by A J Waines
Greg grabs hold of the kitchen table, then clutches the holes I’ve made in his body. He seems perplexed by the liquid oozing over his hands. He slides to the floor, twitches a few times then lays still, his eyes fixed on the light fitting on the ceiling as if suddenly realising it isn’t up to the job.
An oily film collects over his eyes almost straight away and I know what I’ve done.
I’m quick. I grab the plastic bag, let myself out by the back door and swan out of the rear gate. I don’t bother looking for Max’s violin. I’m not interested in that now. I can’t believe I ever was; Greg’s story was a complete lie.
On the bus home, I finally peek inside the carrier bag. It’s heart breaking to have to look at my crushed viola, but that’s when I notice something else, and it brings a big smile to my lips.
The thing is, I was right all along.
It was worth getting my viola back, but not in the way I expected. I’ve got the connection now. It’s been locked inside my head, but I never quite lost it.
Mick Blain messing about with my viola before our first concert and Karl’s conversation on the phone fifteen years later – it all makes sense now, thanks to Greg. He triggered memories buried under the surface and set all the cogs in motion.
The thin piece of wood holding up the strings on a viola is called a ‘bridge’. That’s where the ‘fortune’ was all this time, on the inside of my viola, ‘under the bridge’.
Chapter 42
Sam
I was uneasy when I got back from the Lake District, Minette’s message about Rosie being at Erica’s house the day she died was still lodged in my mind. So too, images of Rosie pressuring me to become her ‘soul sister’, then trying to stop me calling for help when we were lost in the wood.
What was she going to do now?
We’d certainly parted on a sour note; she was obviously angry with me for ending the sessions – and refusing to stay in touch. I couldn’t shake off the niggling feeling that it wasn’t over.
I had my ankle checked over at my local surgery and, as I’d thought, it was only a sprain. I hobbled for a day or two, but it quickly improved.
During my recovery I managed to get the password from Professor Dean to open Erica’s case notes that he’d sent me. He apologised for still not being able to provide the full set. Apparently, Erica had kept handwritten notes from the final sessions in her house and these were the ones that had gone missing.
Towards the end of my first day back at work, I dropped in to Debbie’s office. We’d managed a few quick chats recently and I was up-to-date on her pregnancy, but we hadn’t had a proper heart-to-heart for a while.
‘Fancy lunch sometime?’ I asked her.
‘I’d love to,’ she said, ‘how about that new Lebanese place near Selfridges on Saturday?’
‘Perfect. Text me the address.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Sorry, there’s a mix-up in human resources I need to sort out.’ She hesitated as she reached for a file on her desk. ‘Remember that creepy patient you had?’
I nodded, an image of Bruce immediately springing to mind.
‘Poor guy ended up in intensive care two weeks ago. He was badly beaten up. Been in here with head injuries, broken ribs, a broken wrist, broken fingers, you name it, ever since.’
‘For two weeks?’
I tried to remember the last time I’d had a silent phone call. There’d been at least one in the last fortnight, for sure.
‘He’d started stalking one of the nurses, here,’ Debbie said, clicking her tongue. ‘Waited for her in the car park. The husband caught him trying to put his hands all over her.’
So it wasn’t Bruce who’d been plaguing me. On the train home, I ran through my current list of patients in my head. Was one of them calling my home number to freak me out? Could it be Rosie?
Whoever it was, as soon as I got another dead call, I was phoning the police.
I opened my diary to distract myself and made myself focus on the week ahead: a ballet on ice with Paula, a film with Hannah, Saturday lunch with Debbie. Nice, ordinary and safe.
When I got back, I poured myself a small glass of wine and flicked on the TV to watch a film, just catching the end of the news. If I’d switched on a couple of minutes later, I would have missed it.
I stared at the screen.
A man had been murdered in his flat in Tooting and the reporter stated that his brother was missing, presumed dead, following a car crash at Ullswater in the Lake District.
I recognised the photo; I’d seen the man in the footage of the Hinds’ party from 2001. I’d thought it was the same guy I’d seen on Rosie’s phone, too, the one who’d tried to sell Max’s watch. Only the reporter was calling him Greg White, not Teddy Spense. He was Richard’s brother.
Pieces of Rosie’s mystery were whirling around inside my head.
Teddy…Greg…was dead. The reporter said he’d been stabbed; a tenant had reported a bad smell through the letter box. And a priceless violin was found in his flat. Police were questioning neighbours for any leads. The voiceover implied Greg had mixed with the wrong people and had a history of misdemeanours as long as his arm.
I was almost tempted to call Rosie to see if she’d seen the report, but I had to let her go. I had to let everything about the crash go too, and while I hate unfinished business, I needed to resign myself to never knowing what really happened.
I could try to make headway on the other loose end, however. After a further call to Minette, she agreed to speak to Erica’s husband and later that evening, she called me back to say she’d persuaded him to meet me the following morning.
I took last-minute leave for the day and the taxi dropped me off at the gate at 9am. He must have been watching me walk up the path, because the door was open before I’d taken my finger off the bell.
‘Mr Mandale?’
Erica’s widower was in his early sixties and dressed in a formal black suit and tie. If he hadn’t been wearing slippers, I’d have said he was on his way to a funeral. His eyes seemed sunken and moist as if he’d spent entire days during the last few months in tears. I wondered how much sleep he was getting.
He invited me inside the three-storey townhouse and led me through to a large airy room he called the drawing room. He offered me tea and I half-expected him to reach over to the wall for a bell-pull to alert a maid. The kettle could have only just boiled, because he was back in the room before I’d had chance to take off my coat.
‘It was so terribly sudden,’ he said in pristine Queen’s English. ‘I still can’t believe it.’ My teacup made the crisp click of bone china as I stood it on the saucer. He blew into a large handkerchief and rallied a fraction. ‘You used to work with Erica?’
‘Not exactly. I’m a colleague of Dr Heron’s…and, I’m sure you’ll know all about confidentiality…I can’t reveal much, except to say that Erica and I had a connection.’
‘A patient in common?’
I looked down. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t say, but thank you for seeing me.’ I swallowed. ‘Is it okay to ask you a few questions about Erica? It could be important.’
He got up and walked across to look out of the broad bay window. I took a quick look around the spacious room. There was evidence of their happy years together on nearly every surface: early photographs in black and white and later ones with children. I wondered if the wardrobes were still full of Erica’s clothes, whether he could still smell her perfume when he walked into their bedroom.
He pressed his hands together as if he was praying. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How did she seem on the day she died?’ I asked gently.
‘Oh…the usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. She’d had an operation on her bunion, but it was healing up nicely. She still needed support, but she was down to a single crutch.’
‘And her patients?’
‘She was taking a break from Guy’s, so she only had one patient, a woman, who came to the house. Erica didn’t
normally work from home, but she’d made an exception. She felt sorry for the woman, I think.’
‘Did she ever talk about that patient?’
‘No,’ he turned back towards me, smiling. ‘You know the drill. Even husbands can’t ask questions. Erica was very good, she never let anything slip about her work.’
‘Did you see Erica after she’d given her consultation, the day she…fell?’
‘No, I saw her that morning.’ He dropped his gaze. ‘Her patient was booked in for 2pm. I didn’t get home until six. That’s when I found her at the bottom of the stairs…I was too late.’
‘That must have been awful…I’m so sorry.’
The delicate tick of the carriage clock on the mantel-piece filled the hollow space between us.
‘I thought, at first, she must have tripped over the dog…’
My eyes instinctively swept the room searching for evidence of a pet. ‘Rupert died, not long after Erica.’ He swayed slightly. ‘I loved that bloody mongrel.’
‘I’m sorry…’ I cringed inside, aware of how much my visit must have been compounding his grief. I ploughed on. ‘Dr Heron said there were witnesses who saw Erica’s patient leave that day?’
‘Yes. A neighbour saw a woman with red curly hair leave the house. She recognised her from previous visits. She left at around three o’clock.’
‘And Erica was seen after that?’
‘Yes, she went to the library, as usual – they remember her there because she nearly left her crutch behind.’
‘Do you have any idea what happened when she came back to the house?’
He plucked brown petals from a display of white lilies and screwed them up in his fist – the first sign I’d seen of any tension. He dropped them in a wastebasket in the corner and stood still. ‘She’d tidied up the flowers at some stage. She’d opened the mail, which usually comes after lunch…done a bit of cleaning – everything was spotless. There was no sign of any visitors, no cups on the draining board and equally there was nothing to suggest a forced entry. That’s why everyone assumed she died of natural causes, at first. A heart attack.’
‘At first…?’
He drew himself up and folded his arms. ‘What is it you want to know, exactly? I’ve been through all this with the police.’
‘Notes are missing from Erica’s records, as you probably know,’ I said.
‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Not exactly. I suppose I’m looking for something that happened on the day itself that might help the police, something they might have missed.’
‘Oh…’ He looked exhausted and shuffled over to an armchair, folding into it before his legs gave way. ‘The police started to question whether it was a heart attack…that’s why they re-opened the case.’ He paused. ‘And before you ask, Erica was cremated, so the police aren’t able to—’
‘Right…’ I murmured, glancing down at my clasped hands.
His chin quivered, but he continued. ‘There was new evidence. A neighbour came back from a long trip abroad and said he remembered someone coming to the front door the afternoon Erica died. Sometime around 3.30pm.’ His voice was thin and fragile. ‘The neighbour was at the front window waiting for a scheduled delivery, so he was very aware of the time. He said he saw the visitor go inside, but didn’t see them leave.’
‘But Erica was out, then – at the library.’
‘Exactly...’ He blinked slowly as if his eyelids were heavy and difficult to lift. ‘I think the neighbour must have been mistaken.’
‘Or the visitor had a key?’
He shook his head straight away. ‘No one else had a key, just the two of us.’ He toyed with a loose strand of cotton on the chair arm.
‘Did the neighbour give a description?’
‘He said the visitor was wearing an anorak with the hood up, jeans and flat boots. He reckoned it could have been anybody, male or female – he couldn’t be sure.’
‘Did the police find anything else?’
‘They came to re-examine the house and discovered brown marks on the skirting board at the top of the stairs. They think it’s possible there was some kind of scuffle. Apparently they’re trying to match samples of shoe polish.’
‘Really? From nine months ago?’
‘My wife…we never wore outdoor shoes around the house – it’s always been slippers. I’d painted upstairs the week before she died, so the marks could only have been made since then.’
‘I see.’
‘If you want all the details, there’s a police report,’ he said dismissively. ‘That’s about as much as I can tell you.’ He looked weary, his buttoned jacket rumpled with heavy folds at the front, like a teddy bear that’s lost half its stuffing. He seemed to lose interest in talking to me after that so I got up to leave.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said again, and thanked him.
He dragged himself to the hall to show me out and I glanced up at the staircase. It curved round at the top and the bottom with an extensive flight in between; it must have been a long tumble all the way down.
He was about to shut the door behind me when he said one final thing: ‘She was holding a blank card when she died. She must have been about to send it to someone.’
‘A card?’
‘Yes. It was the last thing she’d touched, so I kept it. Silly, really.’ He sighed, avoiding my eyes. ‘It wasn’t signed; there was nothing written on the envelope and it didn’t have a stamp on it. Just a simple greetings card with a little dried flower on the front.’
My breath caught in my throat and I swallowed hard. I tried to think straight.
‘You think Erica was going to send the card to someone…but could someone have sent it to the house, instead?’
He puffed out his bottom lip. ‘The police didn’t think so. The letterbox needs mending; there’s a faulty spring on the inside that always leaves a dent in the mail. The envelope wasn’t marked. In any case, why would anyone give Erica a blank card?’
He was starting to sound tetchy.
‘Do you mind if I take a look at it?’
He sighed, but ambled down the hall and came back holding an envelope.
I knew what it would look like even before I opened it. My fingers were hot and trembling as I dragged the card into the light. A dried red rosebud and Thank you written in silver printed letters. Exactly the same as mine, except this one was blank inside.
I wanted it to be a coincidence, but I knew it couldn’t be. It was too distinctive. I saw the design differently this time: the delicate flower in its prime, not captured forever, but flattened against its will, all the life squeezed out of it.
I handed it back. ‘Keep this safe. Don’t let it out of your sight. I think the police will want to speak to you again.’
I rang them as soon as I got to the gate, explaining about the identical card Rosie had sent me. I said I’d hand over the card she’d sent me within the hour. It was at work with all my other correspondence from patients, safe in my office at the back of a drawer.
All I could think of was Rosie. Unstable Rosie. Terrifying Rosie. One of life’s lost souls. I felt sure now. Erica’s death hadn’t been an accident at all – and Rosie was the one who’d pushed her.
Chapter 43
Sam
I flagged down a cab and went straight to St Luke’s, telling the driver to wait outside while I dashed in and out of my office.
With Rosie’s identical card in my bag, I asked him to drive like a runaway train to the police station on Earl’s Court Road. I had to wait ages before someone would see me, but by then I was piecing everything together.
Rosie must have returned to Erica’s after her consultation. Mr Mandale said there were no spare keys…and yet…
Suddenly it hit me.
How could I have been so stupid? Rosie had been getting into my flat, too. It explained why, for a few weeks now, certain things weren’t where I’d left them and others had gone missing altogether; it wasn’t absent-min
dedness, Rosie had been there.
I thought back: ironing folded away, dishes cleared, vases emptied. Rosie had been coming in and tidying up for me – how bizarre! And the missing bra, the belt, the comb, my boots, my pale-blue scarf? She must have pinched them, stolen my keys at some point when I wasn’t looking and had them copied. Unbelievable!
After I’d handed over Rosie’s card to the police officer, I explained all this and she suggested I get an emergency locksmith to change my locks. There was no concrete proof Rosie had been getting in, so that was all I could do, she told me. It didn’t seem enough.
Levi, from ‘Loxenkeys’, wasn’t as burly as I would have liked. With a crinkly round face and a few wisps of hair, he stood only an inch or so taller than me and gave the impression that he’d missed the boat to retirement some time ago. While he chipped away at the doorframe, I scoured every room. Given her past performance, I wouldn’t have put it past Rosie to be already inside, hiding somewhere.
Even after Levi left and I had a shiny new set of keys in my hand, I still felt jumpy. I had a nagging feeling that keeping Rosie out of my home wouldn’t be enough to end our connection. She was too persistent and I was convinced that she wasn’t going to let things rest as they stood.
She’d fought the idea of ending our sessions and acted very strangely in the Lake District, but was I actually in danger? In any case, shouldn’t the police be questioning her about Erica by now?
As I turned on the taps for a long soak in the bath, I silently urged the police to hurry up and find sufficient evidence to stop her. I’d made a terrible, terrible mistake letting her into my life. She was like a snake, wrapping herself, oh so tenderly, around my neck then slowly starting to squeeze.
I scattered a handful of expensive bath salts into the gushing water and watched the bathroom fill with sweet-smelling steam. Then I stripped off and sank into the water. I shut my eyes and willed my limbs to relax.
It was then I heard it. A soft patter like a book falling. I shot up, straining to listen, urging the rush of disturbed water to settle, but I couldn’t hear anything above the loud thudding in my chest.
