by Paula Daly
I tried to mask my relief that the interrogation was over by doing something I would never do – commenting on her posture.
‘Do you suffer from neck problems, Detective?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just in the way you’re moving. You seem as though you might have some stiffness at around C5/6 level.’
I refrained from saying she had what we unflatteringly called a pokey-chin posture. Often stiffness in the lower neck and upper thoracic region of the spine causes people to thrust their chins forward. This has the effect of limiting their rotation – when they try to turn their head to the side, they elevate their shoulder at the same time. Think Paula Abdul, robot-like, turning to admonish Simon Cowell in the early days of American Idol.
‘I had a breast reduction,’ DS Aspinall said simply. ‘I’ve been left with stiffness in my upper back from the years of constant—’ She stopped mid-sentence. She let me fill in the blanks.
Her partner, DS Quigley, looked to the floor.
‘Ah,’ I said, unfazed now that we were back on my turf, ‘it can be such a cruel condition. Sometimes the upward-facing dog stretch can help. If you lift your head backwards as well, as you do it. Do you know the stretch?’
‘I do. I’ll try it,’ she said.
She closed her notepad and made like she was ready to leave.
Casting around the reception area one last time to make certain nothing had slipped her attention, she thanked me for my time and handed me a card with her details on it, should Wayne get in touch.
She walked a few steps from the desk and, just as I thought I was rid of them, she stopped and turned, frowning as though grappling with a puzzling thought.
‘Did Mr Geddes ever mention any missing money?’ she asked.
24
‘MONEY?’ I REPEATED.
‘Yes,’ said DS Aspinall, ‘money.’
DS Quigley, who had already exited the clinic, now doubled back, lingering in the passage a few feet behind his partner. His face remained passive, open, and I realized instantly this was a well-practised set piece between the two of them.
Lure the victim with their affable, friendly demeanour before going in for the kill when the victim was off guard.
‘I don’t think Wayne mentioned anything,’ I murmured.
‘Try casting your mind back to last week,’ encouraged DS Aspinall. ‘Did he question you about any irregularities in the accounts?’
Just then, the front door of the clinic opened and Magdalena appeared, carrying a scale model of the spine, complete with all the major nerves, and a prolapsed disc at L5 level. I had been hunting for it yesterday when I couldn’t get through to a patient the idea that something pressing on a nerve in his back could give him pain in the front of his shin. He was convinced he had a fracture, even though the X-ray said otherwise.
Magdalena gave a token smile to the two detectives, and said, ‘Guten Morgen,’ which was what she did when she didn’t want to engage in conversation. She disappeared into her treatment room, whereupon she switched on Classic FM, loud enough to be heard through the closed door.
DS Aspinall gestured towards Magdalena’s room. ‘She works here as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘German?’
‘Austrian.’
‘We’ll need to interview you all at some point,’ she said.
I told her that would be fine and then waited for her to say she was leaving, again.
‘You were thinking back to last week?’ she prompted, phrasing it as a question.
‘Oh yes,’ I replied, as though I’d clean forgotten, and made a show of lifting my eyes to the ceiling, pretending to recall the events of the previous few days.
Eventually, I shook my head, saying, ‘No. I’m really sorry, but I can’t remember Wayne mentioning any irregularities. He tended to keep the accounting stuff to himself. He had a way of making out like it was above our heads. If you know what I mean.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I get it.’
I got the sense the interview was now over, so I moved out from behind the desk, mumbling something about getting ready for the next patient.
DS Aspinall watched me carefully before thanking me again for my time.
‘See you later,’ she said.
I forced a smile. ‘Yes, later then.’
I listened until I heard both car doors bang shut, then I ran to my treatment room and pushed aside the Venetian blind. They were in a Ford something or other. I couldn’t make out what. But it was a new, black saloon –the type of non-descript, top-of-the-range model the medical reps arrived in.
DS Aspinall was driving. She reversed fast. Recklessly, actually. And then sped off out of the clinic entrance.
I was shaking.
Where was Wayne?
If he had reported me, why wasn’t he here? Something was very wrong with this whole situation.
I needed some air.
I went outside to the car park and sat on the bench. Above me, a buzzard circled, gaining height. I watched as two jackdaws made an assault, dive-bombing the bird, screeching their warnings, until it changed its course away from what must have been their nest.
The clinic door opened behind me.
‘What was that about?’ Magdalena asked, referring to our two early-morning visitors.
‘The police. They’re looking for Wayne.’
‘Why they look for him when we have many missing children?’
‘What missing children?’ I asked her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said defensively, ‘but there will be some. For sure.’
I didn’t pursue it. Conversations with Magdalena often ended with her walking off, oddly wounded, as if you’d made a direct attack on her. I couldn’t fathom if things were lost in translation or this was simply how she was.
The patients felt it, too. They’d exit her treatment room wearing befuddled looks of shame, either because they somehow felt they had offended Magdalena, or else because they’d complained she’d hurt them physically … which offended Magdalena.
‘Did Wayne ever talk to you about the accounts, Magdalena?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘He always talk about his stupid fish.’
‘Did he ever ask you about some missing money?’
Her eyes widened.
‘He did not,’ she said, with a look of Tell me more.
I stood up. ‘No, me neither,’ I said absently, and I headed back indoors.
Trying to keep occupied and not let my thoughts run amok, I put together an invoice to send along to Scott’s office. This time I billed them for a lifting-and-handling course.
I billed Scott’s firm for the full £1,500. And then I emailed the attachment in the hope I’d get paid soon, rather than printing out a copy and sending it through the post.
Gary arrived, and I told him about the police. He wanted a blow-by-blow account of their questions. When I’d finished he said, ‘Sounds like they’re investigating a fraud. Do you think he’s cleared off with all the takings?’
‘Unlikely,’ I said quickly. ‘Besides, what takings? Most of our transactions are electronic, so the money’s in the bank.’
Gary shrugged. ‘Remember that guy from the golf club, the secretary, who’d been skimming money off the membership fees?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘He’d been at it for years. He got away with over sixty thousand before anyone noticed.’
‘Whatever happened to him?’
Gary made a spooky action, wiggling his fingers. ‘Nobody knows,’ he said dramatically. ‘But they did find his car near the ferry port at Stranraer. So either he threw himself in the sea, or else he got over to Northern Ireland unseen.’
I looked at Gary, and all at once I was filled with the urge to flee.
Was it possible?
I had money in the bank. George wanted to leave. In fact, only that morning, he’d asked once again if we could move to another place. Winston would be gutted not to see his
son, but then, he hadn’t been thinking about that when he was out screwing other women, had he? I could go today. I could pack up right now, before DS Aspinall and her colleague had the chance to return and question me further. A new start. Where would I go? George and I had up-to-date passports, we could drive south and just keep on driving until we found somewhere we liked. Live by the beach in Aquitaine. Go across the border into Spain and live for cheap in Galicia.
‘Roz?’
I could hear Gary’s voice, as if from far away.
‘Roz!’
‘What?’
Gary was regarding me like I’d lost my mind. ‘Your patient is here,’ he said, pointing to Sue Mitchinson, who was sitting, twisted, on one side of her bottom, a pained expression on her face.
‘What’ve you done to yourself, Sue?’ I asked, regaining my lucidity.
‘Had a fight with the Hoover,’ she said. ‘On the stairs.’
She followed me into the treatment room, mumbling, ‘Am I glad to see you!’ whereupon I closed the door, shelving all thoughts of escaping for the time being, telling her I’d have her sorted out as fast as I could.
As it was, the police didn’t return that day, and so my rehearsed responses went to waste for the time being. In fact, nothing at all happened, aside from huge speculation from Gary and Magdalena as to Wayne’s whereabouts and the quantity of money he may have taken with him.
Curiously, I was able to discuss this as though it were real. As though I, too, believed Wayne to be responsible. Terrible, really. But I didn’t have a lot of choice. Getting anxious, I tried Wayne’s mobile every few hours, but it was always the same. No answer.
Thursday evening rolled around before I knew it, and after all the unease, worrying about what exactly Wayne was playing at, it was nice to have something else to think about. I’d texted my address to Nadine’s brother after receiving his call, and he was to pick me up at seven. With no clue as to what he had planned, I dressed middle of the road, in a summer skirt, sleeveless shirt and sandals. I didn’t bother with any make-up, save for a little gloss on my lips, as my skin had a reasonable colour and, as I think I may have mentioned previously, I’m kind of crap at applying it.
Vince had taken George at five. He’d called, telling me not to bother feeding him. They would pick up fish and chips en route. ‘What did I do right to deserve such a great brother-in-law?’ I asked him. To which he replied I was actually doing him a favour. Petra was in a monumental sulk, the likes of which could go on for weeks, and he was pleased to get out of the house.
‘What’s it about this time?’ I asked.
‘Ah, the million-dollar question. It’s one of those where I have to guess – sorry, where I should already know –without her having to tell me.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Oh.’
Then he said, ‘I’ll bring him back around ten? Does that give you enough time?’
‘I’m sure that’ll be more than enough time. Bring him back at nine if you want. It’ll give me an excuse to get rid of my date if he gets boring.’
‘As you wish … though, Roz?’
‘What is it, Vincent?’
‘I think this guy might be all right.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Just a feeling I get.’
He arrived early. I had the lounge window thrown wide and the back door open to create a wind tunnel effect through the house. I didn’t plan on inviting him inside, on account of the dreary interior and the generally sparse, unloved feel of the place. As Petra mentioned on the phone, I had not yet got around to acquiring new carpets, so we were still managing with the black asphalt flooring. The place looked pitiful and I was embarrassed.
Also, after a full day of sun, the lounge had the tendency to surrender the ingrained odours of tenants past. The room would fill with the pungent smells of scorched coffee, hints of tobacco and worn socks which I could never find the source of.
I was applying a second coat of candy-pink varnish to my toenails when I heard Celia’s voice through the open window.
‘So you’re the gentleman from work that Roz has been keeping a secret from us!’
My stomach folded in on itself.
Though it was not possible to make out his exact words, I was able to discern from his tone that my date replied with something polite and self-effacing. I just hoped he decided not to quiz me on this mystery man ‘from work’ later.
As it was, I instantly forgot all about this, because when I opened the door, ‘You?’ was out of my mouth before I had the chance to stop it.
He gave an apologetic smile, saying, ‘Surprise,’ rather flatly.
My face flooded with heat.
It was Henry Peachey. The insurance agent who had pricked my thumb to obtain blood.
Christ, he was attractive. He was attractive and he was Nadine’s brother.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This was not something I had anticipated. I had planned to bow out of this one date gracefully, never to meet again.
I was aware of Celia’s perplexed expression as she caught sight of my panicked face. I could almost hear her thinking that it was no wonder I was still single if this was how I greeted potential suitors.
‘Why didn’t you say it was you?’ I said in a forced whisper.
‘Because I wasn’t sure you’d accept the date,’ he whispered back.
‘I would have,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, stay there,’ I told him, trying to gather myself. ‘I’ll get my bag. Where are we going?’
And he made a wide, sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Anywhere you like,’ he said. ‘I thought we’d follow our noses.’
He wore faded jeans and a grey marl T-shirt. He was a little taller than me by a couple of inches and had a neat backside. There was a nice thickness to the musculature of his upper back that was so appealing. And he walked like a boxer. Sure-footed, solid.
What was I doing? I couldn’t go. I shouldn’t go.
I had to go. I couldn’t stop myself.
We headed towards the gate, past Celia, who, in the time it had taken for me to grab my bag and shoes, had managed to apply fresh lipstick and fashion a ridiculously large, wide-brimmed hat on her head. It was held in place with a piece of chiffon tied beneath her chin, and I shot her a bemused look as I passed.
The car was a red Peugeot. It was meticulously clean, around fifteen years old, the kind of sensible vehicle bestowed upon a teenaged boy and in which he would learn to drive.
‘Enjoy yourselves!’ Celia cried, clapping her hands together happily. She was beaming.
‘We will,’ replied Henry, opening the passenger door for me.
‘Bye, Celia,’ I said.
She waved us off and I exhaled, relieved she hadn’t pressed Henry for any further details but feeling hugely unsettled and twitchy that I’d been duped by his concealing his identity. I cast my mind back to our first meeting, trying to remember if I’d somehow spoken of Scott Elias. Scott Elias, his brother-in-law.
Had I slept with Scott at that point?
No. That came later. At the hotel, where Henry winked at me. Bloody hell. Could he have glimpsed Scott there that night? He must have been moments away from seeing him. Was this some kind of trap?
What a mess. I couldn’t think straight. I could feel my composure starting to crack.
We hadn’t gone very far, maybe just a few hundred yards, when Henry indicated before pulling over. He lifted the handbrake and turned in his seat to face me. Dread swamped me as I regarded him. He had the look of someone who was about to offload, and I was terrified of what he was going to say.
He thrust out his hand. ‘Henry Peachey,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’
‘Roz Toovey,’ I replied shakily, taking his hand, ‘but I think we may have already met.’
‘I’m so sorry about that. I should have told you on the phone that I knew who you were. I can see I’ve alarmed you. Y
ou look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Can we start again?’
I tried to smile. ‘Okay,’ I said weakly.
There was an awkward silence, during which each of us struggled to find something to fill the void, and then a thought occurred and I started to laugh.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘My address.’
‘What about your address?’
‘You already knew it. I told you I would text you my address when we spoke on the phone, but you already knew where I lived. I gave it to you when you came to the clinic.’
He winced. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘It was on your records.’
‘You know everything about me.’
‘Not that much,’ he said. ‘Anyway, does it bother you?’
I shrugged. ‘At least you know I’ve not got AIDS.’
He shifted in his seat, his face suddenly serious again. ‘I’m not really allowed to discuss the results of the blood test. It’s confidential. It will be sent out to you in the post.’
I just looked at him.
‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t be here if that test was positive.’
I didn’t tell him I’d been tested the minute I found out Winston was screwing around. Along with another test six months later, just to be sure.
I told him I could really do with a drink, and he brightened at that. ‘Pub?’ he suggested eagerly. ‘Or the cheapskate option?’
‘Explain cheapskate.’
‘We call at the Co-op, pick up a selection of beers, and drink them at a beauty spot of your choosing. Crisps optional.’
‘Let’s do that,’ I said.
25
TARN HOWS WAS as good a place as any. It’s a mile or so from Hawkshead and a nice spot to sit and watch the sun go down. People flock here because, basically, you’ve got all the scenery you’re ever going to need packed into one small area.
There is the tarn itself – perfectly placed, pretty cobalt under a blue sky; inky black when beneath cloud. The woodland, with its lone pines at the water’s edge, giving the place a romantic feel. And then there’s the view to the Langdale Pikes, the fells all the more majestic from this aspect and elevation.
