‘Grade-1 listed. We bought it almost ten years ago. Now let me take your coat and scarf, and you can leave your bag, if you wish, at reception too.’ Kate allowed him to slip the coat from her shoulders.
‘We’ll leave it all here because you’ll probably want your coat again when we head outside. I’ve organised morning coffee for you in the Orangerie.’
Kate kept her bag with her phone in case Jack rang. ‘You didn’t have to go to that trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble, truly. All our guests enjoy five-star treatment.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s how we do things here.’ He began to walk towards a passageway and once again she fell into step beside him.
‘Do you find it hard to switch gears between your workplaces, for want of a better phrase?’
‘You mean from public hospital to private clinic?’ She nodded, allowing herself to be guided down a corridor. ‘I don’t, but I can’t speak for the others. The real work, with all the real challenges, occurs in London. You know we have to solve a lot of heartbreaking problems for families at the unit. You would be horrified if you saw some of the facial deformations or the horrendous burns or dreadful damage that cancers and accidents wreak on people.’
‘I’m sure I would,’ she said with alarm, hoping he wasn’t going to show her any grisly pictures.
‘We’re the last hope, you could say. People come to us broken, physically and emotionally. It’s our job to mend them, give them back their faces as best we can, and in doing so give them back their lives.’
‘I feel depressed now.’
‘You should feel only lucky — that you look like you do … but I bet you look in the mirror each day and see problems.’
She glanced at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Kate, forgive me if this sounds presumptious, but you are a very good-looking woman. And most gorgeous women take their looks for granted, becoming almost indignant when a new wrinkle presents, or a blemish surfaces or their complexion just isn’t as perfect as it could be … indeed, should be.’
She flicked her hair, but said nothing.
He grinned. ‘My apologies, I’m not trying to insult you — that was certainly not my intention. You are one of the world’s blessed.’
‘And you’re not, I suppose?’ she remarked.
‘Of course I am. But I know it. People sometimes see such an admission as arrogance when it’s simple honesty. I know my features are not only all in the right place but they’ve been put together in a way that some might call handsome.’
She made a scoffing sound. ‘Might?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘We’re going up here,’ he said, pointing to a small flight of steps. ‘Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyway, I’m honest about how I look. I suspect you are not. You are probably like a lot of other women who pretend it doesn’t matter to them. Of course when their looks are taken away — by age, accident, illness — watch how much it matters then.’
‘And that’s where you come in?’
‘Me and my colleagues — the clinic, yes. We cater to wealthy, handsome people who want to retain their looks into eternity, it seems.’
She turned at his sarcastic tone. ‘Don’t you approve?’
‘I don’t approve or disapprove. But I do worry about someone your age fretting. How old are you?’
She felt herself baulking at his question. ‘I don’t fret.’
‘But there are plenty of women like you who do. Early thirties?’ he continued.
‘Yes.’
‘Then let’s use you as my example. You were blessed with a fine bone structure. You’re tall, slender, you have quality hair and a clear complexion. Your face is symmetrical — certainly to the naked eye — and you have great natural colouring to your skin, irises, your hair. All in all a fabulous package.’
Which would explain why I can’t win the man I love and in the meantime have no one in my life, she thought sourly. ‘Thank you,’ she said instead.
‘I meet many women who fit a similar bill each year. And all of them who come here want to change what Mother Nature has already bestowed upon them lavishly. She has given them in spades what other women would be happy for in minute amounts. They want perfection. They don’t want to admit that in their early thirties, perhaps having had a child or two, that their belly is not as taut as it was. By their mid thirties they don’t like their breasts any more, and by their mid forties, they want a total overhaul — face, neck, thighs, belly — they’re complaining about everything! When in fact if you stood them in the street and compared them to one hundred passing younger women, they’d still look outstanding.’
They’d arrived in a beautiful conservatory-like room with massive windows overlooking the gardens down to the lake.
‘So you’re saying if Mother Nature gets it right —’
‘Leave it alone!’ he finished. ‘Absolutely that’s what I’m saying. She has a plan. If you’re beautiful in your thirties I promise you that you will remain a beautiful woman well into your nineties if you aren’t struck down by illness or a car or whatever. Take care of what she’s given you. People are wrong; beauty doesn’t fade, it simply ages and it’s the ageing that makes people interesting — but women, in particular, don’t cope well with it. They want to look twenty-five for keeps. It’s not possible. Well, not yet, anyway.’
She sighed, hearing the truth in his words. ‘Then why do you offer this service?’
He shrugged and smiled. ‘Fools and their money are soon parted they say. We can do what they need and we can do it very well and very professionally.’
‘I blame men, of course.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. I blame men like you for being able to offer such surgery and I blame wealthy husbands and boyfriends who want their thirty-something women to look twenty-five.’
‘Touché,’ he replied. He gestured around the spacious room. ‘This is our conservatory where on inclement days our guests can enjoy the view, and can move into the wellbeing spa that’s connected through that exit. We have pools, a sauna, steam rooms, massage rooms, physio, a gym of course … everything in fact that you could possibly want in terms of fitness and exercise.’
‘How many guests can you accommodate?’
‘At once? It would depend on the procedures. There are ten surgeons consulting here in various rotations. Everyone specialises. We have thirty-six guest rooms.’
‘The surgeons aren’t all directors, though, are they?’
He shook his head. ‘No, there are only five partners with a vested interest.’
‘What’s your specialty, Charles?’
He took her elbow. ‘Let me show you some more as we talk. My area of expertise is reconstruction, like my colleague, Professor Chan. That said, he’s certainly got more experience than anyone in this country.’
‘Is there an area you particularly favour?’
He shook his head. ‘No, Kate. It’s all the same to me, and by that I mean that everyone who presents with a problem is unique in their own special way. Therein lies the challenge. Each day presents a new mountain to climb.’
‘You’re referring now to the unit at the hospital rather than the clinic.’
‘I am, yes. The clinic is mainly repetitive stuff. We perform liposuction through to facelifts daily.’
‘Famous people?’
He smiled. ‘Of course. Don’t ask me to name any.’
‘Mainly celebrities?’
‘No, mainly very wealthy, very private people. You wouldn’t know ninety per cent of those who make use of the clinic’s services.’
‘International?’
‘Predominantly, yes.’
‘Surely not American?’
‘You’d be surprised how many Americans want the privacy that we offer. But you’re right, they’re mainly from the Middle East, but plenty are from Asia, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, South Africa, and lots of Europeans too.’
‘What’s the most requested procedure?’<
br />
They’d arrived at the entrance to what looked like a sitting room.
‘The most popular or the one people would most love to have? This is a typical suite for our guests, by the way.’
She decided in an instant she could live here. ‘It’s lovely. I’ll definitely book in.’
‘No charge for our brave police,’ he quipped as they moved on.
‘I mean the procedure most people would most love to have if money was no object.’ she continued.
‘Ah, that would be a skin transplant.’
Kate frowned.
‘Let me explain.’ Dr Maartens tone was reassuring. ‘Apart from the usual vain and shallow clients, we get a number of private patients suffering the ravages of an illness, the after effects of prolonged use of drugs for treatment, a burn from an accident, from the sun, scarring from an injury and so on. We now have the capacity to use the patient’s own flesh for repair.’
‘A skin graft?’
‘Yes. Although increasingly what people want is someone else’s skin. They don’t want to lose their own.’
Kate felt a twitch of excitement. She felt herself edging closer to the surgeon, as if not to miss a word.
‘Shall we take our morning coffee?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘How does using other people’s skin work?’
‘Badly. Cadavers present all manner of problems, not the least of which is rejection. But there’s a host of problems associated with using other people’s skin.’
‘But it’s the way of the future?’
‘No, I think donations from living donors will be the likely pathway. In the same way that a person may donate their organs, I think their skin will become routinely donated too — but we’re still a way off that.’
‘Why the delay?’
He gave a sheepish shrug. ‘People like to believe their body is buried or cremated seemingly whole. At least the outside looks as whole as can be, even if most of their internal organs have been harvested. Removing the skin just sounds too barbaric and yet …’
‘It sounds logical to me,’ Kate commented. ‘If I had agreed to donate my heart and lungs, I’d happily donate my skin too.’
He nodded. ‘Except you are in the minority. Brave parents will donate their brain-dead children’s eyes, ears, livers, lungs, hearts, kidneys … but mention their child’s skin and watch them recoil with horror. As I say, we’ll get there, but we’re still some years off. Perhaps another decade.’
‘Sad. Oh, we’re back in reception.’
He smiled and she glimpsed perfect teeth against his perfect light tan that gave the impression he played year-round tennis. ‘Yes, we’ve walked full circle. What I thought I’d do is take you down for a coffee and then afterwards you might want to take a look around on your own. You might want to talk with some of the staff without me hovering behind you. Feel free to go anywhere in the clinic, other than where surgical procedures are under way, or into private guest rooms, of course.’
She was surprised. ‘Thank you. That’s good of you.’
‘Don’t mention it. We want to assist.’ He helped her on with her coat. ‘Follow me.’
They made small talk for the short stroll across the lawns, mainly about the park-like atmosphere and the two grand heritage trees.
Maartens did most of the talking. ‘That’s a Cedar of Lebanon, more than 250 years old, and that one’s a truly stunning magnolia grandiflora that I believe was planted in the late 1800s. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?’
‘Takes my breath away.’
‘I wish you could see the magnolia in flower. It really is breathtaking, but that occurs in late spring. You’ll have to come back, Kate.’ She smiled, realising she enjoyed his easy company. ‘You should take a walk around the lake later. It’s at its best on a crisp, dry day like today,’ he continued, opening the door to an elegant glass building.
‘Ah, the Orangerie,’ she said, as the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans took her in its grip and made her want a latte very badly.
‘It’s quiet today, probably too cold for our residents. Please,’ he said, pointing to a table by the window.
She sat down and a waitress was at their side within a moment, smiling widely at the doctor. ‘Hello Dr Maartens.’
‘Hello Sharon. Your hair looks nice today, up like that.’ The girl smiled shyly, touching her hair briefly. ‘What can we offer you?’ he said, turning to Kate.
‘A latte would be lovely,’ she said, unwrapping her scarf again.
‘Make that two,’ he said to Sharon. ‘And perhaps a slice of the bee-sting cake?’
‘Good choice, they were dusted with icing sugar just a few minutes ago.’
‘Excellent.’ He turned back to Kate as Sharon left. ‘I know you probably don’t want any cake, but you must try a slice. It won’t hurt your lovely figure, I promise. You’ll probably run it off by this evening anyway. Do you train?’
She laughed at his direct manner. ‘I do. I prefer the gym to running around the streets. London’s far too dangerous.’
‘You’re right. Where do you live?’
‘Stoke Newington.’
‘Oh, which part? My sister lives in Stoke Newington. She’s in Wright Road,’ he said.
Kate demurred. ‘We’re practically neighbours,’ was all she said, and he seemed to take the hint.
‘I prefer to live out of central London and thus condemn myself to commuting.’ He gave a look of mock horror. ‘I’m just off Hadley Common.’
‘Very nice. Anywhere near the footballers and their WAGs?’
He winced. ‘There are some extremely tacky places at the bottom end — the nouveau riche area, we call it.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s all older money up around the common and into the village proper. Frankly, I have little to do with either demographic.’
‘Too busy?’
He sighed. ‘Normally too tired. I go home to escape so the last thing I want is to be having barbecues with the neighbours.’
‘Not an entertainer, then?’
‘I have my moments.’
It was time to learn more about him. ‘Anyone special in your life, Charles?’
Maartens looked out the window momentarily and then returned his gaze to her. There was amusement in it, but Kate got the impression he was considering his answer. ‘Are you offering?’ he finally said.
She sat back, surprised. That was not the response she had anticipated, yet she realised she shouldn’t be shocked. He was charming, flirtatious, handsome and very direct. Why wouldn’t he say exactly what he had when she’d asked him such a leading question. She felt herself blushing as the noise began of Sharon heating and frothing the milk.
He didn’t prolong her suffering. ‘I’m sure there’s some protocol I’m stomping all over but if it’s permitted, I’d really enjoy the opportunity to take you out to the theatre perhaps, and dinner afterwards. Would your history-buff boss resent that?’
She tried to answer with the same candour with which he’d posed his question. ‘Not from a personal perspective,’ she said, deftly schooling her expression to disguise the sadness that admission prompted. ‘But in his capacity as DCI he might consider it unprofessional of me during the case.’
He steepled his strong, shapely hands. She was ashamed of herself for noticing them. Last night she’d begun to think about the potential of Geoff Benson; now it was Charles Maartens. What was wrong with her?
‘Well, perhaps when this ugly business is done, you’ll let me treat you to a wonderful night out.’
She smiled, inwardly berating herself for another flush of colour she was sure was tingeing her cheeks. ‘Charles, I’m here on police business. This conversation is leading down inappropriate pathways.’
He laughed. ‘You didn’t say no, so I’ll take that as a yes. I’m a patient man.’ Their coffee arrived and Maartens turned his charm back on Sharon. ‘Lovely, thank you, Sharon.’
‘Cake’s coming,’ she said brightly, moving back to the main counte
r.
Kate tried to get the discussion back on track. ‘Has Professor Chan shown any behaviour recently outside the normal parameters you’d expect from him?’
Both of them chose to remain silent as Sharon returned with the cake.
‘Enjoy,’ she trilled and the two of them smiled their thanks.
Maartens continued. ‘May I ask, is my colleague under investigation?’
‘No, not at all. He’s helping us with enquiries in the same way that you are. These are all normal questions — and he was the victim’s fiancé.’
‘First suspect?’
She blinked as she absently stirred her coffee. ‘Looking into the background and particularly the motives of a victim’s partner is usual procedure.’
‘Good. I would hate to think a man of his reputation was having it besmirched without any formal accusation, even if he did have good reason.’ He pushed a slice of cake toward her.
Kate frowned as she picked up the fork. ‘What do you mean?’
Charles looked uncertain for the first time, but recovered himself as he gestured towards the cake. ‘I mean, try it. It’s sandwiched with a delectable honey-flavoured custard with toffee sauce and —’
She wasn’t to be sidetracked. ‘Not the cake, Charles. What do you mean by Professor Chan having good reason?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t really know what I meant by that. Forget I said it. Come on, taste your cake and —’
‘Charles, unintended or otherwise, I need you to explain your remark.’
‘Look, it’s not important. I promise you. And all it will do is colour the investigation, send you off in a direction that would be an unnecessary wasting of police time.’
‘Will you let us be the judge of that?’
‘Really, Kate, it was a slip of the tongue and I don’t want to pursue it.’
She sat back, watching him suddenly fidget with sugar sachets. He had dropped the eye contact, having previously stared at her so relentlessly it had made her feel self-conscious. ‘I’m afraid I can’t leave it alone. If you’re not prepared to tell me, then I will have to tell my DCI that you know something that may or may not be pertinent to the case but that you’re refusing to answer honestly.’
Beautiful Death Page 24
