by Valerie Laws
At last it was finished. She emailed it feeling good about writing a balanced account. She stretched luxuriously, and went off for a hot shower. She emerged to find a mass of missed calls on her mobile and furious messages on her landline from Dunne to ‘ring me back pronto!’ She made a hot drink before ringing him, to have a gale force bollocking roaring into her ear.
‘What the fuck are you playing at Erica? No way will I print such scurrilous, libellous rubbish about a pillar of the community. You’ve lost your mind! How could I face the manager of the hospital trust? I play golf with him for Christ’s sake! Way to give the Evening a bad name, throwing dirt on a local hero who can’t speak up for himself. You should stick to your quack remedies and stop bothering the big boys.’
He ended the call.
She was raging. Bloody local golf clubs, hospitals, police hierarchies, male dominated, class oriented, money and status driven bunch of bastards. Probably all Freemasons as well. She’d heard Dunne was. He’d join anything if it would get him well in with the local movers and shakers, the bloated fish jammed into the regional puddle. He’d be drummed out if he allowed anyone to slag off a fellow trouser-leg roller-upper. He’d probably had to give some secret oath to uphold the honour of fellow members. She imagined him bedecked with arcane regalia, which in her mind was some kind of apron like her gran used to wear to wash up in, but with a Masonic design on it. A set square, wasn’t it, their sign, and a pair of dividers, and wasn’t there a hammer somewhere? Masons used hammers surely. Or was that the Soviet flag?
Dividers; metal spikes. And a hammer. Oh god. What if there was a Masonic connection here? What if the nails and rocks, after all even the ashtray used on Chambers was marble, used to hammer them into the victims’ hands, and in Kingston’s case, head, were meant to refer to the Masons? And wasn’t it generally believed that top cops and judges were Masons? Was Will...? No, more likely the Superintendent. He’d rather die than wear an apron at home of course, but in a secret society of men, oh he’d be strapping on his pinny with the rest... She rang Will and left a message.
She had to get out and run off her fury, so she headed along the sea front. Increasingly she’d been running in the opposite direction to the lighthouse, crem, Kingston’s house and the track behind it. She’d been running, or cycling the first part, south along the seafront, towards the great river mouth with its castle standing guard on the cliffs, and out along the pier to the smaller lighthouse on the end of it, which together with its twin on the south side of the river guided ships into their outstretched protective arms. It was a longer, stormier run, more open to sea wind and fret and huge waves washing over the pier if the sea was in a violent mood. She’d told Will where she was going so he could meet her if free, or ring back and arrange to talk.
Eventually having followed the curves of the succession of bays and the long stretch of pale gold beach between them she reached the lee of the castle, standing behind her high on the cliff as it had for centuries. She carried on along the pier on the north bank, waves boiling white crashing against it on her left, smoother but still heavy grey swell on her right, to the lighthouse on its end almost surrounded by sea. She watched the waves for a while, thinking about death, and murder, and bodies. She wanted to be here, when she died, in the North Sea’s cold and boundless heart... the squat lighthouse straddled the end of the pier, hollowed underneath to form a rough stonework chamber open to the land side, and she was standing in there breathing hard, out of the worst of the wind, when a shadow filled the doorway and she turned to find Will Bennett there. He’d been running too, and was in his shorts and top, long and lean and dark, Wolfman to the life only a lot less hairy.
Will looked at Erica, so small and determined with her wild hair, her chest heaving with effort.
‘It should be you that’s called Will,’ he surprised himself and her by saying.
‘I did call you,’ she said, confused.
‘I mean you always look so determined. So much will power. Are you OK?’
‘Of course I’m OK!’ He’d put his foot in it already. ‘Why wouldn’t I...’
She made an effort to start again. ‘I had an idea about Kingston.’
‘Oh.’ His chest was moving too, deeply but not as much as hers. Not that he was fitter, oh no, he must’ve run a lesser distance. Probably drove to the car park and then along the pier. She’d left the message saying where she was running. Maybe she’d hoped to meet like they had the first time, two runners by the sea, united in their driven self-punishment.
As she poured out her Masonic theory his eyes narrowed to chips of blue glass like the fragments of Victorian medicine bottles on the beach, now ‘boody’ polished by the sea. Her residual anger at Ian Dunne spilled over into her telling which didn’t help.
‘So are you saying the Superintendent is the Operator?’ He indulged in a nanosecond of fantasy of himself with a knee in a prone GB’s hated back with handcuffs poised...
‘You know I’m not. I’m saying there might be a Masonic connection you could look into.’
‘Well thank you very much Erica. It’s alright for you, Ms Warshawski...’
‘I’m more of a Ms Harriet Vane at the moment, I’m rereading the Wimsey books.’
‘Ah yes, more amateur sleuths. It’s alright for you to cherry-pick which aspects of the case you are going to interfere in, and which you are delegating to me and my team. I don’t have that luxury. I came out for a run because I was going mad indoors, chasing up leads and scores and scores of possible suspects of one, both or either murder.’ He gave her a quick run-down of some areas they’d explored. ‘To say nothing of chasing the usual knife fights, alcoholic punch-ups, vandalism, car theft, and drug dealers.’
Erica opened her mouth to reply but he went on. ‘Speaking of which, I assume it was definitely your Stacey who’s been nicking your sugar pills and selling them on?’
‘She’s not my Stacey but I’m saying nothing. Not even if you dangle me over the railings.’
‘Don’t think I’m not tempted.’ He took a step towards her and she stood firm, looking up at him like a furious little cat at a big dog.
‘That’s where I’m going when I’m dead, but not yet.’ She gestured towards the restless waves heaving themselves endlessly against the stone, wearing it away with all the patience in the world.
‘Check the wind direction first. You’ll end up like ground black pepper in somebody’s fish and chips.’
They both laughed, and as a particularly ambitious wave splatted across the wall and landed behind them on the pier path, they turned as one and began to jog loosely back along the pier, scurrying past the damp patches where waves had scaled the wall and might again.
‘Hard luck about your article.’
‘Thanks. Yeah, well it’s my own fault. I’ve chosen the wrong paper, editor, time and place to be a hard-hitting writer of exposés. Maybe Dunne’s right, I should give up trying to be a proper journo and just do the recipes.’
‘That’s not going to happen Erica.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yeah. The readers would starve trying to live on what you eat.’
‘Cheeky bugger!’ She clouted him on the arm.
‘Actually I wish he would print it. It might stir something up... provoke some sort of reaction in the case. Though I think you might be at risk yourself if you’re not careful.’
‘You and Stacey, two minds with but a single thought.’ She told him about their conversation about the golf ball. ‘But I’m going to write a feature about a fanatical homeopath instead. The kind you hate even more than me. The kind you’d like to lock up.’
‘I look forward to reading it. Seriously though Erica be careful.’
‘I am. If anyone really wanted to kill me they’d not have left it at one near miss with a golf ball. They’d have plenty of chances while I’m out running, or at Ivy Lodge, or at home. It must have been a one-off, an accident probably. Anyway I’ve got Stacey as intern and
now bodyguard as well.’
‘Thanks for the warning. I suppose there’s no point in telling you to stop interfering?’
‘I suppose there’s no point in asking you to say Tessa’s totally in the clear?’
They stopped at the point of separation, looking at each other, hot inside and cold outside, feeling very aware of how near they were to each other. And how well they knew each other’s skin, body, scent, feel, heft.
‘You’ve got a boyfriend,’ Will said. And Erica had a flash of annoyance, not wanting it to be true right then, and after all she’d made no commitment to Jamie and wasn’t going to, but Will was old-school like that, she’d be handing him too much ammunition if she said let’s kiss anyway and pulled his head down to hers and fastened her lips on his and opened her mouth to him... Abruptly he spun round and set off, raising a hand in farewell without looking back.
A good work out at the gym helped get her remaining editor-rage out of her system, and a good night out on the lash put things in proportion. While there was house music with heavenly synthesiser tunes and infuriating beats, while she had a body to move with it, in motion with all the other ecstatic bodies, while she could move her hips against the body of a beautiful young man and feel how much he wanted her, that was all that mattered. At least, at the time.
She never knew when she’d see Jamie much in advance, his hours were horrendous, and when he was free she might not be. Much as she longed to spend time and energy with, on, under and around him, she didn’t want to be hanging around waiting to rearrange her schedule for him. Not a good pattern to get into.
However, until such time as Erica took over writing about how to use left-over cauliflower and banana yogurt to make an amusing supper dish for two, she was still editing the health page, despite that dickhead Dunne. So although she had got over the first flush of fury, she was not in the mood to indulge overbearing men. Pity, really, that she’d arranged to see Craig Anderson, the purist homeopath. As with Kingston, she’d have to control her own feelings to get an interview and maybe some information out of him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Anderson’s terraced house was quite a walk from the metro station. It had leaded windows, a square porch, and a grey front door. Below the doorbell was a plaque: ‘Craig Anderson, BA, MNCHM, R.S. Hom, Homeopath’. She rang the doorbell. This time she’d made no concessions to conventional fashion which might lull the suspicions of an establishment figure. Anderson was right-on alternative by all accounts, and he would probably know she was a homeopath herself. She wore black skinny jeans and a cerise sweater, with pink Converse high-tops.
Craig Anderson opened the door. She was pleased to see no one had nailed him to a table. Always a good start to an interview.
It was obvious the guy worked out and with serious weights. He was stocky, muscular, his arms bowing out from his sides slightly as they do in body builders. His neck was thick. His smile was thin. His eyes were very pale grey; a shaved head with a dusting of fair stubble; a conspicuous crucifix on a thin gold chain round his neck. He wore a black, blue and white striped Adidas polo shirt, tucked into grey jeans which barely contained his bulging thighs. A bit like Will, if a heavy weight had fallen on him from above. His bottom though was almost flat, she noticed when he turned to show her in. Too much exercise had distorted his body instead of perfecting it.
Several things were immediately clear. One, that he would have no trouble bashing someone’s head in with a stone, would barely work up a sweat in fact. Two, that he would be a hard victim to kill unless they brought a machine gun. Three, that no one would ever question his bill.
She followed him down a long, narrow hall. The house, though small from outside, went back a long way. It was the kind of place that has a back yard with a high wall around it, so not much light gets in except through the front windows.
She could only hope that this being a formal interview for a newspaper would keep her safe if Stacey had been right in her speculations that Erica might be a target; Anderson could theoretically be the killer. Just in case, she claimed that her editor had sent her. He showed her into a room looking onto the back yard and switched on the light; the shade was a large white paper lantern like a swollen moon. The room was painted all in white, with the original stripped and polished floorboards. She was not surprised to see woodchip on the walls under many layers of paint. He himself was too young to be that out of date. He must be aiming at some kind of retro chic. A bit of Seventies spirituality, perhaps. Or just indifferent, leaving the previous decor as it was.
There was a black ash desk, another retro box ticked, and lots of books bending built in shelves. A wicker chair painted white faced the desk. She perched on it at his invitation. He sat down on the black swivel chair behind the desk. Obviously he was keeping his distance. Maybe he was scared of her. Yeah right.
On the stark white walls were framed texts in big swirly calligraphy of the ‘Desiderata’ type. Texts like ‘PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF’. ‘A GOOD TREE BRINGS FORTH GOOD FRUIT’. ‘IF THINE EYE OFFEND THEE, PUT IT OUT. IF THY HAND OFFEND THEE, CUT IT OFF’. ‘IF YE WILL NOT HEARKEN UNTO ME, I WILL BRING MORE PLAGUES UPON YOU’. She sighed inwardly. A fundamentalist, with the fun taken out, and the mental left in. He was religious, and not just about homeopathy. Great. She switched on her digital recorder and placed it on the desk between them. He made no objection.
‘Well, Mr Anderson, thank you for agreeing to talk to me. We’ve covered the subject of homeopathy and most of the alternative therapies in our health pages. Perhaps you’ve seen them.’
He went on calmly looking at her, not yet responding. His desk was arranged so the light went onto his face, lighting up those pale eyes. His stillness was disturbing, except that she suspected it was conscious and contrived.
‘My editor and I felt you might offer our readers a different slant on homeopathic practice. Perhaps you could tell me why you became a homeopath?’
‘Because I believe it is the natural way to good health, the right way. I’m against drugs that alter the mind and work against the body’s own immune system. Alternative medicine is a way of life, not just correcting malfunctions, but a whole philosophy.’
He’d learned the knack of speaking quietly in such a way as to make people listen hard. A good teacher’s, or preacher’s, trick.
‘Like these texts on the wall? Some of them sound a bit drastic....’
‘People need to realise they are responsible for their own health, their own God-given bodies. It’s a sacred trust, Ms Bruce.’
‘I see. And how did you begin - how did you come to be a homeopath? Most of us start out as something else....’
She held his eyes. He wanted to seem in control; the desk between them, the steady stare, the unnaturally still body language, but she could sense a tension in him and something, maybe an emptiness at the heart of him.
‘I started out as a cost and management accountant for a big firm down south. Kent, actually. ‘
The bathos of this unlikely start almost made her laugh. She choked it down. Maybe she could spur him on a bit.
‘Really! That’s most unusual. Most people would think that alternative therapists are too impractical for such careers. Did you find you couldn’t handle it?’
‘No!’
His stillness held but his hands whitened, tensed on the desk top.
‘I was good at my job. It was a good job, with prospects, we - I was doing very well. But I decided that this would be a more socially useful line of work. So I retrained.’
‘I see. And had you always used homeopathic medicine?’
‘A little. ‘
He’d clammed up again. She tried to shake him loose another way.
‘Rather like me. I took a course in homeopathy just for treating myself and family and friends, ended up being more interested in that than in following up my degree. I don’t like too structured a life. Was that how it was for you?’
‘You can’t really compare us. ‘Therapis
ts’ like you just play at it. Handing out pills, just like doctors.’ He almost spat out the last word. ‘It’s pointless, giving remedies to people who swallow paracetamol and ibuprofen like sweets, go running to their GP between appointments, smoke, drink, eat bad food, take no exercise, ruin their health. It’s a kind of sacrilege. They’ve got to be made to see. Health is life. They’ve got to live healthy lives, and then they won’t need doctors.’
Erica controlled her anger at his jibes. No way was she going to get into a row with this guy. There was something fuelling his agenda though, she could feel it. Both of them had given up conventional careers to become alternative therapists, but he’d also moved to the other end of the country. There was also that hastily corrected ‘we’ which made her wonder. Time to push him further, see what popped out.
‘The health page I write deals with issues of prevention, good health and natural remedies of all kinds. But we can’t tell people not to see doctors. We’d have deaths of cancer patients on our hands, and the law on our backs. Surely you’re not telling me you can cure cancers, or put back amputated limbs?’
‘Most cancers are caused by bad lifestyle choices. So are accidents, come to that. Drinking and driving.... drugs... and doctors are just sales reps for the drug companies. If they knew that arthritis could be cured by a change of diet, or by, say, chewing an oak twig, do you think we’d ever get to hear about it? No way, it wouldn’t bring any money to the drug companies’ shareholders and directors. No, they’d go on developing anti-inflammatory drugs which have side effects and don’t cure the condition, so long as the money goes on pouring in. There’s no profit in prevention.’
Much of what he’d just said could have been, in fact had often been, said by Erica herself at times. Yet this whole black and white, people must/must not, was totally alien to her. Go further, get him to say it so there’s no room for doubt.