by Valerie Laws
‘Sorry Erica. One day I’ll learn not to care so much, I suppose. ‘
‘I hope not. There aren’t enough doctors who have the empathy you have. Come on, you need rest.’ She hauled him to his feet and supported him into the bedroom. He had thought of her in the middle of his own troubles. He needed some TLC too.
‘I don’t usually get much rest here,’ he murmured, as Erica peeled off his jeans.
‘You will tonight. Though I’m not promising anything about tomorrow morning... One unselfish act deserves another. I’ll give you a massage to help you relax.’ She trailed her hair down his body. ‘With my tongue, if you like.’
She woke up in the night to find her cheeks wet with tears. Craig Anderson. She was crying for him. What was happening for heaven’s sake? Beside her, Jamie was so deeply asleep he seemed to be scarcely breathing. The light picked out the fine bones of his face and the smooth skin of his shoulder. Somehow, while she was sleeping, the shock had worn off, and she could feel something of the despair Anderson must have felt to do that to himself, if he had. To have the willpower to try and cut off your own right hand with your left; such a horrible, fundamental mutilation, such a way to die, as he would have expected to if he hadn’t been found in time.
Erica felt she had let him down. He had come to her, in denial perhaps, but he had come. She should have realised he felt this way. She should have been able to do something about it. What remedy could she have given him for this? All his anger had seemed turned outwards. What could have happened to make it turn inwards against himself? He was religious, in a fanatical way. She remembered the biblical texts on his wall, his way of speaking. Surely suicide would go against his creed. But then, thoughts of revenge and hatred had not seemed to go against his beliefs. Suicides usually took pills or hanged themselves or slashed their wrists. To try to cut off his hand - a picture jumped into her mind. One of the biblical texts on the wall, written in big black curly letters on a white banner similar to the texts on Anderson’s walls. IF THY HAND OFFEND THEE, CUT IT OFF.
How had Anderson’s hand offended him? He had seemed so sure he was right about everything. Two possibilities came to mind. Either he had made some drastic mistake over the treatment of a patient, in which case she could well imagine he would turn his anger on himself at having been proved wrong, fallen short of his own faith. Or he had used his hand to do something else unspeakable. Like slit open a scrotum or a chest? Like hammer nails into a person’s hands or head? Anderson could be the Operator after all. Surely the police would think so.
But then why would he suddenly get a bad conscience about it, if he did it in the first place, and more than once? Traditionally it’s said that killers get a taste for the work, they escalate, as the rush killing brings fails to last and they need higher and higher levels of stimulation. Though some killers behaved as if they wanted to be stopped. Her brain whirled. She got up stealthily for a drink of water. She couldn’t put the light on, or read, or anything else she might have done if she’d been alone. It was wonderful to have Jamie next to her, but there was a downside to sharing a bed.
She opened a new bottle of sparkling mineral water and it fizzed out all over her. She swore, getting back into bed wiping droplets of water from her belly and thighs. Jamie’s dark eyes were open, two faint glints in the dark.
‘Sorry, woke up thinking about that stupid git Craig Anderson. Stupid, stupid thing to do!’ Her voice rose.
‘Erica, you couldn’t have done anything to help him if he didn’t choose to be helped. You know that. Don’t beat yourself up over it.’
‘Listen who’s talking!’
‘Yeah, well, I’m as daft as you are. Come on, lie down. Mm, you’re all wet. My favourite kind of woman. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’ He disappeared under the duvet.
Next day the police, anxious to quell the excitement about another possible Operator attack, issued a statement that the injuries were not thought to be the result of an attempted murder such as those carried out by the person known as the Operator. Craig Anderson was stable, surgeons were optimistic about re-attaching his right hand which had been practically severed. His skull injury meant he was still very ill and police were waiting to interview him about the circumstances in which he was injured. They could have a long wait. Erica was desperate to know what was behind Anderson’s self-mutilation or suicide attempt.
There was only one way to find out. She would have to ring Will. She could try the city force, but they would probably refuse to speak to her at all. Awkward, after their last brief meeting on her doorstep when he’d done a runner at the sound of Jamie’s voice.
He was unavailable. Damn. She rang the city hospital. She would have to be careful here. They would probably regard homeopaths as witch doctors. She asked after Craig Anderson. No, she was not a relative, she responded to the inevitable question. Nor a journalist. (Well she wasn’t wearing her journalist’s visor at that moment.) She was a private therapist and counsellor Mr Anderson had been consulting. This was technically true. She still had his details on file. He had consulted her. She was a trained counsellor. Hospitals used counselling staff these days, so they shouldn’t be too suspicious.
She piled it on a bit, saying she’d been concerned about him, and he had confided in her about certain anxieties which had been preying on his mind. She was concerned that his injuries could be self-inflicted. She knew that detail had not been made public so far. The voice on the other end hesitated, while Erica waited. They could ask the local police about her to check if she was genuine. They might then find out she was a feature writer and assume she was after a news story. They might well check with the police officer who no doubt was hanging around Anderson’s bed waiting to be able to talk to him.
The decision was made, presumably without checking. She would not be able to see him, he was too ill, immediate family only, but she could talk to one of the staff looking after him.
She was put through to a Dr Mackson. Erica told her that Anderson had been in a tense and distressed state, very bitter about past bereavements. Mackson seemed to know about his wife and son, though she didn’t say so directly. They were dancing around each other, both trying to keep confidentiality. Presumably his relatives had told the hospital. Since his opinions about doctors had been in the newspaper interview he gave, Erica didn’t feel the need to keep that secret, so she mentioned his attitude to the medical profession. She said she was worried about how he’d react to find himself in a hospital, a hostile environment as far as he was concerned. Mackson said their own counsellors would look into it.
They were getting quite cosy now, and the doctor went so far as to confirm that it did look as if the injuries were self-inflicted, and that there was something clearly on his mind. He had been unable to make any statement, only muttering about ‘blood on his hands’, presumably, she said, referring to the bleeding caused by the injury. Erica could ring again in the near future and maybe see him when his condition had improved.
Erica thanked her and rang off. Blood on his hands? Cutting off his right hand? The police would not be slow to make a connection, especially given Anderson’s opinion of doctors. She could see the hunt for the Operator being scaled down. She could only hope Anderson’s family had a good solicitor organised.
At work in Ivy Lodge that afternoon, she got a call from Ian Dunne.
‘It’s my elbow.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘My elbow, woman. You know, pointy thing halfway up my arm. It’s giving me merry hell. Ruining my game and, what’s worse, I can hardly raise a glass. Lucky I’m an ambidextrous drinker, eh! The doc’s tablets are doing bugger all. Thought you could slip me some of your eye of newt or rat’s arse or whatever.’ His elbow must be in agony, his mind had been deranged. ‘Your article on golf. I like it. I didn’t realise you could treat real illnesses, like golfer’s elbow. Thought it was all stuff that people imagined they had. So I’ll give it a whirl.’
Oh great. She arranged an appoi
ntment, giving him some advice to follow in the interval. Why oh why had she written about golf? Dunne would swallow the remedies with a mouthful of Scotch and fag-smoke instead of letting them dissolve in a clean mouth. His mouth hadn’t been clean since he was weaned. Then he’d sack her if they didn’t work.
She suddenly realised how much writing features meant to her. It was something different, it was interesting, challenging, socially useful, and although the constant deadline hung over her like a cloud of blood-starved mosquitoes, she would miss that buzz if it went.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The media seemed to be holding its breath. From being claimed as the Operator’s newest victim, it was now being hinted that Anderson actually was the Operator. Someone had leaked or sold to the media some of the phrases from his office walls, which seemed to clinch it. Public discussion on social media and online comments made it clear they’d made up their minds. According to Jamie, the mood of paranoia among medics, consultants in particular, was lifting even as the days lightened with the promise of eventual if reluctant spring. Evidence, proof and trial were just formalities. Erica was beginning to feel, perversely, protective of Anderson. A mixed-up mess, yes. The Operator? Not so sure. What if Will and cronies stopped looking and the real one was still out there?
The weather was unsettled too. Sudden freezing winds would blow up, whipping the sea to a cold fury. She would run down to the pier to watch the mighty waves and think, and was frequently shepherded back by the harbour master as huge waves began to hurdle the wall, first as spray, then as great bodies of water that could wash a person off into the lethally icy, boiling sea. The unruly water matched her mood and even the wind brought a bitter pleasure of its own.
Ian Dunne arrived at Ivy Lodge with his golfer’s elbow. It did not bode well when Erica politely asked him to put his cigarette out. He was not pleased. Her attempts to talk to him about his background, to learn about him so she could use her intuition and the Materia Medica to choose a remedy were stymied amid gruff demands to ‘just give me the bloody pills, woman!’ He made it clear that he had no intention of giving up golf to rest the joint, even for a couple of weeks. She explained how to take the pills, by tipping them into the cap, tipping them into his mouth and letting them dissolve slowly, at least half an hour before and after eating, drinking and smoking. She showed him a helpful exercise and where to apply ice and heat and for how long and how often. She prescribed Rhus Tox.
‘These look more like contraceptive pills. Are you sure there’s enough in here to do any good?’
‘It’s your own body that will heal you. The remedy just kick-starts that process.’
He stowed the little envelope away in his pocket. ‘Take a hell of a kick-start for that Anderson to heal himself! Poor guy’s obviously a raving nutcase. Bad conscience, if you ask me. They’ll never send him to prison. It’ll be the funny farm, you can bet on it. Hey, we can run a follow-up feature on him when the trial’s over. ‘My lone meeting with the Operator, by Erica Bruce. How our health correspondent met a multiple killer and lived.’’
‘I’m glad you read my stuff so attentively.’
‘I read every word of the paper like it was my daddy’s Will! I read your golf piece, didn’t I? I was glad to see you listed all the local clubs, including mine. Wouldn’t want all the publicity to go to that lot at Wydsand Club. They’ve got a waiting list as long as an orang utan’s arm. Still, they’ve had a bad year in some ways. We’ve been joking about it in our club bar. Harry Archer’s been getting some stick I can tell you! Wanting to join a club where you get murdered! A waiting list to be whacked!’
‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? It was only Kingston. Gupta wasn’t in a Golf Club from what I gather, and as far as I know, Paul Chambers was a member of your club. ‘
‘Yes, but Chambers was going to join Wydsand Club as well. He was on the waiting list, same as Archer. Meant to retire to the coast. Anyway, I’ll give these pills a try. Thanks, pet. Glad to see you’ve packed in trying to be a proper reporter. It just isn’t your area.’
He left just in time to save his life, cradling his elbow and taking with him the stench of stale Marlboros. She opened the window, regardless of the wintry blast which charged in without so much as an appointment and chased paper all over the room.
Somehow she had to calm down and get her brain into gear. She re-established order, ran home, had a hot shower and sat down with some Thai Quorn casserole she’d made and frozen in portions, and a glass of wine.
What had Dunne said? Wydsand Golf Club had had a bad year. Kingston, a prominent member, was murdered. Paul Chambers, who was waiting to join, had been murdered. People were dying to get into that club. Even their membership secretary had been put out of action for a long time. He could have been killed...
There might be a connection. Suppose Gupta’s murder was a one-off copycat crime, a big assumption admittedly, the whole thing could centre on Wydsand Golf Club. Harold Archer was also on the waiting list to join, but had not been attacked. Though he wasn’t a doctor. But Kingston was already in the club. Why him and Chambers? A lie, an awkward lie. Archer had lied to her. He had given her the distinct impression that he was a member of Wydsand Club, said how good it was to stroll down to the club, when actually he was still having to drive up to the city. And after he’d bought Kingston’s mother’s house for a premium price. But surely he’d have known about the waiting list at Wydsand before he bought the house? Dunne did.
Surely it wasn’t about the waiting list? No, that was ludicrous! People might be dying to get into the club but surely they weren’t willing to kill to get in. It was just a game after all. A respectable hobby. If the waiting list was that long, you could hardly murder your way down it until your name was at the top. Could you? Unless it was all about resentment, revenge for injustice. Someone getting their name above yours, or something similar.
She called the club and found out when Selwyn Blackett, who’d shown her round on her previous visit, would be in. She possessed her soul in patience until then. They refused to give his home or work numbers. The next day she trekked back to the club and once more upped the coronary rate by invading the testosterone-ridden bar at lunchtime, after parking her bike among all the shiny cars. Its handlebars seemed to droop dispiritedly but Erica charged in all guns blazing.
‘Has it occurred to you that this club could be the centre of these so-called Operator murders?’
Blackett choked on his single malt, spraying whisky all over his cuff. ‘Good God! you journos do get carried away. That’s rather far-fetched, you know. That Gupta bloke didn’t even play, and Chambers is in the City club.’
‘Yes but Chambers is on your waiting list. Think about it.’ She outlined the basic connections for him. ‘Maybe the membership secretary’s golf ball to the head wasn’t an accident. I took one on the arm that was meant for my head. OK, it could have been random vandalism, but put together with Kingston’s and Chambers’ deaths, it makes this club look like an unhealthy place to be. Harold Archer, Kingston’s neighbour, is on your waiting list, isn’t he? And pretty desperate to get in, after buying that house he’s saved for all his life, watching you lot playing outside his window.’
‘What, and he could be next? You ladies and your idea of logic! The Operator kills doctors, dear! Hence the name, Operator!’
‘Well sweetie, possibly somebody on your list, like Archer, could be - well, shortening the list.’ She was sticking her neck out.
‘Now look,’ he spluttered. ‘Archer is a respectable chap, or we wouldn’t have him on the list at all. He understands how it is. My predecessor, the Membership Secretary you claim was knocked for six on purpose... he explained to Archer, that whatever he’d been told, living by the course did not put him top of the list, and he had no choice but to accept that. He’s getting on, and it’s a long list, but the rule was, anyone belonging to another club was put further down the list unless they resigned from the previous club. Bit strange r
eally, you never know, perhaps the next Mem. Sec. will see if we can bump him up the list.’ He winked, clearly expecting his position to be made permanent. ‘Naturally he doesn’t want to resign from his old club until he’s safely in here. Otherwise he could be left with nowhere to play for an unspecified time.
‘The rule was originally to stop people joining several clubs and not giving allegiance to any of them, clogging up the membership lists and stopping other men joining. Fair enough, though in his case it could be argued that the rule was a bit unfair. But, you have to have rules, and they have to be seen to be enforced.’
She listened impatiently to all this. ‘You enforce an arbitrary rule, which you admit is unfair, then merrily scrap it if the Membership Secretary changes? Seems a funny way to run things. Was Paul Chambers ahead of Archer on the waiting list?’
‘Yes he was. So were other chaps. You’re not suggesting... our club has to take murderers? Some must advertise, but we don’t. All our applicants must be proposed and vouched for by members to get in. And wait their turn on the list. There’s no-one here with any dark secrets, I assure you.’
Like Mel and his male lover? Kingston and his violent sadism?
He spoke again before she could reply. ‘You’re laying yourself open to slander accusations talking like that. It isn’t right. You’ll have to leave. ‘
Their attempts to keep their voices down were getting more and more forced.
‘Look.’ Erica was practically hissing now. ‘You’ve just told me Archer expected to be a special case because he’d bought a house here. Where would he get that idea from if not from Kingston who sold him the house at an inflated price? I agree, it sounds weird to think anyone could kill their way to the top of the list. There’s a lot I haven’t worked out yet. And there’s Gupta. But what are you leaving your club open to, if it turns out Archer’s guilty and you’ve bent the rules to let him in? What will that do to your reputation? If I were you, I wouldn’t let any one through your own front door at night until this is all sorted. And I’d be watching out for flying golf balls.’