Deadly Admirer

by Christine Green

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but I'm beginning to think that I should give up trying to be a detective. I'm just not suited to it. I shouldn't have been swayed by the sight of him in uniform. It made him seem somehow more solid and reliable.’

  Hubert didn't quite know what to say to that so I picked up the phone and dialled the Derbyshire number again. There was still no reply. Just as I'd replaced the receiver it began ringing. Startled, I snatched up the handset.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Pauline Berkerly. ‘Were you expecting a call?’

  ‘No, Pauline, just reflexes honed by constant use.’

  ‘I'm glad I've got hold of you. I rang your home number just now and thought I might as well have a stab at your office. You remember you were looking for work at Pinetrees? Well, there's one night's specialling going.’

  ‘Great. When?’

  ‘Ah! There lies the thorn in the rose. It's tonight.’

  She didn't give me a chance to reply and I felt my spirits sag even further. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was sink a cocoa with brandy, fill a hot-water bottle and escape into sleep.

  ‘I know it's short notice,’ Pauline was saying, ‘but someone has just rung in sick and I can't find a replacement at such short notice. Please say yes, Kate, I'm really desperate. You'll save my business reputation.’

  ‘All right Pauline,’ I said, reluctantly waving good-bye to both bed and cocoa. ‘Because it's you I will, but if I get the sack because I fall asleep your reputation will still suffer.’

  ‘You won't let me down, Kate. Thanks. You never know, it could be a useful night's work. Could you be there by ten?’ Then before I could say anything she added, ‘By the way, you'll be looking after a young doctor who's alcoholic and suicidal, but I don't think he'll give you any trouble.’

  I didn't speak for a moment. It sounded like hard work sitting for hours by the bedside of some poor demented medic.

  ‘Kate, are you still there?’

  I looked at my watch; it was seven thirty. ‘I'll be there,’ I said.

  Hubert seemed surprised when I told him I was going to work that night.

  ‘You'll be very tired,’ he said.

  ‘There's no need to state the obvious,’ I snapped.

  Hubert squinted at me. ‘You're not usually in such a bad mood,’ he observed. ‘You must be hungry.’

  I scowled.

  ‘I'll go out for fish and chips if you like.’

  ‘Chips twice in one day is pushing it a bit.’

  ‘In that case I could get Chinese.’

  I shrugged. ‘Only if you want it, Hubert. Don't bother about any for me.’

  ‘I won't then,’ he said.

  When he'd gone I washed my hair in the sink, had a quick scrub down and put on a dark blue uniform dress. It matched my mood. Now that Hubert had suggested I might be hungry I realised I was and I hoped that he didn't plan to eat his sweet and sour pork, special fried rice and chicken and cashew nuts in front of me.

  A few minutes later I heard him come up the stairs. He paused for a second by my door and then walked straight on past. Well that just serves you right, I thought. You've upset Hubert and now you've missed out on a Chinese meal. I looked in my office drawer for a snack and found a few cream crackers and an overripe banana. That would have to do.

  I'd just put them on a paper towel when Hubert walked in. He couldn't knock first, he had his hands full with two bags of Chinese food, plates, napkins and cutlery.

  ‘Well you could have cleared the desk,’ he said.

  I hurried to remove various bits of paper debris and soon Hubert had set a feast before me.

  ‘I didn't bring chopsticks,’ he said. ‘I thought you might skewer me through the heart.’

  ‘Hubert,’ I said, ‘how would I manage without you?’

  His mouth puckered into a smile and then he said, ‘Come on, Kate, for goodness' sake eat it before it gets cold. It cost me a fortune.’

  The narrow lane that led to Pinetrees Psychiatric Hospital was lit only by a wrought-iron lamp standard at its entrance. My main beam lit the long dark path ahead, gathering in the gloom of naked branches and bushes that clawed together in a sinister bower. Eventually the lane widened and I could see the hospital in all its grandeur. Pine trees did indeed encircle the building and as I neared it I could see chandeliers hanging as brightly as Christmas decorations. There were two more lamp standards either end of the building so that the rolling lawns in front were highlighted in all their clipped elegance.

  I parked my car directly outside the front entrance. Pinetrees was a vast mansion, so well lit that inside I could see dark panelled wood and thick curtains and almost smell the opulence of a bygone era. On my right, in a corner of the grounds, I could see a small church whose lights were reflected through stained-glass windows, shedding patterns of red and gold on the grass in front.

  Inside, behind an alcove of wood panelling, sat a uniformed man. He was dressed like a hotel commissionaire – all blue serge and brass buttons, he called me ‘love' and took me partway along a corridor to a door with a black plaque lettered in gold – THE CHURCHILL SUITE.

  ‘In there, love. The charge nurse will meet you.’

  I became aware then of the low throb of pop music coming from behind the door. I knocked and waited for a moment, then I turned the old-fashioned china handle.

  It was a large room, wood-panelled with high ceilings, ornate cornices and with two sparkling chandeliers that would have looked at home in a ballroom. By the grand piano a string orchestra should have been in position playing Strauss waltzes while ladies in long frocks fanned themselves and waited for their dance partners to fulfil their obligations. Instead, the piano sat as mute as the twenty or so people sitting on high-backed chairs with round tables in front of them. Some had turned to look at me but then with the resigned look of professional patients they returned to their glasses of Coke or orange juice and to conversations with themselves or with their table companions. A few continued to stare into space.

  A short, balding man in jeans and a check shirt seemed to be trying to encourage a couple to dance but on seeing me he waved and called out, Won't be a moment.’ And then with a final word to the couple he beckoned me to join him.

  ‘Saturday night dance,’ he said by way of explanation as I approached.

  I smiled sympathetically. I knew just how gruelling the Saturday night dance could be, although I had to admit NHS mental hospital dances were nothing like this.

  ‘I'm Kate Kinsella from the Berkerly.’

  ‘Oh, yes. You're for young Dr Guilsborough. I'll get one of the residents to show you to his floor.’

  He called ‘Alan' to a man sitting alone at one of the tables and Alan promptly stood up and walked over to us.

  ‘Take Miss Kinsella to Nightingale floor, will you. To the nurse in charge.’

  Alan was, I supposed, in his twenties, tall and very thin, with thick black unruly hair. His trousers ended well above his ankles and from his jacket sleeves thin hairy wrists emerged, attached to hands that seemed to swing independently. One of these he shook towards the door, saying in a low monotone, ‘Come on. Come on. Come on.’

  I followed him past more wood panelling, up a wide staircase, along yet another corridor to the nurses' office. The nurse in charge wore no uniform, just a chunky blue sweater and a navy skirt and a badge with her name and ‘Staff Nurse' underneath. Alan left me without comment.

  ‘You wouldn't think he used to be a pop star, would you?’ she said as we watched him shuffling back along the corridor. ‘You're the special?’

  I nodded.

  She flicked over the Kardex and began reading. Young and pretty, she obviously didn't want to be late off duty.

  ‘“Dr Jonathan Guilsborough, aged twenty-eight,”’ she began. ‘“Admitted this morning following a suicide attempt, tried to throw himself from a bridge. Saved by a passer-by. Seen by the consultant psychiatrist on admission. All routine observations normal. Parents h
ave reported steady deterioration over past few months. Appetite poor, alcohol consumption high, declining standards of dress and hygiene. Responding well to staff. Talkative at times. Appears co-operative. To be observed at all times. Antidepressants commenced. For review in the near future. Query – to commence ECT.”’

  ‘Any questions?’ she asked, smiling, but it was clear she neither wanted nor expected any.

  I shook my head.

  ‘He's been given a bath,’ she said.

  ‘Oh good.’

  ‘I'll take you to his room. One of the night staff will relieve you for meals.’

  I followed her to a room two doors from the office.

  ‘Be a dear and introduce yourself. I've got a date and you know how it is.’

  I smiled as if I did, but my last date had been so long ago that I had in fact forgotten.

  Dr Guilsborough lay on the bed fully dressed. On a chair by his side a middle-aged woman with grey wavy hair and round shoulders sat knitting.

  ‘Oh good. You the special?’ she asked.

  I nodded. ‘I'm Kate.’

  ‘Had the report?’ she asked, eyes down, finishing the last few stitches on her needles.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Good. I'll be off then,’ she said, placing her knitting in a shopping bag. ‘I've been on twelve hours. I've had enough.’ As she opened the door she said cheerfully, ‘See you tomorrow then, Jonathan. Be good.’

  Jonathan didn't answer. Instead his eyes roved up and down my body and he smiled a vague dreamy kind of smile as if he'd just found gold top instead of skimmed milk.

  ‘Hello, Dr Guilsborough,’ I said. ‘I'm Kate Kinsella.’

  ‘Call me Jonathan,’ he said.

  The room, though spacious, contained only the bed covered with a padded cream bedspread, one armchair, a bedside table, a gold fringed lamp and a TV on a trolley in a corner of the room. There was a walk-in cupboard and a door which I presumed led to the en-suite shower and loo. And all round the room the walls were covered with the ubiquitous dark oak wood panelling.

  ‘There's no escape,’ he said, standing up and signalling for me to sit down.

  This wasn't what I had imagined. I'd expected him to be in a poor state physically as well as mentally. Instead he looked young, fresh and eager. His complexion was pallid, his eyes hazel, his lips red and full. I supposed he was an average sort of build and height but thick black curly hair added a couple of inches to his height.

  ‘This is cosy,’ he said with the same vague smile. ‘Are you single?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Good. It's going to be a long night.’

  And he smiled again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A whole night! Eleven hours! I had no knitting with me, because I'd never learned how; I was halfway through a paperback book, but if the other half was as dull as the first I'd have real trouble staying awake.

  ‘Relax, Kate. I'm not going to give you any problems,’ said Jonathan as he sat on the bed and stared at me. ‘On the other hand I'm not going to sleep either.’

  ‘I'm glad you're not going to give me any problems, but why no sleep?’

  He shrugged. ‘Let's just say I wouldn't want to miss any time with an attractive young redhead.’

  I didn't quite know how to answer that so I smiled, deciding that like mad dogs, mad medics could probably smell fear. I pushed from my mind all the things that could happen. Instead, I tried to concentrate my thoughts on his fear, the fact that he was ill, that he needed a sympathetic ear.

  ‘Is there anything you'd like to do, Jonathan – watch television, play cards, talk?’

  ‘We could screw.’

  ‘We could,’ I said. ‘But we're not going to.’

  ‘All the girls I meet say that. What's wrong with me? Go on, tell me … I can take it. Is it my looks? I never manage to keep my girlfriends for long. I'm not repulsive, am I?’

  ‘Of course not. You're good-looking enough. Perhaps you just try to rush them.’

  He thought about that for a while as he began to pace the floor and as he did so, he swept his hand through his hair over and over again as if that would somehow smooth out his thoughts. Eventually, as the pacing continued I realised he had forgotten the question and that I was there.

  On the assumption that he would be more relaxed lying down I said, ‘Why don't you get undressed and get into bed? We could talk properly then.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, his red lips forming a half smile that just missed being a leer. He began to remove his sweater and jeans. He let them fall into a pile at his feet and stood there in red and white spotted boxer shorts waiting for my reaction.

  It was the bruises that surprised me. On both shins and upper arms vivid stains, like blue ink, mingled with red grazed patches and, as if to punish me for my reaction, he swiftly removed his underpants and stood naked before me.

  ‘Seen all you want to?’

  ‘Good body,’ I said. ‘Shame about the bruises. They must be painful.’

  I tried to imagine the scenario of Jonathan trying to throw himself over the bridge and the brave passer-by who clung on to his legs and managed to haul him back again. It was no wonder he was bruised.

  His bravado failed then, his eyes filling with tears, and I stood up and looked away, wishing I felt more able to cope. Wishing I wasn't there. Wishing I could do something.

  When I looked back Jonathan was in bed, curled into the foetal position – sobbing.

  I sat down, pulled the armchair close to the bed and patted his shoulder. After a while he stopped crying and became quiet and then he appeared to doze. I simply sat and watched him.

  At ten thirty the door opened quietly and a woman carrying a torch beckoned me outside. She was, I supposed, in her thirties, pretty, wearing a dark grey suit and white blouse and with short brown hair that curved around her cheeks. A huge bunch of keys rattled noisily at her waist.

  ‘I'm the night nursing manager. Is he asleep?’ she whispered. ‘I think so,’ I whispered back. ‘But he could be faking.’

  ‘Keep a really close eye on him, Nurse. Don't leave him for an instant. He knows this hospital very well. Our Jonathan won't hesitate to take advantage of you.’

  ‘You mean he's been in before?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Didn't they tell you that during the report?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘This is his third suicide attempt and his fourth admission. We really know him quite well. Try to persuade him to take his medication, won't you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Press the bell on the wall if he gets difficult. Don't hesitate.’

  I promised I wouldn't. ‘Is he likely to be difficult?’

  Smiling, she patted my arm. ‘Don't look so worried. He's not likely to rape you but he can become very wearing, so do ring the bell if you want a break or to go to the loo.’ She left after explaining the night sedation would be brought along shortly with hot drinks and biscuits and that at one o'clock I would be relieved for an hour's meal break.

  I resumed my vigil by the bed and tried to read my book. I couldn't concentrate and at eleven I heard a clock chiming and somewhere in the building someone screamed.

  Jonathan opened his eyes. ‘Where's that bloody night nurse?’ he asked, perching on one elbow and peering at me with a creased face and dull eyes.

  ‘Do you want your night sedation? I could ring for it.’ ‘It's not the Ritz. She'll be along. It could be Sally. I like her. She's got big tits – bigger than yours.’

  ‘That's not hard,’ I said.

  ‘Cool bitch,’ he said unaggressively. ‘Hold my hand.’

  His hand felt cold. The fingers were long and thin.

  ‘Did you do much surgery?’ I asked.

  ‘Think they are surgeon's hands, do you?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Well, the only surgery I've done is a couple of appendicectomies, three hernias and several ingrowing toenails, and I made a hash of all of them.’
<
br />   ‘You prefer medicine then?’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘I don't prefer anything. I'm not good at playing doctors. The only thing I like about being a doctor is that I get to meet a few nubile young nurses.’

  ‘That's some compensation I suppose,’ I said uneasily. ‘You get turned on by nurses, do you? In uniform?’

  ‘Yes. Anything wrong with that?’

  ‘No, of course not. If all you do is look.’

  ‘What's that supposed to mean?’

  Before I had time to answer there was a knock at the door and a young woman, blonde hair in a pony-tail and breasts crammed into a pink blouse, walked in with a tray. I assumed this was Sally. She smiled at me in a friendly way and walked over to the bed.

  ‘Hi, Jonathan. There was no need to go to such lengths to see me again, you know. You could have come back as a voluntary patient.’

  He smiled at her languidly. ‘You know I'm in love with you. I can't resist your … charms.’

  ‘Seriously, Jonathan, last time you were in here you made really good progress. You'd even found a job, hadn't you?’

  He nodded and as he did so grabbed her hand and pulled her nearer to the bed.

  ‘I've got work to do,’ she said, extricating his long fingers and firmly placing his hand back on the bed.

  ‘Come back later then,’ he said. ‘Kate won't mind, will you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said.

  Sally smiled, showing a neat row of white teeth. ‘I'll be back at one to relieve Kate for her meal break.’

  ‘Good, I'll take my night sedation then.’

  Sally shrugged and smiled at me wearily as if this was the normal course of events and there wasn't much she could do about it. And then she left, leaving a faint wisp of some exotic perfume and somehow without her there the room seemed darker and more chill.

  Jonathan lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling and ignored me even when I offered him the mug of cocoa Sally had left. I returned to my book, drank my cocoa, ate two biscuits, and tried to make sense of the words and not think too much.

  Eventually he spoke. ‘I've made a real cock-up of my life.’