Deadly Practice

by Christine Green

  He ignored my grumbling. ‘I do know Teresa lived alone in a terraced house in the middle of Longborough. She was divorced from her husband, he's working abroad – Germany. The police are trying to contact him. There's one son, he's at Dublin University. By all accounts she was a very respectable woman.’

  ‘Hubert, you sound like the police. Even if a woman isn't “respectable” she doesn't deserve to be murdered – if she is dead, because we don't know that she is yet.’

  ‘I didn't say she did deserve it – did I?’

  I smiled at Hubert's rather stricken face. ‘Sorry, Hubert. That sort of statement just makes me tetchy.’

  ‘You're often tetchy.’

  I ignored that. ‘Anything else?’ He shook his head. ‘Well, I've got a piece of info,’ I said, ‘but you are sworn to secrecy because only Nick and I know about this.’ He leant forward, looking eager. ‘Our secret, Hubert,’ I repeated for good measure.

  I told him then about Jenny's last minutes on earth and about her last word. Hubert was taken aback. ‘He must have misunderstood or he's saying she was still alive to persuade you he wasn't the one who attacked her in the first place.’

  ‘I don't know,’ I said, ‘but you have to assume that she knew she was dying and that what she said was important. Could the word “bollocks” have been mistaken for something else – “Robert” – “Roberts”?’

  Hubert looked mystified. He was a non-swearing man himself. ‘You say it, Hubert, with a gurgle in your throat – let me hear what it sounds like.’

  ‘I'm not an actor,’ he said with a shake of his head.

  I took that as a refusal. ‘Come on, Hubert,’ I urged. ‘In my nursing career I've heard more swear words than you've done funerals.’

  ‘That's as maybe,’ he said. ‘But can you believe anything a car thief says? Maybe she was just swearing, like people do if they've been under an anaesthetic.’

  ‘That's a possibility,’ I agreed, ‘but that's a bit of a fallacy, patients do worry about losing control but mostly when their operation is all over they just mumble things like “ouch” and “ah” and “I'm thirsty”.’

  This talk of patients and surgery reminded me that I was supposed to be a practice nurse the following day and I needed to read all about it. I rushed out of Humberstones' to the bookshop, leaving Hubert thinking about Jenny's last word. Walking back, I tried to revise my knowledge of topics ranging from epilepsy to contraception. It was like the night before an exam and after a short while I began to feel not only confused but worried. Could I cope? What if they found out I also worked as a private investigator? Would I be sacked?

  I couldn't ask Hubert for another lift so I would have to stay at the office and sleep in the box-room cum bedroom, which was really only a step up from camping.

  The phone rang later. My car would be ready in the morning – any time after 8 a.m. I pleaded for an earlier time and he agreed to leave the car out for me on the forecourt.

  I ate a dull hamburger and chips from the chippy, wrote my mother a letter, re-read the chapter entitled ‘Emergency Procedures' and then spent time fretting about having one on my first day. My final thoughts as I went to sleep were: is life always going to be this exciting? Could a mad passionate affair with Mr Practice Manager be the answer to life's doldrums or would it all get far too complicated? Was he already involved with someone? More to the point, did he fancy me? Or was it all in my imagination?

  Later in bed when I was at that stage of going to sleep when you think nothing will wake you, I began to wonder if there were any Roberts at the practice. And what was ‘the sudden ill health' of a particularly healthy looking young woman? Did she know something I didn't?

  That did bring me back from the brink of sleep. Hours later I was still awake. Maybe Riverview Medical Centre was jinxed.

  Chapter Nine

  Having my own car back really cheered me up. I arrived at Riverview Medical Centre by eight and the cleaner let me in. Bent double she was staring into the murky depths of a black plastic bucket.

  ‘You the new nurse?’ she asked without looking above my kneecaps.

  ‘I am.’

  She stood upright then, holding her mop aloft like some sacred flag. Even upright she appeared somewhat vertically challenged and I could see her grey hair was thinning on top, her face was narrowed and lined and she looked about seventy. ‘Well, I hope you'll like it here,’ she said ominously as if she was sure I wouldn't.

  ‘I'm sure I will,’ I said lightly.

  ‘Not many people do. I only stay because I'm past retirement age.’

  ‘What's wrong with the place?’ I asked.

  ‘That's not for me to say, is it?’ She paused to inspect the head of her mop, gave me a wry smile and said, ‘Well, I must get on. Staff room's that little door at the end of the hall.’

  She staggered off then, weighed down with her bucket, and I made my way to the staff room, which was pretentiously named, because it was only a lavatory and a tiny alcove with two hardbacked chairs, a well-worn card table and on the wall, five clothes hooks. I changed quickly into my blue uniform dress, which by now was creased, and hung my skirt and blouse on the one clothes hanger. I brushed my hair, flicked mascara on my eyelashes, hoping it gave me a wide awake intelligent look, took a deep breath and prepared myself psychologically to become, not Kate Kinsella private investigator, but Kate Kinsella – practice nurse.

  I spent a few minutes trying various doors to get the lie of the place. Then I went into the treatment room and investigated cupboards and drawers, checked sterile packs and instruments, peered into the tiny sterilizer and felt in that moment I had returned home. This treatment room was so similar to ward treatment rooms it made me long to return to busy hospitals and the camaraderie that used to exist in them.

  The sound of cars driving up and doors banging signalled the arrival of the other staff. I emerged from the treatment room straight into the chest of Alan Dakers.

  ‘Trying to knock me off my feet already, Kate? Glad to see you made it. Finding your way about?’

  I nodded, a bit flustered by being in such rare and close proximity to an attractive man. I stepped back and smiled. The space between us made me feel more at ease. He took me by the elbow and led me to the first consulting room. ‘By the way, did I tell you the practice is virtually run separately although you will do clinics in each one?’

  ‘You didn't.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘then I probably didn't tell you that Doctors Amroth and Holland do not speak to Doctors Thruxton and Wheatly.’

  ‘You're joking.’

  ‘I'm not.’

  ‘They communicate in writing of course and just occasionally I can manage to arrange a meeting but it usually ends in a row.’

  ‘What happened? Why aren't they speaking to each other?’

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘Someone must,’ I said.

  Alan smiled. ‘You're the persistent type, aren't you? Everyone has a theory about why they don't get on. Mine, for what it's worth, is the God Syndrome.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Thruxton and Wheatly had fathers who were both doctors; one was a top-flight surgeon. So you see they are direct descendants of God.’

  ‘My, we are a cynic, aren't we?’ I said, laughing.

  Alan grinned back. ‘Amroth and Holland are both firstgeneration doctors and are merely preparing for Godhood. Holland was a bright spark from a comprehensive school and Amroth from a grammar. Thruxton and Wheatly, of course, went to public school.’

  ‘That doesn't really explain the animosity, though, does it?’

  ‘It's the numbers game that creates most of the animosity.’

  ‘What numbers?’

  ‘Patient numbers. Especially the elderly. Amroth and Holland are by far the most popular doctors. GPs, as you probably know, get extra money for visiting the elderly, extra money for almost everything – cervical smears, immunizations, even signing insurance forms. They compe
te amongst themselves for patients, mostly Amroth and Holland work very hard and don't socialize much. In contrast, Wheatly plays a lot of squash and golf and Thruxton disappears on fishing trips and attends numerous medical seminars, or says he does. And of course the “freebies” cause problems. Amroth laid down the law about accepting “freebies” from the medical reps. Mostly it's pens and mugs or notepads but just occasionally it's weekends away or the odd bottle of whisky. On this issue Wheatly and Thruxton just ignore Amroth.’

  ‘I see,’ I murmured.

  ‘That's only my interpretation of the problem, Kate, so don't take it as gospel. Others think the problem comes back to women. But no doubt you'll hear all the gossip on that one from the wives. They all talk to each other – though methinks they speak with forked tongues.’

  I was suitably intrigued and impressed with all this but suddenly Alan said, ‘I'd better get back to the paperwork. You've got Dr Amroth's clinic and tomorrow afternoon you'll be doing Dr Wheatly's baby clinic. I'll write up a roster for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I murmured. I was beginning to realize I wasn't going to belong in any camp and I'd have to watch my tongue very carefully. Alan then introduced me to Dr David Thruxton and Dr Marcus Wheatly. My reception was fairly friendly given that the opposition had recruited me and I was only second choice anyway. David Thruxton was in his early forties with straight fair hair that flopped over his forehead and which he flicked back at regular intervals. The sort of hair that remains boyish. I could easily imagine him at prep school, pretty and blue eyed and even then flicking the hair from his eyes.

  Marcus Wheatly was younger, in his thirties, darkly attractive but too neat featured for my taste. His hands were small and womanish and moved constantly.

  His voice was low but had a quality of assurance that could be comforting or patronizing depending, I supposed, on whether he was imparting good news or bad.

  ‘Ours is a very middle-class practice,’ he said, signalling that I should sit down. ‘And we don't have too many problems … at least we didn't, but with the recession I'm afraid we are catching the middle classes on the slide, as it were.’

  ‘Tumbling headlong into the working class?’

  He looked at me sharply as if he knew I was being sarcastic. I had already taken a dislike to Marcus Wheatly. ‘Health problems are growing,’ he continued, ‘mostly on the psychological front – depression, heavy drinking, eating problems, sexual problems. I did off-load quite a bit of that on to Jenny. It's so time consuming. I hope you feel able to deal with that sort of thing.’

  ‘I'll certainly do my best.’

  I'd fondly imagined I'd be doing mostly dressings, injections and dealing with cuts and bruises, even the odd bit of minor surgery. I already sensed that any drama was more likely to be in the psychological mode rather than blood and guts.

  After that Alan introduced me to ‘the diary'. Scrawled in red pen in what looked like a doctorly hand were the names of four patients to see me. Two for tetanus injections, two for dressings. That was more like it. Moments later Dr Amroth stood at the open door of the treatment room. He seemed slightly surprised to see me and said, ‘There'll be quite a few this morning. I'll send a short note in with each one.’

  Short was the operative word. One note simply said: Advise!

  The morning passed quickly. One of the regular patients, an elderly lady with an infected toe, mentioned Jenny. ‘Jenny always made it nice and comfortable. Such a pleasant person, she always did my dressing just as I wanted it done.’

  ‘I'll try to do the same,’ I said. That comment seemed to do the trick, but afterwards I couldn't seem to get the conversation back to Jenny and I doubted that she had ever given much away. But of course that didn't mean that a patient didn't confide in her and then regret it enough to have to silence her. Or, of course, the same could be said for a staff member.

  Once all the patients had gone I chatted for a few minutes to Michelle Rushmore, the receptionist. We sat on the chairs outside the toilet, drinking coffee. ‘Do you think you'll like it here?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, as if there could be no doubt. ‘It's all a bit strange at the moment but I was lucky to be offered the job.’

  Michelle smiled. ‘I suppose you were. The girl they offered the job to came off her bike and broke her leg.’ Then she added quietly, ‘I suppose that was lucky compared to poor old Jenny. I really liked her. She got depressed at times, don't we all, but she always put on a brave face for the patients.’

  ‘Have you any idea who could dislike her enough to kill her?’ Michelle shrugged thin shoulders. ‘Not exactly, but I can't help thinking her husband might have had something to do with it.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  She began to look embarrassed. ‘I shouldn't have said anything. It's not my business, is it? I'm sure the police know what they're doing.’

  ‘Yes, but they do need all the information they can get.’

  She sipped at her coffee thoughtfully. ‘It was only once or twice, anyway … She was changing in here early one morning. I saw – I couldn't help it – bruises on her arms, and once she came in with a bruised face.’

  ‘Perhaps they were just under a lot of stress.’

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Michelle. ‘It's just that I got the impression he was very possessive. He didn't like her going out, she told me that.’

  ‘But she went out?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She said since her little boy died there was nothing to stay in for. Her husband used to work in the evening so she said there was no point staying in to watch.’

  ‘Did she go out with anyone from here?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Michelle sharply.

  ‘Well, I just thought that she might have socialized with colleagues at work, lots of people do.’

  Michelle gave a brief little laugh. ‘You'll understand why I laughed when you've been here a bit longer. Although she wasn't that friendly with anyone here, she was quite friendly with the doctors' wives.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘I don't know about that, but the wives are a friendlier bunch than their husbands. There're only three wives in the practice – Dr Amroth's wife left him four years ago. About once a month they used to have a lunch, alternating houses, when their husbands were doing other things. It was all girls together and Jenny seemed to enjoy herself.’

  ‘You didn't go?’

  Michelle smiled, ‘I'm only a lowly receptionist. You'll probably get invited, though. I think the practice nurse is invited so that they get to know what their husbands are up to.’

  ‘And are they up to anything?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Mind you, one of them drinks quite a bit.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘I'm not telling you that,’ she said standing up. ‘You'll find out soon enough.’

  She was opening the door to go when I plucked up enough courage to ask, ‘What about the practice manager, Alan, is he married?’

  She smiled, knowingly. ‘Divorced, two kids, thinks he's Jack the Lad.’

  I wanted to ask more but the knowing smile put me off. She probably fancied him too.

  Before I went home I tidied up the treatment room and checked my diary. I flicked back to look at my predecessor's handwriting. It gave me an eerie feeling – everything Jenny had written was work connected, yet I still felt I'd somehow encroached on her privacy. I also knew that I would be looking through her entries again and again to find a clue that might or might not be there. The diary had obviously been examined by the police anyway and as a work document they had passed it as non-vital evidence. In other words, it was no help at all. I had to assume at this stage that the murder and Teresa Haverall being missing were somehow connected. The police obviously thought so – but why? They obviously knew something that I didn't. Did they have something more in common than just an evening class – was Teresa a possible suspect?

  I drove back to Humberstones relieved that my first morning was
over and I hadn't had a single emergency. As I drove past the slatted blinds of reception I could see Hubert talking to Danielle. I hoped he wasn't going to get involved with her. From a mere exwife Hubert now had two women in his life and I was beginning to hope he'd soon settle down with Dolly Two-Shoes. Desperate Dan was likely to be the more disappointing of the two.

  I made coffee, scraped the last morsel of peanut butter on to two crispbreads and was just about to enjoy the moment's feeling of virtue that eating sparsely manages to induce, when the phone rang. It was Nick's mother.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I've just rung to apologize for my son. He's a scum-bag, he really is. I've told him if he pulls another stunt like that I'll personally drag him down to the Old Bill.’ ‘So you do know where he is?’

  ‘I do now. I've said I'll give you another week and if no one's come up with a suspect then he'll have to give himself up. I can't keep paying out, can I?’

  I murmured in agreement, wondering as I did so if on one more week's money I could keep going till the end of the month and my first pay cheque from Riverview.

  ‘Just make sure Nick returns that car unharmed, will you, and then get him to contact me. There's a few questions I'd like to ask him.’

  ‘Yeah, I'll try. But he only ever does what he wants anyway. I'll drop your money off in the week.’

  It was only when I put down the receiver that I realized what a change of face this was. From the mother convinced of her son's innocence, who was willing to pay to prove it, she now seemed to be equally keen that he turn himself in. Did she in fact think he was guilty?

  Hubert came up later to report that a glazier had repaired my window and that if I had any sense I would invest in a security system. Money was a sore point, or at least owing it was, so I answered him a bit tartly. ‘Hubert,’ I said, ‘if I had money to invest I would invest it in stocks, shares, gilts, diamond mines or the like but a security system – never.’

  He wasn't pleased. ‘If he comes back you needn't think I'll get your windows fixed again.’

  ‘Nick won't be coming back. I think he'll give himself up.’