Deadly Admirer

by Christine Green

  ‘In what way?’ I asked as I looked up from my book.

  ‘In every way I suppose. My parents wanted me to be a doctor. My older brother is an accountant, so I had to become a doctor.’

  ‘Had to?’

  ‘My mother pushed me. She wanted a doctor in the family. I was too weak to refuse. I don't even like the human race much, let alone feel motivated to save lives.’

  ‘What would you rather have been?’

  He paused and then said slowly, ‘I wanted to be a pianist.’

  ‘In a orchestra?’

  ‘No. In a night-club.’

  ‘You still could.’

  ‘It's too late.’

  I didn't disagree. He wanted to believe it was too late. Telling him he was young enough to start again wouldn't have helped. I stayed silent.

  After a while he said, ‘Tell me about you. Have you got a boyfriend?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Perhaps I'm just too busy.’

  ‘What doing?’

  ‘Running a business. I provide a service – a sort of –’ I struggled with the description. ‘Well, I do research for people.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘At the moment I'm researching a friend of mine's family tree – Vanessa Wootten.’

  His hand reached up and combed through his hair. Please don't know her, I thought. Please don't. But I knew by the slightly puzzled look on his face that he did.

  ‘Nice little body,’ he was saying. ‘She was a patient here. I met her a few times. She was paranoid. Thought a man was following her. I chatted her up but she wasn't interested. Mind you, she was depressed.’

  ‘Did she tell you who she thought was following her?’

  ‘No. He wasn't anyone famous if that's what you mean. That's a fairly common feature, you know. Thinking someone famous like Steve McQueen is communicating with you via the TV or film.’

  ‘From beyond the grave in Steve's case,’ I said, but he didn't seem to realise McQueen was dead and he looked at me blankly.

  Then he said, ‘There's a syndrome – De Clerambault's – where the sufferer believes that the loved one sends them coded messages.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

  He smiled. ‘I worked here for a while – before my breakdown.’

  ‘And was that when you met Vanessa?’

  ‘I was a patient when I met Vanessa otherwise I wouldn't have been chatting her up, would I?’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Oh God, I can't remember. One, maybe two years ago. What does it matter? I thought we were talking about you anyway.’

  ‘I was just curious, that's all. We're quite close at the moment. She lives in Longborough not far from me.’

  ‘I live near Longborough – Upper Gaddington. When I get out of here we could meet. We could do a tour of all the pubs.’

  ‘You have a car then?’

  ‘Of course I've got a car. I've got two. Presents from adoring parents for passing my finals. They have plenty of money but as much sensitivity as gangrenous toes.’

  ‘So you still live at home?’

  ‘Yes, for Christ's sake. Not that abnormal, is it? I can't find a woman to live with me and I don't fancy living alone. You ask a lot of questions. I thought psychiatric nurses were meant to be good listeners not bloody interrogators.’

  I apologised and suggested he got some sleep. ‘No more questions,’ I promised.

  He closed his eyes then and after a while his breathing became deeper and a little later his eyes moved beneath their lids as though he was dreaming and I stretched my legs and sat back in the armchair. It was still only twelve and as the clock struck the hour I prayed he would sleep on and that I would be able to keep awake.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The staff dining-room boasted harsh strip lighting and round pine tables with, at one end of the room, a buffet bar displaying cold meats and a variety of salads. The wood panelling shimmered a little in the bright light and made the six faces I could see appear shadowed and gaunt. Selecting a slice of unappetising pale meat and some coleslaw I then had to decide who to sit with. I chose a corner table where the two occupants, one male, one female, seemed chatty and cheerful.

  ‘Hello, love,’ said the middle-aged woman, who had a perm of frizzy silver grey curls and a pleasant smile. ‘I haven't seen you before.’

  ‘I'm agency,’ I explained. ‘Specialling.’

  ‘Doc Guilsborough?’

  I nodded as I sat down.

  ‘Rather you than me, love. He can be dead depressing. Always sorry for himself, he is. I'm Lizzie and my handsome friend is Winston.’

  Winston smiled. ‘Hi there,’ he said. His dark brown skin shone like the mahogany wood panelling and he gave the impression of good-natured strength. The sort of person who, when there was trouble, would stop potential riots with his mere presence. Not that he was particularly large, he just gave off confident vibes.

  They chatted for a bit about the deteriorating food at night and then about the state of some of their patients and I listened and smiled and nodded.

  During a lull I made my move as casually as I could: ‘A friend of mine was in here once, Vanessa Wootten. She said the food was wonderful.’

  There was no response at first, then Lizzie asked, ‘Was she on Byron? A nurse, wasn't she?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Nurse and doctor patients never complain about the food. After all, they get treatment free here. It's the private patients who complain. Mind you, give me the aristos every day. It's the nouveau riche moaners who get up my nose.’

  ‘I couldn't manage to visit her,’ I explained. ‘Was she all right when she left?’

  Lizzie shrugged. ‘She was less depressed but she was still telling the staff that a man wanted to get her. I think she was frustrated – just like poor Winston here.’

  They both laughed uproariously at that, and I waited until they'd finished before saying, ‘It couldn't have been true then? She's very attractive. I can understand someone having a crush on her.’

  A look passed between them that I couldn't read and then Winston said, ‘The doc quite fancied her but then he fancied everyone.’

  And they laughed again at their own private joke and I realised I was on to a loser.

  I finished my meal and excused myself.

  ‘You can get coffee in the sitting-room,’ said Lizzie, pointing to a door to my right.

  I thanked her and entered a small bay-windowed room, empty of people but with faded chintzy armchairs, matching curtains, full ashtrays, empty cups and saucers and a smell of stale smoke.

  I sat for a while and drank lukewarm coffee from a large Thermos jug, feeling lonely and out of things and jealous of people everywhere who were tucked up warm and safe in bed. Was Vanessa alone, I wondered, or still with Frederic? Were they being watched while I merely sat watching a man sleep? My night here hadn't gained me any information about Vanessa but perhaps a few door-to-door enquiries would help. That was what private investigators did – wasn't it? Sally seemed pleased to see me on my return and although she didn't say anything she was obviously eager to go.

  Jonathan appeared to be asleep. I stared for a while at his back, then put my coat around me and tried to get comfortable in the chair. My book wasn't improving and the words kept moving in front of my eyes. I couldn't help feeling resentful as I listened to his steady breathing. Each breath seemed like a lullaby and I found myself breathing at the same pace and that can lead to falling asleep.

  At four thirty I was thankful that Sally relieved me for a half hour's tea break but I was disappointed to have to sit alone in the dining-room. I drank two cups of stewed tea and ate bread and jam and pulled back the curtains to stare out of the window on to the grounds. A tall clock tower stood in the quadrangle outside, facing the bedrooms. Strange: I thought that in Victorian NHS psychiatric hospitals the clock always faced away from the building as though telling the inmates that time no longer mattered to them. Time matter
ed to me, though, and when I heard the first chime of the hour I walked back to the Nightingale suite, telling myself I only had three more hours to keep myself awake.

  Jonathan still lay in the same position and as I entered the room Sally put a warning finger to her lips and whispered that I should let him sleep on in the morning, that there was no point in waking him.

  The three hours from then till eight stretched ahead about as invitingly as a long wait to see the dentist. Still, I consoled myself there was no pain at the end of it, just the blessed relief of sleep. And it was Sunday and I could sleep all day if I wanted to.

  Jonathan slept on. I pulled the curtains, selfishly, just after seven so that I could see the daylight and watch the squirrels and see the day staff arrive for work. It was a bright clear morning and as Pinetrees began to wake up so did I. And I felt unnaturally cheerful. Night nurse's hysteria they call it. Mine was a mild case because real hysteria needs an audience and my patient slept on. We had both survived the night. And suddenly I was fired up with new enthusiasm for, well … everything. Hubert I would invite for a meal in the evening and tomorrow … tomorrow perhaps I'd have the case sorted. And after this successful case, there would be others, more prestigious, more lucrative. I could retire at forty to the south of France …

  It was five to eight when Jonathan called me. I'd just put on my coat and picked up my bag.

  ‘Kate.’

  I stood by his bed as he turned sleepily to face me.

  ‘Thanks for everything. Sorry I was such a nuisance.’

  ‘That's all right. It was a pleasure.’ And it was, now that it was over.

  ‘About Vanessa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get her to tell you about the rapes.’

  ‘Don't you mean rape – singular?’

  ‘No. Just ask her. She needs a friend.’

  ‘But … I thought …’

  Jonathan had turned and snuggled down again. That was all he was going to say on the subject and my new-found euphoria began slipping away from me like tallow flowing down the side of a candle – slow but constant.

  By the time I had driven home the candle was down to a stub. I felt weary and defeated. I made a big bowl of porridge, added sugar and cream and ate it in bed. That cheered me slightly and as I drifted off to sleep I thought nothing could be better than a full stomach and a warm duvet and a long, long, sleep.

  Loud knocking woke me. At first I stared at the alarm clock as if somehow it was responsible. Then I realised there was someone at the door. I pulled on a dressing-gown and walked slowly down the stairs. I still felt asleep. It was Mrs Morcott from the WI and Neighbourhood Watch.

  ‘Having a lie in, dear? So sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning. I've come to ask you a favour.’

  I smiled weakly, sure that if I tried to speak no sound would come.

  ‘It's about the fête and jumble sale on Tuesday afternoon. There's so much flu around that I've lost three helpers and I've got to find replacements. It starts at two and I'm sure it will be all finished by five. Could you be a dear and give us a hand?’

  I nodded and smiled and managed to utter the word ‘pleasure'. I wasn't sure it would be.

  ‘Thank you so much, dear. I'll put you down for the ladies' clothes section. You'll be good at that. See you in the WI hall at about one thirty.’

  Back in bed I thought of all the stalls I could have served on: the cake stall, bric-à-brac, selling raffle tickets, making candy floss. Instead I'd got landed with the old clothes.

  I'd woken up now but it was only twelve. I'll have one more try at Vanessa's sister, I thought. It would salve my conscience.

  As I dialled the number from the phone in my front room I stared out at the triangle of grass, the bare oak tree and the graveyard beyond, and then as if to spoil my view and just as the number connected a dark green car drove past. At first I thought it was VMS, otherwise known as Christopher Collicot (poor thing), but the driver had a mass of dark hair so I must have been mistaken …

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ said a voice sharp with irritation.

  Astonished that someone had replied I blurted out quickly, ‘This is Kate Kinsella, you don't know me but …’ I paused: when in doubt – lie. ‘I'm your sister's social worker. I wondered if I might call on you. We have been having some problems and I thought perhaps you could cast some light on Vanessa's difficulties.’

  There was a long pause, then she said, ‘She's always caused problems, that girl. How long will it take?’

  ‘Not long,’ I assured her. ‘An hour or so.’

  ‘We're not on speaking terms. I don't know what she's been up to lately. And to be honest I don't really care. There are no children involved, I hope?’

  ‘No. Nothing of that sort. I'd be most grateful.’

  ‘Oh, all right then. There's no chance of a reconciliation so don't expect anything like that.’

  ‘Thank you very much. Would this afternoon be convenient?’

  ‘I suppose so. After three.’

  ‘Fine. Thank you.’

  ‘We're on top of the hill. You can't miss it.’

  She sounded as if she hoped I would.

  ‘Thank you again Mrs …’

  ‘Miss – Sheila Wootten,’ she supplied tersely.

  Suddenly I was tired no longer. If I was to get to Derbyshire by three I would have to move myself. Then the phone rang. It was Hubert.

  ‘Your voice sounds hoarse,’ said Hubert.

  ‘I'm off to Derbyshire today,’ I said. ‘I'm finally going to crack the case.’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you still there, Hubert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What's wrong?’

  ‘What time will you be back?’

  ‘Not late, why?’

  ‘I wanted to invite you for a meal.’

  ‘Great. A celebration?’

  ‘My birthday.’ He sounded miserable.

  ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,’ I sang croakily until I was interrupted.

  ‘That's enough of that,’ said Hubert, ‘you've got a voice like a drunken Irish navvy.’

  ‘What time is the birthday meal?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Fine. My voice will be in trim by then.’

  ‘Take more than a few hours, that singing voice needs a transplanted larynx …’

  ‘Just liquid lubrication that's all, Hubert.’

  He didn't sound convinced but said he had plenty of wine to test out my theory.

  I did wonder as I put down the phone why he should invite me. Until now he had managed to keep his flat upstairs as private as a holy of holies. Perhaps, of course, he had something to hide. Maybe he had a shoe collection that outshone Imelda Marcos's. Or perhaps he just valued his privacy.

  Just before leaving I rang Vanessa. All seemed well, although when I mentioned the trip to Derbyshire her voice began to tremble.

  ‘Do take care, Kate,’ she said. ‘You can't even trust my sister.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Derbyshire in the rain and wind seemed wild and forlorn. The low stone walls separating empty fields seemed to stretch for miles but eventually I found the small village of Bonsall where I stopped a soaked local to ask directions to Maple Cottage.

  ‘'Bout a mile, uphill. Can't miss it,’ he said, pointing me in the direction of a narrow winding road that did indeed go uphill.

  It was nearly three but the light was poor and the sixty or so miles I'd driven was beginning to tell on me. The first sight of Maple Cottage made me feel even worse. It was large, stonebuilt but with mean small windows. The sort of windows that seem to spy on you. It was in total darkness and total solitude. Trees and bushes crowded around the sides of the house in what seemed like a planned attempt to increase privacy.

  I parked the car on the muddy gravelled forecourt and walked quickly to the front porch that was straggled with ivy which hung just above my head like sinister claws. I knocked loudly, but I half hoped no one w
as at home. I'll knock one more time, I promised myself. Just once more. And then I heard footsteps coming down stairs and the click of a light switch and then the door opened.

  ‘I was asleep,’ said Sheila Wootten. ‘Come in.’

  Not having tried to look like a stereotypical social worker I was faintly disappointed that I had been so easily mistaken for one. Sheila Wootten, though, wasn't quite what I expected. She was at least twenty years older than her sister and although she shared the same blue-coloured eyes and fairish hair, there the similarity ended. She was tall and plump in a soft shapeless way, had several chins, and her hair had been backcombed in an attempt to cover its thinness. Her mouth was set in a downward line of discontent. She wore a loose beige Crimplene dress with a matching cardigan, enlivened, only slightly, by a large cameo brooch.

  Inside, the cottage smelt damp, felt cold and, worst of all, gave off unfriendly vibes. I don't believe in ghosts but I do believe in atmosphere and that sometimes misery itself can seep into the walls of a house.

  ‘Sit down, I'll make some tea.’ Sheila Wootten spoke pleasantly enough as we entered the kitchen.

  I sat down at the table on a hard-backed wooden chair while Miss Wootten filled a kettle and placed it on the gas cooker. The kitchen felt warmer and was neat, clean and tidy. Too tidy. Almost bare. The walls had been painted once in a colour that was probably magnolia but had now turned brownish beige and the only concessions to decoration were a calendar, unmarked, showing a picture of a greyhound and a potted fern that sat on the scrubbed pine table.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ I began. ‘I've been worried about Vanessa for some time. She's been in hospital a few times recently …’

  ‘Sugar?’ she asked, although the water hadn't yet boiled.

  ‘Oh – yes. One, thank you.’

  There was no doubt I needed it. She turned her back then as she busied herself with preparing a tray for tea, and it seemed as if, by doing so, she was preparing herself psychologically for my questions.

  Eventually, as she handed me tea in a flowered bone-china cup she said, ‘Now then, Miss Kinsella, you were saying?’

  I sipped the tea feigning pleasure; in reality it was milky, weak, and a great disappointment.