The Comforts of Home

by Susan Hill

  ‘There’s nothing. But I’ll do as you ask, I’ll certainly do that.’

  And so it went on. No one had seen or heard anything or anyone. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing rang a bell … it was all the more strange because the island was so sparsely populated and yet so close-knit. No matter that they lived scattered around, they looked out for one another and everyone knew what went on. But about Sandy – nothing.

  Only one thing came up, but although he racked his brains about it, Serrailler could not for the life of him work out why it seemed in some way significant. But it did.

  Derry Muir delivered everything there was to deliver round the entire island – stuff that had been ordered from the store or off the ferry, mostly to those who could not come to the quay and collect it themselves, maybe because they were too old or infirm or their vehicle was out of action. Derry had not known Sandy any better than the rest, because she always fetched her own stuff, but they had chatted in the bar, and once, a month or so ago, Sandy had helped to tow his van out of a pothole near her house. She’d asked him in for a mug of tea and they had discovered a mutual passion for curling. Derry and his wife both took part, travelling to competitions between different leagues on the mainland, and Sandy said she had lived in Canada for three years in her early twenties, and discovered the sport there. They had talked about it until Derry had been an hour behind, and after that, he had called and taken her some curling magazines. He had even suggested she come with him and Monica one time to watch and even start playing again. Sandy had been non-committal.

  ‘I don’t see how it could have to do with anything – the curling. Or Canada.

  ‘Neither do I, but thanks, Derry. It could mean something.’

  But what the hell that was Simon had no idea, though it stayed in his mind and he gnawed at it over and over. Because there was nothing else. No visitors to Sandy. No vehicles. She had always come and gone at strange times, so seeing her walking across the moor or the beach at nine in the evening or clambering down the cliff path as dawn broke was not regarded as unusual. She had been her familiar self. The last time anyone in the village had seen her had been on the night of the storm, when she left the pub with the inebriated Sam, to give him a lift home. And so far, it still seemed likely that Sam had been the last person to see Sandy before she was killed.

  Twenty-four

  Cat had made a risotto and gooseberry fool. There had been a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon and then Kieron had left them together while he went into the den to watch a crucial football match. He and Luke had got on well in the end, though Cat had noticed with an amusement she kept to herself that Kieron had begun the evening by being his most formal self and had eyed Luke’s suit and richly coloured Missoni tie with some suspicion. But once he had satisfied himself that Luke had no interest in his wife whatsoever except in the way of good longstanding friends, nor she him, they had discovered plenty of things in common, not including football, and Cat had sat back and listened to them.

  But Luke had come to talk business to her. She had invited him home because she wanted him to meet Kieron outside the less relaxed atmosphere of the hotel or a restaurant. And home was the best place to talk about work and the future. She made coffee and Luke opened his iPad on which were a draft website, brochure, financial forecasts and legal disclaimers and conditions. He handed it to Cat and then leaned over, picked up Wookie from his seat on the end of the sofa, and put him on his lap.

  ‘Careful – he bit Kieron the other day.’

  ‘This isn’t a vicious dog, this is a little pussy cat.’

  ‘And you’re a stranger to him. Kieron’s one of the family.’

  But she saw that Wookie had settled down, curled into a ball and gone back to sleep. Luke was stroking him.

  ‘We provide high-quality, personal general practice delivered to your home in a caring, professional and discreet manner.

  We choose to care for significantly fewer patients than traditional general practitioners, enabling us to spend that extra time understanding you and your medical needs. As a practice member, you will have unlimited access to the advice, support and reassurance of your own private doctors 24 hours a day, every day of the year.

  We provide all that you would expect from your GP, delivered in a convenient and timely way. Whatever your health needs may be, we’re here to help.

  We’re a completely independent service covering Lafferton and its surrounding areas. We’ve restored the traditional ‘doctor’s house call’ to the forefront of personal family medicine, rekindling that often lost relationship between doctor and patient. You and your family will always be cared for promptly and professionally by experienced local doctors whom you know and trust.

  Our practice has been developed to focus completely on the health and well-being of our members. Enjoy a completely new approach and discover how medicine can be delivered in a caring, convenient and responsive way.’

  Cat looked up.

  ‘How much do people pay?’

  ‘I want to keep this as reasonable as possible … we’ll save a lot by not having a bricks-and-mortar practice. We employ someone to do the office work, but there won’t be an office … we travel everywhere, see everyone in their own home. No surgery overheads.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Individual membership around £100 a month, couples £150, family £175 no matter how many so long as they are related and live in the same house.’

  ‘Do they remain registered with an NHS GP?’

  ‘We would recommend it, because of emergency hospital admissions and so on. Once you’ve left the system it’s not always easy to get back in.’

  ‘How big an area would we be covering?’

  ‘Depends. There would be three of us initially and we’d divide it quite simply according to where we start from. You’d consult by Skype, email and phone as well – not everything needs a visit but we’d go if the patient preferred it – a lot of older people probably would.’

  ‘And those with new babies.’

  ‘And some would want to see a female doctor. We’d try to oblige but it won’t always be possible.’

  ‘Emergencies?’

  ‘If we’re called at 2 a.m. because someone on the other side of the area has chest pains or fallen downstairs, obviously they should call an ambulance and we’d tell them that. No private A&E, as you know.’

  ‘What about palliative care?’

  ‘To be discussed. That’s where your input will be crucial.’

  ‘Luke … I haven’t said I’ll do it.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it and talked to Kieron – not that he’s remotely clued up about anything to do with medicine, other than being a hypochondriac. But it would impact on our time together.’

  ‘My guess is that you’d have more of that.’

  ‘Possibly. But I’m only a part-time GP at the moment so I’m here evenings, weekends – that would change.’

  ‘It won’t be going back to the old days of being on call, Cat – we didn’t do email and phone consultations, and if patients demanded a home visit at 2 a.m. for a hangnail, we were legally obliged to go.’

  ‘My patients weren’t often so unreasonable. But there are other things …’

  She set down the iPad and was quiet for a while. Luke continued to stroke Wookie, who was snoring softly.

  She knew that the idea was a good one and knew that it would be perfect for her. She had always liked home visits. They gave her time to get a full picture of the patient, to listen to them, to assess things more calmly. She would like being free of a packed surgery with ten minutes per appointment and panic if one person had to take twenty. She was happy driving, she agreed that many consultations could safely be made over the phone, on Skype or by email when there was also the backup of a visit if it then seemed necessary. Having fewer patients on the list meant giving them more time and attention, and she would be free of the admin that was the bane of every GP’
s life.

  ‘But …’ Luke said.

  ‘Chris would have divorced me for even thinking about it. He would say it was totally unfair and unjust that people who could pay would get access to better medicine, that money shouldn’t talk …’

  Luke went on stroking Wookie. He said nothing. He simply waited.

  Cat had not cried for her first husband, father of their three children, for a long time but now it was impossible to stop the tears. She had a vivid picture of him, curled up on their bed, her arms round him, dying of an inoperable brain tumour, too young, with too much still to give and enjoy, too much love and life.

  Luke put his hand over hers. ‘Don’t worry. There’s no hurry, you need to think it through. And I understand – I knew him too, remember. Chris was a fine doctor and he had principles he never wavered from … The thing is, Cat – this isn’t a question of things for the rich that the poor can’t get. A friend of mine runs a private practice like this – they were the first. And yes, they have some well-heeled patients, but they also have people who use some of their pension money, or their savings, because they want consistent reliable care. General practice is in crisis for all sorts of reasons, we know that, and especially as people get older they want peace of mind about their health. More ordinary people can afford this than you might think. £1,200 a year … think of that in terms of a holiday. I’m not doing this to get rich – I’ll be happy if I can eventually earn what I’ve earned in the NHS. I guess you would be too.’

  Cat blew her nose and got up to make more coffee. At the sink, she splashed cold water onto her face. She would go on thinking Luke’s plan through. There were the details, the small print. There was Kieron’s input. All of that.

  But she knew. She already knew what her answer would be.

  When she returned to the sofa, the old cat Mephisto had come in and was pressed against Luke, purring, and Wookie was still firmly settled on his lap. Kieron put in a brief appearance to get a beer at half-time and ask if anyone else wanted one. And as he did so, Cat had a strange and quite unexpected sense of finally letting Chris go, and, with him, so much that she had been clinging to for so long – and that it was with his blessing.

  Twenty-five

  Serrailler put Sam on the ferry and went across to the pub. It was just after six and the bar was empty. Iain was changing the optics.

  ‘If you’re wanting the snug again, that’s fine – Tuesday’s always quiet. Can I get you a dram? On the house. It might be for all the wrong reasons but you’ve brought a few folk in, and when they’re parched after talking to you, they’ve come through here.’

  ‘Not just now, thanks … I’ll maybe take it from you another day. I’m glad you’re empty, Iain. There’s something I need to ask you.’

  Iain looked at Simon oddly. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I’ve only a rifle and it’s fully licensed, and in any case, when do I ever get the time to go shooting?’

  ‘That wasn’t what I was going to ask. Though she could have been shot with a rifle of course.’

  ‘That makes no sense. You know what a person looks like after that. Whoever found her … whoever saw her first … they wouldnae have been in any doubt. But you hear me, Simon

  … I’m very sorry for it. Maybe some out there in the world deserve it, but not her. Not Sandy.’ He had wiped the bar counter clean but still went on pushing the cloth to and fro. ‘And you’re no further forward? You’ve no one in mind?’

  ‘I’ve just been asking questions – and getting some useful answers.’

  ‘In what way do you mean useful?’ Iain turned and took a double malt. ‘Your health,’ he said, and downed it. Simon was surprised. He had never seen Iain take more than a few sips from a pint, kept on the side of the bar and lasting him all evening.

  ‘Did you ever have any thoughts of your own about Sandy? Where she came from, her life before here?’

  ‘Who didn’t? We’ve all got a past. People learn not to ask too many questions. You’ll know that yourself.’

  No, Simon thought. They didn’t ask newcomers direct questions because they did their best to find out in other ways. They watched and listened and talked among themselves and put two and two together. But so far as he knew, no one had made five out of this one – or even the correct four.

  ‘You never noticed anything about her? Didn’t you once think she was, I don’t know, a bit different?’

  ‘Well, of course she was different. You met her, talked to her … she wasnae like anyone else on the island because she wasn’t an islander. But she was always willing to lend to hand. She came in here several times a week, she helped with the unloading, she’d give anyone a day’s work who needed it, and never accepted anything but a joint of lamb for the freezer or a homemade cake, maybe. She’d talk to anyone in here, friend or stranger, she’d have a joke, she’d have a dram, she’d come to the ceilidh and she’d come to the quiz. She never went to the chapel but she’d dance at a wedding and wet a baby’s head. She was as near one of us as can be without being one of us. I tell you, Simon, I’m as upset about what happened as I would be if it had been one of my family. And it’s not just that she’s dead. It’s knowing she was shot. That’s what’s shaken me. Shot dead.’

  It was the longest speech Simon had ever heard the man make.

  And now he was going to shake Iain again.

  ‘You should keep this to yourself for now.’

  Iain stopped what he was doing and looked across the bar and there was something in his look Serrailler couldn’t interpret … a challenge, a defiance? Why would that be?

  The wind was getting up again, blowing against the side of the building, the west wind that would rise and rise and might not die down for a week or more. They both listened to it. But Iain was watching his face.

  In four words, Simon told him.

  Twenty-six

  ‘I want to speak to the Chief Constable please.’

  ‘I’ll put you through to his office.’

  Did they know it was her? Did they have some special police way of seeing who was calling, even though she knew how to screen out her number? Because it was barely a split second before ‘I’m sorry, the line’s engaged, can you call back please?’

  ‘No, I’ll hold on.’

  ‘It could be a long time, they’re very busy this afternoon.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I’ve nothing more important to do. There isn’t anything more important, actually.’

  There was the usual jingle that went on a loop. Not proper music. Just a stupid jingle. Then a recorded voice, thanking her for holding and then telling her how many road accidents were caused each year by drink-drivers and then more jingle, and then explaining that she should not dial 999 unless her call to the emergency services was indeed a genuine emergency but instead to call …

  ‘Line’s still busy, I’m afraid. Do you want to continue to hold?’

  She waited twenty minutes before the secretary spoke to her and then of course Mr Bright was out all day and she would take a message but she had no idea when he would get back to her, perhaps someone else … ?

  She put the telephone down, and as she did so, something happened. Instead of going with the sense of disappointment and of being brushed off that usually overwhelmed her at these moments, Marion felt a strength and a new determination rising in her, at the same time as an entirely new idea formed. Why it had never struck her before that she could and would do this she did not know, but she wasn’t going to waste time on those ruminations. It didn’t matter. It had occurred to her, flashing like a brilliant light, and she acted upon it.

  ‘Newsroom.’

  ‘Oh. I’m not sure if I have the right … I want to speak to someone who’ll come round and talk to me. I’ve got … well, I suppose it’s a story only it probably isn’t news. Not new news, if you follow.’

  ‘Right. Maybe if you tell me what it’s about briefly, I can either carry on with it or put you through to the right person. Who am I speaking to?’ />
  ‘Mrs Still … Marion Still … mother of Kimberley Still.’ A beat. But why should she know?

  And then, ‘Kimberley Still … Excuse me, there’s no good way of putting it … the Kimberley Still who went missing and could have been murdered?’

  Her name was Dorcas Brewer and she was at Marion’s house in Mountfield Avenue within the hour. Marion had made tea and put out the fresh ginger cake she had bought at the new bakery the previous day.

  ‘It’s very good of you to come so quickly. I hadn’t expected that.’

  ‘You sounded worried.’

  She was an exceptionally tall young woman, with very short hair dyed pink. But it had been well done, Marion thought. It suited her. It didn’t look common, as she had always judged brightly coloured hair to be, it looked smart. She wore an orange trench coat. Pink and orange? But that looked good, too.

  She didn’t have a notebook, she had a mobile phone which would record their conversation, and when they first started, Marion found that it inhibited her. She kept glancing at it, wondering what her own voice sounded like, wondering if she had just said the wrong thing. But the girl was very relaxed and friendly without being too pushy, she drank two cups of tea with sugar, ate a slice of the cake and helped herself to another. That made it so much better. Her sort of girl might have asked for black coffee and looked at cake with disdain.

  ‘Just talk to me,’ she said, leaning back in the armchair.

  ‘It was this morning, when I rang the Chief Constable – Mr Bright, I don’t know if you’ve met him – he did see me once, and I suppose I’ve to be grateful for that. He’s a very busy man, I understand that, and he wasn’t even in the job when Kimberley … yes, he saw me and he said he’d look into it all again.’