The Cat That Was Bigger Than You

by Fiona Snyckers

  “Go! Go!” Morwen flapped her hands. “I’ll be fine. Just let me know what’s happening.”

  Fay jogged out of the house and down the driveway. She hesitated outside the garage that housed her grandmother’s old Volvo.

  No. It was too unreliable. She could get there faster on foot.

  She continued at a run, her legs protesting at this second bout of exercise for the morning. She had already run three miles before six o’clock. Her heart thundered in her chest – not just from the exertion, but from fear. In the last year that she had got to know Doc Dyer, they had become very close. They had clicked from the beginning, even before David had arrived home from America a few months later. The thought that there could be something wrong with him turned Fay’s knees to water.

  She took the stairs up to the surgery two at a time, noticing that even the kittens weren’t in their usual places on the pillars. The surgery wasn’t due to open for another two hours, but the door yielded to her touch.

  “Hello?” she called. “David?”

  “Up here.”

  Fay pounded up the stairs. This was a part of the house she had never been in, but she knew the bedrooms were there. She followed the sound of David’s voice and found him bending over his father in what was obviously Doc Dyer’s bedroom.

  He had managed to put up a drip as his father lay breathing with difficulty and twitching in every limb. The scene was so reminiscent of Dr. Farlow’s sudden illness a few days earlier that Fay felt a chill. But this time, instead of being the patient, Dr. Farlow was hovering on the other side of the bed taking a blood pressure reading.

  “Is he going to be okay?” she asked. “What happened here?”

  “He started getting heart palpitations this morning,” said David, his eyes fixed on his father’s face, noting every twitch and color change. “It became so bad that he collapsed. Luckily, he managed to alert me before he became unconscious. We’ve got his heart rate down to a hundred and thirty beats per minute now, which is still too fast, but a big improvement on two hundred beats a minute.”

  “He looks dreadful,” said Fay.

  Doc Dyer was sweating profusely - his face suffused with an unhealthy red color.

  “Again, he’s looking better than he did a few minutes ago.”

  “Is this how I looked when I had my attack?” asked Dr. Farlow, making a note of the blood pressure. Fay looked at the number he had written down. She knew enough to know it was high, very high.

  “This is exactly how you looked,” said David.

  “How is this possible?” asked Fay. “What could have caused it?”

  David shook his head and shrugged. He was too focused on his father’s well-being to worry about anything else right now.

  “He was at the retirement estate yesterday evening,” said Fay. “I told him not to go alone, but he didn’t listen. Now look what’s happened.”

  David picked up his father’s wrist and began to time his pulse again. “He got back from Sunset Acres at about seven-thirty last night. We had dinner together and he was fine. This happened twelve hours later. It can’t possibly be connected to his visit.”

  “Is he on any chronic medication?” asked Fay. “Anything that he injects himself with?”

  “No,” said David. “Nothing like that.”

  “Actually,” said Dr. Farlow. “I was treating your father for an ankle injury. You remember how he twisted it walking down the stairs a few weeks ago? He’s had a lot of pain and inflammation in the joint ever since. He consulted me about it, and we’ve been trying various things. Nothing worked particularly well, so we decided to try a cortisone injection straight into the joint this morning. I came around early to do it so he would have time to recover before his morning consultations. I administered the injection at about seven o’clock. He seemed to tolerate it well.”

  “And by seven-thirty he had gone into tachycardia.” David recorded his father’s new pulse rate. It had gone down to a hundred beats per minute in response to the medication from the drip. Some of the ugly color was fading from his face and his breathing seemed more even.

  “Did you get my message about testing Dr. Farlow’s insulin last night?” asked Fay.

  “I did, and I did it immediately. The specific vial that he injected had been thrown away, but all the rest were clean. They contained medical insulin, just as they should have.”

  “I am very careful with my insulin,” said Dr Farlow.

  “I’m sure you are,” said Fay. “But you probably don’t have your eye on it every minute of the day. That cortisone injection needs to be checked immediately.”

  Now that his father was clearly recovering, David was relaxed enough to take an interest in investigating the cause.

  “Do you think someone did this to my father?”

  Fay shot a glance at Dr. Farlow who was rummaging through his medical bag for something. “Maybe.”

  Chapter 18

  At nine o’clock, Dr. Farlow went downstairs to start seeing the first patients of the day.

  Doc Dyer had started to wake up from the light sedation David had given him but was still quite drowsy. David explained what had happened and that seemed to satisfy him for now. Fay knew he would have a lot more questions as he became more alert.

  He seemed to her eyes to be recovering fast. The most reassuring thing of all was that David was happy with his progress.

  “I don’t want to sound over-confident, but I’m starting to think he’ll make a full recovery.”

  “That’s brilliant,” said Fay. “Did you hear that, Doc? A full recovery.”

  She looked down at the patient, but he had drifted off to sleep again.

  “What did you want to tell me that you were reluctant to say in front of Dr. Farlow?” David asked.

  “He was the one who gave your father that injection. He was the attending doctor for all four of the patients who died at Sunset Acres. We need to consider his role in what happened very carefully.”

  “He was also the victim of a very similar cardiac episode to what my father has just experienced. He can’t be both the perpetrator and the victim.”

  Fay’s eyes rested on Doc Dyer’s face as he sank back into sleep. She was considering the possibilities.

  “What if he only wanted us to think that he was a victim too? What if he injected himself with something that mimicked a cardiac episode but that he knew wasn’t bad enough to kill him?”

  David thought about this for a moment, before shaking his head.

  “No, that doesn’t work. If we hadn’t found him at that exact moment, he would be dead right now. I’m convinced of it. He was one minute away from full cardiac arrest. He couldn’t have known that we would find him and treat him.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Definitely. It was sheer coincidence that you wanted to speak to him that afternoon. The only person who knew that he hadn’t come out of the consulting room yet was Isobel. She would have left for the day without giving it another thought. My father and I would have found his body the next morning. Or possibly earlier if we’d had a reason to go into the consulting room in the course of the evening. Either way, he would be dead.”

  “What if he miscalculated? What if he intended to give himself a small dose of whatever it was to make himself look like a victim, but miscalculated and accidently gave himself a dose that would have been fatal without medical intervention?”

  David sat in the chair at his father’s bedside that had recently been vacated by Dr. Farlow. It was the first time he had sat down the whole morning.

  “It’s possible,” he admitted. “But it seems far-fetched. Why are you so determined to see Dr. Farlow as the villain?”

  “There are a number of reasons to look at him carefully.” She counted them off on her fingers. “One - this rash of deaths started on the island when Dr. Farlow arrived, almost to the day. Two - whoever is doing it definitely has some medical knowledge. They’ve figured out what to give to a patient to s
end their heart into overdrive, mimicking the effects of a heart attack and leading to death. And three - he treated every one of the victims, including your father.”

  “He even treated himself in the sense that he injected himself with insulin shortly before the attack happened.” David gave it some thought. Then he shook his head. “No. I’m not getting sucked into this theory of yours. I know Dr. Farlow. He’s a nice man. What could his motivation possibly be?”

  “I must admit, I don’t have the answer to that. But if this person is a serial killer – and four murders plus two attempted murders certainly suggests that – they won’t necessarily have a rational motive. It could be a form of thrill killing. It’s time I looked into Dr. Farlow’s background.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find anything.”

  They glanced down as Doc Dyer moved on the bed. But he was just shifting his position.

  “Is there a substance that could do what we’ve seen?” asked Fay. “Send a heart into overdrive like that?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. The most likely culprit would be adrenalin.”

  “That’s something that the body produces naturally, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. It’s produced by the adrenal glands, which are found just above the kidneys and are closely involved in the functioning of the kidneys. But adrenalin is also given medically as a treatment for various ailments, such as asthma and anaphylaxis. It causes the heart to race. An overdose could lead to severe tachycardia and eventual death, especially in an older individual. A younger patient would be more likely to survive it.”

  “And how detectable would it be in the body afterwards?”

  “Foul play would have to be suspected in order for the body to be tested at all. The first two patients at Sunset Acres were believed to have passed away from natural causes. No autopsy was done, or any other testing either. Even Mrs. Binnie and Mrs. Busby’s bodies were not tested immediately after death. They were also believed to have died natural deaths. And now it would be too late. I already told you that Dr. Farlow’s adrenalin levels were elevated when I tested him.”

  Fay nodded. “You said that could be a normal biological response to the body going into crisis.”

  “Exactly. That’s what would make adrenalin such a clever choice for murder, if that is what this is. It wouldn’t be an unusual substance to find in the body after a heart attack.”

  “Again, that would suggest someone with medical knowledge.”

  “Possibly. But it’s also something you could find out by googling or by asking a doctor. Anyone who has taken medication for asthma would know how it makes their heart race.”

  Doc Dyer sighed in his sleep. It was encouraging to see how much better his color was and how his breathing had evened out.

  David’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and frowned. Then he sent a quick reply to whoever had messaged him. A moment later, his phone buzzed again and this time his frown was pronounced. His slanted black brows almost met in the middle.

  Back went another reply. From the way he was jabbing at the screen, Fay was glad she wasn’t the recipient of the text. Then his phone began to ring.

  He shot to his feet and walked out of his father’s bedroom with a muttered, “Excuse me”.

  Fay wouldn’t have minded eavesdropping on the conversation, but all she could hear was some low-voiced talking. He sounded irritated.

  When he came back into the bedroom, his frown was still in place, but now he looked upset as well as angry. He opened his mouth as though to say something but seemed to think better of it. He timed his father’s pulse instead.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Fay. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No, no … it’s nothing.” There was another pause and then he said, “It’s Laetitia. I promised her we could do the Bluebell Art Mile this morning. She’s looking for a local watercolor or oil painting to hang in her New York apartment. She wants us to go there now.”

  “But just explain to her that your father isn’t well. She’ll understand. Or don’t you want to worry her?”

  David stared at the ground. “I did tell her. She wants me to go with her anyway. This is the one opportunity she has to look at art. She’s going back to the States quite soon. It’s perfectly understandable.”

  “Of course it is,” said Fay. No power on earth would make her say what she really thought of Laetitia’s selfishness. David was upset enough already. “Does your dad need medical attention for the next few hours?”

  “No. I suppose not. It’s just that I don’t want to leave him here alone. If there’s even a tiny chance that Dr. Farlow was responsible for what happened to him, I can’t leave him. I suppose I could ask Isobel to sit with him, but …”

  “But she has her own work, and you can’t leave the surgery without a receptionist,” said Fay. “This is what is going to happen. You and Laetitia go and do the art mile now. I’ll stay with your father as long as it takes. And I won’t let Dr. Farlow anywhere near him.”

  “That’s a very kind offer, but you also have work to do. I can’t take over your whole morning like this.”

  Fay held up her phone. “I usually spend this time of the morning answering emails and doing admin. I can do that right here from my phone. There’s almost nothing a laptop can do that a smartphone can’t. I’ll clear my inbox and send out my orders and requisitions. And if anything changes with your dad, I’ll call you immediately.”

  Fay wouldn’t have admitted it to David, but she was nervous about being left alone with Doc Dyer.

  She had the same basic paramedic training as any police officer, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough if a real crisis hit. The fact that David was prepared to leave his father in her care meant that he wasn’t expecting a crisis, which had to count for something.

  Dr. Farlow came in once, ostensibly to check on Doc Dyer’s wellbeing. He seemed surprised to find Fay in charge of the sick room.

  She gave him a friendly greeting but watched closely as he examined the patient. One false step and she would take any measure necessary to stop him. He took Doc Dyer’s pulse and blood pressure. The moment he tried to adjust the drip Fay intervened.

  “David left specific instructions that no one was to touch the drip,” she said. “No one at all.”

  Dr. Farlow raised and lowered his eyebrows several times and rubbed a hand back and forth across his nose very fast. These were all tics that Fay had noticed before.

  “I was just going to adjust the flow,” he said.

  “David can do that when he comes back.”

  “Very well. Very well. Very well.” He made several throat clearing noises in a row. “I have patients now, but I’ll be back.”

  Fay breathed a sigh of relief when he finally left.

  Now she could get on with the work that really interested her. Clearing her inbox and placing her orders had taken nearly two hours. That left her with plenty of time to look into Dr. Farlow’s background.

  Unlike regular people, Fay was not confined to the limitations of Google. She had kept up her subscriptions to various law enforcement sites that allowed her to look much more deeply into someone’s background than a normal internet search would allow.

  She logged onto one of these now and entered her password, pleased that she still remembered it.

  Benjamin Farlow was born in Winnipeg, Manitoba in Canada. He trained at the University of Toronto and practiced in Toronto as a general practitioner for fifteen years. Thereafter, he had moved to England, qualifying for citizenship easily because his late mother was English. Since then, he hadn’t owned his own practice, but had taken locum positions all over the United Kingdom. Twenty years of this had enabled him to see a great deal of the country. He wasn’t just a rolling stone, however, as he owned a one-bedroom apartment in Barnes on the outskirts of London. He probably planned to retire there.

  So far so harmless. Then Fay looked more closely into why he had closed his practice in Tor
onto and left the country, all in the space of six weeks. It seemed he was on the point of being sued for malpractice for millions of Canadian dollars.

  Chapter 19

  It wasn’t easy to uncover what the malpractice suit had been about, but Fay managed it. She had most of the details by the time David returned.

  She gave him a few minutes to examine his father and assure himself that he hadn’t come to any harm. He was still deeply asleep, although he stirred when David put the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

  “The sedative is still in his system and his body is exhausted after what he went through,” said David, making a note of his pulse and blood pressure. “I see Ben Farlow was in here earlier.”

  “He was,” Fay confirmed. “But I watched him like a hawk and didn’t leave him alone with your father for one second. All he did was record his vitals. How was the art mile? Did Laetitia find something for her apartment?”

  “Yes, she did. And she’s rather pleased with it. It’s a Violet Seraph. One of her oil paintings.”

  “Nice. Pricey too.”

  David had named one of the island’s foremost artists. Her real name was Tracy Muggins, but she had been using the name Violet Seraph professionally ever since she had invented a glamorous alter ego for herself as a teenager.

  “The Tate Modern displayed one of her paintings recently,” said David. “That’s when she started charging a fortune for them. But Laetitia was happy to pay it. It’s a beautiful view of the harbor.”

  “I hope she enjoys it.”

  “Thanks for sitting with my father while I was gone. It gave me real peace of mind.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Fay. “I got all my admin done and even managed to look into Dr. Farlow’s background. Did you know he had a malpractice suit pending against him when he closed his practice in Toronto?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. He told us about it a few days ago. It seems to have been a nuisance suit. One of his patients brought a lawsuit against him for misdiagnosing her. He claimed that she had a psychological illness and she claimed it was physical. She sued about four other doctors at the same time.”