Deadly Practice

by Christine Green

  Once I heard the front door close I made my way to bed. I virtually collapsed, slept immediately and woke to the sound of birdsong and soft light falling on my face from a crack in the curtains. My head throbbed, I shivered, my musculature was as knotted as garlic on a string – I could have been dying I felt so ill. I was hoping to sink back into virtual unconsciousness when someone knocked very loudly on the front door. Please, please, not Neil, I thought. I actually liked him and there was no way I wanted him to see the red lumps that now covered my face and neck.

  I opened the door a fraction. It was DS Roade. I could see by the expression on his small face that I looked like one of the undead. ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  ‘I had a late night,’ I said, squinting my eyes against the cruel morning sun. ‘What's the time?’

  ‘Seven thirty. Can I come in? What's wrong with you? You've got red lumps on your face.’

  I groaned aloud, ‘Antihistamine will sort them out. Come on in.’

  I was still fully dressed and my clothes were as creased as if I'd gone three rounds with a sumo wrestler. I made coffee silently and it was only when the coffee was made I noticed Roade hadn't said why he'd come. In fact I noticed now he looked really glum. I sat down at the kitchen table opposite him. ‘What's happened?’ I asked.

  ‘There was a car chase last night. The traffic police clocked Nick Fenny doing ninety down the M1. They gave chase and there was a crash …’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘As good as. Severe brain damage. He's on life support but he's not expected to survive.’

  Suddenly I felt angry. ‘Why the hell did they chase him? Couldn't they have radioed ahead?’

  ‘It doesn't work like that,’ said Roade. ‘The traffic cops have both been injured as well.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘In the early hours. His mother's with him.’

  ‘Poor Rose,’ I murmured.

  ‘She's already given permission for his organs to be used.’

  ‘Someone will benefit, then,’ I said sadly.

  We drank our coffee in silence. There didn't seem much else to say. Was it my fault Nick was near to death? Roade looked tired and depressed too. Eventually he said, ‘It was a random chase, Kate. The traffic blokes didn't recognize him, they just tried to stop a car that was travelling over the speed limit.’

  I sighed, my head still ached. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ I asked.

  His face lit up. ‘No, and I'm starving.’

  ‘If I get everything ready can you cook a fry-up? I'll have a shower and you can cook while I'm upstairs.’ I put out eggs, bacon, a few mushrooms past their best, and tomatoes.

  I could smell the bacon cooking from the bathroom but even in my delicate condition it smelt quite good. By the time I came downstairs, Roade was tucking in. He'd almost managed to clear my stock of food, although he did point to the toast rack to show me he had left me a slice of toast.

  Once he'd eaten I made some fresh coffee in a cafetière and as we sat drinking I took two aspirins and a Piriton and asked him how the case was going.

  ‘We've finished questioning Dr Amroth. As far as his wife is concerned we've finished our investigation.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he's a devious bastard but we haven't got any evidence to prove she's dead although we are making a lot more effort to actually find her. Missing adults are assumed to be alive especially when there's no evidence of foul play. Hundreds of people go missing every day – what can the police do?’

  ‘So he's not a suspect any more?’

  ‘I wouldn't say that. We can't hold him indefinitely just because Hook is convinced she's ten feet under somewhere.’

  ‘What about the connection between Teresa and Jenny?’

  ‘You mean the calligraphy class?’

  I nodded. Roade smiled. ‘Mostly pensioners, and the tutor is a frail little biddy of sixty-six. Mind you she keeps a register and they certainly didn't turn up for every class. When they were away they were both away. Neither of them went alone. They sat together, didn't mix much but they weren't unfriendly with the rest of the class.’

  ‘I can't help thinking,’ I said, ‘that they had more in common than that class. It seems they probably met up on the nights they didn't go to the college.’

  Roade smiled knowingly. ‘You're right. They did have something else in common.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Teresa had lost a child too. Years back before she lived in the area. A daughter, drowned in a garden pond, aged eighteen months.’

  I thought about that and summed up aloud. ‘Two women, both attractive, both quite well balanced, both though with a tragic past, broken marriages and an interest in calligraphy—’

  ‘So,’ interrupted Roade. ‘Where does that get you?’

  ‘I wish I knew, DS Roade, I wish I knew. But somehow I do know that the death of their children has to be part of the puzzle.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘It's all that emotion involved – anger, guilt, recriminations, the desire for revenge … revenge?’

  ‘Yeah, but they would be the ones wanting revenge.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said, ‘but maybe they were plotting together …’

  ‘Against who?’

  ‘I don't know, but perhaps they felt themselves wronged and the person or persons found out and decided to silence them.’ Roade smiled. ‘Not in Teresa's case. It was summer and she fell asleep in the garden and her kid crawled through a gap in the fence and into the next-door neighbour's garden and then into their pond. It was simply an accident. There was a very thorough investigation and inquest.’

  ‘Oh,’ I murmured despondently.

  Roade left soon after, thanking me for the breakfast and saying, ‘Chin up.’ But my chin was down together with my spirits and I sat for a while thankful it was Saturday but definitely feeling gloomy.

  At nine I rang Hubert. The phone rang and rang and I despaired. When he did answer I said, ‘There you are. I've been trying for ages.’

  ‘I was busy. I've just had a new consignment of coffins delivered. And I phoned you, last night, quite late.’

  ‘I was out.’

  ‘I guessed that. I was a bit worried.’

  ‘There's no need, Hubert. I had a date.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hubert, I was wondering if you'd got time for a chat.’

  ‘You're not getting married?’

  His voice sounded so aghast I laughed. ‘After one date, Hubert, come off it.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I'm drowning in a sea of suspects. Nick Fenny is at death's door …’

  ‘How did you know?’

  I realized then that I'd stolen Hubert's thunder. That was why he had tried to phone me. ‘DS Roade told me this morning,’ I said. ‘He called round.’

  ‘Oh. Well, Kate, you'll have to take it like a man. Your only reason to be on the case has just gone.’

  ‘I'm not taking it like a man, I'm taking it like a woman and I'm not going to give up now.’

  There was a long pause during which I knew Hubert was trying to think of something sensible to say. In the end he said, ‘You'll have to tout for business. Find someone who thinks the police need a bit of help.’

  ‘Hmm. If I buy you a big cream doughnut, Hubert, will you give me the benefit of your worldly wisdom?’

  ‘You only want one yourself,’ said Hubert. ‘You know I'm into healthy eating.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I'll put the kettle on, then. You're sure you're fit to drive?’

  ‘I'm on my way. I haven't had a drink for hours.’

  On the drive over to Longborough I thought about drink-driving and how alcohol can remain in the blood for hours and hours. I really hadn't drunk that much last night but the lobster had managed to postpone a mad passionate night with Neil Amroth. Perhaps I was past it anyway. Maybe a few years of celibacy had addled normal desire. I had read that sexual attraction
was merely a case of having the right smell – pheromones. Perhaps he didn't have my sort of pheromones anyway.

  Also there was a comment he'd made which interested me. And of course there was Bella's suggestion that Jenny and Teresa were in fact going to set up home together. Did this mean they were just good friends, or was Bella right that the killer may have suspected them of being lesbians? And if so, was he mad enough to believe they deserved to die? More to the point, did Geoff know? Would he admit it even if he did and was he consumed with jealousy? If he hadn't known, would it be cruel to tell him now? Of course it would, I decided. If he was innocent he need never know. If he was guilty, he knew anyway.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I stopped off at the baker's on the way to Humberstones'. I was by now hungry but my appetite for sweet things was tempered by seeing quite so many cakes bulging with cream in the window. In the end I bought two iced buns and hoped Hubert wouldn't be disappointed.

  ‘Cheapskate,’ he said, as most of the icing peeled off the buns and stayed stuck to the paper bag.

  He'd already made a pot of tea and we sat at my desk drinking and eating and not saying much at first. Eventually I said, ‘I'm stuck on this case, Hubert. I've only been working at the practice for two weeks and I'm finding it hard to cope. I just can't get round to interviewing everyone and as you said I'm no longer being paid.’

  ‘You could curtail your love life a bit.’

  I laughed. ‘Love life! Don't be so pompous. I don't think one date in twelve months is going over the top, do you?’

  He shrugged, said nothing, rested his hand under his chin and stared at me.

  ‘The trouble,’ I said, ‘with victims in general is that they know so many people: relatives, friends, acquaintances, colleagues, neighbours. It's like an iceberg. I've only found the tip.’

  He wagged a finger at me. ‘You're trying too hard, Kate. The first thing you do is start trusting the police more. You have to assume that the men they have interviewed and eliminated are in fact innocent.’

  ‘What if …’

  ‘Assume they're innocent,’ repeated Hubert firmly.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then pick one of those innocent men and persuade him you can find out more than the police. So he pays you to stay on the case.’

  ‘Doesn't seem moral, does it?’

  ‘Don't start that again, Kate. You would be doing him a big favour when you find the killer and you'd be preventing anyone else from being murdered. Because he's killed twice and got away with it – why stop now?’

  Carefully I wrote down all those people that I knew Jenny Martin had known. That of course included all Riverview staff and many, many patients. Likewise for Teresa; and after all she did work in a hotel so there were dragoons of people there. I stared at the names and thought about the numbers involved and then tore up the piece of paper in disgust. ‘It's no wonder so many murders go unsolved,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Now come on, Kate, you can do better than that. You know they had some things in common. Maybe they had someone in common. A friend, a …’

  ‘A confidant?’ I added helpfully.

  ‘I'm not stupid. I do know a few long words.’

  I smiled. ‘Sorry, Hubert. I don't feel I'm doing anything well at the moment. It's all like a grey mist. I shall have to go back to the beginning – outside the college and those missing hours.’

  ‘Take it easy with Bill though, won't you?’

  ‘Hubert, I shall be as gracious as if I'm at a Royal garden party.’ He flashed me a quick scowl and he was almost to the door when I remembered the practice lunch. I smacked myself on the forehead in disgust.

  ‘What's the matter?’

  ‘I'm meeting the doctors' wives today. I think they want me as a spy.’

  ‘Well, there's an angle,’ said Hubert.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe that's what Jenny was doing. She found out something and told Teresa. Someone else found out, and had to kill the both of them.’

  ‘Hubert, that sounds brilliant. It really is a great idea. All I need to find out now is who, what, when and why and then I've cracked it.’

  ‘I give up with you,’ he said disgustedly as he left the room. ‘And wear a frock!’ he shouted from behind the closed door.

  I didn't wear a frock. I wore jeans and a loose dark green shirt, bought a bottle of white wine and a bunch of freesias for the hostess and thought to myself anyone bearing wine would be welcome – befrocked or not.

  The Thruxton house in the village of Cottingbury boasted a sign on the wall saying Little Haven Cottage. It was neither little nor, in my knowledge of the housing market, a cottage. It was a rambling detached stone house in acres of ground with a courtyard and outhouses. Undoubtedly it was both very expensive and listed.

  Mrs Thruxton greeted me at the door and suddenly I felt like a Tupperware demonstrator who has arrived minus her Tupperware. She was tall, slim, with shoulder-length blonde hair. I guessed it was dyed but it looked natural. She wore a black and white Laura Ashley type frock with high-heeled black slingbacks. Her nails were long and red and pointed. Her face was too long and too gaunt to be thought pretty but she had real presence and she gave the impression of being happy with herself. ‘Hi, you must be Kate,’ she said, giving me a welcoming smile. ‘I'm Rosalind. Call me Ros, though, everyone does. Come on through, we're all in the conservatory.’ I handed her the wine and flowers. ‘Lovely, thank you. Freesias are my all-time favourites.’

  I clumped behind her, down the long hall past two vases of fresh flowers that well and truly dwarfed my posy. On through a kitchen the size of a dining-room and out into an octagonal conservatory of wicker chairs and vast green plants and a wonderful smell of warm damp compost. Lounging on the wicker sofa and chairs, wine glasses in hand, were four women, all in summer frocks. ‘Let me introduce you, Kate.’

  I tried to take the introductions in but being a stranger in their camp made me nervous. First came Sara Wheatly. ‘Hello, Kate. Welcome to our coven. Let's hope you've got what it takes.’ What the hell did she mean? Sara Wheatly had dark, bobbed hair, a delicate face with intense brown eyes and small body parts – head, hands, feet – and a slimness that could have verged on anorexia. The type that men want to protect. Usually I've found they have nerves of steel and it's the big girls that need looking after. I didn't like her one bit and thought her joke (if it was a joke) about witches was in poor taste, the sort of comment that leaves you nervously trying to think of a witty response and not succeeding.

  ‘Take no notice of Sara,’ said Rosalind. ‘She just pretends to be a bitch. Now then, moving on to our friend near the cheese plant.’

  My eyes followed the direction of Rosalind's finger and almost occluded from view by the leaves of the plant was an unremarkable-looking woman, fresh faced and healthy looking, with fairish short hair and a ready smile. She even gave me a wave. ‘Hello, Kate, nice to meet you. Alan told me all about you. I'm Caroline Dakers.’

  I smiled, tightly. For someone who was supposed to be divorced she seemed remarkably married to me. She must have noticed my expression because she said brightly, ‘I expect you've heard Alan and I are divorced. That's true, but we remain very good friends, in fact we like each other more now.’

  I smiled again. Alan was fast becoming another fanciable man merely a twinge in my memory. I felt that a bit of animosity between ex-spouses seemed to me to be the more normal state of affairs. Could I really trust a man who couldn't actually cut the marital umbilical cord?

  ‘And next to Caroline,’ Rosalind was saying, ‘Deborah Holland, known as Debs.’

  Debs, in her twenties the youngest of the group, wore a tan sundress from which poked thin white arms and legs. Her dark hair was pulled back severely by two large slides and she reminded me of a startled deer caught in the headlights of a car – half scared to death. She made an effort to smile at me though and said ‘Hello' in a shy voice.

  Thankfully Rosalind hand
ed me a glass of wine then. ‘We only drink white in the day, red is so heavy, isn't it? You could have a soft drink if you prefer.’

  ‘White wine's fine, thank you,’ I murmured, beginning to find this lunchtime a real trial. Why on earth had they invited me? Tradition? Or as Hubert suggested, to befriend me and then get me to spy on their husbands? Rosalind took me by the elbow and sat me down on a scoop-shaped wicker chair. ‘Let's have a toast,’ she announced solemnly. ‘Absent friends!’

  A murmuring ‘Absent friends' echoed round the room followed by a short silence that was broken by Debs who said in her shy way, ‘I really miss Helena, you know. And Jenny of course.’

  I noticed that poor Jenny only got second place in the peckingorder. That seemed odd. There was some reason her death wasn't still the main topic of conversation. The cause of their apparent casualness over Jenny's death did matter, because it seemed to signify a reticence in coming to terms with it. Why? Because one wife at least must have glanced sideways at her husband. Another might have serious suspicions. And Jenny, even in death, would be resented.

  As the others began to talk Rosalind, who sat nearest to me, whispered, ‘Just in case you don't know who Helena is, she's Charles Amroth's wife. She left him four years ago and we've never seen her since. She just sort of disappeared although I do believe she has written to her son Neil – I expect you've met him. He's a nice chap but Charles was terribly disappointed he dropped out of university. I mean from PPE at Oxford to odd-job man in Dunsmore is a bit hard for a parent to take, isn't it? They barely talk to one another now, although of course Charles has put work his way. Helena always said Neil was a difficult child but he did go to boarding school at eight so she really didn't see too much of him after that. Still, he's turned out to be a very capable person, can “turn his hand to anything” as the saying goes.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ I asked, feigning ignorance.

  ‘Painting, decorating, plumbing, carpentry, car maintenance.’

  ‘I'm impressed. Obviously a useful man to know.’

  ‘And so good looking,’ said Rosalind with a faint lift of a perfect brow. I felt myself going hot. Please don't let me blush. I hadn't slept with him and anyway if I had we were both single … ‘Don't you think?’ she added pointedly.