Know Me Now

by CJ Carver

  He got to the car just as she slammed the door and snapped the locks in place.

  ‘Open up,’ he told her.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’ll ask one more time . . .’

  The second he saw her hand go to start the engine he leaned over and punched the side of his fist into her side window. A crack appeared.

  Her face went white.

  As he drew back his fist again, the engine started with a roar. A crunch of gears as she rammed it into reverse.

  Dan turned and sprinted for his BMW. Not far, maybe thirty yards, but it could be far enough to give her a disproportionate advantage. He reached it in a clatter of gravel, skidding to the driver’s door. Hauled it open and dived inside. Turned on the engine. He saw the MX-5 turn left out of the car park. He tore after her, engine roaring. The seatbelt ring tone came on but he ignored it. He couldn’t waste a second buckling up. He had to get behind her before she could vanish.

  The street was active with shoppers and delivery vehicles, kids, pushchairs. When he saw Mouse Woman was boxed in between a Waitrose van and a VW Polo he hung back a little, not wanting to push her into doing something stupid on such a busy road, like overtake blindly and hit a pedestrian. He followed her at a sedate pace, buckling up at last, his heart hammering, adrenaline pumping.

  Gradually the centre of town fell away and Dan pushed closer. She accelerated, and then suddenly dived right down the next street. Was she using a satnav or acting on instinct? No matter. He knew the area well, better than she did probably, so he had the advantage. Soon they were out of town and as he swept round the next bend he saw she was flat out on a long, smooth straight. He floored the accelerator, topping eighty miles per hour, the wheels bouncing and thudding as they leapt over potholes. Then came a sharp right-hand bend and he waited until the last second before he stamped on the brakes, dropping into third gear and powering round the curve roaring to the next straight.

  She took the next right, then left after a farmhouse, her little MX-5 fast and nippy, but the BMW was more powerful and Dan the more experienced driver, which he could tell after watching her driving through town: her observation and hazard management were almost non-existent.

  Dan closed in.

  At the next corner Dan rode tight behind her through the bend, then on the next straight he brought his car right up to her bumper and gave it a tap. The MX-5 wavered briefly. He tapped again. He was hoping she’d pull over, but no. She was still going flat out.

  They came to a steeply cambered road. As Dan popped out of the bend, he was inches from the MX-5’s bumper. No traffic was coming the other way. He floored the accelerator and before she could block him, he was level with the MX-5.

  Keeping pace with her he gestured at her to pull over.

  Her face was pale and resolutely faced forward.

  He sounded his horn. Gestured again.

  Ahead, on his side of the road, a tractor suddenly appeared.

  Dan kept level with her. Kept gesturing. Kept sounding the horn.

  The tractor switched on its headlights. It was getting closer and closer at a terrifyingly fast rate.

  Dan held his nerve.

  He heard the tractor’s horn. He was still racing toward it but he wasn’t going to brake. Not until the last—

  The MX-5 suddenly vanished.

  She’d braked to let him in.

  Just as he’d planned.

  Dan yanked the steering wheel over. As the tractor’s snout flashed past his window, inches away, its horn shrieking at him, he swerved further across the road, right in front of the MX-5, and slammed on the brakes.

  The BMW had one of the best braking systems in the world. Even when applying the full force of braking power the vehicle remained under his complete control.

  The MX-5 on the other hand had good brakes but not exceptional ones. In his rear-vision mirror he saw the little car trying to skid to a halt and he suddenly pulled out, allowing her to almost come level, and then he rammed her straight into the ditch.

  As her car came to rest, Dan pulled over and reversed back. Ignoring the pain across his stomach he bolted outside, not stopping to switch off the engine.

  The Mazda was tilted to one side, the driver’s front wheel in the air, spinning lazily. Muddy water had sprayed over the bonnet and windscreen.

  He raced over.

  Mouse Woman was struggling with her seatbelt but otherwise looked OK. She was the colour of curdled milk and even from where he stood he could see she was shaking badly.

  ‘Open up,’ he said, rapping on her window.

  In response, she leaned away from him, snapped open her glovebox, and when she turned back, she was holding a pistol. Which she aimed straight at him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  With its grey stone foundations and grey rendering around stained PVC windows, Duncaid’s Police Station wasn’t a building to lift the spirits. Grace had passed it plenty of times on her way to work, but had never had cause to step inside. Until today, when Murdoch had insisted upon her ‘dropping by’. He had made it clear that he expected her to come to him, and not him to her.

  Grace waited for him in reception, her eyes taking in the posters on the wall. END WILDLIFE CRIME. STOP POACHING. Another showed an eagle in full flight. OPERATION APRIL, EAGLE WATCH. There were the usual posters on drugs and alcohol but it certainly made a difference having dramatic pictures of wildlife on the walls.

  A door banged behind her. ‘Dr Reavey.’

  She turned to see Constable Murdoch. His face was stony. ‘Follow me, if you would.’

  He led the way into an interview room. Small, blue, no windows. A two-way mirror was set in the wall over a bolted-down table and two chairs. It was where the police interviewed suspects and Grace had no doubt Murdoch had brought her in here to unsettle her. Don’t give him anything. Pretend this is completely normal. Smile.

  Murdoch closed the door firmly. Although he didn’t lock it, it felt as though he had. It was like being in a cell. With as much aplomb as she could muster, Grace took a seat. Folded her hands on her lap. Murdoch sat opposite.

  ‘Well,’ he said.

  Grace waited.

  ‘It appears Connor Baird was murdered.’

  He glowered at her. She thought of saying, apparently so, but there seemed little point since he’d now raised a forefinger and was stabbing it at her.

  ‘This does not mean you can demand a fucking autopsy at the drop of a hat in the future. This does not mean you can tell us, the polis, how to do our jobs and it does not mean you’re fucking God around here.’

  His face had turned puce, the veins on his nose standing out. She hoped he wasn’t going to have a heart attack. Her de-fib was in the car and since the tiny car park at the back of the police station had been full, she’d been forced to park down the street and it would take her at least two minutes to fetch it.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ he added furiously.

  ‘I hear you,’ she said mildly. She decided not to tell him she’d just requested another autopsy, this one on a sixty-six-year-old woman out of Bridgeorth who’d died the day before yesterday. Two weeks ago Iona Ainsley had come to her with an infected finger. Grace had put her on antibiotics and things had seemed to improve but then, to Grace’s horror, the infection suddenly deepened and Iona’s health dropped into a severe decline. Despite having been blue-lighted to hospital, Iona had died that afternoon.

  ‘Right.’ He nodded several times. ‘OK then.’ He brought out his pocketbook and a pen. ‘I need to ask you some questions now.’

  ‘OK.’

  More nodding. ‘OK,’ he echoed on an exhale. To her relief, his colour began to subside. No de-fib required, thank God.

  He opened his pocketbook and clicked the nib of his pen. ‘Tell me what you saw when you first arrived at the crime scene.’

  She talked him through her first impressions, which led to more questions. His writing was surprisingly small and angular, which suited his tens
e and irascible attitude. After a while he moved on to how she knew Connor as a patient, his parents, her thoughts on them as a family.

  He said, ‘You know Samantha’s husband Christopher was having an affair before Connor died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jasmine Zhang doesn’t have an alibi for the day Connor was killed.’

  Grace stared at him.

  ‘She says,’ he went on, ‘that she was at work. In the lab. But nobody can corroborate her statement.’

  Grace said, ‘Surely you can’t mean—’

  ‘No alibi,’ he said carefully, as if he was stating something obvious to a three-year old.

  ‘You can’t seriously think Jasmine murdered Connor?’ Her voice was high in disbelief. ‘For God’s sake, why?’

  ‘By setting it up as suicide she made sure Christopher and Sam would never get back together.’ He held her gaze, absolutely firm, absolutely resolute. ‘She had access to countless drugs in the lab. She’d seen Connor on his own before. No reason why he wouldn’t go and see her again. She had the means, motive and opportunity.’

  ‘The lab researches crops, rice. GM plants. You really think they’d have something like phenol there?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’ He sat back, folding his arms and looking smug.

  ‘And you think I waste public resources.’ She couldn’t help it; her tone was scathing. Sending a forensic team to scour the lab would cost a fortune.

  The skin around his mouth tightened. ‘At least I have good reason. A real purpose behind my request.’

  ‘You think I ask for autopsies for fun?’ Grace’s blood pressure began to escalate. ‘When someone dies and it’s not obvious why—’

  ‘Iona died of an infection.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was taken aback. ‘You know about that.’

  ‘Too fucking right I know,’ he snapped. ‘She died of natural causes and you throwing money away isn’t going to change that.’

  ‘But she shouldn’t have. That’s the point! According to her medical notes she’d never shown a vulnerability to infections before, and I want answers so if someone else suffers from the same problem, I know what to do.’ Her voice had risen and she fought to temper it. ‘Look, if you cut yourself tomorrow and you got a similar infection, wouldn’t you want to know I was giving you the right treatment? I might learn something vital from Iona’s autopsy that might just save your life.’

  He drew his lips back in a sneer. ‘As if.’

  She could have been talking to a stubborn, obstructive teenager and it was at that point Grace realised she could say the moon orbited the Earth once every lunar month and he’d still disagree.

  ‘If that’s all,’ she said coldly, ‘I’ll take my leave.’

  She got to her feet. She didn’t move to the door but made him open it for her. A trivial bit of point scoring but it helped make her feel better. God, she couldn’t believe his attitude. Her bad mood was still with her when she walked into the surgery. Two early-bird patients glanced up as she passed, murmuring greetings.

  ‘All right?’ Susan McCreedy, the surgery’s practice manager, looked at her askance when she checked in at the nurse’s station.

  Grace made an effort to relax her shoulders, which had bunched up around her ears. ‘I was just at the police station, discussing Connor’s case.’

  ‘Ach. It’s a terrible thing.’ A flamboyant redhead with freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, Susan was usually robust and cheerful but now her expression sobered into one of dismay. ‘Who’d want to kill a child like that? Terrible, just terrible.’

  ‘Terrible,’ Grace echoed. ‘Any messages for me?’

  ‘Nae. But Mr Baird is wanting to see you.’

  Grace raised her eyebrows in a question: Which Mr Baird?

  ‘That’ll be Professor Gordon Baird. He’s waiting for you in your office.’

  ‘What?’ For a second, she thought she’d misheard.

  ‘What?’ Susan looked baffled.

  ‘Gordon Baird is in my consulting room?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Susan was still perplexed.

  Grace stepped close to the woman. She said, ‘My consulting room is private for very good reason. I have confidential files in there along with sensitive medical equipment. The only people who are allowed inside when I am absent are the cleaners and anyone working in this surgery. Nobody else.’

  ‘But it’s Gordon—’

  ‘I said nobody else.’ Jaw clenched, she held the woman’s gaze. ‘And that includes the Archbishop of Canterbury and Brad Pitt. Obviously if the Queen wanted a look I might make an exception but since that’s highly unlikely I think we’ll stick to nobody. Understand?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Susan said, obviously reluctant and sulky. Grace could practically hear her chanting, oooh, la-di-da but she wasn’t going to back down. Even if it made her unpopular, she was determined to maintain standards and avoid any Tom, Dick or Harry wandering in and potentially stealing drugs, or accessing her computer. She didn’t want to make an exception for even one person. Christ, this never would have happened in Ellisfield, her last surgery, where doctor’s offices were pretty much sacrosanct.

  ‘Thank you.’ Grace swept out of reception and along the corridor to her room where she found Gordon Baird standing with his hands behind his back, studying her wall shelves and the folders, medical journals and books stored there.

  ‘Murdoch kept you for longer than I thought he would,’ he said without turning around. ‘I’d hoped to have more than a few minutes with you but you have a surgery at four, don’t you?’

  Inside she raised her eyes to the ceiling. Was nothing secret in this town? Then she took in his bowed shoulders and felt something inside her relent. She’d been about to order him out but she couldn’t. He had probably just learnt that his grandson had been murdered. However, it was still no excuse to muscle into her personal rooms. Was it a territorial gesture? Or was it because he was deeply upset and wanting privacy? Or was it more self-regarding? Because he didn’t want to be seen waiting like a member of the general public in reception?

  ‘Yes,’ she said instead. ‘Surgery’s in five minutes.’ She put her handbag on the chair behind her desk. ‘I’m so sorry about Connor.’

  At last he turned. His skin had turned a sickly colour and his eyes looked rheumy. For the first time he looked his age. ‘What does Murdoch think about it?’ he asked.

  She wasn’t going to tell him the policeman thought Jasmine Zhang was in the frame. Instead she said, ‘I think you should ask him yourself.’

  ‘Aye. I will do that.’

  He came and sat in the seat beside her desk. ‘I like this,’ he told her. ‘That you’re not behind the desk and the patient in front like at a job interview. I expect your patients feel as though they’re on the same level as you. More equal.’

  ‘That’s the impression I like to give.’ She looked at him straight. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘It’s more how I can help you.’

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a funny old thing. I was talking to a colleague of mine yesterday. John Buchanan. He’s got a practice in Edinburgh. The Queensferry Medical Practice. He’s looking for a top GP to join him. Not just anyone. Someone at the top of their game. He’s recruiting from London but I told him to wait a moment because I thought I knew of the perfect person for him.’

  Grace stared.

  ‘You’re wasted here,’ he told her. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know it.’

  She opened and closed her mouth. ‘I like it here.’

  ‘Liking is all very well, but you’re hardly challenged, are you?’ He gave a long sigh. ‘Look, John’s got a two-bedroom garden flat that he’ll let to whoever gets the job. You can walk to work. It’s in the city centre. You could stay there Monday to Friday and come to the farm at weekends. It’s only a three-hour drive away.’

  ‘I like it here,’ she repeated. She couldn’t think of anything else to say again
st the surge of traitorous hope that leaped in her breast.

  He put a card on her desk. ‘Call John. Talk it over. You’ve got nothing to lose. That said, I have to tell you that you’d be missed here as you’re bloody good, a breath of fresh air compared to most of the junk doctors we get, but in all honesty you’re underachieving in this practice and you could do so much better, be so much happier . . .’

  It was like an electric shock beneath her breastbone. What the hell did he know about her happiness? She pushed her chair back. ‘You’d better go, surgery has started.’

  ‘Of course.’ He rose. He looked at her carefully. ‘I’ve offended you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just hate it when I see talent squandered.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The instant Dan saw the gun levelled at him he backed off, hands raised, but Mouse Woman didn’t lower it. Kept it trained on him.

  She was holding a Glock 17 that would fire a bullet straight through the driver’s window without losing much accuracy. She was still shaking but not as much. The gun had given her confidence.

  ‘OK,’ he called. ‘I just want to talk. OK?’

  She shook her head.

  Still holding her weapon she brought out a mobile phone. Flicking her gaze between Dan and the phone she made a call. He couldn’t hear what she said, but whoever she’d rung was obviously coming to her rescue because when she hung up the colour in her face began to return.

  Dan walked back to his car. Switched off the ignition and pocketed the key. Then he brought out his phone. Dialled.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I need a number plate run. Fast as you can.’

  When he finished the call he pushed his phone into his back pocket. Walked to a tree that stood between his car and Mouse Woman. Propped a shoulder against the bark. Crossed his arms. Settled to wait.