The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “I really don’t have time,” he said with a quick look at his watch. “Which publication did you say you work for?”

  “I’m a freelancer. I’m working on the story for the Messenger.” It was a huge lie but now I’d come this far, I’d keep going. “I would just need a couple of minutes of your time.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “Go on.”

  “Statistics show that doctors suffer, on the whole, a disproportionately high incidence of depression, alcoholism and substance abuse,” I said, recalling the research I’d done when I’d first learned about Reid’s aura. “Surgeons in particular work under intense pressure, which leads to a high burnout rate and suicide.”

  I stopped, looking at him, searching for a reaction. To my surprise, he nodded. “I know the numbers,” he said. “And I know some doctors who’ve experienced ‘burnout’ as you call it, which is in fact a clinical syndrome characterized by emotional exhaustion and a reduced sense of personal accomplishment — among other things. But most of us, in my experience, love what we do. We are extremely well trained. We think on our feet, we have positive interaction with our peers, and we save lives. I can’t imagine getting burned out, to be honest.”

  “So you’re not unduly stressed?”

  He smiled. “No. But I will be if I’m late for my next meeting, so if you’ll excuse me?”

  “Do surgeons have regular medical check ups?” I blurted out as I stood up.

  He laughed. “I know a few hypochondriacs who do. Practicing medicine can do that to you. You get one little symptom and extrapolate from there. Before you know it, that slight cough is TB and a headache is a brain tumor. But no, in general, I’d say we get checked out much like anyone else does.”

  I desperately wanted to keep him talking. “So you’re feeling good?” I smiled, trying to make a joke of it. “All healthy? No particular pressures?”

  For a microsecond a frown crossed his face. Not a frown so much as a moment of introspection, while he thought about his answer.

  “Nothing specific,” he said. His aura was moving fast. Based on what I’d seen in the past, death could arrive at any moment.

  “Good. I really appreciate your time. If you have anything else you’d like to contribute to the story, will you contact me?”

  He pushed a pen and notepad across the desk towards me. I scribbled down my fake name and my real mobile number.

  “Goodbye, Ms. Harrison,” he said, turning back to his keyboard.

  I walked out of Dr. Reid’s office just as Anita turned into the corridor. She stopped dead, staring at me. I pulled the door closed behind me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I was feeling lied out, unable to think of a single plausible explanation. I shrugged. Taking a couple of strides forward, she grabbed my arm and tugged me towards the small staff kitchen, which was empty. Macintyre, the drug rep, must have taken his coffee somewhere else to drink it. She closed the door, leaning against it to stop anyone else entering.

  “What are you doing?” she asked again. Her aura moved around her head, slow but distinct. I looked down at the floor, not wanting to see it more than I had to. It felt like it must have done when people saw the telltale signs of the bubonic plague on a loved one, except that back then death was inevitable. I was going to fight to save Anita.

  “I wanted to talk to Dr. Reid, just to see if I could get any hint about what’s causing his aura.”

  “And did he actually speak with you? Did you tell him about the aura? What did he say?” Not waiting for me to answer, she carried on. “I can’t believe you’d do this, Kate. Dr. Reid is my boss. You can’t just go swanning into his office, talking rubbish about auras. He’ll think I’m crazy too. It’s bloody ridiculous.”

  I moved a couple of steps away from her, propping myself against the countertop, shaken by her anger. We’d never fought before. For one thing, I knew she’d win if we did, so I’d always managed to defuse potential conflicts before we reached the point of arguing.

  “He doesn’t know I’m your friend, Anita. I told him I was a journalist and gave him a false name. He’ll never connect the two of us. And, I never mentioned auras.”

  She glanced at the door as though expecting him to appear. “I still don’t get it. What’s the point? You have no idea what might happen to him. Or to me. You say there’s a threat. We’re going to die but you know nothing about when or how. It’s useless and stupid. Why scare people when you can’t do anything to help? It’s like yelling fire in a theater.”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to Reid. I’m trying to help, can’t you see that?”

  “Not really no. I don’t see that at all. I have to go. It’d be best if you left now too.”

  10

  Smarting from the fight with Anita, I hurried home under black clouds that swirled above the rooftops. Inside, I turned on the lamps in the living room and sat on the sofa, staring at my laptop. My chest was tight and my heart bounced around as though I’d drunk too much coffee. Already reeling from the shock of seeing Anita’s aura, I’d been thrown even further off balance by our argument. But I had to stay calm if I were to have any chance of helping her.

  Falling back on routine and practicalities, I sent an email to Colin Butler telling him about my interview with Eliza Chapman, relaying my concern that she might be a danger to Scott. Then I sat down to tackle my final magazine assignment. Thirty minutes later, Butler sent back a message thanking me for following up. I got the impression the case was closed as far as he was concerned. I wondered if he would feel differently if he knew about the aura over Scott, but that wasn’t a conversation I ever planned to have with him.

  Engrossed in my project, I didn’t notice the time until I got a text from Josh saying he was on his way home. When he arrived he was carrying a bag of Chinese takeout.

  “Delivery for the beautiful girl in Flat 4,” he said, handing me the steaming, fragrant bag. “And a bottle of your favorite wine.”

  For the first time that day, I felt the tension in my shoulders give a little. When we were settled on the sofa with our plates and glasses, I asked Josh about work. A dose of normality was just what I needed. Josh gave me a colorful account of his latest project, his rather wacky client, and the shenanigans of the team working on it.

  “Everything’s going great, but I miss you,” he said. “It will be good when all this traveling is over.” He paused. “I talked to Alan earlier and he told me that you’re coming back to the firm in a week. That’s wonderful.” His voice trailed off. “I’d rather have heard it from you, though.”

  “Oh Josh, I meant to tell you. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit preoccupied with things. Aura things.”

  “Simon Scott? I thought we’d agreed there’s nothing you can do about that.”

  “Not Scott. Anita.”

  “Anita? Oh shit. Have you told her? What’s going on? Is she ill?”

  I put my empty plate on the coffee table and curled up in a corner of the sofa, my legs tucked under me. Although we talked for an hour about Anita, we weren’t able to resolve anything. I wasn’t expecting that, but I did feel a little better when I went to bed.

  Maybe it was just my brain needing a break from auras, but I woke up the next morning thinking about the postcard from Josh’s old girlfriend. He’d picked up the stack of letters when he got in the night before, and had taken it to the kitchen to sort and read. Then nothing. He hadn’t mentioned the postcard.

  He was still sleeping, so I slipped out of bed, went to the kitchen, and opened the recycling bin. There, on the top, were empty envelopes, fliers and offers for credit cards with outrageous interest rates, but no sign of the postcard. I assumed that meant he’d kept it.

  I put the kettle on and clattered around pulling cups from the cupboard and making toast with butter and marmalade. When the tea was ready, I carried a tray back to the bedroom, to find Josh awake, sitting up in bed, with his hair sticking up in a way that I usually found endearing. Right
now, it just irritated me.

  I set the tray down on my side of the bed. “You got all your post then?” I asked, handing him his tea and toast. “Anything interesting?”

  He looked at me over the rim of his teacup. “Er, no, just the usual junk and one bill I need to pay.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “I thought you got a postcard.”

  He waved a piece of toast in the air. “Oh, yeah, and a postcard.”

  “The picture was pretty. Where was it?”

  He put his cup down, placed the toast back on his plate. “Munich, from a friend who’s just moved there.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “No.”

  Perching on the edge of the bed, I munched on my toast to give myself some time to think about whether I was going to pursue this further. The fact that he was keeping the card, and that he wouldn’t talk about it, seemed evidence that he was hiding something. I imagined a massive hand slapping my face. “Hello? Anyone there? What do you think is going on? He gets a postcard from an ex-girlfriend and he doesn’t tell you about it?”

  Josh glanced at the clock. “I should get going.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ve got a short meeting at the office, just to go over our presentation slides for a big client meeting on Monday.” Odd that he hadn’t mentioned that before. I wondered if he was really going to work and then stopped myself. I had to trust him.

  He got out of bed while I sipped my tea, admiring, in spite of my bad mood, the view of him from the back. He had the shoulders of a swimmer and a slender waist. Forcing my eyes upward, I sighed at the way his dark, glossy hair curled against the nape of his neck. Then I reminded myself that I was angry with him, and with good reason.

  “Why don’t you come?” he asked, sliding hangers around in the closet, looking for a shirt.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I thought you’d agreed to come back to work. Why wait? If you came in today, it would show Alan that you’re anxious to get started. Besides, you haven’t got anything else to do, have you?”

  I stood up suddenly, tilting the tray on the bed, tea splashing out of my cup on to the white duvet cover.

  “Damn.” I hurried to the bathroom, grabbed a towel and rushed back to mop up the mess.

  “Do you know where my leather jacket is?” Josh asked, still flipping hangers. He found it and put it on over a black t-shirt. No need for suits and ties for weekends in the office. “Look okay?” he asked, turning round. He looked great, but I was in no mood to tell him that.

  “What do you mean, I have nothing to do?” I asked, taking another stab at scrubbing out the spot on the duvet. “There’s an assignment to finish and I do have a small problem to solve, like saving a few lives.”

  He pulled a scarf, Stewart tartan of course, from a drawer. “You should look out for Anita,” he said. “But you can’t worry about the others. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”

  “Maybe, but you know what does drive me crazy? Is you not telling me the truth about that postcard. It was from your old girlfriend, Helena, or whatever her name is. I don’t know why she’s getting in touch with you and I don’t understand why you kept the card and didn’t tell me about it. What’s the big secret?”

  Josh zipped up his jacket. “I’ll call you later,” he said. “I’m late and you need to calm down before we talk.”

  I waited until I heard the front door close quietly — Josh never slammed doors — and then I threw myself on the bed and gave in to a storm of tears that had been brewing for days. I felt as though I was making a mess of everything. I’d interrupted my career for no good reason, I wasn’t solving the threat to Anita or Dr. Reid, and I had no way of warning Scott. A sense of failure descended over me like an impenetrable fog.

  My dad always said that there was no substitute for hard work. As a lawyer, he’d commuted every day from our family home in Dulwich to his offices in Temple Bar, where he worked long days handling some of the most challenging cases with the toughest of clients. Yet he always looked forward to going to his office. I’d inherited his work ethic and resorted to it that morning. Within a couple of hours, I’d finished my assignments, and reviewed the project notes that Alan had sent me. I’d be able to go back to Bradley Associates with a running start.

  Normally, a clean desk would comfort me, give me a sense of accomplishment and a feeling of control. But today, I felt as though my world was still hurtling towards disaster.

  11

  Josh and I got through the rest of the weekend without mentioning the postcard or Helena, staying busy with our visit to the theater and a Sunday brunch with friends. He left on Sunday evening for a trip to Edinburgh, leaving me to stew alone about our quarrel and my fight with Anita. I’d checked in with Anita by text and phone and received only monosyllabic responses. At least I knew she was alive, but I hated that we weren’t speaking. So when she texted me early on Monday to ask me to go to the campaign office that evening, I jumped at the chance. She didn’t mention our quarrel, but I took her text as an attempt at reconciliation.

  The office was already crowded when I arrived, the atmosphere electric with excitement and urgency. I wondered what the enthusiastic volunteers would think if they knew about Scott’s past transgressions. Nothing, probably. Everyone saw what they wanted to see. And the opposition choice was probably just as bad, if not worse.

  Anita was on the phone when I arrived. She looked up and waved when she saw me, her aura still trembling over her dark hair. I wasn’t thrilled to see her working the phone bank, as we wouldn’t get to talk if she stayed there all evening, but I found a group in need of help with another banner and made myself useful. Trying to secure an enlarged photo of Simon Scott to a piece of fabric, I dropped a tub of glue on the floor where it rolled under a nearby table. A young man bent down to pick it up and walked over to give it back to me. He was tall and slim, with dark curly hair and fair skin. He was in his late twenties, I’d have guessed, about the same age as me.

  He stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Chris Melrose,” he said.

  I introduced myself and asked if he could help me finish the poster. While we worked, he told me he was a postgraduate student studying chemical engineering. “And I work three nights at Smithfield Market,” he said, “to pay for my studies. So, if you ever need a side of beef or a venison steak, I’m your man.”

  I laughed. “That sounds like hard work.”

  “It is, but I only work about five hours a night and I finish at three a.m., when the Market opens to customers.”

  When we finished the poster, he suggested a coffee, so I followed him to the small kitchen, where we poured treacle-thick coffee into paper cups and sprinkled powdered creamer on top. Leaning against the counter, we sipped the vile stuff.

  “So what will you do when you finish your doctorate?” I asked.

  “I have some job opportunities lined up,” he said. “Or maybe I’ll stay in academia, but that’s all in the future. Who knows what will happen?”

  He tipped the remainder of his coffee into the sink. “It was good to meet you. I hope to see you again soon. In fact, are you coming on the campaign rally tour this week?

  I shook my head.

  “You should come. It could be interesting,” he said.

  I doubted it. I couldn’t think of anything worse than listening to the same speech repeated multiple times. We said goodbye to each other, and I went back into the office, where I offered to help a small team of people who were stapling packets of information together.

  It was late by the time Anita finished on the phones. To my relief, she came straight over to me, wrapping her arms around me. “Sorry I got so mad yesterday. I was just wiped out and not thinking straight. I need a coffee.”

  She steered me to the kitchen. I declined a second cup, feeling the first one roiling my stomach.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “Good, great.”

  “Did you think any more about your
aura?”

  “Not really,” she said. “It was a busy day.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I wish I could believe in premonitions and all that mumbo jumbo. But I can’t. I deal with real life and death situations every day. I don’t need to see an aura over a kid with a failed kidney or a collapsed lung to know that he’s in danger.” She tipped creamer into her coffee. “Who was that you were talking to earlier?”

  I told her about Chris.

  “I’ve seen him here before,” she said. “Never talked to him. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, though.”

  She sipped the coffee and threw the rest of it away, filling the cup with water. “You know,” she said. “It’s a good idea of Chris’s to go to all the events. That could be fun. What do you think? I have a couple of days’ holiday due, which I should take before they expire. The people here are organizing a bus to transport everyone to the rallies. Want to go?”

  “Of course,” I said. I’d go anywhere Anita was going. Political rally or a visit to the zoo, it didn’t matter as long as I kept her in my sight.

  12

  The following morning I boarded the charter bus outside the volunteer office and waited impatiently for Anita to arrive. Hearing the swish of closing doors, I hurried to the front, begging the driver to wait a few more minutes. While he complained about being late, I stood at the door, looking up and down the street. My pulse raced. What if something had happened to her?

  When she jogged into view, I felt weak with relief. Helping her with her bag, I led the way to the back of the bus, away from the mutterings of the impatient driver.

  The first rally was in a renovated barn west of London, with the stone ramparts of Windsor Castle visible in the distance. The barn smelled of wood and straw. Drafts swirled through knotholes in the planks, but we’d all come prepared in our parkas and anoraks. We joined the locals, giving a huge cheer when Scott appeared with Lewis and a covey of bodyguards in tow. Scott gave a rousing speech, greeted enthusiastically by his fan club.