“Hello,” I said. “I’m Rachel Keyte from next door.”
“Oh, yes, the doctor, from the hospital. Hello.”
I hesitated. “I don’t want to worry you, but I wondered if you’d seen any one hanging around, someone you didn’t recognize.”
She frowned. “No, I don’t think so. We don’t go out much. This weather… I’ll ask George. Has something happened?”
“You could say that.” I told her about my door, and she gasped. “Come and see if you like.”
“Hold on a moment.” She left me on the doorstep, and I heard muffled talk. A few minutes later she reappeared with her husband, a short, burly man. They’d both put on shoes and an overcoat.
They followed me the short distance to my flat and stood there shaking their heads, eyes wide.
“Look,” I said, “there’s nothing for you to worry about. This is directed at me alone. Someone with a grudge. The reason I’ve told you is that I’ll be going away for a while and I’ll need to organize someone to come and paint over it. I’ll have to come back sometimes to get my post, or I might ask a friend to drop by. Just so you know.”
The woman turned to me. “How terrible,” she said. “There you are, trying to help people, save their lives, and this happens. We’ll keep an eye open, won’t we, George?”
“Thanks. I was going to ask you if you’d let me know if you see anything suspicious. I’ll give you my mobile number.” I gave them my card with my contact details. “I don’t know how long I’ll be away. Just as long as I need to sort out this mess.” I indicated the door; but the mess was worse than that, of course. “Don’t get cold,” I said to them. “That wind’s vicious.” I smiled, I hoped comfortingly, and they trudged back into their flat, stopping at the door to wave.
I went back indoors and collected my bag. I closed the front door, and took several photos of the graffiti. Then I sat in my car and rang Beth. “Beth? Can I crash on your floor for a few days? I’ll explain when I see you.”
Beth had made up a bed for me in the room that was to be the nursery.
“You didn’t need to go to all this trouble,” I said. “The sofa would do.”
She laid a hand on my arm. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
I showed her the photos of my front door, and she shrieked. “Oh, Rachel! This is horrible! Shouldn’t you tell the police?”
“I haven’t decided what to do yet. But she knows where I live – I had to get away. I need to find someone to paint the door, and I need to talk to Malcolm. I’m sorry I’ve had to involve you, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re welcome to stay – you know that. At least until the baby arrives. It might be a bit cramped then.” She tried to smile, but her eyes were full of tears.
I took her arm. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll sort something out. Let’s get a cup of tea – or coffee in my case – and talk about it calmly.”
“Sorry.” She wiped her face with her hands. “I’m a bit hormonal at the moment – can’t think why.” She laughed shakily.
We sat down with mugs and chocolate biscuits, and I rang Malcolm.
“Good grief, Rachel! I think it’s time to involve the police, don’t you? Where are you? You could have come here, you know.”
“I thought of it, Malcolm, and thank you. But if she managed to find me, she can find you too. Where I am now I think she’ll have a tough job.”
He sighed. “All right. Look, I’ll talk to Bridget. She’ll know what’s best; she always does. But Rachel, go to the police, please.”
“Yes, I will. I’ll call in tomorrow morning. I need to organize someone to paint over the door as well. But I’ve taken photos, so I’ve got evidence. I’ll keep you posted.”
The next day I visited the police station, a huge building with plate-glass everywhere. I thought it looked a bit like an aquarium. The entrance hall was vast, and completely deserted. Was there no crime in Porton? Inside a set of swing doors, a female in plain clothes looked up from an expansive desk. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I need to talk to someone about my house being sprayed with an abusive slogan.”
“Can I have your name?” she said to me.
“Rachel Keyte.” I spelled it for her.
“Hold on, please.” She picked up an internal phone and spoke into it.
She made a note. “Please take a seat. Someone will be down in a moment.”
I waited for ten minutes or so, then a female officer in uniform trotted down an open staircase from the regions above. “Ms Keyte? Is that the correct pronunciation – to rhyme with ‘feet’?” I said it was. “I’m PC Fellowes. Come with me, please.”
She took me down a short corridor and into a small, bare room. “Sit down.” I sat. “So what’s this about your house?”
I explained about the graffiti, and showed her my photos. “I’m sure I know who did this,” I said.
“Go on.”
I told her about Craig, and about Eve Rawlins’ wild threats at the funeral. “Since then, I’ve had my car daubed with blood, and I had a parcel delivered to the hospital containing a rotting pig’s heart,” I told her.
She made a face. “Nasty.” She leaned forward across the desk. “Has anything like this happened before?”
“Never.”
She was silent for a few minutes, her lips pursed. “Look, Ms Keyte, I understand this is very disturbing for you. But we have no proof that this woman is responsible, and until such time as this harassment goes beyond threats there’s not a lot we can do.”
I frowned. “She’s defaced my property. And she knows where I live. I’m worried she’ll do worse. I’ve had to leave my flat – I’m camping with a friend. I can’t work like this.” I saw her hesitate, and I ploughed on. “Are you telling me that she actually has to attack me before you’ll do anything?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Look, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll get someone to go round to her place – in uniform, in a police car. It might be enough to make her see sense. We can’t accuse her of anything without concrete evidence, but we can ask her if she knows anything. Will that do?”
“I suppose it’ll have to. I’ll find out the address and let you know.”
I made several phone calls from Beth’s: first to someone Jimmy recommended to paint over the door, arranging to leave payment with the neighbours. It seemed a roundabout way of doing it, when I would normally just have made a bank transfer, but the painter was an older man who liked cash in hand, and I wasn’t going to argue. Anyone else would probably not have been able to get it done so promptly. Then to Malcolm, to ask him to find out Eve Rawlins’ address from Father Vincent. He got back to me within an hour, and I phoned the police station with the information. “Keep me posted, Rachel,” Malcolm said. “We have an idea I want to run past you, but there are people we have to consult.”
I went to work from Beth and Jimmy’s. It wasn’t ideal, but they lived close enough to the hospital for me to walk, so I could leave my car parked in their road. I hoped that with me gone, and my car absent from the hospital car park, Eve would give up the chase.
A few days later I asked Beth if she would go over to my flat to collect any post and ask the neighbours to see the painter was paid. I was expecting a package of some stuff I’d ordered from the internet and I didn’t want it left outside. That day I decided to leave the hospital at lunchtime and work from Beth’s. There was no need for me to stay at work, and somehow I felt safer hiding with Beth and Jimmy.
Beth opened the door to me. She seemed very pale.
“Are you all right?” I said.
“Yes.” She answered automatically, then paused. “No, not really.”
“What is it?”
“Take your coat off and I’ll tell you.” I followed her into the kitchen. She was making a batch of soup – vegetables were in the process of being chopped and peelings were littered all over the counter.
/> “Rach, I went over to yours,” she said. “I called in on Mr and Mrs Chilton and asked them to pay the painter. I gave them the money and told them when to expect him. They asked after you. They seem nice people – offered me coffee, but I didn’t want to stop. Then I let myself into your flat. Everything seemed OK, apart from the front door, of course. No gory messes on the doormat or anything. I checked everywhere.”
“Thanks.”
“But then, when I let myself out, I saw someone.”
“What? Who was it?”
“I don’t know. It was just for a moment. I didn’t have time to get a good look. He or she – impossible to tell, but thin, and moved like a woman – I think – or it could have been someone quite young. He – or she – was just standing at the corner of the road, but it looked like they were watching the house. When I came out they scooted away, round the corner and out of sight. Like I said, it was just for a moment.”
“You didn’t get a look at their face? If it was her, you couldn’t fail to notice the birthmark.”
Beth seemed to sag. “No. They were wearing a kind of parka, dark blue I think, with a hood. Fur round the edge, you know the kind of thing. The face was in deep shadow. I’m feeling a bit dodgy, Rach. Going to sit down.”
I sat on the sofa beside her, holding her hand, till she felt a bit better. “I’m really sorry, Beth. I shouldn’t have put you through that.”
Beth shook her head. “You weren’t to know. But if I tell Jimmy he’ll say I’m not to go back. Not the way I am. I’ve only got five weeks to go. We don’t want anything to happen.”
“I don’t want anything to happen either,” I said softly. “Certainly not on my account. Jimmy is absolutely right. Don’t let it get to you. I’ll think of something.”
Malcolm rang me the following evening. “Come and have a meal with us tomorrow, Rachel. Give Beth and Jimmy some space. Bridget has an idea.”
The next day, when I got back from work, Beth said, “The police rang, Rach. PC Fellowes. Asked you to call her back.” She glanced at the clock. “Ring her now, before she goes off duty.” She gave me a scrap of paper with a number. “That’s her direct line.”
I lay on my makeshift bed in the nursery and rang the number. As I waited for an answer Beth tiptoed in with a cup of coffee. I mouthed my thanks. Then PC Fellowes answered. What she had to tell me chilled my blood, more than gruesome packages and inflammatory graffiti.
“We went to the address you gave us,” she said. “Parked the car in full view of the neighbours. I went myself, with a brawny young constable for back-up. The lady you described answered the door. It was definitely her – no hiding that birthmark. She was charm itself – obliging, helpful. Invited us in, asked us if we’d like a cuppa. The house was immaculate and so was she.”
“Good grief. Not what we thought.”
“We asked her a few questions – did she know you? Yes, you were the surgeon who operated on her son. Did she remember her behaviour at her son’s funeral? She became very solemn and said, yes, she’d behaved appallingly, she was very ashamed, but perhaps we could understand she wasn’t in her right mind. She said she was going to write you a note of apology.”
“I doubt that,” I muttered.
“So then we asked her if she knew anything about the pig’s heart, and the blood on your car, and the paint on your door, and she looked very shocked, and said she certainly didn’t.”
“She’s some player. I almost admire her.”
“You can see we can’t really do anything. Perhaps it wasn’t her. Even if it was, we have no evidence. She didn’t deny what others had witnessed – her behaviour at the funeral. But as to everything else, she denied all knowledge. All I can say is, if anything happens to worry you, get back to us immediately. Until then…” she tailed off.
“Until then, I have to sprout an extra pair of eyes,” I said sourly. “Capable of looking round corners.”
“Just be extra careful,” she said. “Don’t go anywhere alone. You might think of getting one of those alarms some women carry.”
“Maybe I will. Well – thanks.” For nothing, I thought.
When I arrived at Malcolm and Bridget’s it was clear that Bridget had made a special effort, far too much for an unimportant guest like me. I supposed it was Bridget’s way of expressing solidarity. The table was immaculate with shining cutlery, linen napkins, and matching plates, in stark contrast to my usual custom of eating from a takeaway box with a book beside it.
“Whatever you’re cooking smells amazing, Bridget,” I said. “I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble.”
Bridget was wearing a floral apron over her dress, and her hair, scraped back as always into a bun, was escaping in random tendrils round her face. She locked eyes with me, her expression serious. “Let me get this cooking finished,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”
An hour, three courses, and too many glasses of wine later, Bridget pushed back her chair with an air of ceremony. She turned to Malcolm. “Would you make the coffee, please, darling? Now that you’ve got the use of both arms. Rachel and I will sit in comfort in the lounge.” She took my elbow and guided me in a quite determined manner to a large sofa, and she sat down opposite me.
I looked at her with a smile, my eyebrows raised. “So what’s this idea of yours?”
She leaned forward, her hands on her knees. “I’m worried, Rachel. This Rawlins woman is clearly mad – perhaps not permanently so, but she obviously needs help, and it seems unlikely she’ll accept it, not if she’s denying all responsibility. And here you are, a senior surgeon at the hospital, having to sleep on your friend’s floor!”
“It’s not so bad,” I said. “It reminds me a bit of camping with my dad and my brother when I was a kid.”
“Well, it can’t go on for ever, can it?” Bridget said firmly. “Your friend is about to have a baby, I hear. Rachel, you may be inclined to downplay all this nasty drama, but I think the chances of Eve Rawlins stopping all this of her own accord are very slim. I told a friend of mine the story – mentioning no names or specifics, of course – in fact I made out it was hypothetical. She’s a psychologist at the university, and she said the incidents would almost certainly escalate. Eve Rawlins may be feeling almost invincible, triumphant even – it seems she’s clever, so she’ll know how far she can go without bringing retribution on herself.” She shook her head. “Rachel, I really think you should get away from here, before she moves on to something far nastier than blood, a pig’s heart, and a vandalized door.”
Malcolm pushed open the lounge door with his foot and came in carrying a laden tray, which he set down carefully on the low table between me and Bridget. “And I agree,” he said. “Get right away for a while – not necessarily for ever.”
Bridget poured the coffee and handed me a cup.
“Such as where?” I said dubiously.
Malcolm sat in an armchair next to Bridget. “You’re familiar with Brant Lyon Trust, aren’t you?”
I frowned. “A bit. I did a stint there, six months or so, way back when I was a very humble house officer. Barely handled a scalpel in all that time. Is that where you want to exile me?”
Malcolm smiled. “It’d be a very nice exile, and you’d definitely get to handle a scalpel. My opposite number at Brant is a man called Peter Axton. You won’t have met him; he wasn’t in post when you did your six months there. He’s a fine surgeon and a good friend, Rachel. And he’s been after head-hunting you for quite a while.”
“Really?” I was amazed. “You never said.”
“I had no desire to lose you if I didn’t have to. But now things are different. We have a full team here, given that I’ll be back in harness soon, and Sefton’s over his infection. There are one or two good people coming through the system too. And you, I believe, are under threat. I’d hate anything to happen to you just because we cravenly did nothing. You’re an excellent surgeon, one of the best, with years of hard work and study behind you, and you sho
uld be working in a safe environment without unnecessary stress.”
“You’re our friend too,” Bridget added. “We don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I said. “You guys seem to have it all worked out.”
“Think about it, Rachel. It makes a lot of sense, practically as well as professionally.”
“But…where would I live?” I struggled to get my head round the details. “Brant is quite a long way away. A hundred miles, isn’t it? More? Give or take?”
“What is there here to keep you, in the circumstances?” Malcolm pressed on. “Your flat’s just a place to sleep, as far as I can gather. You could let it out. What friends do you have in Porton West, apart from us, and the friends you’re staying with?”
“No one,” I murmured. “There’s my mother, but she won’t miss me.”
“And you’ve always said she’s well cared for in that home she’s in,” Bridget said. “Look, Rachel, what Malcolm hasn’t mentioned is that Peter and Angela Axton are very good friends of ours from way back. There was a time when we went on holiday together, when our children were young. We’ve always kept in touch. I spoke to Angela on the phone yesterday. She and Peter have a lovely place by the river, just walking distance from the hospital…”
“Which is a centre of excellence as far as cardiac surgery is concerned,” Malcolm interrupted. “You knew that, I dare say. It’s a research centre too, so some very nice equipment…”
“Hold on, Malcolm,” Bridget said. “I need to tell Rachel about my conversation with Angela.” She turned back to me. “Peter and Angela had some kind of an outbuilding converted into a little… well, a flat, I suppose – in the garden, just across from their own house, very close, for Peter’s mother, who was elderly and disabled in some way, I’m not sure exactly how. She died last year. Their daughter sometimes uses it, but she’s at university now, like our boys, and it stands empty. Angela said you could use it if you like, until you find yourself another place – or more permanently if you preferred – at a peppercorn rent. It’s very convenient, and you’d be quite independent.” She paused for breath.
The Healing Knife Page 5
