by Roz Watkins
I started to ease the door shut.
‘Wait!’ The older one of the two took a step towards the closing door. ‘You’re the detective investigating the death of Peter Hamilton, aren’t you?’
I opened the door again.
‘We have some information you should know.’
Holy crap, was I going to have to invite them into my house? I battled a wave of exhaustion and stepped back. ‘You’d better come in.’
It wasn’t proper procedure, of course. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t even have a bra on. I should have told them to make an appointment at the Police Station. But they looked potentially flighty, so I led them into the damp living room and sat them down. I hoped this wasn’t a ploy to try to convert me after all. I sat on the chair nearest the draughty window and listened to Hamlet charging around upstairs. That poor mouse.
‘How can I help?’ I said.
‘We have information about Dr Webster – the dead man’s wife.’ The slightly older one sat forward on the edge of my sagging sofa. She had dark hair that looked like she cut it herself, and a wide-eyed gaze, as if she’d recently been hypnotised or smacked on the head.
I grabbed a notepad from my Stationery-Fetishist’s stash in the desk by the window, and took a few details from them, to cover myself just a little bit. The older one was called Dawn and the younger one Charmaine.
‘She’s killing her patients,’ Dawn said. ‘Going against God’s will and taking lives.’
‘Life is a sacred gift from our Creator,’ Charmaine said. ‘For the terminally ill, there is God’s marvellous promise of a resurrection to a paradise of health and life under God’s Kingdom.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘Forget the Bible study. What have you seen her do? With your own eyes?’
Charmaine sat back and let Dawn take over.
‘She killed my neighbour’s mother.’ She sat up straighter in the chair. ‘Dr Webster gave her more morphine than she needed, and the woman died. I overheard my neighbour talking to her friend in the garden.’
I sighed. ‘Was the woman dying anyway?’
‘No one can tell. We don’t know when God will choose to take us.’
There was a scuffling in the corridor, and a mouse ran into the middle of the room, hotly pursued by Hamlet. He cornered it by my foot and I managed to scoop it up and dash from the room and through the kitchen to the back door, cradling its shaking body with both hands. ‘Can one of you come and open the door?’ I shouted.
Charmaine appeared, looking shocked.
‘Turn the key clockwise and open the door,’ I said.
She did this and I hurled the mouse towards the end of the garden and shut the door and the cat flap before Hamlet had a chance to follow.
‘Just saving the life of one of God’s precious creatures.’ I rinsed my hands. ‘Of course if they’re badly injured I bash them with the frying pan of death to put them out of their misery.’
Charmaine’s jaw was slack. ‘You hit them with a frying pan?’
‘Yes, there’s a Le Creuset that’s perfect for the job. Nice and heavy. Only if they’re paralysed or something. It’s the kindest thing, don’t you think?’
I wasn’t sure why I felt compelled to torment her, but it had been a tough week. She edged away from me and made her way back to the living room.
I followed. Hamlet came along too and loudly sniffed the spot where the mouse had left the floor, glancing up at me with a resentful expression.
‘What was wrong with the woman Dr Webster gave the morphine to?’ I asked.
The two women looked at each other. ‘We think it was cancer,’ Dawn finally admitted.
‘Was your neighbour angry with Dr Webster?’
‘I don’t know. But this isn’t the only case. Everyone in Eldercliffe knows she’ll do it, and that she killed her husband too.’
‘What makes you say she killed her husband?’
‘A woman like that. Playing God.’
This wasn’t getting me anywhere. ‘Have you any other reason to believe she killed her husband?’
Both women looked at me with distant expressions as if searching their memory banks for Bible quotes.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ve got your statement. We’ll take your comments into account.’
I stood, but they didn’t.
‘Aren’t you going to prosecute her? What she’s doing isn’t legal you know.’ Charmaine actually settled deeper into my chair. Was I going to have to forcibly remove them? Wield the frying pan?
‘We’ll look into it. Thank you. I need to get on now.’
I walked towards the door. They both rose and followed me from the room.
They baulked a little in the hallway.
‘Here, I’ll take a copy of your magazine on your way out.’ This sentence didn’t really make sense, but I hoped the mix of bribery and suggestion would do the trick.
It did. There were extra Get-on-the-Bus-to-Heaven points for giving out magazines.
I took a deep breath and closed the door behind them. And locked it for good measure.
So, that must be what Vivian at the health centre had meant by the Devil’s work. Kate was prepared to help patients die. But was it relevant to our enquiry? Okay, it wasn’t legal but was it really so bad to help some poor bugger who was dying of cancer check out a bit early? I suspected the majority of doctors would do the same.
I wandered into the kitchen again, wishing I had milk that wasn’t off. Maybe I’d combine a milk mission with a visit to Hannah. Take my mind off gas leaks and dead people.
The phone rang. Mum. I stuck the magazine on the kitchen table and picked up.
‘Just to let you know, they’ve decided to discharge your gran today.’
‘Wow, that was quick.’ I sat down, realising why the magazine was familiar. It was the same one Grace had given me in her jewellery shop. Having no desire to be a godly business woman, I chucked it in the direction of the recycling bin.
‘Bed shortage, probably,’ Mum said. ‘But she’s fine.’
After chatting some more about Gran, I decided to ask her again about Dr Webster. I was sure she’d recognised her name. Maybe she’d heard some gossip.
‘On a different subject, Mum, you know Dr Webster? The wife of the dead man?’
‘Look I have to go. I…’ She trailed off. We both knew she didn’t have any pressing engagements.
‘Mum, it’s kind of important. Had you heard her name before I mentioned it the other day? It might be relevant to this murder investigation.’
‘Sorry, Meg, I don’t know anything about her. Speak soon.’ And she hung up on me.
*
A text established Hannah was in, and had cake. I grabbed my coat and mobile, and set off up the cobbled street towards the hill that led to her housing estate. It was drizzling but I left my hood down and went hatless so I’d hear if anyone crept up behind me.
The road climbed steeply between terraced stone cottages. I wished I’d taken the car. My ankle ached and my head throbbed, and I’d never previously noticed all the alleyways and dark corners on this route.
I wrapped my coat tightly around me and quickened my pace, knowing I’d panic if I ran. I tried to distract myself by rating the cottages for original features like lime mortar and sash windows, with extra points for old glass, but I was too jittery to commit to the game.
Finally, the houses turned from old to new and I took a left into Hannah’s cul-de-sac, glancing behind me even though I felt melodramatic doing so.
Hannah’s house had never looked more welcoming. I felt a pang of envy for her double glazing, cavity wall insulation and damp proofing. This was ridiculous of course. Hannah only lived in this bungalow because of the easy access and low maintenance. I could hardly envy her reasons for that.
She buzzed me in and I walked through to the kitchen, where she sat in her wheelchair, wearing a vest top and the self-righteous look of the recently exercised.
I checked the feel of t
he air, and it was clear our almost-argument in the hospital was forgotten. The slight tension in my stomach disappeared.
‘You look smug,’ I said. ‘Have you been doing pull-ups?’
‘Yeah, do you want to do some with me?’
I blasted her with my best astonished look. ‘I know I’ve been sharing your quest for amazing upper body strength and a sylph-like figure, but not today.’
‘Okay, okay. You’re convalescing.’
The kitchen was all clear counter-tops and built-in appliances, with sparkly-clean windows overlooking her tiny lawned garden. I looked out and saw the neighbour’s cat squatting in Hannah’s flower bed again. It had been an ongoing bone of contention that the cat ignored its own sprawling, chaotic garden and chose Hannah’s pristine one as its toilet.
‘Mum reckons in the future we’ll look back and realise we weren’t fat after all,’ I said, easing myself onto one of her leather-backed chairs.
‘You might. When I looked at my BMI on the chart, there was a skull and crossbones next to it.’
‘Yeah, you’re not supposed to use your height when you’re in your wheelchair. Does that mean you’re not going to offer me cake?’
‘Oh, sod it, I did do some exercises.’ Hannah rooted in a low cupboard and emerged with an enormous carrot cake which she slapped onto the table. ‘Cut us some of that. It’s practically a vegetable. Anyway, how are you? Did you work out any more about what happened? With the nutter running up behind you?’
I shook my head. Carefully. ‘No. But it’s made me ridiculously jumpy. It’s pitiful. And then Mum had a gas leak yesterday and we had to drag Gran out of the house.’
‘Bloody hell, Meg. It hasn’t been your week. Are your mum and your gran okay?’
‘Yeah, they seem fine. But if there’d been a spark, it could have been the end of all three of us. And the house.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Mum’s apparently not been getting the boiler serviced.’
‘Oops.’
‘So, that’s another thing for me to worry about.’
‘Well, you are an expert.’
‘With boilers?’
‘With worrying.’
Hannah seemed to have forgotten the drinks, so after cutting us each a slab of cake, I tried to work out how to use her espresso machine. I had an inability to work the most basic household gadgets that was shared with most Cambridge science graduates.
‘Put the little capsule in the top and press the button, Meg. It’s not rocket science.’
‘All right. You’re supposed to be doing this. You’re the host.’ I got it sussed though, and produced two espressos.
‘Let’s have a look at your dating site,’ Hannah said with an enthusiasm I didn’t share.
One of my Manchester friends had signed me up with the site and in a ridiculous demonstration of people-pleasing, I’d gone along with it. I’d so far avoided actually going on any dates, but Hannah had taken it on as a personal mission to get me out there risking my life meeting potential psychopaths in Derby bars. She reappeared with the laptop, logged into the site and started browsing through profiles.
I took a sip of coffee. ‘Okay, let’s see what hotties the computer’s selected for me this time.’
Clutching my cup, I wandered round to stand behind Hannah and peered at the laptop. ‘What about that one?’ I pointed semi-randomly at a man whose picture was blurry enough to leave room for hope.
‘No way. Look at the age thingy. He’s forty-two and he’s looking for a woman twenty-five to thirty-eight. Tosser.’
I put down my espresso, and leant in towards the laptop screen. ‘These guys all look the same, Hannah. Slightly balding blokes who like going to the pub and watching TV. Seriously? And how can I tell if they’re psychopathic control freaks?’
‘Is that what you’re after?’
‘Well, in a break from the norm, I thought I’d avoid them this time around.’
‘Hmm… Maybe we need to refine your search.’
‘Anyway, why do I even need a man? This bicycle doesn’t need a fish.’
‘I think it’s the other way round, Meg. You’re the fish.’
I walked back to the other side of the table and sat down. An image popped into my head – the earnest faces of my morning visitors. ‘Hannah,’ I said. ‘Do you think doctors should be able to… help patients die, you know, if they’re suffering really badly?’
‘Wow. That was a change of tack.’
‘Anything to avoid discussing my love life.’
Hannah put down her coffee cup and folded her arms. ‘Well then, no. Actually, I don’t.’
‘Vets do it all the time. We wouldn’t let an animal suffer, if it was dying anyway.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘We’ve had reports of a doctor doing it. I know I’ll have to log it and everything, but I’ve been mulling it over. Is it actually wrong?’
‘You can’t just let them get away with it. They might be like Harold Shipman.’
‘I don’t think it’s anything like that. More like people who are dying of cancer anyway. Just hurrying it up to avoid them suffering too much.’
Hannah’s tone was sharp. ‘Well, you’ll clearly think what you want, but I think it sends the wrong message to disabled people.’
I looked up, remembering that Hannah had been to the Life Line group, and that my morning visitors had given me a Life Line magazine. She was the wrong person to talk to, but it was too late to take it back now. ‘I don’t want to fall out over this,’ I said. ‘What message does it send to disabled people?’
Hannah’s shoulders dropped, and she picked at her cake. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be funny with you. It’s just… Oh don’t worry, I don’t want to get all heavy on you. You don’t need it right now.’
‘It’s okay, Hannah, what are you saying?’
‘Well, a lot of people think if you’re in a wheelchair, you’d be better off dead.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Especially nowadays. If you’re a burden—’
‘No one could think you were better off dead. Or a burden. What do you mean?’
‘That if euthanasia’s legal, disabled people might feel obliged to end it, you know, to take the pressure off relatives and the NHS.’
‘I thought that bill they tried to get through was only for terminally ill people?’
‘Who can say if you’re terminally ill? The next step’ll be people deciding our lives aren’t worth living. Or, more to the point, aren’t worth all the medical costs.’
I bit the inside of my lip. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that.’
‘Yes, well, you’d be surprised the things people say. I hear them sometimes, when they assume I’m deaf and stupid as well as in a wheelchair. You’d just top yourself, wouldn’t you? Those sorts of comments.’
‘People say that to you?’
‘About me, not to me. And my friend who’s almost completely paralysed – even the doctors say it. It’s no wonder she’s worried about what would happen if we had assisted dying.’
‘Jesus, Hannah.’
‘I’m sure there’s two sides to it anyway.’
I tried to keep my tone balanced and curious. ‘Your friend – is she the one you visited at the hospital? The one you met through that group you go to?’
‘Yes. She can hardly move now, but she says her life’s still worth living.’
‘What condition does she have?’
‘It’s a genetic thing with a weird name. You won’t have heard of it.’
‘I think the people who told me about this doctor might go to the same group. They looked like the Amish – would you know them?’
‘There’s a few look like that. I don’t know everyone – I’ve not been that many times. And anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve decided to stop going.’
‘Oh.’ I wasn’t sure what to say.
‘They’re not loonies, Meg. There’s a receptionist from the health centre and people who run their own businesses
and all sorts. But it turned out it’s more of a religious group than a disability support group. And I’m not really religious, and then it all got a bit angry at the meeting on Tuesday. I didn’t like the feel of it. But I’ll keep in touch with my friend.’
‘You’re well out of it,’ I said. ‘I heard they turned against my boss because his daughter’s transgender.’
‘Yeah, that does sound possible, to be fair. That’s the kind of thing I didn’t like. And they were demonstrating outside abortion clinics. I don’t agree with that.’
‘Oh, Jesus, don’t get me started.’ I crunched so hard on my lip it bled. The last thing Hannah needed was a huge rant from me. But honestly, these people drove me mad. So rabidly against abortion that they’d make women risk their lives carrying dying babies to term, but fine about lab experiments on primates, and guns for everyone, and the death penalty, for God’s sake.
‘Calm down, Meg, I’ve left the group, okay?’ Was she reading my mind?
My phone rang. Work. I picked up.
‘Meg! There’s been another death.’
Chapter 23
The base of the cliff was in deep shade. I trudged along a damp footpath from the parking area, my mind torturing itself with its own special toxic blend of guilt and panic. A second death was bad. Really bad. Second deaths set the internet buzzing with hysterical tweets about incompetent police and serial killers, and Oh My God, are children even safe any more in this town. A second death meant I hadn’t done my job.
A flash of déjà vu hit me when I saw the tape fluttering in front of the vertical slab of rock. I half expected to see the cave, and Peter Hamilton lying dead, his hand clutching his throat, cherry-red blood seeping down his cheeks. But we were in a different part of the quarry, in a place I’d imagined but not seen – a hidden place, away from the footpaths, surrounded by trees whose branches tapped in the wind like anxious fingers. We were directly below his house. I glanced up and saw it far above, silhouetted against the evening sky.
The scene was secured, and uniformed officers and SOCOs buzzed to and fro. I donned a scene suit and stepped through the tape, a hollow opening up inside me at the sight of the body. This shouldn’t have happened on my watch.
