B&K02 - The Malcontenta

by Barry Maitland

  It occurred to Brock that, for someone who had spent half his life investigating sudden death, supposedly an expert in the subject, he had absolutely nothing useful to say to her.

  ‘Grace, I feel so stupid suggesting we come out here …’ He waved his arm at the sarcophagus.

  ‘No,’ she put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m glad you suggested it. It isn’t morbid. I really want to come to terms with it. That’s why I was in the temple yesterday. I wanted to try to understand what had been in Alex Petrou’s mind.’

  Brock had originally planned to turn the conversation to this. It was the reason why he had suggested their walk. Now he no longer wanted to pursue it with her. Yet it took them on to slightly easier ground, away from the impossibly oppressive facts of Grace’s story. ‘Do you feel he could have known what he might be facing?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to decide. Did he know? He had such style! He made everyone else seem timid, tongue-tied, rather provincial, as if he belonged to a wider, more expansive, more exciting world. I’ve been trying to imagine, if he had known that he was at risk in some way, would he have behaved differently? Or would he have gone on being the same, risking everything, daring the fates?’

  ‘You felt he was a risk-taker?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure he was! I remember some old dears driving back to the clinic one day and arriving in a terrible state because they’d met Alex on the road on his motor bike. He drove like a bat out of hell - that was his expression. He’d picked it up from someone and it appealed to him. “I am the bat out of hell,” he would say. He’d had several speeding tickets.’

  ‘Well … maybe that’s the best way to go.’ Brock muttered the words before he could stop himself, then immediately bit his tongue. But Grace didn’t appear to have heard. She was staring past his shoulder, eyes wide, her expression rather as he had seen it first in the lower chamber of the temple.

  Brock turned in the direction of her stare and saw a dark, hooded figure standing motionless, watching them, about thirty yards away towards the high hedges which surrounded the north lawn of the house. They remained immobile, the three of them, for a long second, and then the figure turned abruptly and disappeared behind the nearest hedge.

  ‘Stay here,’ Brock said. He ran as fast as he could towards the other end of the hedge, jumping over flower-beds and clumps of dead foliage. He threw himself around the end of the hedge and slithered to a stop. There was no sign of anyone else. Chest heaving from the sudden exertion in his heavy boots and coat, he trotted along the hedge, back towards the spot where the figure had been standing. Before he reached the place, he saw the footprints and recognized the diamond heel pattern. The track came a few paces down the line of the hedge, then crossed back through a gap and headed towards the clearing where he’d left Grace.

  ‘Shit!’ he muttered, and pushed through the gap, his eyes fixed on the footprints. They detoured round a cluster of bushes, and looking up he caught a glimpse of the dark figure through an opening in the shrubbery ahead. Whoever it was had reached Grace, was standing over her, and Brock could see her pale face turned upwards.

  He decided to cut directly through to them rather than follow the path, and found himself floundering up to his thighs in deceptively deep mounds of pristine snow. The two motionless figures seemed unaware of his approach as he struggled towards them. Finally, Grace nodded and turned her face towards Brock, and he realized she had known he was coming but had been listening to something the other figure had been saying. It, too, turned, and Brock saw a peaked cap projecting under the hood of the black parka, and beneath the cap a male face.

  ‘David! You’ll give yourself a heart attack,’ Grace said, with genuine concern.

  It took him an embarrassingly long time to bring his heaving lungs under sufficient control to speak. ‘Who …? Who …?’

  ‘This is Geoffrey Parsons, David. He’s the Estates Manager.’

  Parsons offered his hand and Brock was obliged to pull his glove off and shake it.

  ‘What were you doing, lurking over there?’ he asked truculently.

  ‘I saw you, but I didn’t want to interrupt …’ Parsons sounded anxious. And looking at him close up, at the wisps of sandy hair falling untidily across his eyes, and listening to his weak voice, Brock felt foolish at having expended so much effort pursuing him.

  ‘What about yesterday? You followed us up to the temple, didn’t you?’

  Parsons nodded. ‘I’ve been wanting to ask Mrs Carrington something. Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you.’ He smiled wanly at Grace, then nervously at Brock, and turned and walked away.

  ‘What did he want?’ Brock asked.

  ‘He’s worried about his girlfriend, Rose. Wanted to know if she had been speaking to me. She works here too, and we got quite friendly the last time I was here.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps I should speak to her, try to find out what’s wrong. It’s the last thing I want to do, but of course he doesn’t know about …’ She looked up at Brock sharply. ‘You won’t say anything to anyone, David, will you? I didn’t mean to tell anyone.’

  ‘Of course not. Can I help in any way - with Rose, I mean?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not even sure that he wants me to approach her. He’s so tense. I wonder if her problem is him:

  14

  Brock met Rose the following morning, although the circumstances were such that her problems were not uppermost in his mind. She was acting as assistant to Stephen Beamish-Newell for Brock’s first acupuncture session, the thought of which had been making him feel unreasonably apprehensive.

  ‘Any side-effects from the fasting, David?’

  Beamish-Newell had sat Brock on the edge of the couch, really a kind of trolley, waist high, and was now taking his blood pressure before beginning the treatment. The room was one of a series of small, sparsely furnished rooms which ran down one side of the corridor in the basement and were linked by connecting doors with frosted-glass panels.

  ‘No, I seem to have coped with it all right, after the first shock.’ Brock suddenly thought about Ben Bromley’s meat pie, and his stomach gave a small gurgle. He looked up at Rose, standing waiting in the corner, and she shot him an automatic smile of encouragement. There was a stainless-steel trolley beside her, and on it were rubber gloves, some folded hand-towels and a block of sponge into which a number of acupuncture needles had been stuck. Whether it was the thought of the meat pie or the sight of the needles or the combination of the two, Brock felt suddenly nauseous. He took a deep breath and tried to think of something else while Beamish-Newell took his pulse.

  ‘All right, good. Lie face down on the couch now, David, and we’ll get you started.’ The doctor went over to a small basin and washed his hands.

  The large cast-iron radiator beneath the tiny window was oversized for the small room, and with the doors closed it was even more oppressively hot than elsewhere in the house. Brock lay on his front, folded his arms under his head and tried not to think about pierced eyeballs.

  He felt something soft dab at a spot on his upper left hip, then a pause, and then a slight tingling sensation in his flesh.

  ‘You’ll be finishing your fast tonight, David.’ Another soft dab, this time on the right side. ‘The grosser poisons should pretty well have drained from your system. Takes time for them to leach out completely, but you’ll soon notice the difference. Hope you’ve been drinking plenty of water?’

  No reply.

  ‘David?’

  Silence.

  ‘Haven’t fallen asleep on us, have you?’

  Beamish-Newell moved to Brock’s head and touched his cheek, then pulled his eyelid back. ‘Passed out.’

  The doctor swore quietly under his breath and checked Brock’s pulse. Rose wet a cloth under the cold tap and offered it to him. He nodded but didn’t take it, and she came forward and wiped Brock’s face. He didn’t stir.

  ‘Come on!’ Beamish-Newell slapped the back of Brock’s hand and waited. No
thing.

  After five minutes the doctor withdrew the two needles he had inserted. After ten he shook his head impatiently and told Rose to keep a close eye on the totally unresponsive figure on the couch while he got started on the other patients in the adjoining rooms. While she waited Rose turned down the valve on the radiator, and then stood up on a chair and with difficulty tugged open the little window under the vault. She chatted to Brock reassuringly as she did so. ‘Sure it’s awful hot in here. Isn’t it just? It’s no wonder you passed out. I had someone pass out in the sauna just last week. Heat can take you that way. No warning, especially if you’re short of fluids. Could that be the way of it, do you think?’

  But no sound came from Brock until over half an hour had passed since the first needle had gone in. Then he suddenly gave a snuffling grunt and scratched his beard.

  ‘Well, thank the Lord!’ Rose helped him sit up and offered him a glass of water.

  ‘All done?’ Brock asked, disoriented.

  ‘All done, indeed! We never even began. Do you feel all right? I’ll fetch the doctor.’

  Beamish-Newell came bustling in and gave Brock a quick check-over.

  ‘You seem to be all right. Maybe you’ll do better after you’ve taken in some nutrition. You have another session scheduled for tomorrow morning, don’t you? Well, we’ll try again then. You’d better go and lie down in your room now for an hour or so. What’s your second session this morning?’

  ‘I think it’s the exercise bicycle or something.’ Brock found it hard to focus his thoughts. ‘Better give it a miss.’

  ‘I’ll see Mr Brock to his room,’ Rose said, helping him on with his dressing gown.

  Walking seemed to revive him, and by the time they reached the lift he felt considerably better. He shook his head as they waited. ‘Stupid,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what brought that on.’

  ‘You’ll feel just fine after a wee lie-down.’

  ‘I met your fiancé yesterday, Rose, while I was walking outside with Grace Carrington.’

  ‘Is that right?’ The professional solicitude faded from Rose’s voice. ‘Are you a one for the ladies, then, Mr Brock? I hear you tried to take on Martha Price, no less. And then there’s your friend Kathy Kolla.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing, Rose.’

  The lift arrived, a tiny box squeezed into the width of a cupboard in the old masonry structure, barely big enough to take the two of them.

  ‘You wouldn’t be in the same line of work as Kathy, would you, Mr Brock? A policeman?’

  Brock smiled. ‘Do I look like a policeman? Anyway, would it matter if I was?’

  The lift wheezed to a halt and they stepped out.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said as they walked down the deserted corridor. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said, about you taking her a message. I’m not sure. I’m in an awkward sort of position, you see. And it may do no good anyway. After all, the poor man’s dead, isn’t he? Nothing can alter that.’

  ‘Depends how you feel about that. Sometimes it’s harder to live with than it should be. When something hasn’t really been sorted out, for example, or when a cloud hangs over a person’s memory that shouldn’t be there.’

  They were at Brock’s door. Rose didn’t reply, and to keep the conversation going Brock added, ‘Martha Price seems to guard his memory quite jealously.’

  ‘What does she know about him!’ Rose’s voice was low but suddenly fierce, and Brock saw that her eyes were glittering with tears. ‘She doesn’t know a damn thing about him, interfering old bitch!’

  Brock nodded. ‘My sentiments entirely.’ He waited for Rose to go on, and for a moment it seemed she would, but then she turned abruptly on her heel and walked quickly away.

  Brock stayed in his room through the rest of the morning, listening to the sounds of activity come and go from below as the patients gathered for the mid-morning break, and then disappeared for their second therapy sessions. The sun was back again and warmer this time, as if encouraged by its success on the previous day. A wood pigeon up on the parapet nearby began cooing complacently in the background as Brock lay on his bed, tapping at his laptop.

  At twelve-fifteen he got up and dressed himself in the outdoor clothes he had arrived in three days before. They felt unfamiliar and looser than they should. He took the fire escape at the end of the west wing down to the basement level and left by way of the door where the boots and coats were kept. The snow had been melting fast and he had to detour and jump puddles to avoid getting his shoes full of water as he made his way to his car. Along the edge of the drive, bluebells which had been caught by the late snow were beginning to poke their heads out again into the brilliant sunlight.

  The car splashed along the wet lanes to Edenham, and when he reached the High Street he turned through the archway of the Hart Revived to park in the yard at the rear. He found Kathy at a small corner table in the deserted snug bar. She gave him a big grin, and he sank into the seat beside her and sighed deeply. It took him a moment to speak.

  ‘Kathy, you have no idea how wonderful it is to see you again.’ He sighed once more. The log fire crackled in the big stone fireplace and an electronic games machine in the far corner bleeped plaintively for attention. ‘Normality, the real world. I never thought I’d be so pleased to get back to it.’

  Kathy laughed, ‘Oh dear, is it as bad as that?’

  He nodded. ‘Worse. Much worse.’

  ‘But you’ve only been there a couple of days.’

  ‘Time means nothing. It feels like an age.’

  ‘Well, you’ll appreciate that.’ Kathy indicated the pint of bitter she had ready for him. He looked at it apprehensively and said, ‘No, no. I’d better not.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You can relax in here, can’t you? I mean, it’s not as if you’re really there for your health.’

  ‘Kathy, you have no idea. They take you over, body and soul. I swear, if I drank that he’d know about it. He’d just look at me and see the poisons oozing out of the pores of my skin and the guilt written all over my face.’

  Kathy thought this was hilarious. ‘“He” being Dr Fiendish-Cruel? So you agree he’s scary.’

  ‘Oh yes, I agree. This morning I passed out while he was sticking his damned acupuncture needles into me.’ ‘Yuck! What’s the food like?’

  ‘What food? I haven’t had a thing apart from water and lemon juice since I arrived. They put me straight on a seventy-two-hour fast to purify my system. When I come off it tonight, I might be allowed a glass of carrot juice.’

  ‘Well, since you’ve already been wicked and gone over the wall, you might as well make it worthwhile and give yourself a treat. The steak-and-kidney pie looks pretty good. It’s home-made.’

  Pleased as he was to see her, Brock was finding Kathy’s response to his tale of suffering a little flippant. He was reminded of Grace Carrington’s remark about the difficulty of adjusting to the outside world again. The thought of Grace and her problems made him suddenly ashamed. It was almost as if the processes of the clinic had reduced him to childishness.

  He shook his head, ‘No, no,’ he muttered. ‘You go ahead.’

  ‘OK. I’m ravenous, I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.’

  She caught the look on Brock’s face and added, ‘Sorry. Really I am. You must be wishing I’d never got you into this. Let me ask them if they’ve got something mild for you, break you in gently from your fast.’

  ‘It’s all right, Kathy,’ he smiled at her. ‘Get me a glass of mineral water if you like.’

  ‘With ice and lemon?’

  ‘Yes, why not. The works.’

  He settled back into his seat, slightly dizzy from the cigarette smoke and the smell of frying that hung heavy in the air.

  After a moment Kathy returned, holding a ticket for her meal in one hand and Brock’s drink in the other. She waited while he removed the straw and lifted his drink and sipped at it, letting him begin his story in his own way.
/>   ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I’m not sure I’ve really marshalled my thoughts, but I’ll give you what I have. Yes, Beamish-Newell is quite a formidable character. But not necessarily the dominant force he once was. He had to get outside finance to keep the clinic going five or six years ago, and the financier, Sir Peter Maples, has clipped his wings somewhat. Ben Bromley, the Business Manager, is Maples’s man, he’s there to keep the Director under control.

  ‘Beamish-Newell has been married before, by the way. The name of his first wife was Gabriele. She was Italian, from a wealthy family, and gave him his start at Stanhope. I haven’t really formed much of an impression of Laura Beamish-Newell, the second wife. She seems distant, efficient, not a very endearing bedside manner, but the regulars like her, think she’s good at her job and cares for them.’ He shrugged.

  Kathy nodded. ‘Yes, my impression was much the same.’ She had her notebook out and was writing as Brock spoke.

  ‘Number eighteen?’ a voice called from the bar, and Kathy held up her ticket. ‘Yes, over here, please.’ The barmaid approached them with a large plate heaped with battered plaice and chips.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Brock groaned.

  ‘Ketchup, dear? Tartar sauce?’ The woman gave Kathy some cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin and sauntered back to the bar.

  ‘Anyway …’ Brock made a superhuman effort to recall where he’d got to. ‘Rose. Yes, she certainly knows something. She almost came out with it this morning. Her boyfriend, Parsons, is worried about her. He’s a nondescript sort of character, isn’t he? I caught him creeping around; he followed us twice when I was out walking in the grounds with Grace Carrington. She’s one of your regulars, you remember? Along with Martha Price and Sidney Blumendale. I really don’t think they know anything about what happened to Petrou. They seem baffled, disoriented by it; and they won’t hear a word said against Beamish-Newell or the clinic. Now, the interesting bit. Norman de Loynes. Ever heard the name?’