death.”
“Did you see any injuries?” said Sullivan.
“No, but she did have a . . .” said Macey, words coming to a halt, the hesitation showing on his face. Occupied himself with something else, going through the motions of taking Sullivan’s blood pressure and heart rate. Frowned. “Your blood pressure is a little low. Could be dehydration. Your heart rate is too fast. According to your medical file that isn’t normal for you.”
“No, it isn’t. What did she have, doctor?”
Doctor Macey sighed. “If I tell you, will you stop talking long enough for me to take your temperature?”
He wasn’t a child. “Yes.”
“She had a small puncture wound on the inside of her left elbow,” said Macey, placing a thermometer under Sullivan’s tongue.
Kept the agreement, waited until the doctor was finished. Raised an eyebrow when the man hummed.
“Elevated temperature. Perhaps you were right after all, Inspector. I’ll take some blood--”
“Send it to the crime lab,” said Sullivan, breath heavy in his throat. “It’ll be quicker.”
Macey nodded, hesitated, looked as though he needed to say something . . . “The toxicology report will tell you if there were any foreign substances in Mrs. Atwood’s blood. Anything that may have caused her death.”
Took a moment for Sullivan to realise the man wasn’t talking about the future results of his own blood test. “Hartford made a home visit the night before . . . the night she died. He said he gave her a shot of morphine to help her sleep.”
Macey stepped back. Looked down at Sullivan. “You don’t believe him?”
Swallowed, his throat dry, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt dizzy, the information too much, mind already in turmoil, emotions unsettled. “Not anymore.”