Page 104 of Dying Truth
Kim knew that Oakland Hospital was a private healthcare facility that had opened on the outskirts of Stourport-on-Severn in the mid-seventies. Ten years later it was absorbed into a larger chain when private healthcare boomed. In the years since, the minor operations had developed into life-saving transplants along with cosmetic procedures. And just about everything in between.
If the entrance to Russells Hall Hospital sometimes resembled a Black Friday electronics sale, then Oakland was more like a leisurely stroll around Harvey Nichols.
Kim took a moment to assess her surroundings as Bryant introduced them both and asked to see Doctor Cordell.
Soft music replaced the din of agitated voices. Plush, pastel furnishings took the place of plastic, functional seating. Warm and friendly reception staff sat in the place of terse, stressed administrators. Framed prints of old movie posters replaced noticeboards screaming information on health issues.
Oakland did not resemble any hospital that Kim had ever visited, and Gordon Cordell did not resemble any nimble-fingered surgeon she had ever met, she thought, as a chubby, clean hand reached across the desk towards them.
Gordon Cordell was a short, rotund man with a chin that was fighting to remain separate from the neck.
Kim didn’t try to ignore the immediate sensation of mistrust for the man in front of her. There was a guardedness that seemed to be emanating from him and they hadn’t yet opened their mouths.
‘Mr Cordell, thank you for seeing us at such short notice,’ Bryant said, pleasantly. If her colleague was feeling the same wariness as she was he was hiding it well.
‘I’m afraid I only have a few minutes.’
‘Of course, doctor. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. We’re here in connection with Heathcrest Academy. We understand you were a student there?’
Cordell nodded uncertainly, which did nothing to quiet the growing suspicion in Kim’s stomach. It was a simple enough question and required no hesitation. He either was or he wasn’t. The cynical part of her felt he was deliberating over every question for fear of revealing something.
‘And you graduated?’
‘In 1992,’ he answered.
‘Good school?’ Bryant asked.
He nodded.
It appeared the man barely trusted himself to speak.
‘You kept in contact with some of your old school friends?’
‘Some,’ he answered.
Kim had learned that there were two kinds of nervousness when being questioned by the police. Over-talkers and under-talkers. For some the nervousness went straight to the vocal chords and they said more than they needed to, filled every silence in an effort to reinforce their truth, often repeating a phrase over and over. Others clammed up completely and offered as few words as possible, not even trusting their own tongue.
‘And you were part of a group there, Clubs, I think—’
‘Spades,’ he corrected, promptly.
‘Maybe you could tell us about that?’ Bryant asked, clearly hoping an open-ended question would elicit more than one-word answers.
‘For what reason?’ he asked, rubbing at the skin on the side of his nose.
Or not, she thought.
‘Because it may help with our enquiries, Doctor Cordell,’ Bryant said, pleasantly.
Cordell glanced at the phone on his desk, either praying it would ring or it was an unconscious movement of the eyes.
‘We’re just here for background,’ Bryant assured him.
‘It’s just a club,’ he said, rubbing that same area of skin again. ‘It’s just some harmless fun when you’re at school, like a gang of friends. You must have had a set group of friends, officer?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Bryant said, pleasantly. ‘Kind of lost touch after we left school though. Is that the same at Heathcrest?’ he asked.
Kim could feel Cordell’s growing discomfort.
