Deadly Practice

by Christine Green

  ‘No,’ I quickly interrupted, ‘make it outside the Swan in Longborough.’

  He nodded and was walking out past Marcus Wheatly before I had a chance to work out why I had so readily accepted.

  Marcus walked straight over to the sink with his left hand in the air. ‘Have you got a plaster, Kate?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, opening a drawer in my trolley and producing one.

  ‘I cut my finger on a vial,’ he explained.

  I raised up his delicate hand to examine his index finger. The cut was minute but I dealt with it as seriously as if it had been a severed limb. He still managed to remind me of a prep-school boy and for a while I was in position as school matron. When the plaster was on he flicked back his hair with his hand and said, ‘Mind if I sit down?’ I knew from the past that doctors could be very squeamish about personal injuries and for a moment I did wonder if he felt faint. He didn't. He just wanted to talk. He was finding the practice hard to cope with, he wasn't sleeping well. He found it hard to be sympathetic with most patients, especially the stressed ones. ‘I just can't help it. They whinge and moan about their uncomplicated lives. What the hell am I supposed to do? I wasn't trained as a social worker. At the end of the day I'm drained. They take everything from me. It's no wonder Sara is so unhappy and dissatisfied. She'll leave me one day. Just like Helena. Wives want more of a companion, don't they?’

  ‘I'm sure your wife realizes how stressful your job is.’

  ‘Intellectually of course she does, emotionally she doesn't. She resents it.’

  ‘Perhaps a holiday?’ I ventured weakly.

  ‘I wish that was the answer,’ he said slowly. Standing up he said, ‘Thanks for listening, Kate.’

  Later that afternoon Alan Dakers came to see me. He didn't invent some pretext to talk, he just got straight to the point. ‘How about a drink together tonight?’

  I was overwhelmed, two social occasions in such quick succession – could I cope?

  ‘I can't make tonight, I've got … something to do.’

  ‘Tomorrow then?

  ’ I shook my head and murmured that I was very busy.

  ‘Night after?’ he persisted.

  This time I nodded. He smiled. ‘I thought I was losing my grip there. Once upon a time I would have been snapped up on the first offer.’

  I smiled, hoping I looked enigmatic.

  I'd just changed and was walking towards the front door when David Thruxton and Ian Holland walked in. They made a strange pair. Thruxton had a warm smile and an air of solid respectability aided by wings of silvery grey hair and pinstripe suits; Ian Holland favoured more casual wear with jumpers of the handmade variety. He was the youngest doctor, keen on computers and seemingly still keen on his job. Sporting a bushy beard and the occasional pair of sandals he was the only one of the four who didn't look like a business man. I could imagine him on summer evenings outside a pub doing a spot of Morris dancing and then going home to vegetable casserole and big hunks of wholemeal bread straight from the Aga. Today though his normally amiable face was creased with anxiety and David Thruxton looked equally worried. Not that they shared their worries with me; they walked towards me, nodded vaguely in my direction and walked on.

  The next day I met Dr Thruxton again. He asked if I would kindly act as chaperone for two female patients. In the few moments before the clinic started we had coffee together. He seemed depressed. By now though I realized not one of the doctors had a sense of humour – in fact they seemed the most miserable medical foursome on God's earth.

  ‘You've started here at a bad time, Kate,’ he said as he shuffled papers and tried to tidy his desk. ‘Jenny's death has affected us all in different ways. It was so unexpected.’ I nodded. And tried to gauge the expression in his eyes. Was he suffering the misery of bereavement or the anxiety of guilt? I couldn't decide.

  When the first patient came in I did know why he wasn't the most popular doctor in the practice. She was a short woman in her sixties, overweight but not unhealthy looking. Thruxton gazed at her for a moment and then said, ‘Mrs Baines, I see you are still as fat as ever.’

  Poor Mrs Baines embryonic smile faded in an instant. ‘I do try, Doctor.’

  ‘Not hard enough. You know the results of being too heavy, don't you?’

  She nodded sadly. She'd obviously had the lecture before. I smiled encouragingly at her but her day had been ruined.

  David Thruxton examined Mrs Baines thoroughly and questioned her, but by now she was unwilling to complain too much about her arthritic knees or the pain in her back.

  ‘It's your age and weight, Mrs Baines. I can give you painkillers and anti-inflammatory tablets – that's all.’

  ‘Could I see a specialist?’ she asked timidly.

  Dr Thruxton smiled weakly. ‘You're over sixty-five?’ he asked.

  ‘I'm sixty-six.’

  He shrugged. ‘Lose three stone and I'll consider it. See the nurse here each week and she'll weigh you and report back to me on your progress.’

  When she'd gone I said, ‘You were a bit hard on her.’

  He looked genuinely surprised. ‘Was I? She's over sixty-five. It's tough on the aged but there it is. If I referred all my over sixty-fives to consultants the NHS would grind to a halt.’

  ‘You'll be that age one day,’ I muttered.

  He didn't appear to hear and the next patient was thin as a stick, also elderly but this time suffering from osteoporosis. She, it seems, was too thin. Dr Thruxton's patients couldn't win.

  I decided that I didn't like David Thruxton and couldn't help wondering if he wasn't committing murder by medical omission on a regular basis. He seemed to me callous, cold and quite capable of regarding people as nuisances to be got rid of. But no doubt the police were satisfied with his alibi and he wasn't necessarily guilty of anything but having the God Syndrome, as Alan had so aptly described it.

  That evening on my way home from Riverview I called in on Rose Fenny. She was in the kitchen ironing, a great stack of ironed clothes already army-neat on the kitchen table. The smell of damp homeliness reminded me of my childhood, of watching my mother doing the same. Ironing is most definitely a spectator sport in my opinion. Completely soothing. Even more so, as I sipped the large sherry Rose supplied me with.

  ‘I've had a word with CID in Longborough,’ I told her, ‘and they seem to think Nick is in the clear for the murder.’

  ‘Should he give himself up?’ she asked.

  ‘I do think it would be for the best. Once they clear Nick they really will have to put all their efforts into finding the murderer.’

  Rose raised her eyebrows and rested her iron for a moment as she carefully folded a waist slip. ‘What worries me is … well, say he confesses?’

  ‘Is that likely, Rose?’

  She let out a little sigh. ‘You hear so many cases about the Old Bill forcing confessions out of people.’

  ‘I don't think Nick would be that intimidated by the police, do you?’

  ‘P'raps not. He is used to being interviewed, after all,’ she said, taking a big gulp of sherry and draining her glass. ‘My Nick isn't that stupid. Not that I thought he was a murderer either, but when he's out of my sight I just begin to wonder … you know … thinking. I know he can't resist taking cars but violence isn't his scene.’

  ‘You'll persuade him to give himself up, then?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not, love? I mean, he can join his old man, can't he? I did my best, Kate, with the pair of them. Nick rang me today. Says he's going to come back from Birmingham in a day or two, in the early hours, and he wants to talk. What that means is he wants money. I think he's got it into his head to go to Spain – like some highflying criminal. That's what frightens me about him, Kate. He wants to be a celebrity, famous. Silly little prat!’ Before I left Rose paid me a week's money. ‘I'll be sure to recommend you,’ she said.

  Which was kind of her, but what exactly had I done? And now I intended to shop him I felt a great sense of gui
lt. I was fairly sure Nick wasn't going to give himself up and I was equally sure Rose would give him all the money she had to help him leave the country.

  Rose stood on the doorstep waving me goodbye. I turned and from a distance, in her short skirt and snug pink top, she looked like a teenage girl.

  I drove away feeling a real Judas. My only client now fully paid up and for what?

  When I got back to Humberstones' Hubert was waiting outside my office door.

  ‘Your phone was ringing,’ he said by way of excuse. ‘You need an answering machine.’

  ‘Probably.’

  He watched me enquiringly as I sat down. ‘What's wrong with you now, Kate?’

  ‘Nothing, Hubert. I'm just not feeling very moral at the moment.’ ‘What have you been up to?’

  His face looked so shocked I laughed. ‘Not that sort of moral. I'm just feeling that being a private investigator isn't … well … moral.’

  ‘Don't be daft,’ said Hubert fixing me with a glazed sort of stare, ‘what could be more moral than finding wrongdoers? I suppose you want it to be a public service paid for by the tax-payers.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn't understand, Hubert.’

  ‘You could try and persuade me over a bevvie at the Swan.’ I didn't need much persuasion. ‘I'll be two seconds.’

  I changed into jeans and a blouse so baggy it would do me well into the ninth month of pregnancy, if that ever happened, and emerged from my box-room to a very disapproving look from Hubert. ‘Haven't you got any frocks?’ he asked.

  ‘Frocks! Hubert, women don't wear frocks any more, especially for drinks at the Swan.’

  He muttered a bit about declining standards but I think really he was thinking more about the demise of the stiletto heel, slingbacks and pointed toes.

  The pub was empty save for a couple of pensioners playing shove ha'penny, a silent couple, obviously married because they stared morosely around them as if looking for someone to talk about, and the landlord whose face lit up when he saw us as potential profits.

  I sat in a booth as Hubert went to order drinks. From there I watched a cross-section of middle England recreated. Not a sign of jollity anywhere. My spirits plummeted.

  Hubert returned with a double brandy and lemonade for me and a pint of bitter for himself. ‘I've ordered chicken in a basket for us both,’ he said.

  ‘I'll pay for that,’ I said, feeling another pang of guilt at Hubert subsidizing both my calorie and my alcohol intake.

  ‘You will not,’ he said. ‘I'm old fashioned.’

  Two brandies later plus the chicken and chips I burst into song. ‘I'm old fashioned, I love the moonlight …’

  ‘That's enough, Kate – people are looking at us.’

  ‘Good. Now, Hubert, whilst I can still enunciate my words, let me tell you about the case.’

  He listened while I told him about my chat with Roade and with Rose Fenny.

  ‘So you think the answer lies in the calligraphy class?’

  ‘Well, it could do.’

  ‘Doesn't seem very likely some old boy who can teach a bit of fancy copperplate writing could also be doing a bit of serial killing on the side.’

  ‘To non-murderous people, like us, Hubert, of course it seems unlikely. Serial killers are often the most unremarkable people. I mean, they have to keep a low profile, don't they? Otherwise they'd get caught before they achieved serial status.’

  ‘There's no need to be flippant, Kate.’

  ‘I didn't mean to be. I think it's very serious. And I think he's only just started.’

  ‘You're sure it's a man?’

  ‘I haven't found out yet who teaches calligraphy but both victims were attacked viciously and then carried to the boots of their cars, so it would need a strong woman to do that.’

  ‘Or two people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hubert's forehead puckered into a frown. ‘Do be careful, Kate. You are inclined to act first and think afterwards. Have you actually got a suspect in mind?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said brightly. ‘The man who inflicted bruises on Jenny – he's the one.’

  ‘Yes. And who is he?’

  ‘Ah. That's the problem.’

  I couldn't admit to Hubert I didn't really have a suspect. I had suspicions but no one I could glorify with the title ‘suspect'. I waffled a bit then, not answering the question, as politicians do. Saying I'd have to visit her husband again; not that he was a real contender.

  But then I remembered how he'd grabbed my arm. Maybe I was wrong. He could be a killer. His grief and depression could well be due to guilt and remorse. Perhaps there was something a touch sinister about him. He had, after all, admitted they were planning a separation. Perhaps he had followed Jenny, insisted she come home, murdered her in the house, put the body in the boot, drove the car to the college, left the car and walked home. What about Teresa? a little voice asked. Maybe he thought Teresa was a bad influence, being already divorced and newly single. In a disturbed mind it could make sense to wreak revenge on a person who he thought had led his wife astray.

  ‘As I said,’ Hubert was saying, ‘even though you don't listen to me – just be careful. I don't like all these strange men phoning you …’

  ‘What strange men? What are you talking about?’

  ‘That phone call just before you came in – “Just tell Kate Neil phoned”. Very public school type.’

  ‘I thought you were kidding about the call, Hubert. You're sure it wasn't Alan?’

  ‘He said it was Neil. He wouldn't say that if it was Alan, would he?’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘What's wrong with Neil, then, who is he?’

  ‘He's a nice chap. I've only spoken to him once. He's just young.’

  ‘How young?’

  ‘Twenty-fourish.’

  I glanced at his face. ‘There's no need to look at me like that, Hubert. I'm not that interested in him and anyway even if I was I'm not cradle snatching. He is a grown man.’

  ‘Who's Alan, then?’

  ‘He's the practice manager. I quite like him.’

  ‘How old is he – eighteen?’

  I began to feel irritated. ‘At my age, Hubert, it's difficult to find men of my own age who aren't either married, gay or odd, very odd—’

  ‘That's not true,’ Hubert interrupted, ‘a bachelor in his early

  thirties doesn't have to be odd. I didn't get married until I was—’ I felt sorry for Hubert then, he had stepped straight into that one. ‘Let's change the subject,’ I suggested. ‘And I'll buy you a drink.’ He couldn't get to the bar fast enough.

  Although I did rather resent his taking an interest in my potential love life, I was my own worst enemy. Steady, respectable men hadn't appealed before and my longest relationship ended abruptly with masonry falling on to his drunken head. I'm sure he didn't feel a thing. But I did. And it had left me very wary.

  Eventually we left the pub, supporting each other. Hubert was somewhat uninhibited and he confided that he was strongly attracted to Danielle. My heart sank.

  ‘Poor old Hubert,’ I said.

  ‘Not so much of the old. I could still father a child.’

  Dear God, I thought, not with Danielle, you couldn't. Even if she was a woman, she was too old.

  ‘Hubert,’ I said softly. ‘Is your eyesight OK?’ He didn't answer. He was far too busy trying to keep us both upright.

  Later that evening after I'd managed to flop Hubert on to his bed, covered him with a duvet and staggered back to my boxroom, the phone rang. It was Neil. British Telecom now diverted my home calls to the office automatically, which I thought was somewhat clever.

  ‘Kate. I've caught you at last. I'm just checking it's still on for tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Yes, Neil, it's still OK.’ There was a long pause and I wondered if we'd been cut off.

  ‘Let's make it dinner at the Grand then. I thought it might be fun.’

  Dinner at the Grand seemed more of a date tha
n a drink and I suddenly wondered if it was such a good idea after all. And I voiced my misgivings.

  ‘You mean your being an employee of my father's?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Well, yes.’ And of course the fact that I was several years older than him. But I didn't mention that, hopefully he could have thought I was still in my twenties – hopefully!

  ‘No one need know, Kate. I'll give you a good time – I promise.’

  The alcohol had weakened my reasoning powers because at that moment I couldn't think of a single reason why I shouldn't have dinner at the Grand and the promise of a good time.

  ‘See you at eight then, outside the Grand.’

  ‘Good night, Kate. I'll see you tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it very much.’

  As I fell asleep I wondered if he'd dated Jenny – and whether any man would admit to it in the circumstances.

  The morning session went quite well the next day. It was the Well Person's Clinic and anyone could come along, fill out a questionnaire and have various tests including blood pressure, pulse and urine. For a fee the blood could also be tested for cholesterol. It was time-consuming, not because of the tests but because people came who were worried and wanted to talk. One man, Reginald Bott, told me he had come for his health check twice a year for four years and he was plotting his own health breakdown.

  ‘I do everything I'm told to and I don't feel any better. I was forced to take early retirement and I thought I'd be able to really make the effort to be healthy. But look at me now.’ I looked. He looked about sixty, quite ruddy in the face, but with a scrawny neck and sparse grey hair, a down-turned mouth and the general air of a man who felt he was on life's downward trend.

  ‘When I first came here,’ he explained, ‘I was full of hope. But now, well, everything's come down around my ears. My wife's a semi-invalid, I'm bored and yet busy, I can't sleep at night for financial worries and then my favourite nurse gets murdered.’