Deadly Practice

by Christine Green

  ‘How did Simon die?’ I asked gently.

  He stared at me with his empty grey eyes for a moment. ‘Hit and run. He was on his way home from school, it was getting dark. A car mounted the pavement and mowed him down. He died instantly. The police never caught the driver—’ He broke off, choked with his awful memories. ‘And now this … my whole life … my whole life.’

  His head dropped and he sobbed quietly for a while, dry racking sobs. I patted him on the shoulder and as I did so I could feel emotional tugs as real as rope threatening to drag me in. Other people's grief often seems to reflect every fear you ever had, every grief experienced. I drew back, swallowed hard. ‘Mr Martin – Geoff – I know this is difficult for you, but could we talk about Jenny. The police are doing all they can but maybe I'll be able to help too.’

  He gulped, passed his hands wearily over his face as though wishing he could wipe away his grief, and said, ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘As much as possible. Just talk about her – anything.’

  He paused as if remembering, and then said softly, ‘I'm twelve years older than her. We married when she was eighteen, just before she started training to be a nurse. She was just over twenty when she got pregnant, she was still a student nurse so I looked after Simon with the help of my mother, she died a year after Simon's death … she never got over it. Anyway before the … accident, we were very happy. I work from home, I'm a freelance journalist. It was tough at times to meet deadlines but we managed. Jenny in those days was always cheerful. She always said there were so many sick people in the world we should just be grateful for good health …’

  ‘And after your son's death?’

  ‘She changed. At first I thought that once the first year was over she'd get back some of her spirit but losing a child isn't something you do get over. The pain eases a bit but the sense of loss is always there—’

  He broke off again and stared bleakly at the photograph.

  ‘Tell me about the night she died, Geoff.’

  He stared at me for a moment. ‘We had a meal about sixish. Jenny was quite quiet, didn't say much. She'd worked at the medical centre that day, in the morning and early afternoon. I was working on an article and she'd been annoyed I hadn't prepared the vegetables. It was her evening class night. She's doing calligraphy – she was doing calligraphy. She left about a quarter to seven. “I'll be home by ten,” she said. That was the last time I saw her …’ His watery eyes gazed into space.

  ‘Tell me about her friends.’

  ‘She had quite a few friends, nursing friends, people she met at evening classes.’

  ‘I hate to ask this, Geoff, but did she have any men friends?’

  He glared at me. ‘I don't think so. I would have guessed if she'd been having an affair, wouldn't I? I know we had our problems but it wouldn't have ended in divorce, I'm sure of that.’

  ‘But you discussed separating?’

  ‘Yes. We thought maybe living apart for a while might help us.’

  ‘Did you hope for more children?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Geoff sharply. ‘Of course we did and we tried but Jenny refused to go to an infertility clinic. She simply refused. I think she was frightened of more suffering.’

  ‘One final question, Geoff.’ He nodded. ‘Did Jenny, to your knowledge, have any enemies?’

  He shook his head. ‘No of course not. I've been surprised that I've not been contacted by some of her friends but it's difficult for people, isn't it? They just don't know what to say. I think she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There's someone out there on the rampage. Another woman is missing. The police told me. They wouldn't tell me her name. If there is a serial killer at large the CID don't want to give him the kudos of publicity. It seems this woman has been missing since the night Jenny was killed. She didn't turn up for work after her holiday. It's highly probable, the police think, that's she's dead. It's just a question of finding her body …’ He stopped talking suddenly and his mouth sagged open. ‘Oh my God …’

  ‘What's the matter?’ I asked, concerned, as his head dropped forward on his chest. He stared at the floor for a moment then raised his eyes slowly to stare into mine. ‘How could I not have realized? That bastard's killed them both.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’ I asked sharply.

  Geoff shook his head. ‘Why didn't I guess? I thought she just couldn't face seeing me or she'd gone away …’

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ I asked, growing more insistent.

  ‘The woman from Longborough. You live in Longborough, don't you?’

  I nodded, my impatience growing.

  ‘My wife's best friend – Teresa Haverall. She's missing. She was on holiday from the hotel – she's a receptionist at the Grand. Jenny told me she was going alone that night because Teresa was going away – so it didn't cross my mind that it might be Teresa.’

  ‘Who told you about the missing woman?’

  ‘A police inspector from Dunsmore. He thought he should tell me straight away – to get me off the hook, as it were. I was the chief suspect for my wife's murder, you see – husbands always are, of course. I didn't have an alibi. I was here alone all that evening just waiting for her to come home. Now with this recent … development, it seems I'm no longer their prime suspect.’

  He sounded disappointed, as though somehow he'd lost a toehold on life. Perhaps being a suspect gave him willing ears and without police interest in him he felt abandoned. Even so I couldn't understand why a woman, merely missing, should have detracted from his being a worthwhile suspect. As I knew so little about what was going on, however, I decided not to suspect him.

  ‘What time that evening did you report your wife missing?’ I asked.

  A slightly embarrassed look crossed his face. ‘Not till very late, I'm afraid. I worked all the evening, I didn't notice how late it was getting. About eleven I sat down on the sofa and I fell asleep. I woke at two, realized she wasn't home and rang the police. I thought it was worrying when instead of fobbing me off they said they would send two officers straight away. In the morning they drove me to the mortuary to identify my wife.’

  He looked about to cry again so I blurted out one more question. ‘Do the police know at what time your wife died?’

  ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘They think after midnight and before two. That's as near as they can say – time of death is never very accurate, so the inspector told me.’

  ‘I see. And you did know her class was cancelled?’

  He shook his head. ‘Why the hell didn't she come home? Where was she? That's what I keep asking myself. Where was she?’

  ‘She had no friends near the college she might have walked to?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Husbands are the first to be accused, but where their wives' secret lives are concerned the last to be informed.’

  ‘So you do think your wife had a secret life?’

  ‘I don't know, I really don't. The police seem convinced she met a lover but I think to have an affair you have to have a basically uncluttered mind. Jenny was wound up all the time. She was being treated for anxiety. Beta-blockers. They slow the heart rate, calm you down.’

  ‘Who was her GP?’

  ‘An old boy, a one-man band over the other side of Dunsmore – Charles Gregory. A bit past it, if you ask me. He must be nearly seventy but she wouldn't see anyone at Riverview.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘She said she didn't want them to know her business.’

  Geoff by now looked worse than when I'd arrived. I explained I had someone waiting for me and I'd have to go. I shifted my position and was about to stand up when grabbing me by the wrist he whispered, ‘You will come again, won't you? Promise.’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Promise.’

  He was actually hurting my wrist. ‘I promise. Perhaps next week; before, if I have any news.’

  He relaxed his grip. ‘I like you,’ he
said. ‘I want to keep in touch. I need to talk.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ I said, smiling, patting his hand.

  Inside I realized I was nearly as scared of his neediness as I was of finding a Balaclaved man in my bedroom. The dim house, the photograph, the haunted expression on Geoff Martin's face now began to unnerve me. ‘I must go,’ I said.

  ‘You've promised. Don't forget.’

  ‘I won't.’

  At the front door I felt released. Hubert drove alongside the house and Geoff hurriedly shut the door.

  ‘What's wrong with you?’ asked Hubert as I clambered quickly into the car. ‘You look as if you've just had a cold draught somewhere very personal.’

  ‘Mmm. A cold draught to the heart more like.’

  ‘Where to now, madam?’

  ‘Home, Hubert. Back to Longborough.’

  Hubert started the engine, raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Well?’ When I didn't answer immediately he said, ‘Did he do it?’

  ‘He could have, Hubert, he could have.’

  ‘Do you think he did?’

  I shrugged. I'd been fairly convinced he was innocent until he told me about the missing woman. He'd lied to me then – but why? Anyway I was fairly sure in my own mind that given the right set of circumstances everyone was capable of one murder.

  ‘Hubert,’ I said lightly, ‘you're a disappointment to me.’

  He looked puzzled but he tried hard not to be fazed by my comment. ‘I'm a disappointment to women in general.’

  I laughed. ‘Come on, Hubert, I thought you were on a new phase in your romantic life.’

  He shrugged resignedly but managed a wry smile.

  ‘Drive off and I'll tell you what I mean,’ I said.

  He'd nearly driven out of Dunsmore when I did tell him. ‘I don't believe it,’ he said, ‘I'm always the first to know, after the police. I'm shocked I didn't know. Maybe it's not sinister, though, maybe she's just gone off somewhere for a while.’

  ‘You missed this one, Hubert. I don't know any details yet but the police seem to think it removes Geoff Martin from their list of suspects. Why, I don't know. Murdering a wife is a relatively regular murder but murdering her friend takes it far beyond that. So they must presume the two women have something in common.’

  Hubert sighed. ‘Well, I suppose they have if they're both dead. If you ask me, there's a madman loose …’

  ‘Or someone wanting us to think so.’

  It was later that afternoon the Riverview practice manager phoned me.

  ‘It's somewhat embarrassing,’ he said.

  Not that he sounded embarrassed. ‘Yes?’ I answered coolly.

  ‘As you know we selected our new practice nurse with great difficulty and now … unfortunately we've been let down. She's declined the job temporarily – on the grounds of sudden ill health.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We were wondering if you were still interested? Part-time temporary in the first instance. It was a close-run interview and you were my first choice anyway. We'd be delighted if you could start as soon as possible.’

  I stayed silent for at least two seconds during which time I wondered if he had fancied me – perhaps he still did.

  ‘When would you like me to start?’

  ‘Tomorrow? Just the morning surgery.’

  Another pause of a second or so, I wanted to seem keen but not desperate. ‘Fine,’ I agreed. ‘I'd be delighted.’

  ‘I'm delighted too,’ he said, and I'd swear on oath he said that flirtatiously. ‘We start at eight thirty. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Till tomorrow,’ I muttered as I replaced the receiver. Then I punched the air and rushed downstairs to tell Hubert.

  The receptionist who had replaced the previous Dorothy, which was just as well as it avoided confusion between Dorothys, sat at the desk putting together brochures. From the first moment I saw her I was convinced she was a man in drag.

  ‘Hubert's popped out,’ she said as she placed the hymn selection into its plastic jacket. Then she stood up to place the brochures in a filing cabinet. At least six feet tall, she had skinny legs that reminded me of a plucked dead chicken, large angular shoulders, narrow hips, no bum, high breasts and an Adam's apple that would have done credit to a Bramley. And she had a voice that wouldn't have disgraced a burly miner. Incongruously her name was Danielle. But I had heard her being called Desperate Dan by one of the drivers. She had a bouffant hairstyle of perfect black, false eyelashes and long red nails that were not home grown. Judging by her neck creases I guessed she was in her early forties. She'd only been working at Humberstones for a week and I'd spoken to her only once and then she'd called me Katie.

  I must admit I did try to avoid her. Partly because she made me feel ill at ease, partly because Hubert seemed to like her. Or at least he was fascinated by her shoes. Dolly Two-Shoes was a shoe-aholic, wearing a variety of shoes, boots and sandals.

  Danielle only wore high heels and although she tried to wiggle her hips she actually tottered.

  ‘Come and sit by me, Katie,’ she said. ‘Gravelly' would have described her voice, as though a handful of shale had become lodged in her throat. ‘Hubert will be back soon. He's gone to find out more about the missing woman.’

  I wasn't pleased about that. I didn't want him sharing information with all and sundry and I'd tell him so when I saw him.

  I looked round the reception area. Danielle had obviously made a few changes since I'd last paid reception a visit. The funereal flowers were gone and in their place was a tank of tropical fish. In fact she'd tried to give the whole of reception a tropical feel. Huge green plants in tubs as big as barrels encroached near her desk. ‘Sitting by her' would have meant having a cheeseplant leaf flicking at my face. All the room needed now was a model of Long John Silver and a parrot on a stand.

  ‘You look harassed, dear – take the weight off your pins. It's been ever so quiet here today. Must be the good weather. Shocking about that poor woman, isn't it? The local papers will be full of it.’

  ‘You're not local, then?’ I queried.

  ‘I'm a Londoner born and bred, Katie. Couldn't you tell by my accent?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Just the fact that you thought the local paper would manage to make headlines of a missing woman. “Pig escapes from farmer's barn” would make headlines in the Longborough News. I think the editor doesn't approve of crime, that's why he doesn't report any.’

  ‘Oooh, you are a one,’ laughed Danielle with a toss of her heavily lacquered hair. I perched myself on the edge of her desk and asked, ‘What have you heard about the murder?’

  Easing herself forward in the swivel chair she said in a whisper, ‘I've heard people are pretty sure the missing woman is dead. She had a cat I believe, it's still alive but only just. And she was a friend of that murdered woman.’

  I raised my eyebrows in disbelief.

  ‘I'm telling you, Katie, that's what I heard. I do know her name – Teresa Haverall. A woman living alone aged forty.’

  At that moment Hubert appeared. ‘Everything all right, Danielle?’ he asked with a smile.

  She positively simpered. ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Humberstone. I've been telling Katie here about the missing woman.’

  I seethed quietly. Desperate Dan was a name that suited him or her. With a flutter of spidery lashes at Hubert as if he were Richard Gere responding to a young Joan Collins at the very least, she added, ‘And we've got on really well, haven't we, Katie?’

  ‘I have to go now,’ I said archly. ‘I start at the Riverview Health Centre tomorrow.’

  I tried not to flounce as I left the room. I half expected Hubert to follow me but he didn't. I sat in my office and stared out at the High Street counting the ratio of hairy legs in shorts to fat legs in shorts. It worked out at 4:2 in favour of fat legs. It was only a moderately warm day but Longborough people seem to strip off the moment the temperature rises a fraction above sixty. I'd been sitting there for a while when I heard the stairs
creak and knew Hubert was on his way. The door was slightly ajar and he stood there for a while thinking I hadn't heard him. ‘There's no need to lurk, Hubert,’ I said.

  ‘You're in a bad mood,’ said Hubert, ‘especially as it seems you've now got a job. What happened?’

  I swung round in my chair. ‘Come in properly, Hubert.’

  Hubert walked in, a slightly sheepish expression on his face.

  ‘What's the matter?’ he asked. ‘Why are you miffed?’

  ‘I'm not miffed.’

  ‘You are. What have I done?’

  I smiled. ‘I'm sorry, Hubert. It's that person downstairs. Obnoxious is how I'd describe …’ I balked at using the word ‘her' but Hubert didn't seem to notice.

  ‘I thought she'd settled in quite well. An asset to the business, she's very good with the clients. And she's attractive.’

  I nearly choked. ‘Hubert, you do realize, don't you, she, is he!’

  Hubert's eyes widened. ‘That's a wicked thing to say. You must be jealous. Just because she's got a deep voice. You should be careful what you say about people, Kate. I'm surprised at you, I really am. Danielle is a very nice woman.’

  ‘Jealous! I'm not jealous … well only about information which he seems to have and I don't.’

  Hubert looked genuinely hurt then, and I felt guilty, so I mumbled on a bit about anyone could make a mistake and how some women could look quite masculine.

  His mouth stayed for a while in a sulky downturn, but he wanted to tell me what he'd found out because after a few moments of glaring at me, he said, ‘If you make me a cup of coffee I'll tell you all about the missing woman – well as much as I know.’

  Over coffee he told me that Teresa Haverall attended calligraphy classes with Jenny.

  ‘When was she last seen alive?’ I asked.

  ‘A student at the college saw her at about seven on Monday night.’

  ‘Nothing after that?’

  He shook his head.

  I tutted for a while about people being as unobservant as earthworms.