Every Move You Make
Page 36
‘Right,’ I say, from inside his coat, same smell that’s about to knock me off my feet.
‘It was me that called the police,’ he says.
‘You did?’ I say.
‘Honour amongst thieves,’ he says.
I put Clare’s dressing gown around her shoulders and guide her through the door, placing her hand on the handrail, pressing her gently against the wall of the stairs. We’re going down slowly, step by step, my arm looped about her shoulders, Barney in front to catch her fall, and she’s staring into nowhere, and there’s dribble coming out of the corner of her mouth, and her hair is dripping, same as the day I first met her.
Fifty-Seven
DS Clarke
The door buzzer goes.
‘Sarge, we’re here.’
And five minutes later it goes again.
‘SARGE, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?’
‘I already told you I’m fine,’ she snaps, adding extra concealer under her eyes. She’s had precisely two and three quarter hours sleep.
*
It’s 09.02 and DS Clarke’s car, with PC Hall behind the wheel, is pulling up in Harley Street outside a door with a brass plaque that reads ‘Dr Stephen Short, Consultant Psychiatrist MBChB, FRCPsych, Dip Psychotherapy.’
‘Thank you, Hall,’ says DS Clarke. ‘Did you call ahead? I do hope so. I expect Dr Short will be really pleased to see us.’
‘You’ll need this, sarge.’ Hall places a printed card in her hand.
DS Clarke ignores the receptionist’s protests completely and opens the door to Doctor Short’s office.
‘Ah, Dr Short. Thank you so much for seeing us again at such short notice.’
‘I do have patients . . .’ he begins.
‘I daresay,’ says DS Clarke, checking the card. ‘They’ll have to wait. I am here to arrest you, Stephen Christopher Short, on suspicion of impersonating a medical doctor without the required qualifications, aggravated identity theft, furnishing false information to the Drug Enforcement Administration and distributing controlled substances without a licence. You do not have to say anything, yet it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘I see,’ he says, examining his buffed fingernails. ‘I see,’ he says again. ‘May I just get my bags?’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Short. My officers can fetch your things. We’d like to take you straight to the station, if you’d be so kind. We have colleagues from America on their way. It appears you’ve been impersonating a medical doctor for some time.’
‘Can I just say,’ says Mr Short, looking ashen, ‘if I’m being taken into police custody, I would imagine you know the full horror of Gareth Sullivan or James. Can I please request that I am afforded the utmost security?’
‘You don’t have to answer any questions, Mr Short, but can I ask, what made you support Gareth James’ actions in relation to Ms Clare Chambers?’
‘Because he would have killed me if I hadn’t. And he’s threatened to reveal my status for years. I’ve a thriving practice here. I’m good at what I do, believe it or—’
‘Even though you’re not qualified,’ interrupts DS Clarke.
‘Yes! Gareth made me do everything. Supply her with the antipsychotic drugs. Pretend that they were vitamins. I even gave him pints of my own blood for God knows what – anything to get him away from me.’
‘We have him,’ she says, and watches his reaction.
He stops and looks up.
For a second there, he looks relieved.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, we’re sure. Aren’t you sorry?’ I say. ‘He was your friend at some point, wasn’t he?’
‘A psychopath doesn’t have any friends, Detective Sergeant.’
*
Sally and Clare are sitting in the day room.
They each have their own seat on the sofa, but in the crack between the two cushions, Sally is clasping Clare’s tiny, chewed fingers.
The TV is on with the sound turned down.
They are both pale.
Nearly grey.
Staring at the TV but with their heads somewhere else.
‘Ladies,’ says DS Clarke, pulling up a chair. ‘You look like an old married couple.’
Clare blushes and pulls her hand away, instantly chewing on her thumbnail.
‘Want some news?’ says DS Clarke.
‘You’ve brought George Clooney with you?’ asks Sally.
‘No. The Delaware police have been on the phone. A missing presumed dead Gareth Marlon Sullivan was on the international wanted list for holding a woman captive in her own home for three years, then murdering her and burning her remains. He had been previously charged with one count of kidnapping and one count of rape, but he jumped bail and then disappeared.’
‘Wonder why he didn’t kill me?’ whispers Clare, like she’s almost afraid to know the answer.
‘I thought about that,’ says DS Clarke, ‘and I think it’s because he was hoping to just disappear this time. If stuff had come out about you, Delaware might have pieced it together. But a murder scene and no body, no ID? They would never have got to hear about it. And he’d have got off with all your money.’
Clare chews her thumbnail.
‘We should celebrate,’ says Sally. ‘Fancy some Prosecco?’
Clare pulls a face like she’s going to be sick.
‘Joking,’ she says.
‘I’ll have a cuppa, though,’ says DS Clarke and their eyes meet and they both grin, with tears in their eyes.
‘Thanks,’ Sally mouths at DS Clarke.
‘Sorry,’ DS Clarke mouths back.
‘Would a Frozen mug be all right for sarge?’ says Sally, crying and laughing at the same time as she heads for the kitchen.
Acknowledgements
In an attempt to highlight the depth of friendship that develops between women in extremis in my books, I have a habit of focusing on the very worst with men. I’d just like to point out that, unlike my male characters, I’m fortunate enough to now have nothing but excellent men in my life – my darling dad, my patient and brilliant husband, and my adorable boys. Thank you to them and the many fine men in the world who outbalance the very few bad.
About the Author
Deborah Bee studied fashion journalism at Central St Martins. She has worked at various magazines and newspapers including Vogue, Cosmopolitan, The Times and Guardian as a writer, fashion editor and later as an editor. She is married with four sons and lives between London and Somerset.
Also by Deborah Bee
The Last Thing I Remember
If you enjoyed Every Move You Make, you’ll also enjoy The Last Thing I remember.
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First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Zaffre
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Copyright © Deborah Bee, 2020
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978–1–78576–077–8
Paperback ISBN: 978–1–78576–076–1
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