Dying to Help (Anna McColl Mystery Series Book 1)

by Penny Kline

  If it wasn’t Rob it must be another of my clients. Or someone entirely different. The cards were never addressed to me personally. Perhaps they were intended for the previous occupants of the flat. But I knew there was very little likelihood of that. I decided to show the cards to David after all. He would find them highly amusing and make a few remarks about all my secret admirers, but when he stopped laughing and listened to what I had to say he might have a few ideas about the identity of the sender.

  I returned to my notes on frequent attenders and started trying to work out which of the local doctors would be the most likely to allow me to interview his patients. Certainly not Dr Ingram but there were plenty more congenial than he was.

  The phone started ringing. I reached across, catching my arm in the flex, pulling the base of the instrument to the floor, but managing to retrieve it before I cut off the call.

  ‘Yes?’

  There was a momentary pause.

  ‘Anna? You sound a bit fraught.’

  ‘Not really. I dropped the phone.’

  David coughed loudly, ending up with a kind of dry wheeze. ‘Look, I’m not feeling too good.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think it’s only a cold but it could be flu. Anyway, I don’t want to pass it on to you.’

  I wanted to say I didn’t mind, to beg him to come round just the same. But I managed to stop myself. ‘Right, well you’d better go to bed early.’

  ‘You’re angry.’

  ‘No, of course I’m not.’

  ‘I can tell. Look, I’ll give you a ring in a day or two.’

  ‘All right. Fine. I hope you’ll feel better soon.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just that I keep getting these anonymous post cards.’

  ‘Really?’ His croaky voice seemed to have righted itself.

  ‘It’s not important. Just an ex-client or something.’

  ‘Poor old you, but I’m sure you can handle it.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, David?’ I was trying to stop him ringing off. ‘That time you went out for a drink with Bruce … ’

  ‘What about it? That was months ago.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I just wondered, you’re sure he didn’t mention someone called Karen?’

  ‘Not as far as I can remember.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Right, well, see you soon. Take care.’

  I replaced the phone, slowly, carefully, feeling the dampness of my palm on the cold plastic. Iris had come back into the house. I could tell. He had heard the front door and finished the call as quickly as possible. He wouldn’t move out at the weekend, he wouldn’t be well enough.

  Picking up the post card which had fallen on the carpet when I answered the phone, I wondered, just for an instant, if David had pushed it through the door. It was a game, the picture was a joke, the description of my movements was a way of letting me know that, in spite of everything that had happened, he was as obsessed with me as I was with him.

  Wishful thinking again. Of course it wasn’t David. I picked up the wine bottle that had rolled behind the sofa and lifted it to my lips, just as Chris had done with her medium dry sherry. The trickle missed my mouth, ran down by chin, and dripped on to the collar of my shirt like thin red blood.

  Chapter Ten

  On my way out of the building I bumped into Martin. It was the first time I had seen him that day. He had a sticking plaster over his left eyebrow and was looking extremely sorry for himself.

  ‘What happened? Been beaten up by a client?’

  He didn’t laugh. ‘One of the twins. Threw a piece of her building set, caught me on the eye. Bloody agony.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Anyway, where are you going?’

  ‘Diane Easby, the one I told you about. Sycamore Road. Things seem to have got out of hand. Something to do with her husband. She’s shrieking and yelling, demanding I go round there at once.’

  ‘Keep well out. Phone her social worker.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s got one. Anyway I’d better see what’s going on. I don’t mind, I can do it on my way home.’

  Martin pulled a face. ‘Rather you than me.’

  ‘Oh, Martin?’ I was half-way through the door but I had to tell him. ‘You know my research project?’

  ‘What about it? D’you need any help — ’

  ‘Owen Hughes actually phoned to give me some advice about funding. He sounded quite keen.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did. It’s good for their careers to collect a group of research students. Might lead to publications in the journals. His name at the top, yours at the bottom. Get it?’

  My high spirits evaporated and as I walked across the car park I regretted allowing Diane Easby to talk me into visiting her at home. What did her marital problems have to do with the reason for her referral? First her brother, then her washing machine, now it was something entirely different. On the other hand, I despised psychologists who stuck rigidly to the first presenting problem regardless of everything else that was going on in the client’s life.

  I had never visited that part of the city before but Diane had given me instructions, barely audible against the noise of a screaming child.

  Up Gloucester Road, right by that pub with an eagle on the sign, left along Beech Avenue, then first on the left. Uneven numbers were on the right-hand side. Her house was number seventeen.

  I drove slowly, unwilling to arrive too soon. It was three days since David had phoned saying he had flu. I had decided to take his explanation at face value rather than indulge in pointless speculation. It was easier said than done. Was he back at work by now, planning to phone but putting it off until his business affairs had been attended to? He would know I was worried, upset, but the longer he waited the greater the intensity of our reunion. Everything on a knife edge, exciting, precarious, exhausting. Just the way he liked it.

  I almost missed the turning by the pub. Slowing down I glanced at the scribbled instructions I had left on the passenger seat. Beech Avenue, then first on the left into Sycamore Road.

  The houses had pebble-dash fronts, some of them painted a pastel shade, others still their original dingy grey. Council estates where some of the houses have been sold to their tenants are easily recognizable. New front doors and neat front gardens mark out the owner-occupiers. Those still paying rent lack the motivation even to trim the privet hedge. But perhaps I was just jumping to conclusions. Number eleven, thirteen, fifteen. I pulled up outside seventeen, which still had its downstairs curtains drawn.

  When I stepped out of the car a Jack Russell terrier approached me, barking and growling. I stretched out my hand and it ran off again, pausing to cock its leg against the wall, then crossing the road and disappearing behind a collection of hydrangeas, still bushy with last year’s dead paper-thin flower heads.

  The path up to Diane’s house was littered with soggy newspaper, a crushed can of Diet Coke, several polythene bags, and a deflated plastic football. There was no doorbell or knocker but Diane’s face peered out from a bedroom window and I heard her running down the stairs, shouting at the child to stay where it was.

  ‘Thank God you come.’ She wrenched open the front door, which scraped along the ground, and I squeezed through the crack. ‘It’s always the same when it rains.’

  Did she mean the door or her family life? A small child was coming down the stairs backwards. Part of its nappy had come adrift and was threatening to catch in its foot. I went to meet it, lifting it up and carrying it into the front room, where Diane had already settled herself on a brown and white check sofa-bed.

  ‘Sorry to inconvenience you, love, only I had no one else to turn to.’

  ‘What’s happened exactly? Your husband’s — ’

  ‘I told him to clear off.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Better off without h
im.’ She stood up and started searching in a cupboard next to the television stand. ‘Still in nappies, this one. Drives me insane. The doctor threatened to send the health visitor. No, thanks, I said, I’ve trouble enough without that cow poking her whatsit into my affairs.’

  She tugged at the waistband of her jeans. ‘Look, I’ve lost pounds these last few months.’

  ‘Yes, I can see.’

  She was wearing no make-up and her hair looked darker as though she hadn’t bothered to wash it for several days. The child had wriggled free from my knee and was sitting in a corner sucking part of a toy machine-gun.

  ‘You must be Siobhan,’ I said, leaning in her direction and picking up a toy dog with large goggling eyes.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Diane, snatching at the child and pulling down her damp knickers, which she threw towards the fireplace. ‘Nice of you to come. Don’t know why I phoned you really. Oh, it was because of my appointment. That’s what the row was about, see. Alan said he had to sign on. I wanted him to stay with Siobhan.’

  ‘Alan’s out of work?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Bloody murder it’s going to be. No money and him under my feet all day long.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thing is, we get on all right if he’s away half the week. Makes sense doesn’t it. More to talk about when he comes back, only of course he don’t tell me the half of it.’ She paused to make sure I had understood.

  ‘To be honest I don’t think he bothers. Other birds. It was sex that got us together in the first place. Still good when we’re in the right mood.’

  I smiled and she grinned back. She had pulled Siobhan on to her lap and taken hold of one of her small sticky hands. ‘Round and round the garden like a teddy bear. Upstairs, downstairs — ’

  Siobhan laughed, then struggled to get down.

  ‘Oh sod off, you little bugger.’

  Diane plonked the child on the floor, rather too firmly, although Siobhan raised no objection.

  ‘Makes up for the rest don’t it — if the sex is good.’

  ‘Yes, yes it does.’

  Siobhan was balancing herself by clutching at my skirt with a hand that seemed to have small pieces of a red boiled sweet between each finger.

  ‘Of course, when Alan’s at a loose end like now the tension builds up in him. Stress, it’s called. Well, I don’t have to tell you. Not that he’s ever what you’d call violent, but he threatens.’

  ‘Threatens you?’

  ‘Sometimes. Mostly it’s what he’d like to do to people like you. Anyway I was half-way down the road on my way to see you when he ran after me, said if I went out Siobhan would be left alone in the house and if the place caught fire it’d be my fault.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have taken her with him?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s what I said. But he done it before and they had to wait over an hour because of a form that needed filling in or something and she went berserk, kicked a woman on the ankle.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘That’s not what Alan said. Anyway, I was wondering if you did marriage guidance. If he comes back, I mean, which I know he will seeing as how he’s got nowhere else to go.’

  My heart sank. ‘If you think it would help.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it would.’ She leaned forward, smiling warmly as she reached for a packet of cigarettes on top of the video-recorder. ‘Now you know where I live we’ll be more like friends.’

  I nodded, opened my mouth to say something encouraging, but she hadn’t finished.

  ‘Oh, I know we’re not really friends. It’s what they call a professional relationship. Best that way. Of course, the social worker pretended she was a proper friend.’

  ‘You have a social worker?’

  ‘Not now I haven’t. Been waiting for a replacement but I expect they’ve forgotten I exist.’

  ‘Who was it? If you like I could get in touch with Social Services.’

  I hoped she didn’t think I was trying to shift the responsibility but from the look on her face no such thought had entered her head.

  ‘Don’t bother, love, I’m much better off with you. You’re a bit older, see, more mature. Besides the evil cow tried to have the kids put in care. Bloody cheek, she was no more than a kid herself. Alan couldn’t stand her. I had.to keep him out of her way. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, that’s what he said. Still, mustn’t speak evil of the dead. Nobody deserves to be done in like that, not in their own home.’

  ‘Your social worker was Karen Plant?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? Must have done. No, I was talking about Keith, wasn’t I. Poor little bugger, although I sometimes think he’s better off out of it.’

  It was time to leave. ‘I tell you what,’ I said, standing up and removing Siohban’s hand from my leg. ‘Come the same time as usual and bring Alan with you. Your friend could have Siobhan for an hour or so, couldn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t know. If not I’ll bring her with me.’

  ‘Yes. Well, try to come on your own, just the two of you, but if it’s quite impossible … Oh, Diane?’ I tried to sound as though what I was going to say was of no real importance. ‘You didn’t send me a post card, did you?’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Her response threw me for a moment. ‘I haven’t got it with me. It’s just that whoever sent it forgot to put their name.’

  ‘Funny thing to do. Anyway I don’t know your address.’

  ‘It’s in the book.’

  ‘What did it say — the card?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. It had a picture, a reproduction of a painting.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘Oh, I forget. A woman.’

  We stared at each other for a moment. Was she trying not to smile, or was it just that her mouth turned up at the corners naturally? Her eyes were as bright as ever, even without the thick black mascara. I was the first to look away.

  *

  On my way home I wondered why Diane had thought Karen Plant wanted to have the children taken into care. It was true that she seemed rather inconsistent in the way she behaved towards Siobhan, but surely she was no worse than thousands of other mothers. Had there been evidence of non-accidental injuries, either to Siobhan or to Lisa? Perhaps I should get in touch with Social Services, but then if Diane found out she would know I was checking up on her and any trust that had been built up would be destroyed. Besides, although Siobhan had been damp and rather grubby, she showed no sign of bruises and seemed quite a happy, contented child.

  When I arrived back at the flat the phone started ringing before I had taken my coat off.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Anna? It’s me, Chris.’ Her voice had an ominous wheedling tone. ‘Look, I know it’s terribly short notice, but could you possibly baby-sit, just for a couple of hours?’

  ‘When? Now?’

  ‘D’you mind? Only Bruce has been interviewing this man from Manchester. His wife came down with him and he wants us all to go out for dinner.’

  ‘I’ve only just got home.’

  ‘I know. I tried to reach you earlier, even thought of ringing your office except I’ve lost the number.’

  ‘I would have come but I’m feeling absolutely whacked and I think I’m getting a cold.’

  ‘Nice warm fire. TV supper in the fridge.’

  I almost gave in. ‘Look, if you can’t find anyone else.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter. Just forget I called. See you.’

  I sat down and kicked off my shoes. I could imagine her telling Bruce what she thought of me. How I usually enjoyed seeing the children, how she didn’t know what on earth had got into me lately. How she knew I was missing David but surely an evening in a different house would have made a pleasant change.

  I sighed. As a punishment for my dishonesty I could feel a scratchiness in my throat. The beginning of a real cold or the power of suggestion? Perhaps David had been speaking the truth when he said he had flu. Perhaps it was a parti
cularly virulent strain and that was the reason he still hadn’t phoned.

  The flat felt cold. In a masochistic effort to economize I had turned down the heating and set the timer to come on too late to warm it up properly before I came home. I stood up and went out into the passage to adjust the thermostat, then on into the kitchen to check if I had any food, if I would have to go out again and buy more milk.

  Something was wrong. I could sense it. Someone had been in the room. But when I looked more closely everything was exactly as I had left it. Breakfast things cleared away on to the draining board, empty cereal packet on the side because it was too large to fit in the pedal bin.

  On the windowsill above the sink a small pool of water threatened to run over the edge and drip on to the floor. I must have run the tap too hard and the water had splashed up out of the bowl. Then I noticed the green and white saucer where a small succulent rested in its earthenware pot.

  Succulents like to dry out in the winter. All they need is a drop or two of water very occasionally. I touched the earth with the tip of my finger. It was sodden.

  While I was away in September — a brief holiday with David in Anglesey — I had given Chris a key and asked her to look in if the weather was hot and the plants in danger of drying out. As far as I knew she had forgotten all about it and, in any case, the weather had been cool, overcast. David had soon grown bored with looking round the island and we had started back early, stopping off for a night in Aberysthwyth, then returning home the following day. It seemed an age ago.

  Lifting up the plant pot I tipped the water out of the saucer, then held the succulent over the sink so that some of the moisture could drain away. My hand was shaking and my stomach had contracted into a tight aching knot.

  I thought of phoning Chris to ask if she still had the key, then remembered she was going out — if she could find a baby-sitter. If she hadn’t managed to find anyone, phoning her now would be a big mistake and, even if neither of us could remember her returning the key, I could hardly accuse her of prowling round my flat while I was out at work. Of course, if she had been round that would account for the coffee mug in the sink. And the peach tissue? But how could it be Chris? She had Barnaby with her all day and what possible reason would she have for wanting to spend time in my flat?