Questions Of Trust: A Medical Romance

by Archer, Sam

  Sabrina Jones lit up her cigarette and squinted at Chloe. Over the curling smoke, her eyes were appraising, shrewd.

  ‘The man from the Gazette said on the phone he was coming tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ said Chloe without a pause. ‘He’s a staff reporter, you see. I’m an occasional freelancer for the paper. I write features.’ It was perfectly true, and perfectly meaningless in the context. But it seemed to satisfy Ms Jones. She nodded.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’

  The story she gave was so obviously a virtual word-for-word rehash of the one she’d given the interviewer from the Pember Valley News that Chloe marvelled at the woman’s nerve. She even used the same term for what Tom had allegedly done: he touched me intimately. As she said this, Ms Jones dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a tissue. Her eye shadow and mascara remained intact, though, Chloe couldn’t help but notice.

  Throughout the account Chloe said nothing, nodding encouragement from time to time and pretending to take notes. At the end she frowned as if deep in thought, and said, ‘Ms Jones, might I ask a few questions? There are one or two things I need to clarify.’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ The woman lit another cigarette. Her eyes were wary and she shifted in the armchair, drawing her arms across herself defensively.

  ‘Do you work, Ms Jones?’

  The question seemed to catch her off guard. ‘What? Yes, I’m in reception at Markham’s, the car repair shop on Wiltshire Road. Been there a month, ever since I moved here. I’m on sick leave now, though, because of all this. Why?’

  ‘Human interest side of things,’ Chloe said smoothly. Again Ms Jones seemed to appreciate this, and she relaxed visibly. Chloe went on: ‘And where were you living before you moved to Pemberham? Readers like a bit of background detail.’

  This time the defensiveness was more pronounced. Ms Jones’s eyes flared and she stiffened in her chair. ‘London,’ she said curtly. ‘Hounslow. Doesn’t really matter, does it? That doctor’s hurt me now. It could have happened to anyone. It’s not important where I’m from.’

  Chloe nodded. ‘Of course.’

  She asked a few more banal questions to put the woman back at her ease, then stood. ‘Ms Jones, thank you. I’ve learned a lot. May I take a picture?’

  She used her phone to photograph Ms Jones’s face. If the woman thought it was odd that a reporter was using a mobile phone to take a picture of an interviewee rather than a proper camera, she didn’t comment on it.

  As Ms Jones let her out she said, ‘So when will your interview be in the paper?’

  ‘Oh, that depends on the editor,’ said Chloe breezily, and left with the sense of the woman’s eyes boring into her back.

  Instead of returning to her car, Chloe walked past it down the street to an estate agent’s she’d seen when she’d parked. She made some enquiries of a very helpful young man inside, then left and took a drive to Wiltshire Road. Markham’s Mechanics was open and she went in.

  To the woman behind the reception desk Chloe said, ‘I’m looking for a temporary job.’

  ‘As a mechanic, love?’ The woman barked laughter, but in a good-natured way.

  Chloe grinned back. ‘No, as a receptionist. I understand your regular girl’s off sick.’

  The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Where’d you hear that? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Yes, we’re short. I’m just filling in for the moment. What sort of credentials have you got?’

  ‘I’ve worked a bit, here and there. I can bring you some references if you like.’

  The woman considered. ‘Okay.’

  ‘What sort of salary would we be talking?’

  ‘What’re you earning now?’

  Chloe named a random figure. The woman cackled again.

  ‘Not sure we’re what you’re looking for, love. We can offer you half that, at most.’

  Chloe thanked her and made her exit. Back in her car, she sat behind the wheel, allowing herself a smile.

  It had been a useful hour’s work. She’d discovered three things. The first was that Sabrina Jones rented her flat. The estate agent had confirmed that all the flats in that block were rentals. The second was that the rent was exorbitant, more than Chloe was paying on her own cottage’s mortgage.

  The third was that Ms Jones’s salary couldn’t even begin to cover her monthly rent.

  All of which suggested she had some other source of income. And Chloe intended to find out what that was.

  ***

  The easiest thing, Tom knew, would have been to take the day off. Call in sick on some pretext, ask Ben to see as many of his patients as possible and cancel the rest of the appointments – it would be inconvenient but not disastrous – and hide indoors to escape the storm.

  Except he wouldn’t escape it. It wasn’t going to blow over. It would still be there tomorrow, and the next day, and next week. And if he retreated to a hermit-like existence, it would make people think he had something to hide.

  So, after he’d read the article with a hollow, sick feeling in his gut, Tom threw the paper in the bin and went to work.

  Everybody had either read or heard the story by the time he got there, Tom thought. From Tracey behind the front desk, to the practice nurse, to his patients, old and young and in between – everyone looked at him with wonder, or pity, or suspicion.

  And four patients cancelled their appointments with him that morning, all of them female.

  Tom ploughed through the workload as best he could, keeping up a front as if nothing was amiss. He thought he was going to make it to the end of the morning without anything being said when one of his patients, a burly farm hand named Jason, hobbled into the consulting room – he’d injured his foot in a piece of machinery and was attending for a check up – and threw down a copy of the Pember Valley News on to Tom’s desk.

  ‘Absolute rubbish,’ he growled. ‘The cowardly swine. If I had just half an hour alone with them…’ He left the thought, and the threat, unfinished. Gazing directly at Tom, he said, ‘Doc, you have to understand that nobody believes a word of this.’

  ‘Thanks, Jason,’ said Tom. ‘I appreciate it.’

  But he knew the man’s assertion wasn’t quite accurate.

  During a lull in the morning’s activity Ben Okoro put his head round the door. ‘Tom, do you have a moment?’

  He came in and perched on the corner of Tom’s desk. Tom felt suddenly weary, and swept his hands across his face.

  ‘Read the morning paper yet, Ben?’

  ‘This woman,’ said Ben. ‘This Sabrina Jones. I checked the records. She’s never consulted you. And she only attended the practice once, with her back. That was when I saw her. What’s she up to? What’s this all about?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tom, though he did.

  ‘We’ll fight this, Tom,’ the older man said. ‘These accusations will be proved groundless, and this will blow over.’

  ‘Ben,’ said Tom heavily. ‘I was going to tell you this later, at a quieter moment, but I might as well do so now. I’m out. I’m leaving the practice. I’ll give my notice in due course.’

  ‘What? No! You’re not going anywhere, my boy.’ Ben was on his feet, glaring down at Tom. His older colleague’s manner was normally famously avuncular, but this was the first time Tom had seen him angry. ‘I can’t afford to lose you. You’re going to be the senior partner here in a few years, when I retire. I haven’t got the energy to build somebody else up to take your place.’

  ‘Ben –’

  ‘Shut up. Besides,’ he waved an arm at the door, ‘there’s a whole community out there that won’t let you go. That depends on you. So let’s have no more talk of running away.’

  He stalked out. Despite himself, Tom couldn’t help feeling amused at how chastised he felt, like a schoolboy who’d just tried to tell his football coach he was quitting the team.

  Ben, you don’t know the half of it, my friend, he
thought.

  The call came around noon. It was a staff reporter, Simon Greenwood, from the Pemberham Gazette. Yes, said Tom, he’d be willing to be interviewed. This evening at eight would be fine.

  He’d decided to tell Kelly at the weekend. That they’d no longer be living in Pemberham, and that she’d be living with her mummy in future. He needed to be able to spend time with his daughter, before and after he told her. For her sake, but also for his.

  Before that, he needed to speak to Rebecca. His finger had hovered over the key on his phone that would put him through to her on speed-dial, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to press it yet. But he’d have to do it sooner or later.

  ***

  The first call Chloe made after she got home from her visit to Sabrina Jones was to the Pemberham Gazette’s solicitor, the one she’d consulted before her interview with the town councillor and who’d given her advice on custody matters. He was in his office when she phoned, and she could picture him, dapper in his bow tie.

  ‘Yes, Ms Edwards. What can I do for you?’

  ‘First, I’m not phoning on behalf of the Gazette in any capacity. I’m doing this off my own bat. So please invoice me for your time, not the paper.’

  ‘Very well.’ He sounded curious.

  ‘How might a private individual gain access to somebody else’s bank records?’

  ‘It can’t be done,’ he said immediately. ‘Only the police can do that. And even then, they have to have good cause. For example, if they were investigating fraud and believed that the bank records might provide legitimate evidence of the crime.’

  ‘What if the police suspected funds may have been transferred into an account to pay for the commission of a crime.’

  ‘Those would be grounds too, yes.’

  ‘And in the case of a civil action? If somebody was suspected to have paid somebody else to perform an act which, while not criminal, harmed a third party? Slander or libel, for instance?’

  The lawyer was silent for a moment, considering. Then he said, ‘The plaintiff, the one bringing the libel or slander action, could legitimately ask that the defendant reveal their bank records to the court, if there was a strong suspicion that such a transaction had occurred. It would then be up to the court to decide whether or not the defendant should be compelled to do so.’

  Chloe thanked him. ‘You’ve been really helpful. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘For a brief chat like this… nothing, my dear lady.’

  The next call Chloe made was to an old friend and fellow journalist in London. He was delighted to hear from her and wanted to catch up, but Chloe had to cut him short.

  ‘Dave, I need a big favour. I’m looking for evidence of a criminal record. Are you still cosy with that police detective contact of yours in the Met?’

  He was indeed, he said. Chloe sent him a text with the photo she’d taken of Sabrina Jones attached, and included the name and current address.

  ‘Though she might be using an alias,’ Chloe added.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Dave promised. ‘It’ll cost you, though.’

  ‘Cost me what?’

  ‘Dinner some time soon. On you.’

  ‘Deal.’

  Chloe sat back in her chair, feeling the first tugs of the thrill of the chase. She was by now convinced that Sabrina Jones had been paid to invent the story about Tom. Further, she’d been instructed to approach the press but not the police. This suggested that whoever was paying Jones knew the case against Tom was too weak to stand up to a police investigation, and so the purpose of it was primarily to generate adverse publicity, even if the allegations were never proven. The whole affair reeked of a combination of spitefulness and calculation.

  Chloe had never met Rebecca, Tom’s ex-wife, but spitefulness and calculation seemed to be two of the characteristics she possessed.

  Was that why Tom was planning to move away? Had Rebecca moved permanently to Pemberham to be nearer Kelly, and now Tom felt he had to escape and whisk his daughter away? But that would hardly be a long-term solution. Rebecca could easily up sticks and follow Tom and Kelly wherever they went.

  Still… if Chloe could prove Rebecca had paid Sabrina Jones to bring a false accusation against Tom, perhaps that would be enough to drive his ex-wife away, or at least scare her into backing off from this crusade of hers. That would mean Tom and Kelly could stay put.

  Beyond that, Chloe didn’t dare to hope.

  But proving Rebecca’s involvement was going to be difficult, as opposed to making mere allegations of her own, thought Chloe. And she didn’t have much time left. Tom had sounded as if he was preparing to leave as soon as he possibly could.

  She felt the urge, and it was almost overwhelming, to phone Tom again, or even simply to turn up at the surgery and find him; to ask him how he was, and comfort him, and tell him that things were going to work out for him if only he trusted her. And, more than that, Chloe felt a powerful need to tell him she loved him, that she’d been wrong to react the way she had when they’d kissed, and that love could see them through this together. But that was the last thing he would want, or need, at the moment – yet another woman complicating his life.

  Never mind, she told herself. Love was giving, not receiving. She loved Tom Carlyle, and she was going to give him all she could in the way of help. She had no right to expect anything in return.

  Chloe attacked the emails and paperwork which had built up that afternoon in her absence, and it was only when she felt droplets on her hands on the keyboard that she noticed her cheeks were wet.

  Chapter Eleven

  The approach came out of nowhere that afternoon, and was all the more frightening for it.

  Chloe had done all she could for the day, as regards both her work and her investigation into Tom’s predicament, and she decided to spend some time with Jake. He was clamouring to go outside, so she strapped him into his pushchair and set off on a variation of her usual walk around the lanes near the cottage.

  The brilliant late-afternoon light bathed the fields, picking out and enhancing the bright colours of wild flowers. A soft summer breeze ruffled the grass and brought with it the distant lowing of cows. Such peace around us, Chloe thought, and yet such turmoil within our hearts and our lives. It was the story of the human race, she supposed.

  There was very little traffic on this particular road, so every vehicle was noteworthy. The one approaching in the distance was travelling slowly enough that Chloe had plenty of time to move over to the side with the pushchair. As the car drew nearer, Chloe saw there was something vaguely familiar about it. It was a red Mercedes, not a common sight around Pemberham.

  The car slowed ten yards ahead of her, then stopped. Chloe assumed it was somebody from out of town, wanting to ask directions, until the driver’s door opened and a woman stepped out.

  She was tall, with expensively teased and highlighted blonde hair, a poised, slender figure, and dark sunglasses perched on regal cheekbones. Chloe recognised her immediately.

  Rebecca.

  The woman stood by her car, her head tilted back a fraction, her feet slightly apart and clad in chic if precarious-looking high heels. One hand rested on her hip, the other on the roof of the car. It was an assured pose, arrogant and aggressive in equal measure.

  ‘Chloe Edwards.’

  It was a statement, not a question. Chloe said, ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘You need to back off.’

  Chloe glanced around her. ‘You’re standing in front of me, and you’re saying I need to back off?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ The woman’s voice had an edge to it. It was an educated voice, one that was used to being paid attention to and obeyed.

  Chloe said, her own voice as steady as she could manage, ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’

  Rebecca crossed one elegant ankle in front of the other. ‘But you know who I am.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘”Of course”.’
Chloe didn’t think she had a particularly distinctive accent but Rebecca succeeded in mimicking it uncannily. ‘I suppose you would know who I was. Conspiring with your boyfriend to keep my daughter away from me.’

  ‘Tom’s not my “boyfriend”’, Chloe said, unease starting to creep up her back. She glanced down at Jake in the pushchair but he was asleep. ‘He’s a friend, that’s all.’

  ‘A friend who gropes his female patients, it seems,’ Rebecca said, her voice like a whiplash.

  ‘Yes, well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Chloe retorted. She immediately regretted saying it. She didn’t want to inflame the situation, just wanted to get away from this woman as quickly as she could.

  Rebecca took a step towards her, then another, her heels clicking on the tarmac in the quiet haze of the afternoon. Chloe stood her ground, though her instinct was to turn the pushchair aside and interpose herself between her son and Rebecca. She scanned the surroundings again. There wasn’t another living soul in sight. How unbalanced was the woman, she wondered? Was she likely to attack Chloe, even with her son present? Chloe felt her pulse quicken, her throat constrict, every nerve in her body strain to protect her child.

  Very quietly, Rebecca said, ‘This isn’t your concern. It isn’t your battle. So back off.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m involved?’

  Rebecca said nothing, her eyes invisible under the dark glasses.

  In spite of herself, Chloe pressed on: ‘Isn’t it a coincidence, that you appear here to confront me, just hours after I’ve been to see Sabrina Jones, or whatever her name is?’ There – Rebecca had recoiled a fraction at the mention of the other woman’s name. ‘Because she told you about my visit, didn’t she? And you knew I wasn’t there on behalf of the newspaper. You knew I was on to you, and that I’m going to find out the truth about what you’re doing to Tom.’

  For a long second Chloe was sure Rebecca was going to take a swing at her. The rage was coursing through the woman visibly, making her quiver like a bowstring. Then she raised a finger and waved it, slowly, the action somehow even more menacing than if she’d clenched her fist.