by Valerie Laws
‘Is it true then, Mr Anderson, that you only take patients who agree to leave their GPs’ lists?’
‘Absolutely. And change their lifestyles. Live as God intended. Don’t abuse their bodies. Then any small imbalances in the vital force can be corrected by homeopathic remedies.’
‘What if someone’s in an accident, caused by someone who hasn’t adjusted their lifestyle choices? Broken bones, damaged joints. Surely they need a hospital?’
‘In a properly regulated society, surgeons would be regarded as simply mechanics. They would put the body back into anatomical order and then homeopathic remedies would help the body heal itself.’
As usual, her devil’s advocate tendencies were coming out. When talking to Jamie, she had made many of the same points as Craig Anderson, but now hearing them in a more extreme form, she felt like arguing for the other side.
‘What about pain, Mr Anderson? Surely some conditions are helped by pain relief. Surely you agree that a parent cannot see their child suffer pain without wanting to relieve it? That doctors can sometimes...’
‘Doctors! I’d like to see them forced to suffer the treatment they dish out!’
He was on his feet, bulky and threatening. His face was white. She forced herself to stay calm. This man needed help of some kind. Or maybe she did. Somehow she’d found the button to press. Not so sure now she wanted to know any more, just get out of there with her own temple of a body intact.
‘Well, thank you for your frank expression of views,’ she was trying to sound breezy while getting up and scrabbling her recorder back into her bag. ‘I’ll put a piece in the paper, but I’ll have to be careful about some of the more extreme opinions...’
‘Of course,’ he muttered but dully, without the usual scorn.
She still wanted out, but his hostility seemed to have gone back into hiding. It wasn’t directed at her, amateur therapist as she was in his eyes, but at doctors. She risked another question, really wanting to know.
‘So do you treat yourself? Do you find you can diagnose any imbalances in your own physical or mental health? Most of us find that difficult, and if you are so erm, purist, it must be hard to find another practitioner with similar views.’
‘I haven’t needed any help so far, Ms Bruce. I eat only healthy, unpolluted unprocessed organic food, exercise hard, don’t drink or smoke, and therefore I’m in perfect balance.’
Physically, possibly. Mentally, she wasn’t so sure. He followed her back towards the front of the house, it was like tunnelling to freedom, the light from the street through the front door panes increasing like a view of heaven. Erica was trying not to scurry, run for the light, intensely aware of his bulk behind her, though he moved quietly. Captain Jack Aubrey could always feel the ‘loom of the land’ when out at sea. Well Craig Anderson was looming like a cliff. He could out-loom Will Bennett any day. She reached for the door like an alcoholic for a gin bottle.
At last she stood on the garden path, in daylight and in public. This was her last chance to ask about the killings. ‘By the way, what do you think about the two murders of surgeons? Do you think the killer, the Operator as they call him now, might start on alternative therapists?’
‘I’m not wasting any sympathy on those two. It’s usually doctors that do the killing. Look at all the doctors who’ve killed in history. All those ‘doctors’ who killed thousands of women in childbirth by spreading their filthy germs in the lying-in hospitals. Doctors in Nazi death camps. How did Shipman get away with it for so long? Playing on peoples’ misplaced trust. It’s probably another doctor who’s the killer. They’re all jealous of each other you know.’
‘Know a lot of doctors, do you?’
‘Know thine enemy.’
‘I thought you were supposed to love the enemy.’ She remembered the framed biblical texts on Anderson’s walls.
‘He that is not with us, is against us,’ he replied.
And closed the door.
She jogged back to the metro station. The wind was cold on her cheeks, seemed even colder as she stood waiting, the approaching train preceded by gusts of suddenly animated junk food wrappers.
Had she just been alone with a murderer? The way he had behaved showed him to be anything but in perfect balance, whatever his claims. His feelings about doctors could only be described as murderous. But would he ever put those feelings into action? Should she tell the police about him? She had no actual evidence. Will had suggested himself that an alternative therapist could be the killer, but only, she was sure, to scare her off getting involved with the case, and hence with his life. She wondered if the police had in fact looked at that avenue of enquiry.
But would Anderson have sounded off so freely if he was guilty? Surely he would have dissembled, smiled and smiled and been a villain, to avoid drawing attention to himself. Maybe not, if he was really unbalanced to the point of madness, really believed he was right, a lone avenger doing the world a favour by ridding it of doctors.... a sort of folie à un.
Kingston had had quite a high media profile, clearly putting his own glory and status before the patients’ wellbeing, certainly as Anderson might have seen it. But why would Anderson target Chambers? Perhaps he disapproved of vasectomies? Surgical birth control as some sort of heresy, a denial of the god-given life force?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
As the Metro neared her usual home stop, she felt the familiar urge to be close to the sea. Though standing on the platform with its chilly desolation had made her fleetingly wonder why everyone didn’t desert the north east coast and move en masse to the Côte d’Azur, she never felt like leaving the north sea and didn’t care how bleak or icy the wind while she was in sight of it. They say you can never step in the same river twice. You can never see the same wave twice either. The rising wind would be driving the waves hard against the piers at the mouth of the river Tyne with all its spectacular drama, and she felt a need to be there amid all that raw energy where thought and belief were alien and redundant.
So she stayed on the Metro for a couple more stops and jogged down the short street to the river mouth. The two piers with their small lighthouses on the ends curved out their welcoming arms to make a relatively safe harbour after centuries of lives lost mere yards from dry land, as ships foundered on the Black Middens rocks.
She jogged slowly, not having proper trainers on, to the end of the north pier. She liked it best when the water was stormy. It was a brighter day than when she’d met Will here but the sea had built up to a fine display of power. To her left, the waves flung themselves against the pier wall with a loud ‘Ger-DUNSH!’ sending plumes of glittering white spray sprinkled with rainbows shooting up like geysers. The wind tried to blow her sideways as she ran.
A great splat of water fell right next to her as a particularly mighty wave managed to storm the battlements of the pier. Sometimes, quite often in winter, whole waves washed right over the pier, and even leapt the lighthouse on the end. People would gather to watch the spectacle from the land end of the pier on a viewing platform after the harbourmaster had emerged from his little hut and walked to the end and back, shepherding all the walkers and anglers off the pier before locking the big wrought iron gates to keep them off. It wasn’t far from those conditions now.
She leaned on the green-weed-coated salty wall, watching the waves, thinking as her hair whipped her face. Weren’t journalists supposed to protect their sources? But she was not a journalist, Ian Dunne had made that very clear when he rejected her article. And what if she told the police that Craig Anderson might have a motive, albeit an irrational one, and he found out? Even if he was innocent of the murders, any hint of persecution might push him over the edge, and she didn’t fancy facing his rage. Not with those muscles. Could she trust Will not to dob her in? Throw her to the batshit crazy wolf in wolf’s clothing?
But then, Anderson had given her an interview freely. He’d let her leave with her recording intact. All she had to do was write up the interview
, add some researched relevant info and it would be published on the health page. No chance Ian Dunne would be so defensive about a mere nutcase homeopath as he’d been about Kingston. Then it would be in the public domain, and it was up to the police to do something about it if they wanted to. There must be loads of others who hated doctors, with or without reason. A bungled vasectomy leading to a disastrous pregnancy; or a regret at having it done being turned against the doctor who did it; these could be motives for Paul Chambers’ murder if it was a copycat killing.
She headed back along the pier. More and more waves were managing to throw their crests over the wall, and several times she was soaked with icy spray. She knew from soggy experience that what looked like a graceful lacy arc of droplets felt like a ton of bricks if you were right under it when it landed. Luckily she avoided a direct hit which could have knocked her down. Home, she changed into dry clothes, made a much needed mug of Earl Grey, and sat down then and there to write up the interview. Fearless Erica Bruce, exposing all that was weird and wacky in the world of health. Writing it was a breeze compared with getting a brush through her salt-sticky windblown hair.
Now it was a question of waiting until it was published in a few days time, together with another article about what to do if your child bumped its head and a few letters with replies.
Re-reading her Kingston article now, she felt a shudder at the thought of the swung stone crashing against the back of the head, the bone caving, shards of skull piercing the brain. She wondered how it felt. Did you hear it, that huge sound of your death? Did you feel the shock, or just enter a state of unconsciousness or semi-consciousness? How much time was there to realise what was happening before blackness descended? Had Kingston and Chambers realised they were doomed from the moment the weight made contact with their skulls? Or was puzzlement their last conscious feeling? She ran a hand over her horse’s skull. Bone seemed so solid, rounded, a safe box for the brain, yet a fall backwards could breach it.
Covering herself and of course Dunne and the paper, she added a rider to the article on Craig Anderson. ‘Erica Bruce advises that the opinions voiced above are the subject’s own, and the Evening Guardian would recommend seeking the advice of your GP as well as that of an alternative therapist.’
She felt a twinge of shame. Didn’t she have the courage of her convictions? Didn’t she believe in her own branch of medicine? She was still reeling under Simon Singh’s attacks on homeopathy, yet had so much personal experience of how it worked so often and so well. And so much knowledge of how little scientists knew about quantum theory, and the Big Bang, and before the Big Bang, and yet felt able to make definitive statements about the universe with what seemed like no more proof than homeopathy. They even said that asking the sensible question ‘What was there before the Big Bang?’ couldn’t be answered as it was meaningless. Lots of scientists were religious, with no scientific proof required.
She reflected how all the really scary people in history had been as sure as Anderson, and felt better. She knew going to the GP wouldn’t stop people seeking the help of homeopaths and chiropractors, hypnotherapists and other more dubious ‘ologists’. Most of the patients they saw had already been shown the door by GPs and consultants who said it was all in their minds. Got to keep Jamie in work, she thought fondly even though it meant she wouldn’t see much of him.
The next evening Erica was working a late session at Ivy Lodge. She’d been there all day, and was coming to the end of a solid batch of patients. True to form for this time of year, colds, coughs, earache, and various related symptoms predominated. This was one area where homeopathic medicine could really come into its own. All conventional medicine could offer was paracetamol in assorted disguises, often mixed with caffeine for a quick lift, some lemon flavouring for comfort, anything that would temporarily mask the symptoms. ‘It’s something going round,’ as GPs said of most common illnesses. ‘Drink plenty of fluids, rest, and it’ll go away by itself.’
She’d seen her last patient and was bringing her computer records up to date when darkness filled her doorway like an extra wall. It was Craig Anderson.
Stacey had been around, but had vanished into Rina’s room mumbling about ‘mint neet oot’ preparations involving a nap, then later hair re-building and root blackening, and front loading with cheap voddie. If she had her earphones in, Erica was as good as alone in the building.
‘Evening, Ms Bruce.’
He moved forward, light on his feet in spite of his bulk, and sat down. Something heavy in his jacket pocket clunked against the chair frame when he did so. Erica put her hand on her mobile in her pocket.
It was her turn to keep her distance behind a desk.
‘What can I do for you?’ She tried to keep her voice light. Her turn also to attempt the still, in-control body language. He was doing it too. They must have looked like a couple of dummies, she thought, but she wasn’t ready to see the funny side just yet.
She could sense that tension in him again. His eyes were narrowed as if against the light, as if it hurt.
‘I want to be your patient. Please put my details on file.’
He said it like an order. Her patient? With such a low opinion of her as a practitioner?
‘Do you have a health problem at the moment?’
‘I - have headaches. Bad headaches.’
‘I see.’
She didn’t see at all. Hadn’t he claimed to be in perfect balance and therefore in perfect health? Hadn’t he spoken with scorn of her as just playing at homeopathy? And he had turned up here, at a time when there would be no-one much around. Perhaps he wanted her to pull the article.
He seemed to bulge out of the chair, packed with muscle, tight all over with repressed energy. She didn’t like this situation at all. But she mustn’t show it. And she mustn’t confront him with the apparent contradiction of his earlier statements. No point in antagonising him until she knew more of what was going on.
Besides, she was a health practitioner, and maybe he did need help. She could well believe he had headaches with all that tension.
An acrid scent was coming from him. The room seemed very small yet the door seemed very far away. As her fingers moved slowly over the keyboard, making mistakes and trying not to shake, trying to spend as long as possible in contact with her pc, opening a Word file, typing his basic details at his prompting, name, address, DOB, phone, email, her mind was racing.
What if Craig Anderson was the Operator? What if he attacked her, gave her a permanent headache with whatever was in his pocket? If he killed her, it would be easy for him to erase his details from the computer. Before or after bashing some nails through her hands? And what other mutilations would he consider she deserved? Now she realised that all her questions during the interview, challenging his anti-doctor stance, might have sounded like support for what he clearly saw as the enemy. His parting words rang in her ears. ‘Those who are not with us are against us.’
If he attacked her, she wouldn’t stand a chance. All her exercise would be useless; she might as well have spent her life lying on a sofa eating chocolate and chip butties.
She was tempted to secretly speed-dial a number on her mobile to let someone hear what went on. Will, preferably. But Anderson might be a bona fide patient, entitled to absolute confidentiality. Why oh why had she insisted that Stacey stopped eavesdropping on her sessions with patients. Right next door she was probably asleep on the massage table.
Erica made three decisions. 1. If it came to it, she’d go down fighting and try to hurt him for the sake of her honour which suddenly seemed a very real thing, as solid as the desk. The thought of being murdered or violently attacked, and not having done anything about it and never being avenged in any way seemed unbearable. 2. She resolved to mark or scratch his face, get his skin cells under her fingernails or get some kind of forensic evidence so at least he’d go down for her murder even if she wasn’t around to see it.
3. Make sure he couldn’t erase his v
isit from evidence. While busy at the pc, she contrived to move her phone onto her lap and start the voice record. She could only hope it would pick up what he said and to some extent, did. She then hastily called up her minimised facebook window, clicked on messages and brought up the thread of messages exchanged with Stacey, copied and pasted Anderson’s details, after ‘listen in! Might need u’ and hit return, all while asking Anderson more questions about how to spell his address and so on. At least there’d be some record of him being here at this time, private but on the pc in Rina’s room even if Stacey didn’t hear the ‘ping’ sound of a message alert. She knew Stacey kept facebook open at all times.
While doing this, fidgeting with her hair and generally gesticulating to create a diversion, she managed to keep talking. She asked finicky questions from the Homeopath’s Materia Medica. Usually she’d be getting a new patient talking about everything to do with their lives as she assessed their physical and emotional type, their body language, their characteristics to get the full remedy picture. This was different. She just had to spin this part out before she had to face whatever he really had in mind. He’d come for something, and she doubted it was for his headaches.
The message was sent, her window hastily closed before any reply from Stacey would start her pc pinging. So that was all right. There would only be the tiny formality of being murdered to cope with.
‘OK Mr Anderson. Now about these headaches.’ Her voice sounded almost normal.
‘I get headaches.’ His voice was dull. His eyes fell. His hands lay on his massive thighs, rubbing the material of his jeans up and down. ‘Bad headaches.’
‘Could you describe them? Is it like a tight band round your head, or is it in one temple, does it feel like a nail being driven into your he-?’
Appalled to hear herself asking this standard question in these circumstances, she stopped short, feeling a flush of heat whoosh up her body as if she was doing high impact aerobics. Sweat broke out all over her and nausea made her weak.