I will I will, I thought.
Once in the consulting room he shook my hand saying, ‘I'm Alan Dakers – you're … Kate, I believe.’
I would have been anyone he wanted.
‘I'm the practice manager. Do sit down. The senior partner, Dr Charles Amroth, has been delayed but he'll be with us shortly. In the mean time perhaps you could tell me a little bit about yourself.’
The next few minutes were just about the most embarrassing of my life. I babbled on, unable to think or talk in sequence and all the time trying to avoid any mention of Medical and Nursing Investigations. I told him I'd come to Longborough to nurse an elderly aunt who had subsequently died and I'd decided to stay on. All lies of course but now I'd got into the swing, I almost believed in dear old Aunt Edie myself.
‘I see,’ he murmured encouragingly and there was even the occasional ‘Good – good', and ‘Fine, fine'.
Dr Amroth arrived then, looking harassed. I guessed he was in his fifties. His thin tall body was bulked out with a padded floral waistcoat. His hair was greying but still thick and he wore goldrimmed glasses which failed to hide the bags beneath sad grey eyes. I didn't like the look of him. He lowered his glasses to the end of his sharpish nose and stared at me. I liked him even less then.
‘You're single?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Likely to get married?’
‘Not in the foreseeable future.’
‘On the pill?’
‘Well …’ I blustered. ‘Only when … necessary.’
‘Good, good. I prefer not to lose our practice nurses through pregnancy and we're really looking for someone who is likely to … stay for some time.’
That made me feel about as desirable as an elderly nun with a peg-leg. But I smiled and nodded.
‘Now then. To business.’ He then proceeded to fire questions at me ranging from pre-birth to the grave. He even went beyond that by asking if I believed in life after death.
‘No,’ I answered firmly.
‘I do,’ he said coldly.
Well, that's it, I thought, but he managed to smile at me once or twice especially when he heard I could do cervical smears and was willing to immunize babies. He smiled quite broadly when I said I was also willing to do nursing assessments on the elderly. He rounded off the interview by asking me what I knew about alternative therapies.
‘I do think they are very valuable for treating stress. Reflexology and aromatherapy in particular …’
I mumbled on for a while longer. Well, I had once had lavender oil on my pillow and I'd experienced reflexology at Hubert's hand. I was quite an expert really.
He then explained that competition and budget holding was now the name of the game. He'd started the practice eight years earlier with doctors Thruxton and Wheatly, Holland joining them three years ago. But now times had changed, it was no longer doctor versus doctor who were in competition with each other. It was patient versus patient.
‘We no longer talk about the deserving poor, we now talk about the deserving sick. Unfortunate as it may seem, that is the trend. The elderly, the mentally ill, smokers, the overweight, even those with genetically determined diseases are all the undeserving sick. You see, the government can quite easily say that ill health is simply down to the individual. They have only themselves to blame, don't they? If they worked harder and dragged themselves out of poverty, ate plenty of carrots and oranges and did more exercise – the elixir of life would be theirs. The NHS could then run at a fraction of today's cost.’
Was he serious? He watched me carefully. I didn't respond and, he went on. ‘That is why we do offer alternative therapies. Often there isn't anything else.’
I began to feel really depressed then.
There was silence for a few minutes whilst Dr Amroth read through my application form as carefully, if not more so, than a barrister reading evidence. Alan Dakers winked at me. Dr Amroth looked up and fixed me with a somewhat worried stare.
‘As you know, our last practice nurse has died in tragic circumstances. We've all been very distressed – particularly the patients. Jenny was a good listener and a very good nurse. Anyone who takes over will find they have a lot to live up to. The police have been much in evidence and generally we all feel rather upset. It will be a difficult transition period for any newcomer. Would that bother you?’
I thought about that for a moment. I couldn't afford to be thought wimpy. ‘I'm very resilient,’ I said, ‘and hopefully, in time, any successor will eventually become an accepted part of the team.’ I smiled feebly. Did what I'd just said make sense? Dr Amroth didn't smile back. He shook me by the hand. ‘We'll let you know,’ he said, ‘by the end of the week. Thank you for coming.’
Alan Dakers showed me out. He did smile at me, said, ‘Nice to meet you, Kate,’ and shook my hand. Was it my imagination or did he hold it for longer than necessary? I was definitely smitten.
It was only when I began walking up the lane that I thought of all the things I could have said. I could have been more dynamic, used more jargon, talked more about holistic approaches. But then since ill health was caused by people being people it wouldn't have made much difference.
‘How did it go?’ asked Hubert.
I shrugged. ‘There is something wrong with a society that tries to make people feel guilty about being ill, isn't there?’
‘Of course there is, Kate. Don't worry about it, doctors are the first to take to drink and then top themselves … no, farmers are the worst.’
‘I don't think I've got the job anyway. There was a gorgeous blonde waiting to be interviewed. I bet she gets it.’
‘She might be too good-looking, then. You could well be in with a chance.’
Was that a sort of compliment? I wondered. I decided it wasn't.
The drive back was smooth and leisured. A Daimler, I decided, was quite the most comfortable way to travel.
‘Did you find out anything about Jenny Martin?’ Hubert asked.
‘I found out she was a good listener, a good nurse and that she'd be sadly missed.’
‘I found something out.’
‘How?’
‘I just walked down the lane and praised one or two gardeners. They were quite forthcoming.’
‘What was your angle? Journalist on the Sun, or old friend of the family?’
‘Neither,’ said Hubert. ‘I was more subtle than that. I just told the truth – that I was an undertaker.’
‘And?’
‘And I'd been privileged to deal with the Martin family in the past.’
‘I have to hand it to you, Hubert. It's not imaginative but if it worked it's not only subtle, it's brilliant.’
‘Are you taking the mickey?’
‘Would I, Hubert? Just keep your eyes on the road. All this excitement could be too much for the both of us.’
Hubert grunted in annoyance. After a while he said, ‘Do you want to know what I found out?’
I nodded half-heartedly. ‘I only wish I had a vested interest. I feel I'm just being nosy for the sake of it. After all, the police do seem to know who did it.’
‘Ah,’ said Hubert, ‘but do they? My gardening friends seem to think the police are barking up the wrong tree. Quite soon I think you might be a bit more … involved.’
‘Come on, Hubert, stop … well … trying to be mysterious, it doesn't suit you.’
‘You'll see,’ he said. ‘Now tell me a bit more about your interview.’
I omitted to tell him how attractive Alan Dakers was. Hubert is the sort who sees future heartbreak around every corner so I thought it better to gloss over Alan's potential in the romance stakes.
Hubert drove me back to my cottage in Farley Wood. I prefer cottage to terrace – it sounds detached. Actually my place is one of a row of four opposite St Peter's church and the patch of village green. Now it's May and the oak tree by the church is in leaf, fresh blooms have been placed on the graves and front gardens have suddenly sprouted flowers �
� it really does look very attractive. In summer I think everyone should live in a village but in winter surely people need the comfort of warm shops, Chinese takeaways and the bustle of others around them. I've never seen anyone bustle in the winter in Farley Wood. The small population simply hibernates.
Hubert made it quite clear he wanted a cup of tea. He looked round my small front room somewhat disparagingly, then slipped me a tenner. I stared at the note.
‘What's this for, Hubert?’ I asked.
‘Spot of polish and a bottle of Windowlene,’ he said without a trace of embarrassment. I tried to give him back the money.
‘It's not that bad,’ I protested, ‘I'm quite insulted.’
‘Come off it, Kate. It does need a bit of a spring clean.’
‘I did it in the spring.’
‘Which spring?’
Now that the sun shone in I could see the windows were smeary, the curtains less than fresh and there were one or two cobwebs in the corners. But generally, as my gran used to say, a blind man would have been glad to see it.
‘Life's too short for worrying about a bit of dust,’ I told him firmly, ‘but I'll pay you back ASAP.’
I made him tea and hot buttered toast spread with honey and this seemed to restore his faith in me. When he left he said mysteriously, ‘Be in the office early, Kate. I think there could be a phone call for you.’
‘You're up to something, Hubert,’ I said.
He shrugged, gave me a knowing smile and left.
Chapter Four
I was in the office by eight thirty the next morning. I expected the phone to ring. I did, after all, know Hubert was up to something.
The day was already quite warm and sunny and I felt restless. There was nothing to tidy, nothing to do. I searched in my drawer for a novel to read. I found one, the rise and fall and rise again of a young girl in Victorian England. It passed the time until Hubert appeared at ten thirty.
‘Had a phone call yet?’ he asked as he thrust two jam doughnuts on paper plates into my hand.
‘Several. One from New Scotland Yard asking me to investigate sightings of Asil Nadir in Scunthorpe, another one from Penthouse magazine wanting me to be centrefold of the month, another from …’
‘That's enough sarcasm, Kate. There will be a phone call, I'm sure. Lunch time we can go down the pub. Dorothy will be there in her lunch break, it's about time you two met.’
‘Sorry, Hubert, I'm not up to that mentally at the moment and I can't afford to buy a round so I'd be embarrassed.’
‘Even when you had money you rarely bought a round …’
‘That's not fair – you insisted on paying. And I could have bought a round – that's the difference.’
The phone rang then. It was Pauline Berkerly from the Berkerly Nursing Agency saying she might have some work for me. A woman who'd had a heart attack was being sent home on Monday and she lived alone. Would I like two nights looking after her?
‘Great. Thanks. I'll do it.’
‘I'll ring you Sunday. How are you, Kate?’
‘Fine … but—’
‘'Bye, speak to you soon.’
The phone went dead. Just as well I didn't have a burning issue to discuss. I smiled at Hubert. He, at least, was always available. His face registered disappointment that it wasn't his caller. But when the phone rang again his mouth lifted somewhat in triumph.
‘Is that the private tec?’ asked a voice – female but with the throaty deepness of a smoker and probably drinker.
‘Yes, Kate Kinsella, Medical and Nursing Investigations.’
‘Do you do murders and that sort of thing?’
I hesitated. ‘Well, yes, but usually it has a medical connection. Could you tell me something about the case?’
‘That nurse in Dunsmore.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yeah … well … see, my boy. They want to do 'im for that. I mean he didn't do it. I'm telling you now he didn't do it.’
‘How can I help?’
‘You can get 'im off. Find out who did kill 'er.’
‘Private detective work is rather expensive and of course I may not be successful.’
‘You better bleedin' had,’ she said with a smile in her voice. ‘Just cos I don't talk posh don't mean I can't pay.’
‘Would you like to come to my office – Mrs …?’
‘Rose Fenny. Yeah, OK. When?’
‘This afternoon about two thirty?’
‘Cheers, love. See you then.’
Hubert's initial look of triumph had become a positive gloat. ‘Told you,’ he said. ‘I wangled that one for you. It's your lucky day. Just to cheer you up even more I'll bring you some chips when I come back from the pub.’
I protested somewhat feebly. ‘I'll look like a chip soon. And my arteries won't just be thickened, they'll be full of crispy bits as well.’
Hubert smiled, ‘You can start your healthy living when you get paid. Make sure, though, she gives you a week's money up front.’
‘I will.’
As Hubert turned to go I said, ‘By the way, Hubert, how exactly did you come to know Rose Fenny?’
He stood at the door for a moment and then tapped his nose with his index finger.
‘Have a good time,’ I said.
Rose Fenny arrived late. She burst into my office at three.
‘Sorry love, I missed the bleedin' bus. You can't win, can you?’ She smiled a crooked yellow smile, hitched up her black short skirt and sat down. She wore a tight red vest-style T-shirt with off-white high heels and bare legs. She was, I supposed, about forty, her hair had cork-screw curls dangling by her ears and her blusher had been applied in a thick brown triangle on otherwise pale cheeks.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
I shook my head and found her an old saucer for an ashtray. She fumbled in a battered-looking clutch bag and brought out a packet of tobacco and some papers and carefully rolled herself a thin cigarette. ‘D'you want one?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘I don't smoke.’
‘I can't do without a ciggie. Well it's either smokes or Valium in'it?’ She lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply and murmured, ‘That's better.’
‘How can I help you, Mrs Fenny?’
‘Call me Rose. You said you did murders?’
‘I've been involved in murder cases but I'm not police and I don't have access to their information.’
‘Yeah, but you know the people to ask – whose keyholes to look through.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ I said, trying to sound totally sure of myself without being cocksure.
‘My Nick's in real trouble. Nick is where he's going to land up if he's not careful.’
‘He hasn't been in trouble before, then?’
Rose chuckled throatily. ‘Course he has, love. Never out of bleedin' trouble.’
‘In what way?’
‘Taking and driving away mostly. A bit of shop-lifting when he was younger.’
‘How young?’
‘Ten. He got in with an older crowd. He's tall, see, people think he's older than he is.’
‘What about his father?’
‘Him! The bastard! Where d'you think he learned how to drive away anything on four wheels? My old man taught Nick every crime in the book … you know, like some men take their sons to football matches. Well, instead of that, he took him on jobs. Small ones at first, house clearance he called it. But he got a bit ambitious, decided to do a ram-raid on a post office. The bloke in the post office whistled and let loose this bloody great big Dobermann. My old man's even scared of terriers so he froze and the others did a runner. He just stood there, the great prat, until the police came. The dog never even touched him.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘The Dobermann?’
I smiled. ‘No, your husband.’
‘Oh, yeah. He's inside. He got ten years. He's done four. He's happy enough. He's got no worries, has he? Mind you, I don't look forward to him coming out. I mean he won't b
e out long enough for me to get used to it, will he?’
‘Tell me about Nick. Is he your only child?’
‘I've got a girl as well. She's seventeen and useless. I mean I think I'd have preferred it if she took to crime. She took to sex instead. She's expecting her second kid. She's only a few weeks gone but she won't hear of getting rid of it. Still, she's not a bad little mum … we'll cope, I suppose.’
‘And Nick?’
‘Yeah, well. He's not a bad kid really. He's not violent, I'll tell you that from the off. There's no way he'd hit a woman, especially one he didn't know. He's never laid a hand on me and he's bin ever so good to his sister. Her kid's never gone without and never will.’
‘Where's Nick now? I mean if he didn't do it, surely he should come forward and explain.’
‘Don't be sodding daft,’ said Rose, smiling and relighting her cigarette. ‘The police have already decided it's him. They think she found him trying to get into the car. He was supposed to have killed her, they won't tell me how, and then bundled the body into the boot.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘Well, I don't know exactly, do I? But I think he saw the car – it was a Golf. He quite likes them but he's not mad on them. He prefers Jags, Mercs, and he quite likes them Jeep things but he's a lazy git and he doesn't like a lot of effort – so if the owner turned up he'd just do a runner. He's a coward like his dad. Nice, easy crime, that's what they like.’
‘Why then are the police so convinced he murdered Jenny Martin?’
Rose stared at me closely for a while. ‘You had much experience of the police, 'ave you?’
I smiled. ‘Not as much as you.’
‘I've had a lifetime, I'm telling you they're lazy gits, most of them. They want a result the easiest way possible, especially with a one-off. Now serial killers there's something they get down to. But one-offs, that's different.’
‘So you think just for the sake of expediency they'll convict Nick?’
‘You talk like a bleedin' lawyer. But yeah. They'll find him eventually and they'll put him away for years and years for something he didn't do. And just because they couldn't get off their fat arses.’
Deadly Practice Page 3
