by Angela Arney
She smiled encouragingly at her small patient, and said, ‘Have you a warmer spot, Mrs Girling? The kitchen perhaps?’ Wayne sat staring, swinging his puny little legs and wheezing, seeming entirely disinterested in everything. The smile from Lizzie failed to get a reaction.
Mrs Girling twisted her hands, plucking at the edge of her overall, and looked uncomfortable. ‘The kitchen is in a terrible muddle,’ she said in a low voice.
Lizzie guessed that the whole house was probably in a terrible muddle. The poor woman looked washed out; having a child so late in life had obviously knocked the stuffing out of her. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said, trying to put Mrs Girling at her ease. ‘I’m used to that. My own kitchen is always in a terrible muddle. But a warm kitchen would be much better for Wayne. Muddle doesn’t matter; it’s part of everyday life.’
A ghost of a smile flickered briefly across Mrs Girling’s face, and Lizzie felt she’d made some headway. Together the three of them went back through the freezing cold hall – no central heating, noted Lizzie – into the warmth of the kitchen.
‘It’s his chest,’ Mrs Girling said somewhat superfluously; the short trip had left Wayne sounding like a pair of worn out bellows. She placed him on a chair near the source of heat, an old-fashioned kitchen range. ‘He’s always been chesty, although my other son was always as fit as a fiddle.’
Lizzie had to worm her way through Wayne’s uncooperative jumper, shirt, and vest in order to place her stethoscope on his chest. ‘How many other children have you, Mrs Girling?’
‘Only one. Tarquin. But he’s older. Twenty-seven now.’
‘Grown up, then,’ said Lizzie conversationally, still trying to put the woman at her ease.
‘I suppose you could say that.’ Mrs Girling sounded doubtful, as if she were not certain on that fact.
After taking Wayne’s temperature, Lizzie thumped his chest. Unsurprised she found he was choked with mucus. ‘Did he have a cold before this wheezing set in?’ she asked.
‘Yes. But he’s always getting colds, and he’s always wheezing, although not as bad as this. That’s why I called you. I’d have brought him to the surgery, but he said he felt too wheezy to walk.’
‘You did the right thing in calling,’ Lizzie assured her. She flicked through Wayne’s sparse notes, noting that he’d rarely seen a doctor, which presumably meant that Mrs Girling had coped alone during Wayne’s previous wheezing attacks. ‘Has any other doctor ever suggested that Wayne might be asthmatic?’
‘Certainly not.’ The mother was immediately hostile and defensive. ‘No one in our family has anything like that. Everyone is very healthy, and Wayne has never been neglected.’
Lizzie ignored the hostility and began to write out a prescription. ‘I’m not suggesting that he’s been neglected, Mrs Girling,’ she said quietly. ‘But he needs some treatment now. I’m going to give him some antibiotics for the chest infection, and an inhaler to help with his breathing. It’s very important that it’s used correctly so read the instructions carefully.’ She searched through her bag and found a sample pack of antibiotics. ‘I’ll give him two of these now, and leave you with enough for tonight. But he must continue with them tomorrow and start the inhaler as soon as possible, so the prescription needs to be taken into a pharmacy now. Is there someone who can do that for you?’
Mrs Girling jerked her head towards the back of the house. ‘Tarquin can do it,’ she said. ‘He’s only out the back there, fiddling with his plants as usual. Never does anything useful like earning money, or taking me out in the car when I need it. But he’ll have to help out now. Now that his little brother is ill.’
Lizzie thought Tarquin could have helped out earlier and brought his mother and brother to the surgery, but said nothing. She snapped her bag shut and passed the prescription over. ‘Get Tarquin to go and fetch it straight away. There’s no time to lose.’ She ruffled Wayne’s tousled head and held out the tablets. ‘You stay here in the warm, young man. I’ll soon have you feeling better.’
Wayne said nothing. He swallowed the tablets Lizzie gave him, then took a sip of water before wiping his nose on the back of the frayed knitted cuff of his jumper.
Mrs Girling escorted Lizzie back to the front door, the hostility dissipating a little. ‘Thank you for coming, Doctor.’ She paused, and then said, ‘You’ve moved into old Mrs Burnett’s house, haven’t you? Silver Cottage in Deer Leap Lane.’
‘Yes.’ Lizzie wondered where the conversation was leading.
‘Tarquin used to do the garden for Mrs Burnett. She found it too much. He tidied it for her once in a while.’
Lizzie thought of the wildly overgrown garden, which needed much more than a tidy. A radical overhaul by a landscape gardener was more the requirement, but Tarquin Girling would be better than nothing to start with. At least he could clear up a bit. ‘Tell him to come and see me,’ she said. ‘I could certainly do with some help.’
Again a fleeting smile lit Mrs Girling’s tired face. ‘It would have to be for cash in hand,’ she said quickly. ‘That’s how Mrs Burnett always paid.’
Lizzie understood the unspoken message: Tarquin was fiddling the benefit system. But so what, she thought, feeling sorry for Mrs Girling. Judging by the state of the house there appeared to be precious little money to go round, and she was not going to give away such a small deceit.
‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘Cash in hand. The same as before. Ask him to come and see me tomorrow afternoon, Saturday. I’ll be in then.’
‘He’ll come,’ said Mrs Girling firmly. ‘I’ll see to it.’ It seemed the prospect of a little money gave her the impetus to be positive.
CHAPTER FOUR
The rain had stopped, but clouds hung overhead, dark and heavy with moisture, necessitating use of the car headlights even though it was only early afternoon. Tyres squelching, Lizzie made her way back down the track and supposed that the unseen Tarquin must possess four wheels of some sort if he were to go to the pharmacist, and visit her tomorrow, or go anywhere else for that matter. Candover House was so isolated; no wonder Mrs Girling looked frazzled and depressed. She wondered if there was a Mr Girling, and made a mental note to look up that fact.
At the end of the track, surrounded by mud banks and wispy sea grass stood an old wooden clapperboard warehouse building. Lizzie hadn’t noticed it on her way to the Girlings’, but now it loomed into focus in her headlights demanding attention. Faded lettering on the side of the timbers indicated that it had once been a ships’ chandler where boats had put in for supplies, but the river had silted up and now it was a good hundred yards from the waters’ edge. Paint peeling, isolated and forlorn-looking, it stood empty. Some of the boards were loose and flapped spasmodically in the wind. All in all it was a depressing hulk. Just as well it’s out of sight of the town, thought Lizzie; its air of decay doesn’t sit well with the affluent atmosphere of Stibbington itself. Past the chandlery she turned on to the made up surface of Shore Lane, which wound its way alongside the River Stib towards the hard. She’d nearly got as far as the first bungalow when her attention was caught by the sight of Mrs Matthews. She was running down between the brambles and the remains of the previous summer’s nettles in the overgrown driveway from the bungalow towards the lane, and waving frantically. Lizzie gave a silent groan. She had no desire to see Mrs Matthews again for at least a week. Twice in one day was above and beyond the call of duty. But she had to stop. The woman was obviously distressed. So distressed, in fact, that she could hardly speak.
Lizzie stopped the car and turned off the ignition and waited for her to catch her breath.
Emmy Matthews leaned against the side of the Alfa, wheezing, and alternately clutching her ample bosom and pointing in rapid succession. It reminded Lizzie of a clip from a silent movie and would have been funny had not she been so agitated.
‘It’s . . .’ Emmy drew in a deep breath, coughed, clutched her chest and pointed again. ‘Darren,’ she gasped. ‘Van. Accident.’ She took
another deep, shuddering breath. ‘You must come.’
Without a word Lizzie got out of the car and followed her up the drive towards the bungalow. Slipping and sliding in the mud, she wondered what kind of accident she was about to find, and was worried. It had been a long time since she’d dealt with any on-the-spot trauma. Most accidents in London were dealt with by the emergency services that possessed all the latest hi-tech equipment. What did she have in her bag? Would it be sufficient to deal with the situation? She made to go towards the house, but Mrs Matthews, still breathless and unable to speak properly, shook her head and, grabbing her arm, dragged her towards the garage.
‘Oh my God.’ One look and Lizzie knew that nothing she had in her bag would be of the slightest use. Nothing could resuscitate the mangled body lying beneath the van. Force of habit made her kneel down and feel for a pulse. Of course there was none. How could there be? The man’s brains were splattered all over the garage floor, and had been there for some time judging by the dried-up appearance of the mess and the overpowering rank smell of stale blood. She scrambled up off her knees, and noticed in a detached fashion that there was blood on the bottom of her winter coat. ‘I think we’d better ring for the police,’ she said.
‘Is he dead?’ Emmy seemed unable to take her eyes off the awful sight.
It was a needless question, but Lizzie could see that Mrs Matthews was not in a fit state to think properly. She stepped between the crushed body and Emmy, blocking her view, then gently taking her arm, she led her away. ‘Yes, he is dead,’ she said quietly. ‘Is there anyone in the house I should speak to?’
Mrs Matthews shook her head silently then took a deep breath and started gabbling very quickly. ‘Darren Evans lived alone. If you can call it living. He never looked after himself properly. I brought him up a meat pie. It was spare because Mrs Smithson didn’t stay in for lunch. I was thinking she would, so I made the pie. But she disappeared without so much as a word, and I had the pie left over. So I thought Darren would like it, and I brought it up for his supper tonight, but. . . .’ Her voice petered out tearfully, and she was silent again for a moment. ‘I used to be friendly with his mother when she was alive. But that was before. . . .’ She stopped, dabbed at her eyes, and then said. ‘Oh well, none of that matters now.’
But Lizzie had stopped listening. Retrieving her mobile from her bag she punched out 999. ‘Yes, police. There is a dead man here at—’ She stopped a moment and got the exact address from Emmy and imparted the information. ‘No, the man is definitely dead. I am a doctor, believe me, there is no chance of resuscitation. Yes. Yes. I can wait until they get here.’ She closed the phone and put it back in her bag. It began raining again. A hard, straight, drenching downpour, unremitting in its ferocity. Emmy stood and looked expectantly at her, seemingly impervious to the pouring rain. ‘Do you want to wait in my car with me, Mrs Matthews?’ Lizzie asked. ‘I think you should stay here until the police arrive, as you were first on the scene.’
They settled in the car, both dripping wetly on to the floor and seats. Lizzie wound the window down a fraction to try and help ease the fug that was already building up. They sat in uncomfortable silence. Darren Evans; the memory of the young man who’d been to see her earlier in the week was etched on her mind. Perhaps if I’d given him more time. Perhaps if. . . . If what? Too late now. Lizzie, unable to get the picture of the pulped head out of her mind wondered if it was bothering Mrs Matthews too, and thought it probably was. She looked pale, and wasn’t talking.
They were not there long before a police car arrived. A horn blared and a man stuck his head out of the window. He looked impatient and slightly bad tempered. Lizzie wound down her window and got drenched by a particularly ferocious blast of wind and rain through the opening. ‘Move it!’ he shouted, ‘and be quick about it.’
‘He might have said please,’ grumbled Lizzie, but at the same time she was glad of the interruption. It brought back a sense of normality to an abnormal situation. Shoving the Alfa into gear and rolling over to the right as far as she could, she let the police car pass, then followed it up the drive and parked behind. She and Mrs Matthews waited while the two men went into the garage. ‘Do you know them?’ she asked.
Emmy Matthews nodded. ‘The older one, the one who shouted, is a newcomer to Stibbington, Adam Maguire. He’s a widower, lost his wife to cancer not long after they moved here about three years ago. And the young one lives over on the other side of Stibbington, in one of those old police houses. He married Ann Palfrey. She comes from an old Stibbington family, although his family, the Graysons are new, have only been here since the war.’
Lizzie gave a wry smile. She’d already found out that country people had long memories, and had resigned herself to being a newcomer in Stibbington until her dying day. If I stay that long, she now thought, because if it keeps on raining the way it has been for the past couple of days I won’t be able to bear it. She always found rain depressing at the best of times, but the countryside in the rain was even more depressing, and that was the last thing she needed at the moment. Illogical though she knew it was, rain made her think of Mike. It had been raining the day he’d told her that he was moving on to another relationship with someone else. Someone younger, more attractive. Stop it, she told herself. Don’t start mulling over the past. Stop it. But she couldn’t. Not entirely. She would never have moved down here if it hadn’t been for Mike leaving her. It was his damned fault she was stuck out in the country in a sea of mud and in the pouring rain, waiting to be interviewed by the police because one of her patients, head smashed to smithereens, lay on the concrete floor of a freezing garage. To make matters worse she was stuck in a car with Mrs Matthews. Every doctor’s nightmare patient. A hypochondriac. Suddenly the pavements of London held an allure they’d never possessed when she’d lived there.
Adam Maguire came out of the garage first. He strode through the mud in an enormous pair of green wellington boots, and wrenched open the door of the Alfa. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Maguire. Which one of you is the doctor?’ he asked, but already he knew. The older woman had an unfashionable Stibbington air about her and looked pale and shaken; the younger of the two looked sophisticated and in command. Her dark hair was well groomed, and she had an air of brisk professionalism about her. Not pale at all. It seemed that it would take more than one mangled body to shake her. Adam didn’t bother to analyze his feelings, other than to briefly acknowledge that she looked the capable kind of woman who always made him feel uncomfortable. He preferred dealing with men. He knew where he was with men. Never had to guess.
‘Me,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’m the doctor. I rang in and reported it.’ She nodded towards the garage, ‘but Mrs Matthews found him first.’
‘I’ll take a brief statement. We can do it in more detail later as I understand that you both live locally.’ He looked towards the bungalow. ‘I expect it’s a mess in there, but it’s better than me standing out here in the rain and getting soaked. Let’s go in.’
The bungalow was, as he rightly surmised, a mess. Sparsely furnished, with dirty curtains so grey it was impossible to hazard a guess as to their original colour. The whole place looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned for months. Certainly, the washing up hadn’t been done for a week or more.
‘Never seen so many dirty coffee cups,’ said Mrs Matthews with a sniff of disapproval.
‘And most of them with inches of mould growing in them,’ said Lizzie, picking one up.
‘Please don’t touch anything. Forensics will need to go over this place with a fine-tooth comb.’ Maguire was annoyed. Surely the woman knew better than to disturb evidence; heaven knows there were enough crime programmes on TV these days. No excuse for anyone not knowing the rudiments of police procedure.
‘Sorry,’ said Lizzie, hastily putting the cup back.
‘I thought forensics were only called in if it’s a murder,’ said Mrs Matthews, showing that she for one did watch TV and knew the way the police worked.
‘But this is an accident. Poor Darren couldn’t have jacked the van up properly.’
Adam Maguire didn’t confirm or contradict her statement. He remained silent and got out a notebook. He hated taking notes, something Steve Grayson should have been doing, but he had to wait outside to organize the backup team and direct the forensic pathologist to the body. Body, not scene of the crime; he was too well disciplined to allow himself to jump to conclusions. Probably Mrs Matthews was right. The van had not been jacked up securely. ‘Tell me how you came to be here, Mrs Matthews?’ he said.
She went through her story of the meat pie, and how Darren Evans had always neglected himself, and finished up by saying, ‘It’s terrible for such a dreadful accident to happen, but of course it was inevitable, I suppose. Retribution, you might say.’
‘Retribution?’ He quizzed Mrs Matthews’ by now slightly tearful face. ‘That’s a strange word to use.’
‘Oh!’
The woman was flustered. Worried. Almost guilty-looking. Adam wondered why. He saw Lizzie watching Mrs Matthews, a quizzical expression on her face, and guessed she was picking up the same vibes. That was the trouble with a place like Stibbington: everyone knew so much about each other, and he, as a newcomer knew nothing. He’d ask Steve later on. He must know something about Darren Evans. ‘Yes. Tell me why you think that, Mrs Matthews,’ he said.
To his disappointment the woman seemed to recover her composure, and a blank looked settled across her face. ‘Well, because Darren was always so careless,’ she said. ‘He never seemed to care what happened to him. His whole life was a tragedy. From start to finish. A tragedy,’ she finished firmly.
‘Thank you, Mrs Matthews.’ Maguire knew that was as much as he was going to get from her today. Might as well let her go. ‘Go and ask Sergeant Grayson to get a constable to run you back down the lane to your house in a car, there should be another squad car out there by now.’
He turned towards Lizzie. She was watching him intently. He noticed her eyes, a mixture of green and brown, and found himself thinking she would have been attractive if she were not so thin or impatient-looking. It was obvious that she couldn’t wait to get away.