No use quoting Little Britain to her!
‘I rather think,’ she said, ‘that I needed to come to you for my thyroid check, but I can’t remember whether I had the necessary blood test.’
‘Let’s look,’ he said, ‘shall we?’
She hadn’t had her thyroid levels done for almost a year so Daniel took some blood and sent it off. ‘We may need to adjust the dose,’ he warned. ‘So what I want you to do is to ring me in a week’s time and I’ll let you know.’
She put a liver-spotted, slack-skinned hand over his and he met a pair of blue eyes still bright with humour. ‘You are good to me, Doctor,’ she said. ‘So very good.’
His next patient was Maud Allen’s diametric opposite. Darren Clancy swaggered in, asking for anabolic steroids, like, to make him more muscly, like, and have a bit more success with the girls, like. Daniel dealt with him calmly, fighting the rising instinct to tell him to piss off. Instead he explained that anabolic steroids were potentially dangerous, illegal when prescribed for body-building, and watched the youth swagger out, swearing as he left and venting his frustration by kicking the door open.
Daniel reflected that he should have crossed the stroppy guy off his list. Instead he’d listened calmly, been polite. What was his role in today’s society? He’d trained to treat sick people, for goodness’ sake. And now here he was, fending off patients who were trying to rope him in to provide designer drugs to make them more attractive to the opposite sex.
He allowed himself a quiet expletive.
A woman was still sitting in the waiting room, staring at the floor as he passed through. He didn’t recognise her so he asked Vanessa, one of the receptionists, who she was.
She moved away from the hatch, out of view of the woman. ‘She hasn’t got an appointment,’ she said. ‘But…’
He glanced again at the woman. She was in her forties, sitting quietly and very still, dressed neatly in a dark, full skirt, flat pumps and a white sweater. She didn’t look agitated but perfectly composed.
‘She wants to see someone now,’ the receptionist said. ‘I’ve offered her no end of appointments. She’s fairly new on the list,’ she added.
‘Did she say it was urgent?’
‘She didn’t use that word.’ Vanessa was unfailingly honest and literal. ‘But she implied she wasn’t leaving until she’d seen a doctor.’
His first thought was the morning after pill. Levonorgestrel. Not quite as urgent as its name implied. In actual fact you have three days’ grace from the act, but it did bring women scuttling down to the surgery.
‘I’d better see her,’ he said.
He crossed the now empty waiting room and approached her. She looked up and for the second time that morning he read desperation in a patient’s eyes.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Doctor Gregory. Would you like to come into my surgery?’
She looked uncertain and he felt impatient. For goodness’ sake. She’d just turned up here. She didn’t look like an emergency. It didn’t seem as though there was a crisis. And he was offering to see her.
She had a pale face. No make-up, straight brown hair, shoulder-length, tucked behind her ears. Her ears were pierced, he noted, but she had no earrings in. He glanced down at her hands. No rings either.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Cora Moseby,’ she said. ‘I’m registered with Doctor Satchel. Is she here?’
‘I think she’s left to do one or two visits. If it’s Doctor Satchel you want to see, maybe the receptionist can make you an appointment.’
‘I can’t wait,’ she said very quietly.
‘Then why don’t you see me?’ He had on his best friendly doctor air. It usually worked.
She stood up slowly, picked up a large leather handbag from the floor and walked along the corridor to the consulting rooms. He noticed she limped.
Once he had held open the door and she’d sat down at the side of his desk, he mentioned it. ‘Pain in the hip? Or the back?’
She looked confused.
‘Your limp,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She looked vague. ‘I do limp sometimes. I’m not sure why.’
He needed to read her notes.
‘So,’ he said briskly, ‘what can I do for you today?’
‘I think I’m very anaemic,’ she said.
He felt a twinge of irritation. This was hardly an emergency.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because I get very tired,’ she said. ‘I can fall asleep at any time. And then I dream. I dream that I am awake and think I see things – people.’
Mentally Daniel cussed himself for getting involved.
‘Let’s deal with the anaemia,’ he said. He looked at her eyes. They didn’t look pale. He checked her blood pressure, took her pulse. All normal. Finally he scribbled out a form for a full blood count and handed it to her. ‘We’ll check up on that,’ he said, standing up. ‘And about the other – well – I think you should come back and see Doctor Satchel a week after the blood test. She’ll have the result by then. All right?’
She looked even more uncertain. ‘What if I…? In the meantime, I mean.’
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t drive until we’ve got to the bottom of this,’ he suggested. ‘And avoid alcohol.’
She bowed her head and left the room. She left behind a vague scent of something musty, like old clothes.
Doctors have an instinct for strange people. And the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling. She was weird. Possibly fey, but definitely weird.
Saturday, 22nd April
It never failed to annoy him that Elaine refused to bring Holly on the Friday. After all, he’d argued, again and again, both with the solicitor and with her, in his view Friday was part of the weekend.
But Elaine had stuck to her guns. She was not driving up the M6, all the way from Birmingham, on a Friday night when the motorway was so busy.
Holly would have spent all day at school and would be far too tired to sit in the car for an hour or more.
Besides, she would have the return journey late at night and what if she was working – or going out?
Wearily, Daniel had offered to drive halfway down the M6 and meet her at the services. It was surprising how very weary divorce made him. Things seemed to take so much effort – especially the ceaseless arguments about access to his own daughter. Finally, in desperation, he’d offered to collect Holly from Elaine’s house on the Friday, but Elaine had promptly enrolled her in Friday evening ballet classes, which put paid to that.
Elaine didn’t even make the effort to get out of bed early on the Saturday morning. It was invariably around lunchtime that she arrived. Which gave him little more than twenty-four hours with his daughter. She had to be returned early. (‘Early, mind,’ Elaine was fond of saying. ‘She has school on Monday.’)
At eleven on the Saturday morning he finally heard her car. Even over the constant buzz of the High Street traffic, Elaine’s car was distinctive – huge and noisy, a 4x4 with a bull bar on the front. He heard the slam of the car door and opened his front door.
The huge Honda was parked right outside; she’d already turned around. Elaine had done very well for herself, he reflected. A nice house in Harborne and she was planning on getting married again, so Holly told him. She was to be bridesmaid, she’d announced on her last visit. In pink, her favourite colour.
He’d felt the bile rise up in his mouth and wanted to spit it out.
As soon as he had presented himself on the doorstep the Honda accelerated back down the High Street. Holly was struggling with her Barbie doll suitcase, trying to pull it up the steps on its wheels.
‘Daddy,’ she said, and the suitcase bumped back down again.
He scooped her up in his arms and buried his face in her neck.
‘I was ready at six o’clock,’ she announced. ‘But Mummy took ages getting all my stuff ready.’
‘You’ve grown,’ he said, and she giggled.
It
was a standing joke between them, that she had visibly grown in the week they had been apart. Neither of them believed it. They just pretended they did.
The moment he put her back down on the floor she pushed past him and scampered up the stairs, leaving him to retrieve the case. ‘I want Christabel,’ she flung back when she reached the landing.
Christabel was the latest, most favourite doll and she lived here. Like all Holly’s teenage dolls, Christabel was impossibly big-breasted, tiny-waisted and long-legged, and eight or so inches tall.
Holly was whispering something in the doll’s ear as she descended the stairs, slower than she had ascended.
When she looked up at him her eyes were sparkling with some secret plot.
‘What are we going to do this weekend, Daddy?’
‘I thought we might go and look for some tadpoles. Didn’t you say that you were doing a project at school?’
For some reason he had the impression that he was playing into her hands.
‘Yes we are but…’ her face fell, ‘Mummy hasn’t packed my Wellingtons.’
The irritation surfaced again. He distinctly remembered reminding Elaine to include them during his Wednesday evening phone call.
‘That’s a shame, pigeon.’
She dropped her face forward so her hair curtained her expression. ‘I really wanted to get some tadpoles,’ she said plaintively. There was a short pause before she said, ‘We could buy some. Mine were a bit tight anyway.’
So that was the plan. She’d probably hidden her own Wellingtons. How very manipulative even the youngest of the female species could be.
Now he realised she had worked the entire scheme out – from simple beginning to clever end.
Telling him they were doing a project in school was the first part.
Deliberately forgetting Wellingtons the second.
And the third?
Halfway down the High Street was an upmarket children’s boutique called LITTLE MONSTERS. Eccleston was seething with doting grandparents so it did a brisk trade. If he thought back carefully he could remember the window display of a week ago, Holly’s last visit. April Showers had been the jolly theme. PVC macs, sweet little hoods, tiny umbrellas and an assortment of decorative Wellingtons – flowery pinks for the girls, frog-eyed Thomas the Tank Engine for the boys. Holly had eyed up a particularly garish pair of flowery pink Wellingtons without saying a word but she must have squirrelled the idea away.
So now he had played right into her hands. ‘Neat, little lady,’ he said.
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Can we, Daddy?’
He wasn’t going to be that easy. ‘Can we what?’ he teased.
‘Get some,’ she said with just a touch of irritation.
He gave in then. ‘OK. I don’t see why not.’
The shop was busy on a Saturday morning, bustling with parents and indulgent grandparents focusing all their attention on the children.
Amongst the throng Daniel spotted the local bobby, out shopping with his wife and little daughter. ‘Well, hello.’
The wife, Claudine, was French, unmistakably so with a petite chic. The daughter looked the same age as Holly and was very like her mother, which was lucky because Brian Anderton was six-foot four with a broad build to match and a tendency to run to fat. The adults exchanged pleasantries while the two girls eyed each other warily for a minute or two before turning to the footwear display.
They bonded almost immediately over the same pair of bubble-gum pink flowery boots and further gelled when they were measured and found to be the same size. Now chattering happily they unanimously refused to take the beloved footwear off, while the parents flashed their plastic and the Anderton child (Daniel couldn’t remember her name except that it wasn’t something French) whispered something in her mother’s ear.
Claudine Anderton admonished her daughter with an, ‘It’s rude to whisper in company,’ but she turned a laughing face and flashing dark eyes to Daniel. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Bethan tells me you are hunting for tadpoles this afternoon.’
Bethan. Yes – that was it. A Welsh name. Unexpected.
Daniel grinned back at Claudine. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we are. Holly is doing something at school about them.’
Or was it simply a ruse to persuade him to buy the new footwear? He was never quite sure.
He read the eagerness on the little girl’s face and added, ‘Would Bethan like to come?’
He noted the child’s hand tighten around her mother’s and the pleading expression on her face. At the same time he noted Brian Anderton’s mouth tighten and his forehead crinkle into an ugly scowl while his glance moved between Daniel and his wife, forming some connection.
Either Claudine hadn’t noticed her husband’s emotion or she chose to ignore it. ‘I think she would like to come, Doctor Gregory.’ Now she looked to her husband for his approval.
Anderton swallowed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Doctor Gregory will take good care of our little girl.’
Daniel ignored the sarcasm. ‘I’ll call round to collect her then, shall I? About two?’
There was no need to ask where the policeman lived. Like the doctor, in Eccleston, everyone knew where the policeman lived.
In that same moment, the secret watcher was standing outside the policeman’s house. Even though he knew he shouldn’t. It was dangerous. What if somebody saw him? But he simply couldn’t stay away. From his semi-concealed position, standing against the line of trees, he’d watched as they had set out. What could be more natural than a family outing, shopping together on a Saturday morning? As he’d seen them lock the house behind them, he’d made his plan. He wanted to show her somehow that her garments were appreciated, fussed over, admired. And he had thought of a way to pay tribute to her. He needed to do that because he had noted that today, although the weather was fine and dry, the washing line remained neatly rolled away with no dancing little symbols. She’d left nothing for him. There was nothing for him to look at, to drool over, to touch, nothing to spark his imagination. So she needed encouragement…
She shouldn’t do this, deprive him of his stimulus. His mouth tightened. It was that husband’s fault. He was suspicious and possessive. He wasn’t allowing their relationship to progress, develop as it should in a healthy normal way. He was trying to prevent her from playing with him.
Well – he wouldn’t succeed.
Love always won in the end.
He would have to show him. He would give him a jolt. But he must be careful and clever. The police were very smart these days. If he gave her the gift he had in mind, they would be able to get DNA from it. He didn’t believe for a moment that the police only kept criminals on file. They had only to appeal to everyone to help solve the mystery and all innocent males for miles around would oblige, finally isolating the guilty and all fingers would eventually point at him. That wasn’t part of his plan.
No, it must be a sterile emblem.
He smiled. They would soon see how clever he was.
Daniel allowed Holly to wear her new Wellingtons around the house; they were no dirtier than any other new pair of shoes. ‘But if they get muddy,’ he warned, ‘you’ll have to wash them. Thoroughly. Or else they stay outside.’ He listened to her slapping up and downstairs with amusement.
His weak attempt at discipline failed to wipe the smirk off his daughter’s face.
She’d won. She’d got her own way.
He always cooked for Holly. The truth was he enjoyed cooking while his daughter sat on the work surface, directing operations, making comments all the while. The sight of her small form, swinging her legs self-consciously in the new Wellingtons made him as happy as a TV chef. Today he was pan cooking some chicken he had marinated overnight in lemon zest and juice. He fried a few chips and prepared a bowl of salad to eat with it.
Then they sat down to eat while she made comments.
‘I think you’ve overdone the lemon, Dad.’
‘Mmm.’ He put his head on on
e side and pretended to consider her criticism. ‘Not sure about that, pigeon.’
She giggled. ‘I don’t know why you call me pigeon.’
He thought about it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Neither do I.’
She chewed another couple of mouthfuls. ‘You were a bit overgenerous with the black pepper too, Daddy,’ she said next, severely.
They ate Müller yoghurt to finish and loaded the dishwasher before Holly disappeared upstairs to clean her teeth. This was another trait she had inherited from her mother – cleaning her teeth frequently and with great gusto. Even from the bottom of the stairs he could hear her spitting noisily into the sink.
Like her newfound friend, Bethan Anderton had also worn her Wellington boots into the house. When they’d returned from their shopping trip she’d gone straight upstairs and started texting her school friends. There was no point in owning the latest fashion if no one knew about it. The object was to inspire envy. It was an important part of possession.
She was still giggling to herself as she tapped on the keys. JST CUM HOME FRM SHOPPING! HVE PINK WELLINGTONS! LUV BETH XXXXXXXXXXX
Soon her mobile was flashing and singing with returning comments. Her favourite was from Saskia. LCKY U!
She saved it.
Brian was sitting on the sofa, fiddling with the TV remote control. He was desperate to watch the opening minutes of a football game. In the kitchen he could hear his wife humming some funny little Edith Piaf café song. She had the same sort of voice as the ‘little sparrow’, rich, brave, gravelly, cracked. He sighed and closed his eyes for a second. He wished he could banish the demons, that just for once he could stop being influenced by the devils in his past. But the way that doctor had looked at Claudine had made his heart pound with anger. He knew he was divorced and was probably an attractive proposition to women but there was no need for him to look at his wife like that. She was his wife.
The Watchful Eye Page 4
