The Pregnant Police Surgeon

by Abigail Gordon

  She nodded and said, ‘I think it might be something to do with thirst that causes him to wander. We found him in the White Lion with a gin and tonic in front of him.’

  Blair laughed.

  ‘So he coped with ordering that.’

  ‘I think they know what he drinks. It was his local before he came in here.’

  As Blair was leaving the home of a patient who had been sent home from hospital the previous day after surgery for a duodenal ulcer and was still getting discharge from the incision, a call came through from the police to ask if he would go to an alleyway in the city centre where the body of a man had been found.

  ‘We tried Imogen Rossiter as she was nearest, but she passed us on to you,’ the police inspector said. ‘Reckoned she wasn’t feeling well.’

  ‘Where was Dr Rossiter when you spoke to her?’ he asked.

  ‘In a lay-by somewhere.’

  As he drove towards the place that the police had directed him to, Blair was frowning. He’d thought things had been going too well with Imogen. She’d seemed well enough when they’d parted company at the practice. What was going on?

  When the call had come through Imogen had been vomiting. It was the first time that the queasiness had occurred later in the day and she’d thought it was typical that it should happen today of all days. She hoped that Blair wouldn’t mind having the call-out passed on to him.

  The man lying in the alleyway looked to be in his thirties. He’d been dead for some time as rigor mortis had set in. The police hadn’t moved him. When they’d seen there was nothing they could do for him, they had left him where he was until cause of death had been established. Once the police surgeon had carried out his examination and the scene-of-crime officers had fulfilled their function, he would be taken to the mortuary.

  He was lying on his side, revealing a gaping wound to the back of his head. His hands were clenched and as Blair knelt beside him he saw that he was holding something in one of them. A scrap of plastic was sticking out through his fingers.

  Slowly removing it from the man’s grip, he passed a small packet containing a white substance to the police inspector.

  The man sighed.

  ‘I might have guessed. Dealer maybe, or user.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Blair agreed as he continued his examination of the body.

  When he’d finished he said, ‘It’s not clear whether the blow to the head actually killed him or if there was another contributing factor. I’d like to see what’s going on underneath him as there has been some bleeding from underneath him.’

  As he eased the body of the man onto its back he gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘There it is.’ He pointed to a neat round hole where the shirt was tucked into the jeans. ‘He’s been shot in the stomach.’

  ‘There’s a bullet casing somewhere around,’ the inspector told his men. ‘Get searching. Forensic will want to see it.’ He turned to Blair who was getting to his feet. ‘How long would you say he’s been dead, Dr Nesbitt?’

  ‘Difficult to tell,’ Blair told him. ‘The pathology boys will be able to be more accurate, but I’d say some time around the early hours of last night.’

  All the way back to the practice Blair was wondering how Imogen was. If she’d managed to return to the Sycamores all right. And what was wrong with her. He’d asked her a couple of times if she was well and had been told firmly that she was fine. So where had today’s malady come from?

  When he passed the door of her consulting room she was perched on the corner of the desk, looking perfectly fit, with her long legs swinging as she tucked into a sandwich.

  He took a step back and went in.

  ‘So what was wrong with you earlier?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘I thought I was starting with a stomach upset,’ she said with a twist of the truth. And giving colour to the statement, went on to say, ‘I was struck by sudden awful nausea and pulled into a lay-by where I sat quietly until it subsided.’

  ‘I see, but you are obviously all right now,’ he commented, his eyes on the food in her hand and other delicacies on the desk beside her. ‘What about the calls I asked you to do?’

  ‘I’ve done them. I carried on as soon as I felt better.’ Her smile was rueful and he had no idea of the panic she’d been in at the time as she said, ‘Not a very prestigious beginning, was it? Feeling ill on my first day.’

  Blair was observing her thoughtfully and he didn’t return the smile.

  ‘No, indeed. But as long as you’re feeling better, that’s the main thing. We’ve a couple of hours free before the late afternoon surgery so if you want to pop home or whatever, do so.’

  Imogen shook her head.

  ‘Thanks, but no. I’d like to help Dr Robertson with the antenatal clinic if I may. Once he’s gone I imagine I’ll be involved with the mothers-to-be, so I might as well get into the routine as soon as possible.’

  ‘You presume rightly,’ Blair said smoothly, ‘however I was giving you time to settle in first. But if that’s what you want, go ahead.’

  Imogen was easing herself off the corner of the desk and bending to brush the crumbs off her skirt. When she straightened up their glances met and she knew he was having doubts about her.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to pass the call from the police on to you,’ she said appeasingly. ‘What did it turn out to be?’

  ‘Murder. A shooting that was probably drugs-related. It would have done nothing to help the nausea you were experiencing,’ he told her blandly, and again she had the feeling that Blair was having second thoughts about her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DURING the next couple of weeks various things happened. To Imogen’s relief the morning sickness eased off, as it often did as a pregnancy progressed.

  Apart from it being something that would have drawn Blair’s attention to her physical state if it had occurred while she’d been at the practice, there had also been the discomfort of it that had made her feel less than well each morning.

  Another occurrence was a visit to the practice of her father and Celia, which was a far less welcome happening than the departure of the nausea.

  When she heard her father’s authoritative tones outside her consulting room one day out of surgery hours, her colour rose. She could hear Blair’s voice mingling and that of Andrew Travis to a lesser degree, and she thought angrily that her father was here to check up on her.

  The door opened and Blair was framed there, eyeing her mutinous expression quizzically.

  ‘Your father’s here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Did you know? He’s having a glass of sherry with Andrew at the moment.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I heard his voice. What’s his excuse?’

  ‘He’s brought your stepmother to be taken on as a patient and before you get all steamed up, I believe that it was her idea to come. It’s what she wants.’

  Imogen had to smile.

  ‘Wants? Or has been told that is how it has to be? It’s one way of him keeping an eye on me. He’s into surveillance in a big way.’

  Blair was laughing openly now.

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder if Emily Pankhurst has risen from the grave,’ he said, and then on a more serious note, ‘Are you going to have a word with them?’

  She got to her feet slowly.

  ‘I suppose so. I would do anything for Celia. She’s kind and thoughtful and probably understands Dad a lot better than I ever will. I just hope he knows how lucky he is.’

  ‘So shouldn’t you be out catching criminals?’ Imogen asked her father after she’d given Celia an affectionate hug.

  He observed her unsmilingly.

  ‘There are those beneath me paid to do that, Imogen. I’ve taken the morning off to bring Celia to be registered with this practice.’

  ‘So it has nothing to do with me being employed here?’

  ‘Not necessarily. She needed to register with someone in the area and as I’m already a patient it seemed the obvious thing to do.’ He turned to
Blair. ‘So how is my daughter coping?’

  I don’t believe it, Imogen thought. Or maybe I do! He was discussing her as if she wasn’t there. She found that she was holding her breath as she waited for Blair’s reply.

  ‘I feel that Dr Rossiter will be a great asset to the practice once she’s settled in,’ he told him with a gravity that belied the smile tugging at his mouth.

  Blair could imagine how Imogen was feeling at that moment. What was the old martinet like? He would have said what he had even if Imogen had been a flop, and she was far from that.

  The chief constable cleared his throat.

  ‘Good! Glad to hear it. The name of Rossiter is respected in the county.’

  ‘Spare me!’ Imogen gritted her teeth. What would he say about the Rossiter name when it was passed on to an illegitimate child?

  When they’d gone Blair said, ‘I’m sorry you had to put up with that.’

  She sighed.

  ‘It’s the name of the game where my dad’s concerned. I want to apologise for him turning up like that. He had no right.’

  He saw that she looked pale and downcast and, wanting to bring back her zest, said, ‘Don’t give it another thought. I meant what I said, you know. It wasn’t just for your father’s benefit.’

  Her face brightened.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Of course. I never say what I don’t mean.’

  She was eyeing him thoughtfully and he wondered what was going through that mercurial mind of hers.

  ‘You know, I can believe that. I wish I could say the same for myself,’ she told him flatly.

  Blair smiled.

  ‘I would imagine that you’re pretty straightforward in most things. You don’t beat about the bush when you have something to say.’

  Not always, she thought. He might be seeing her in a different light very soon, but she wouldn’t be the first GP who’d carried on working while she was pregnant.

  Imogen was getting to know Blair better as the days went by and the more she saw of him the more she liked what she saw.

  Bill had gone and Andrew was taking a less active part in the practice with each passing day, so Blair and herself were the mainstays at the Sycamores.

  Another happening during those first weeks at the practice was a visit from Blair’s younger brother, a paler, less rugged version of the man himself. He breezed in one afternoon, took one look at her and flashed a friendly smile.

  ‘I’m Simon Nesbitt,’ he announced. ‘And I take it that you are the new member of the practice.’

  Imogen returned the smile with one of her own and held out a steady ringless hand.

  ‘Yes. I’m Imogen Rossiter. Blair and I have both been out on calls and he isn’t back yet. I don’t think he’ll be long if you’d like to wait.’

  The young chef nodded.

  ‘Sure. I’m in no hurry.’

  He was observing her expectantly and Imogen wondered what was coming next.

  ‘Is it true that you’re a police surgeon like my brother and that your father’s the chief constable?’ he asked.

  ‘Did Blair tell you that?’ she questioned in return, wondering just what sort of a description he’d given of her to another member of his family.

  Simon Nesbitt smiled again.

  ‘Yes. It’s not often he mentions anyone at the practice, and you didn’t sound like the average GP, which made me think I’d come and see for myself.’

  ‘So you’re not here to see Blair?’

  ‘I am partly. He left a note to say that he’s bringing someone to dine at the restaurant where I work tonight and I was curious to know who it is.’

  That makes two of us, Imogen thought with no intention of letting him see that she was just as interested as he was.

  At that moment Blair came striding into Reception. On seeing his brother and the latest addition to the practice engaged in conversation, he eyed them with raised brows and enquired abruptly, ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I’ve been introducing myself to Imogen,’ Simon said easily.

  ‘But that’s not the reason for you being here, I take it.’

  ‘Not exactly. I came to ask who you are dining with tonight.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ Blair told him. ‘I only mentioned it so that you wouldn’t be too shocked to see me socialising for once.’

  ‘So you’re not going to tell me?’

  ‘Not until I’ve extended the invitation. It might not materialise.’

  ‘You’re not bringing Briony Matthews, I hope,’ Simon said in sepulchral tones. ‘You know that the winsome widow has got you lined up for husband number two.’

  Imogen was listening with a mixture of amusement and dismay. Yet why should she be upset to discover women in Blair Nesbitt’s life? Just because he’d told her he had never found time to settle down, it didn’t have to mean that he lived like a monk.

  Ignoring the comment, Blair said in a milder tone, ‘Haven’t you got something better to do than frittering away the afternoon here? Such as tidying up the shambles that you’ve turned my spare room into?’

  Simon pretended to shudder. ‘Now you’re upsetting me.’

  ‘Really?’ Blair remarked drily. ‘Well, you’re going to have to scoot anyway as Imogen and I have work to do.’

  Simon had been perched on the edge of her desk but at that he got to his feet and, turning to her, said, ‘Nice to have met you, Dr Rossiter. Maybe we could get together some time?’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think that would be possible,’ she told him with a smile. ‘I’m rather committed at the moment, but it’s been very nice to meet you.’

  On that note of gentle rebuff he went on his way, leaving Imogen aware of her thickening waistline and Blair to ponder over the ‘commitments’ that had suddenly appeared out of the blue.

  Fond as he was of Simon, he’d been irritated to find him chatting Imogen up. His presence at the practice had been about as welcome as that of her father. And the cheek of him to ask her out on such brief acquaintance.

  His brother’s unsociable hours of employment limited opportunities to meet the opposite sex…but really! If anyone was going to be asking her out it was himself, and that was what he was planning to do. It was Imogen that he intended taking to dine at the Belvedere restaurant tonight if she would accept the invitation.

  It would be an opportunity to ask how she felt about the job. Was she settling in? That was the only reason he was going to ask her out. It had nothing to do with the fact that she fascinated him. Her smile. The turn of her head. Her youthful independence. Everywhere he went her face was before him. He’d been dazzled by her on that first night of meeting in the police station and so far nothing had changed.

  He’d seen the question in Imogen’s eyes when Simon had mentioned Briony Matthews. Blair could have throttled him. Briony had been married to a friend of his who’d been chairman of the local hospital trust and had turned to him when her husband had died suddenly.

  But if she did have him earmarked as husband number two, she was wasting her time, he thought grimly. She was elegant, wealthy and beginning to be somewhat possessive when they were in each other’s company, so he wasn’t intending letting that state of affairs continue.

  He could have kicked himself for not having suggested the evening out to Imogen earlier in the day, but it had been one of those mornings with not a moment to spare and now his young brother had blundered in first.

  ‘So you’re out on the town tonight,’ she said brightly as the thoughts raced through his mind.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied slowly. ‘It all depends if you’re free and would like to dine with me at the Belvedere where Simon works.’

  Imogen felt her jaw go slack.

  ‘Me!’

  ‘Yes, you. It’s some weeks since you joined us here and I thought it would give me a chance to show you just how much I appreciate your contribution to the practice. So what do you say?’

  ‘I’d love t
o,’ she breathed, adding with her usual candour, ‘it’s ages since I went anywhere exciting.’

  ‘You surprise me. I don’t see you in the Cinderella guise. What about the commitments that you mentioned to that impudent brother of mine?’

  ‘Oh, I was merely referring to my police surgeon duties and the job here,’ she told him airily.

  ‘So you’re not with anyone?’

  He watched her face cloud over.

  ‘No. No I’m not.’

  Imogen thought she saw relief in his eyes but it gave her no pleasure. She supposed she really was ‘with someone’, but not in the way he’d meant. The foetus that she was carrying was going to be the biggest commitment she was ever likely to make and she was pretty scared about what lay ahead.

  ‘What time shall I pick you up?’ Blair was asking.

  ‘Eight o’clock?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Right. I’ll go and make a reservation now.’

  When he’d gone Imogen sank down into the chair behind the desk and let relief and quick pleasure wash over her at the thought of the evening ahead. They were happy emotions and yet she felt like weeping.

  She’d made the grade and Blair was taking her out to celebrate. Both reasons for delight. But if he was so satisfied with her, wasn’t now the time to tell him about the baby? That was the deal she’d made with her conscience. That once she’d made herself indispensable and was happy she could carry on throughout her pregnancy, she would tell him…before nature did it for her.

  Was tonight going to have to be confession time, when all she wanted was to enjoy his company and bask in his praise? But any further mental debate on that problem had to be postponed as the mothers were arriving for the weekly antenatal clinic and the rest of the afternoon was taken up with the affairs of those in a similar condition to herself.

  Her own antenatal checks were being carried out in the privacy of her apartment and so far there were no problems in that area.

  She noticed that there seemed to be an equal proportion of married and unmarried mothers amongst those attending the clinic, but the single ones all appeared to have partners in the background or some other kind of family backing, while in her own life there was no one.