by Peter James
A slim, attractive, red-headed woman in her thirties, she was feeling more than a slight sense of apprehension about being here. A little over six weeks ago, she had been abducted by a former boyfriend, posing as a client, from outside a house on this very street, just a few hundred yards to the east. Although he was no longer a threat, his presence hung around her like a ghost. She studied the particulars on the clipboard in front of her, which she had written herself.
Moments later she heard a roar, and a black Porsche pulled up just in front of her. A short man in his late forties, she guessed, wearing an expensive leather bomber jacket and a gold Rolex, climbed out of the driver’s side, and a much younger-looking, elegant woman, a good six months pregnant, climbed out of the other.
She opened her door and hurried over to greet them, arm outstretched, the wind tearing at her hair. ‘Mr and Mrs Middleton? I’m Red Westwood from Mishon Mackay. Very nice to meet you!’
She shook their hands. He introduced himself as Darren and his wife as Isabel.
Both of them stared up at the front facade.
‘This is such a beautiful house,’ Red said, enthusiastically.
‘The windows are all wrong,’ Darren said.
‘Well, the thing is,’ she went on, ‘this house is only twenty years old; it is in immaculate condition. And one major benefit is that it’s not a listed building, so if you were to buy it you could of course put in whatever windows you liked.’
‘You ever put new windows in a house? You know the cost of doing that in a place this size?’
‘Of course, cost is a consideration. Shall we start with the inside, then we’ll do a tour of the garden!’ she said, brightly. ‘The garden really is quite spectacular. I love this area – I really do consider this the finest residential road in the whole city. Partly of course because there is so little traffic noise.’
‘Apart from the learner drivers crawling around it like snails. We had to wait twice for learners to make U-turns to get here.’
‘It’s a beautiful view,’ his wife said, as if trying to pacify him.
‘Oh, it is, Mrs Middleton,’ Red said. ‘And of course this side of the street, where the houses are elevated, gets the finest views.’
The three of them stared over the rooftops of the houses, right down towards the English Channel.
‘On a clear day the views are really magnificent,’ the estate agent said.
‘How many clear days do we get a year?’ Darren Middleton asked.
‘Two hundred and seventy-two out of three hundred and sixty-five, Mr Middleton,’ Red replied.
‘You’re having a laugh.’
‘No, I assure you, I’m not. Lloyds actuarial statistics show that there are just ninety-three days a year here in Brighton in which there is some precipitation during the twenty-four hours of that day. This is one of the sunniest places in the British Isles!’
He looked up at the threatening sky. ‘Could have fooled me.’
Red led the way to the front door.
Fifteen minutes later, Red walked them through the huge conservatory, and unlocked the patio doors. The Middletons followed her around the edge of the infinity pool that abutted the house, with its electric retractable glass roof, and onto the terraced lawns beyond, with their wealth of statues and Romanesque follies.
Whilst his wife gazed around in wonder – imagining the lavish parties she could throw here, Red hoped – Darren Middleton went over to the east wall, mostly masked with plants, pushed aside the branches of a mature fig tree and hauled himself up.
Then he turned in horror. ‘Excuse me, what is that monstrosity?’
That was the one problem, Red knew. The derelict house next door, with its untamed jungle of a garden, was an eyesore. But the truth was, unless you jumped up on the wall, like Mr Middleton was now doing, it was invisible. Except, of course, from a few upstairs windows of the house, which she had carefully kept them away from.
‘Well,’ she responded brightly, again. ‘The great thing is that the property has been unoccupied for very many years. The garden is simply wonderful for wildlife. All the nettles provide a haven for butterflies and birds.’
‘And urban foxes,’ he said, dubiously. ‘Who owns it?’
‘The house is owned by an overseas company. The one next to it is owned by a doctor.’ Then, as if realizing this was a plus factor, she added, ‘He’s a very respected figure in the local community.’
Middleton jumped down from the wall. ‘It’s a breeding ground for rats and other vermin!’ He shook his head. ‘Presumably someone, at some point, is going to buy it and develop it? They might try to build a sodding high-rise there!’
Red, feeling increasingly gloomy about these people as prospects, said defensively, ‘I don’t think the planning officers would ever allow that in this residential area.’
‘I’ve dealt with planning officers before. They can be somewhat unpredictable.’
‘Well, that’s true, but I cannot see them ever allowing a high-rise development here. Now, would you both like to see indoors again?’
‘We’ve seen enough, thanks, Ms Westwood. We’ll need to have a think.’
79
Friday 19 December
Edward Crisp liked to get to his office early – he always had. Most people needed seven to eight hours of sleep, but he had always got by on five – and less on occasions, with a little help from his friends, as he was fond of calling the vials of drugs in his medicine chest. They’d help him stay up all night if he needed to. He was one of the few doctors who still liked to do house calls.
By the time his first patient of the day was in his waiting room at 9 a.m., he had already worked through his outstanding emails, and read most of the endless mountains of bureaucracy that were heaped on him, and every other family doctor in the UK.
Every new directive made him more and more angry. And it did not take a lot to make him angry this morning. Just after he thought everything was settled with his bitch wife, she had come back with a whole set of new demands. He was beginning to feel all over again as if it was himself versus the world. Or, at least, against her.
But he never let his anger show to his patients. To them he was always – in his mind – Mr Charming, Mr Attentive, Mr Perfect Bedside Manner. When the regulators finally had their way, and he was forced into becoming part of the litigation culture, all that would change. But for now he continued in the way he always had.
‘You really want a gastric sleeve, Rosamund?’ he said to the forty-year-old, straggly-haired woman seated in front of him, whose more than ample figure inside a dress the size of a small marquee overflowed either side of the chair. During the fifteen years she had been his patient, she had been growing steadily fatter, and now seated in front of him, she reminded him of a giant jellyfish covered in seaweed he’d seen on the beach recently when walking Smut.
‘I can’t help myself, I just keep eating. Ever since my husband left me, it’s all I do.’
Maybe that’s why he left you, he thought, but did not say. It was hard to remember how pretty she had once looked, a mere nine-stone, slender blonde. ‘When did you last take any exercise?’
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It hurts my legs too much.’
‘But you walked in here.’ Waddled would have been a better description, he thought.
‘Coz I couldn’t get my mobility scooter up the steps to your surgery.’
‘Mobility scooter?’
‘It helps me get around. To the shops.’
‘To buy food?’ He shook his head. ‘Rosamund, a gastric sleeve will shrink your stomach, which will make you eat less.’
‘That’s why I want it.’
He gave her a kindly smile. ‘There’s something else that would achieve the same result for you, but in a much better way.’
‘There is? Pills?’
‘Not pills, no.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘In here. Mission Control.’
‘Mission Control?’
&nb
sp; ‘Your brain, my dear! The boss inside your head. Willpower.’
‘I don’t have any.’ She looked down, a little shame-faced. ‘I need help, Dr Crisp.’
‘Last time I saw you, you wanted a full check-up.’ He looked at his computer screen. ‘That was three weeks ago. Since then you’ve had an abdomen, pelvis and virtual colonoscopy CT scan, a CT heart scan and a CT chest scan. Your colon is clear, you have a brilliant coronary artery calcium score of zero. Your liver is normal, as are your pancreas and kidneys. Your lungs are in fine order.’
By some bloody miracle he would have liked to have added. ‘I’ve seen patients, similarly overweight to yourself, who are virtual invalids. I don’t want to see you like that. You are a healthy woman in the process of destroying your health. In another five years you’ll have diabetes and cardiovascular disease will follow. Is that what you want?’
‘No, that’s why I need a gastric sleeve.’
He looked at his screen again. ‘You live in Wilbury Villas, about half a mile away, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Forget the gastric sleeve. Drive home in your mobility scooter, stick it in the garage and put it up for sale on eBay. Then take up walking.’
‘Walking?’ She looked at him as if he was mad.
‘Have you planned your funeral?’
‘My funeral? What are you saying?’
‘Take up walking – your heart can stand it. Take it up or else start planning your funeral.’
‘I came here for help, Dr Crisp – I don’t like what you’re telling me.’
‘Bitter medicine, eh? Come back in two years’ time and tell me then that you don’t like it. Then we’ll look at a gastric sleeve.’ He glanced at his watch.
‘That’s all you’re going to do for me?’
‘Rosamund, the first rule of medicine is Do no harm. I’m not sanctioning surgery when the boss inside your head can do a much better job. You just have to let it!’
Midway through his morning list of patients, just as a pregnant young woman had left his office, his secretary phoned through on his intercom. ‘Dr Crisp, there’s a police officer – a detective – who would like to have a word with you. Shall I tell him to come back at the end of your surgery?’
‘Police officer? What about?’
‘Apparently you were at Hove Lagoon last Thursday night and gave the police some assistance.’
‘Ah – yes – yes of course, Jenni. Send him in now, I doubt it will take long.’
He beamed broadly as the door opened and his secretary ushered in Norman Potting.
The doctor stood, and reached a welcoming hand out across his desk, clasping the detective’s rough hand and giving it a firm shake. ‘How very nice to see you again, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘No problem at all – have a seat. We’ll have to be brief, I have a long list of patients waiting. So tell me, how is everything going with the investigation?’
Norman Potting lowered himself into one of the two chairs in front of the doctor’s desk, and stared, briefly, at a skeleton to the right of it, wondering if it was real or plastic.
‘We’re making progress, thank you. That’s a nasty-looking bruise on your face, Doctor.’
Crisp laughed, dismissively. ‘Yes, I fell over in the bloody shower! A friend of mine told me never to fall over in a shower, because that’s what old people do!’
The way the detective stared at him made him feel uncomfortable.
‘End of,’ Crisp said.
Potting nodded. ‘Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.’ He shrugged. ‘I apologize for intruding on your busy working day. Last Thursday night you were kind enough to certify as dead human remains that were found close to the Big Beach Café at Hove Lagoon. Subsequently I took a statement from you.’
‘Yes, well, I’m afraid there wasn’t much to that. A long time back I was a police surgeon, I often used to get called out at all hours to do the same thing – certify death. Frankly, with that poor woman’s remains at the Lagoon it was a bit silly, really. But I understand you need to do everything belt and braces.’
The detective pulled a notebook from his inside jacket pocket and jotted something down. Then he said, ‘I have a few more questions. Could you tell me, Dr Crisp, you were walking your dog across Hove Lagoon last Thursday night – is that a regular place for you to do that?’
‘In winter, yes. It’s too crowded in summer. Bloody kids everywhere. She loves the beach.’
Potting smiled, and looked down at the sleeping mongrel. ‘You always take her to the office?’
‘Since my wife left me.’ He jerked a finger at a framed photograph on his desk of an attractive-looking woman with long, dark hair, flanked by two similar-looking teenage girls. ‘Not fair to leave her at home all day – and most of my patients like her. It’s particularly good to have her here for breaking the ice with my younger patients.’
‘I’ve been there too – wife leaving me,’ Potting said. ‘A few times.’
‘Ah, didn’t Oscar Wilde say that to lose one wife was unfortunate, to lose two was carelessness?’ quipped Crisp.
‘I thought the line was about parents,’ Potting retorted. ‘The Importance of Being Earnest?’
‘Aha, a cultured man! Quite right!’
‘How long ago did your wife leave, Dr Crisp?’
‘About six months – she’d been having an affair – but – that’s how it goes, eh?’
‘Women!’ Potting said.
‘Indeed.’ The doctor shrugged.
Changing the subject back, Norman Potting said, ‘Your dog – does she need a lot of exercise?’
‘I take her round the garden in the morning – I’ve got a large garden which she loves. Then at lunchtime I usually walk her down to the beach and have a bite at my club, the Hove Deep Sea Anglers, or else at the Big Beach Café at the Lagoon.’
‘The Deep Sea Anglers is close to the Lagoon, isn’t it?’
‘Very.’
‘Where do you live, Dr Crisp?’
‘Tongdean Villas.’
‘Nice street – it’s where I’d choose to live if I won the Lottery. There must be good money in private medicine.’
‘In some fields, yes, but not for general practitioners. I have private means, fortunately.’ Crisp smiled.
‘So at this time of year, you take your dog down to the Lagoon twice a day?’
‘Yes, at lunchtime and after I finish work in the evening.’
‘Like clockwork?’
‘Like clockwork.’ He smiled. ‘You seem very interested in my dog-walking habits, Detective Sergeant. Is there some reason why?’
Potting shrugged and gave him a baleful smile. ‘I recently lost my fiancée, in a fire. I’m thinking of getting a dog as a companion, but I’m wondering if I would have the time to look after it properly.’
‘A fire? Was she a police officer?’
‘Yes, she was.’
‘I read about that – it was very recent? Just a few weeks ago? She was trying to rescue a child – and a dog? I’m so sorry.’
Potting nodded and sniffed.
‘Are you all right? Are you being looked after?’ Crisp said, with concern. ‘Are you sleeping?’
‘Not really, no,’ Norman Potting said.
‘Oh dear, oh dear. Do you have a doctor helping you?’
Potting shook his head.
‘I can give you something to help you sleep, if you would like. Sleep when you are suffering grief is very important. I can give you a mild sedative that will help you get back into a natural rhythm.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m coping. Just about.’
‘Is there anything at all I can do for you?’
Potting hesitated. ‘Well, there is one thing. I shouldn’t be telling you this, it’s not very professional of me. But I’ve recently been diagnosed with prostate cancer, and I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to do. I’m getting a lot
of conflicting advice about different treatments.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘You see, the thing is, I’m concerned about some of the routes, which would give me a risk of a loss of – you know . . .’ He fell silent.
Crisp waited patiently, with a gentle smile. ‘Erectile dysfunction?’
Potting nodded. ‘Yes, exactly. Winky action.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifty-five.’
‘Well, I know some very good specialists I could refer you to. If you’d care to send me all the details of your diagnosis, and who you’ve seen so far, I’d be happy to try to help you – with absolutely no charge.’
‘That’s very good of you, doctor. I rather feel I’m imposing on you.’
‘Not in the slightest. As I said, I was a police surgeon for a number of years, and I have the greatest respect for police officers. I would be only too happy to help. I have your card which you gave me last time. I’ll send you some information on a few organizations that offer help and advice to prostate cancer sufferers.’
‘That’s very kind of you. If I could have some contact details? Could you let me have your mobile phone number?’
‘Of course.’ Crisp wrote it down on a Post-it note, licked his finger to separate the note from the pad, tugged it clear and handed it to the detective.
Potting folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
80
Friday 19 December
Coming up to 1 p.m., Roy Grace turned his car off the A27, halted at the roundabout, then took the second left into Dyke Road Avenue, a street lined on both sides with mansions, some privately owned, many now turned into nursing homes, and halted behind a queue of traffic at a police roadblock.
Chief Superintendent Nev Kemp, Brighton and Hove’s Divisional Commander, was doing a fine job of providing police reassurance to the city, he thought. Police vehicles – cars, vans and motorcycles – along with officers and PCSOs in hi-viz jackets were everywhere. It felt similar to what it must be like to enter a war zone.
When it came to his turn, he held up his warrant card and was waved on, past a car with two officers peering into its opened boot. His car radio was tuned to Radio Sussex, monitoring their broadcasts. The presenter, Danny Pike, was at this moment interviewing the Police and Crime Commissioner in his normal courteous but incisive style.