by Paula Daly
31
THE LATE AFTERNOON rain splattered against the clinic window. I pushed my thumbs into a hairy gluteus maximus, the flesh unforgiving as the patient tensed in response to my touch. ‘Try to let it go loose if you can,’ I told him.
‘It hurts like hell,’ he replied. ‘There must be something seriously wrong in there.’
He was a new patient. A fifty-something solicitor who had blustered into the clinic with an authoritative air, answering my questions as though he really didn’t have time, and Couldn’t we just get on with this?
When he undressed I saw he had his underpants on back to front.
I moved across to his other buttock and sunk my thumbs into that side. He flinched and then yelped as though he’d been bitten. ‘It’s a trigger point, see?’ I said. ‘It hurts just as much on the left as on the right. Please do relax if you can.’
His silence indicated begrudging acceptance that his arse was not about to fall off any time soon, and he remained uncommunicative for the remainder of the session. Apart from, that is, when I pushed too deep and he would suck the spittle in between his teeth. So I thought about Scott. I thought about what he’d said earlier.
Obviously, we hadn’t got as far as the logistics of his absurd proposition because I’d got out of there just as soon as I could. Now that I had the chance to think about it, though, I was curious as to how he imagined we would maintain such an arrangement – if he was in fact serious about his offer of ‘taking care of me for life’.
Would he deposit a monthly sum into my account and pop by whenever he required intercourse? A mistress, then, in the traditional sense?
Or would we remain with the system of my billing him for services rendered?
After his proposition Scott had become aware of the fear in my eyes and had relaxed his grip on my face, once again feeling appalled by his own actions. He apologized profusely, saying he didn’t quite know where that behaviour had come from. Following which, I wondered what exactly I’d become saddled with.
Was Scott a psychopath? Was he a lonely, rich guy who couldn’t stand any kind of rejection?
Apparently, he was neither.
How did I know this? Because I asked him.
He broke down, expressing mortification at what he’d just done, saying he’d never once hurt a woman, never even come close. He could only conclude that my early termination of our arrangement had hit him harder than he could have anticipated and he’d been taken over by some kind of primitive compulsion. Something he’d never experienced before.
The patient now lifted his head. He said, ‘Do you think swimming will help?’
‘Do you like to swim?’ I asked.
‘Not really. I’m not very good.’
I’m not sure why, but all new patients ask about swimming. It may have something to do with taking the weight off the joints, or because they’ve seen thoroughbreds in the hydrotherapy pool on television and consider their injury to warrant similar treatment.
Truth was, this guy had a bad back because he had a big belly, and swimming would make no difference. It was pulling his weight forward, putting strain on the joints of the lower back, and the pain in his buttock was the result of this.
‘I could do with getting a bit of weight off,’ he said, more to himself than to me.
I didn’t respond. I never did. They didn’t come to me to feel bad about their weight, and my thoughts were still stuck on Scott. About how I might avoid encountering him again in the near future. Petra might be a problem. I’d just have to have some good excuses at the ready in case she organized another get-together.
‘Do you think I need to lose some?’ the patient pressed.
‘It can help,’ I said vaguely.
Scott’s cash was in my handbag. This time, I wasn’t going to deposit it in the bank, so I needed to keep it well hidden. Problem was, my landlord had a key to the house, and it didn’t exactly have great security. So it wouldn’t be wise to leave it in one of my usual hiding places: the bread bin; inside the cheese drawer of the fridge.
And now I would need some of it to fix my car.
Returning to work, after the meeting with Scott, I heard an ominous, metallic clunking coming from beneath that didn’t sound good. One of those noises you ignore at your peril. Well, I had ignored it, until Terry the ferry attendant stopped and stared as I’d boarded, tapping my window, saying there was something hanging down from the exhaust. Then I had no alternative but to acknowledge there was a problem and made a note to book the car into the garage. It would be expensive. Driving over that branch would turn out to be an expensive decision. It was like Newton’s fourth law or something.
I demonstrated a few back extensions to the solicitor, since the joints of his lumbar spine were locked in forward flexion, and he made like he was interested, asking how many he should do, what time of day was best.
He wouldn’t do the exercise. His wife had most likely made this appointment just to stop him complaining.
‘Scott Elias said you were very good,’ he remarked as he knotted his tie in front of the mirror, and I did a double take.
‘You’re friends?’ I asked cautiously, trying not to show that he’d unsettled me.
‘We go way back.’
He perched on the treatment couch, lifting up alternate knees to tie his shoe laces. When he stood, he said, ‘Do you know what, for the last ten years my back’s hurt every time I’ve got up from sitting. And now the pain has gone.’
I smiled at him. ‘Glad it’s feeling better.’
I was aware of the clock. I needed a quick trip to the loo before the next patient and I wanted to get rid of this one quick.
‘The wife reckons a copper bracelet helps with rheumatism. What are your thoughts?’
‘You’ve not got rheumatism.’
‘But suppose I did.’
‘Then I’d say do anything that helps.’
‘You think it’s twaddle,’ he said.
I made a face like I didn’t really want to commit.
‘What about magnets, crystals?’ he asked. ‘She’s into all that stuff.’
‘Like I said, whatever works.’
‘Do I make another appointment?’ he asked, and I told him to follow me through to reception, where I’d sort him out with something next week.
When I opened the door, DS Aspinall was waiting. She placed the magazine she’d been reading down on the table in front of her before lifting her hand in a gesture of hello. Her face was blank, unreadable.
I took the solicitor’s debit card and asked him to key in his PIN. ‘Will I see you at the party?’ he asked.
I must have had a look of puzzlement on my face, because he added, ‘Scott and Nadine’s wedding anniversary?’
I shrugged. ‘Must be for close friends and family only,’ I said.
He was embarrassed, and apologized, saying he thought from the way Scott spoke of me that we knew each other well.
‘Not that well,’ I said a little stiffly, and he gathered up his wallet.
Once he’d left the building DS Aspinall approached the desk.
‘We’ve found something,’ she said.
32
‘A BODY?’ I repeated.
DS Aspinall nodded.
‘A dead body?’ I asked.
‘We are waiting for a formal identification, but at this stage we are assuming it is the body of Mr Geddes.’
I sat down heavily on the office chair behind me. ‘Wayne’s dead?’ I whispered. ‘I can’t believe it.’
I stared at my hands. Christ, it didn’t seem possible. I looked to DS Aspinall, who at first remained silent, allowing me to process the news. It was only when she asked, ‘Can I get you anything? A drink of water? Tea?’ that I realized she was staying a while and hadn’t come here merely to inform me of the death.
‘Does his mother know?’ I asked.
‘She’s been informed. His cousin has agreed to view the body once it’s…’ She paused at this point
, stopped herself from speaking further. ‘I’ll need to ask you and your colleagues a few questions,’ DS Aspinall said, ‘once you feel ready. I understand this must be difficult for you to make sense of.’ But in case I was in any doubt, she added, ‘I will need to question each of you now, though, Mrs Toovey. Today.’
I lifted my head. ‘Where was he found?’
‘At his home.’
I put my hand to my mouth.
‘How long has he been dead?’ I asked.
‘We can’t be sure at this stage.’
Wayne, what have you done?
I knew he was depressed when I left him. I knew he was confused – ashamed, even – at what had occurred, but dead? Really?
‘How did he do it?’ I asked quietly.
‘Sorry?’
‘How did he kill himself?’
‘Oh, Mrs Toovey, I’m so sorry, you misunderstood. Wayne Geddes didn’t kill himself.’
I frowned.
‘He was found inside the freezer in the outhouse,’ she said.
My eyes widened. ‘Someone put him in there?’
‘We believe so, yes.’
A stupid question, I realized. Wayne would hardly climb in himself. If DS Aspinall thought she was speaking to an idiot, she didn’t show it. ‘Apologies,’ I said, ‘I can’t seem to think straight.’
‘At the moment we don’t have an exact cause of death, but as you can imagine we’re eager to get going on this as quickly as possible. Now that it’s a murder inquiry, I have to ask you, Mrs Toovey, were you ever present at the property?’
‘At Wayne’s house?’ I asked shakily.
She nodded.
I swallowed. ‘I don’t think so.’
She tilted her head. ‘I need a definite yes or no.’
‘No, then.’
‘Okay, good. What we’re hoping to do in the first instance, after the initial door-to-door, is to take fingerprints from anyone Mr Geddes was in contact with. Friends, colleagues, and so on. That way we can quickly eliminate them from the case. I wonder if you would be able to supply us with a list of names, Mrs Toovey?’
‘Names.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Names of colleagues, patients he may have had a disagreement with, that sort of thing. To be honest, we just need a place to start. There is very little to go on as things stand.’
I could feel the pulse throbbing in my temporal artery. I wondered if it was visible.
My fingerprints were all over that house. All over Wayne.
DS Aspinall went to hand me another card with her details on it, but before releasing it from her grasp she paused. She regarded me for a moment, tilting her head to the side as though looking from a different angle might present an answer.
Then she smiled. ‘The sooner the better with that list, Mrs Toovey,’ she said, and I told her I would get started on it.
The list:
Roz Toovey.
Roz Toovey.
Roz Toovey.
Later, after she’d gone, I sat with my head in my hands, trying to remember, desperately; trying to recollect anything about that night at Wayne’s. Where did I put my prints? My DNA?
‘So you never went there, Mrs Toovey?’ DS Aspinall would inevitably ask. ‘You never once entered Mr Geddes’ house? Explain then, if you will, the presence of your pubic hair in the dining room. Explain the line of fingerprints on the windowsill.’
I should hand myself in. I should go after her right now and come clean. I went there to have sex with Wayne, but I didn’t murder him. It was consensual sex. Agreed upon beforehand. I went there specifically to have sex with Wayne Geddes, even though it didn’t actually happen.
Except this was Wayne.
Who in their right mind would believe that? No one would believe that.
So I should tell DS Aspinall that I went there to have sex with Wayne because he was blackmailing me about the stolen money.
Money I’d led DS Aspinall to believe was taken by Wayne.
I would be prosecuted. My name would be in the papers. I could say goodbye to my job, to running my own practice again. No one would trust me.
Fuck.
What if I told her I was being blackmailed by Wayne because I’d been accepting payments for sex from Scott Elias?
Then I would be popped right to the top of their list of suspects because not only was I at the property, I also had a motive for killing him.
Killing him.
Someone had killed Wayne. Poor, poor, pathetic Wayne.
Who would do such a thing? And what if they were at the house when I was there? What if they saw what happened between us?
33
NEXT, TWO THINGS happened.
Two phone calls that in themselves were innocuous enough but together would make for a devastating outcome.
I drove home thinking about Wayne’s body, thinking about my situation, understanding for the first time what real fear was. By the time I got to the ferry the fear was so strong you could smell it on me. The combination of coffee and adrenalin poured in a rank sweat from my armpits. I sat with my hands gripped tight to the wheel, my face inches from the windscreen.
Terry was away, so a cocksure kid in his late teens had the job of ticket attendant. He rapped hard on my window, startling me, swathing me in pickled-onion-crisp breath as I lowered the glass. His upper row of teeth was clogged with food.
Reaching into the glove compartment, I retrieved the book of tickets, handing one over, just as my mobile rang.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
‘Roz?’
I sighed out a long, weary breath. ‘Winston,’ I said.
‘Roz, you’ll never guess what’s happened—’
‘You’ve been stranded in Newquay.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Lucky guess.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve lost my lift home, and I can’t scrape the money together for the train fare. I won’t be back in time to pick George up tomorrow. Any chance you could do this weekend, and I’ll do the next two?’
‘What happened to the girl?’
‘The girl?’ he said innocently.
‘Your mother said you’d gone to Newquay with the blonde from the campsite.’
‘Oh her. Yeah, that didn’t really work out. She kind of hooked up with someone else, a slimy bastard who could get really strong skunk. Anyway, listen, if I can’t get the money in the next few days, I’ll just thumb it back, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Sure you don’t mind?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You sound weird, Roz. You’re not doing that thing when you act all fine about something and then throw it back in my face later on, are you?’
‘I’m not doing that.’
‘Great. That’s a relief. I can never tell. See you when I get home then.’
‘Sure, Winston. When you get home.’
We ended the call and I sat back in my seat. Took a breath.
The uncomplicated life of Winston Toovey.
No money to get back to see his son? Hey, things’ll work out. And with me and his mother to pick up after him, they usually did.
The ferry docked, groaning more than usual. Tourists scurried back to their cars, engines were started, visors lowered, as we would all be heading west, directly into the sun. The woman in front must have left her car in gear, as it jolted forward when she turned the ignition. She touched her hair repeatedly in embarrassment.
Wayne was murdered and I was the last person to see him alive. I just couldn’t get my head around anyone wanting to kill Wayne and bundle his body into the freezer. House-to-house inquiries, DS Aspinall had said. Would anyone remember a black Jeep creeping towards Wayne’s house that night? Leaving again later, tearing up the turf at the edge of the garden, because I was in so much of a hurry to escape?
The farm cottage was on its own at the end of a short stretch of track. But there were one or two houses that had a view of it from across the fields. Someone could have been wa
tching from their bedroom window. Someone could remember something.
What if they matched the tyre treads? I could only hope the rain had washed them away by now.
I wound my way over Claife Heights, behind a truck with two collies in the rear, along with a few bales of hay. The days of shepherds tending to one flock were long gone. These guys flitted from place to place, dropping food supplies out the back of their Mitsubishis, more FedEx than farmers.
I am innocent, I repeated as I descended into the valley. The storm of earlier had cleared and the valley was now awash with honey-coloured light. So pretty it made your heart stop. I could not be charged with killing Wayne Geddes, because I didn’t do it. I’m innocent, I said again. Hoping something – anything – would emerge from DS Aspinall’s inquiries that would prove it.
George was sitting on his own when I arrived at after-school club.
He was holding a piece of paper steady with his left hand and looked to be tracing. I was just about to approach when Iona caught my eye.
‘A word?’ she mouthed, beckoning me over.
I sensed danger so asked, ‘How’s the knee?’ bright and breezy, as though I wasn’t aware of something nasty to come.
Instinctively, Iona lifted her leg, flexing and extending it at the joint. ‘So much better. That tape you put on? It worked a treat. You should patent it.’
‘I keep meaning to. All okay?’ I asked, with respect to George, and her expression turned at once grave and formal.
‘I’ve been told to give you this.’
She handed me an envelope. ‘Mr and Mrs Toovey’ was printed across the front. Followed by ‘Confidential’.
‘Do I read it now?’ I asked.
‘That’s up to you.’
I unfolded it and read. The school requested my attendance at a meeting scheduled for Monday morning to discuss George. A representative from the Local Education Authority would be present.
I looked up at Iona. ‘Do you know what this is about?’
She leaned in, lowering her voice. ‘Sorry, Roz, it’s not really my place, not being his teacher, but I think he’s been stealing again.’
I slipped the letter back inside the envelope and pushed it hard into the pocket of my tunic.