Deadly Practice

by Christine Green

  ‘A tragedy,’ I agreed.

  ‘This place is dogged by bad luck. Poor Dr Amroth's wife left him, Jenny's son got killed and now Jenny. It fair depresses me, it does. It's no wonder my blood pressure goes up every time I come.’

  ‘You knew Jenny well, then?’

  ‘She used to visit my wife. Just for a chat and to see if we needed anything.’

  ‘This was till … recently?’

  ‘Oh yes. Her last visit was the week before she was killed.’

  ‘Did she seem worried about anything?’

  Reg shook his head. ‘Not more than usual. I knew her before her son died, she was so happy-go-lucky. Then afterwards she became very quiet and withdrawn. Saving that, though, she was quite a bit brighter during her last few weeks.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not really. But once she patted me on the back and said: “Cheer up, Reg, live dangerously. I do.” I thought that was a bit out of character because she always toed the healthy living line. She was the one who helped me give up smoking. I asked her what she meant.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said that living on the brink made you appreciate life more, and however long she'd got, she wanted to live with her adrenalin flowing.’

  ‘It sounds as if she knew she was going to die,’ I murmured. Reg nodded in agreement.

  When he'd gone I thought about how Jenny must have stood in this treatment room and mulled over the patients' problems. And her own. Was there a moment when she realized she might be a victim, and did she care? Is there such a thing as a natural victim? Someone who deliberately courts danger? Was the connection between Jenny and Teresa a shared acknowledgement of the thrill of being on the nearside of death? Surely though that would have remained unspoken, undetected. Bungee jumping, parachuting, rock climbing, even pot-holing would, I assume, attract people who barely concealed their flirtation with the hereafter, but calligraphy?

  When the morning's clinic was over I had a chat with the Thruxton-Holland receptionist, a woman of formidable girth but with a sweet young face and a tendency to talk about the minutiae of life in great detail.

  Her name was Maggie, she had two grown-up children, two ‘perfect' grandchildren, a husband who played golf and a tendency to discuss the condition of her hair in great detail. I listened patiently for a while. Her hairdresser had recommended low lights and high lights, a soft perm (‘my hair really does take a soft perm well, I was ever so pleased with it but next time she said …’) and on and on. She even discussed the state of her dandruff. It was riveting stuff. As a way into the general discussion of hair I mentioned Jenny. ‘I believe she had really pretty hair,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, she did. A natural blonde. Always kept the same style, a nice little bob. We went to the same hairdresser. Of course her hair was fine and mine's a bit coarse but there it is … there it is.’

  There was no stopping her. I daydreamed about having Maggie in front of a bright light; every time she mentioned hair I would snip a bit off. All I could do in reality was grin inanely and bear it and hope that sometime she would fix on something useful. Somehow if her hair had been worth a mention it wouldn't have been so ludicrous, but it was as fizzled as if she plugged herself into an electrical socket.

  When I finally escaped and was just about to leave Riverview with the intention of paying a visit to the college, I bumped into David Thruxton. ‘I'm glad I've caught you,’ he said, ‘Ros said I really must invite you to lunch tomorrow, the practice wives will be there. Female-only do, but the food is splendid.’

  ‘Thank you. I'd be delighted to come.’

  ‘Jenny used to enjoy the lunches,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Everyone seemed to like Jenny.’

  He smiled. ‘She was with us a long time.’

  ‘How long exactly?’

  ‘Eight years …’ He paused, his blue eyes staring at me but not seeing me. ‘It's strange how guilty you can feel when someone dies violently – as if somehow we could have done something to prevent it.’

  ‘Such as?’

  He shrugged and then held the door open for me. ‘I really don't know, but someone had hurt her and we acted as if we believed her bruises were accidental, merely, I suppose, to save her embarrassment, when if we'd been less squeamish we perhaps could have saved her life.’

  ‘If she had wanted to be saved.’

  He nodded. ‘I hadn't thought of that.’

  As I walked away the thought crossed my mind that he could have been in love with Jenny. Did Ros his wife know? Could Ros have employed a hit man? A hit man paid to do two murders and make them look like the work of a serial killer. I wouldn't know that, until I met them all. It was a lunch date I looked forward to.

  Chapter Twelve

  I hadn't told Hubert about my date with Neil Amroth. I felt pleased to be going out and I didn't want him giving me a lecture about the perils of being with a young and rampant man.

  There was a feeling of Saturday night about getting ready. First the hair washing, then the bubble bath. Saturday night when I was a teenager had been special. Then I had even painted my toe-nails but I thought that was going a bit far on a first and probably last date with young Neil the odd job man.

  I debated for ages about what to wear. The Grand Hotel wasn't that grand and most people visiting the restaurant didn't dress up. Eventually I decided on a pale mauve blouse teamed with a purple skirt. I dressed it up with dangly earrings and multi-coloured beads and wore a pair of cream sandals that crippled me. I wouldn't be walking far, I reasoned, and could always slip them off under the table if blisters developed after fifty yards. I teased my red hair into a relatively tidy state, noticed my roots were no longer hennaed but back to mouse and sighed that no matter how hard I tried I wasn't going to look as good as a model, even one wearing no make-up and dressed in a bin liner and Doc Martens.

  I was ready by seven thirty, restless and uneasy. Maybe he wouldn't come, maybe the evening would be a disaster. What did we have in common anyway? Only Riverview. But he had known Jenny and therefore he could be useful. And he was very attractive, which all in all meant that the evening could be a lot more fun than knitting bedsocks.

  At five past eight I was convinced he wasn't coming and the evening stretched before me, all dressed up and feeling slightly ridiculous. I stared out of my front window. Evening sunlight fell softly on the gravestones, it was warm and balmy and my restlessness increased. I wanted to go out tonight, I had to go now that I was ready.

  Just after ten past eight a black Rover drew up outside. Neil, I had to admit, looked very smart in a pale grey suit with a grey and blue striped tie and white shirt. It made him look older somehow and having only seen him in jeans I assumed he always dressed that way. I ducked behind the curtains so that he wouldn't see me looking and when he knocked the door I took my time answering. He had kept me waiting, after all.

  ‘Kate, you look lovely,’ he said. He didn't apologize for being late but flattery was far more soothing than a mere apology. I praised the car which he said he'd borrowed from his father, which made me feel as if I was sixteen and should tell him I had to be home by eleven.

  The journey into Longborough was punctuated by silent episodes; I was definitely out of the dating habit and felt I should be both mildly flirtatious and wittily entertaining. I was neither. Neil asked me how long I'd lived in Farley Wood and where I'd lived before. I told him a little about life in North London and about my mother being in Australia, and then I was stumped. I couldn't of course mention Humberstones' or Medical and Nursing Investigations.

  The restaurant of the Grand Hotel wasn't particularly busy, but there were fresh wild flowers and lit candles on every table. The french windows were slightly open and a gentle breeze and the sound of trees rustling outside combined with occasional insect noises made it feel vaguely continental.

  The waiter was young and foreign looking and he handed us each a gold-embossed menu that was so large i
t had to be held open with both hands.

  ‘Would you like me to order for you, Kate?’ asked Neil, his blue eyes staring at me over the top edge of the menu.

  ‘I think I can manage, thank you,’ I smiled but the smile was fake. I was highly irritated. I'd always felt and probably always will that if a woman can't choose her own meal, even if a menu is written in Urdu, then she should be ashamed of herself. I mean if you don't know what a dish is you only have to ask.

  Eventually I chose melon and Parma ham as a first course followed by lobster salad. The wine waiter appeared then and Neil asked with a decisive edge to his voice, ‘Champagne, Kate?’ I smiled and nodded nonchalantly as if I wouldn't dream of drinking anything less. But when the wine waiter left I murmured, ‘Neil, this is going to cost a fortune. I'm feeling guilty, I'm sure you're not that flush with money.’

  ‘I earn enough and I have no one to spend it on. I go jogging nearly every day, skiing once a year and apart from buying classical music tapes and compact discs I'm incredibly frugal.’

  ‘So you don't come here often?’

  Neil smiled. ‘Christmas, birthdays – my mother liked this place – and to Practice bashes occasionally.’

  ‘You never wanted to be a doctor?’

  ‘Never,’ replied Neil emphatically. ‘I've seen what medicine has done to my father. Most of the time he's completely exhausted. When Helena, my mother, was around she'd persuade him to relax more but he takes very little notice of me.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking why she left?’

  Neil shrugged. ‘No, not at all. That's what I want to talk about.’

  The champagne arrived then and for a few moments after the de-corking and the loud pop and the perfunctory interest of the other diners we both fell silent as if remembering occasions in the past when we'd drunk champagne.

  ‘You were telling me about your mother, Neil,’ I prompted as Neil stared ahead, obviously deep in thought.

  ‘Yes. My mother – Helena … she was bored and lonely I think. She didn't have a job and I'd gone up to university. They married whilst they were both students. My mother was taking a pharmacy degree but she left after the wedding. Once I'd gone up to university I suppose she felt … redundant. My father would come home at night, fall asleep or do paperwork and of course all the changes in the NHS made so much more work.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ I asked.

  Neil stared at me, his blue eyes saved from being cold by the long black eyelashes. ‘I'd rather not say. She doesn't want my father to know we are in contact.’

  ‘Surely that's unfair,’ I said quietly, ‘especially now the police seem to think some harm could have befallen her.’

  Nick smiled sadly. ‘It's up to her. The police will soon realize my father is telling the truth.’

  ‘Even if it means digging up your garden?’

  ‘I respect my mother's wishes. One day she'll come back, I'm sure of that.’

  Before the first course appeared I excused myself and went to the Ladies.

  The Grand Hotel loo was a four-star one with red flock wallpaper, fresh flowers, abundant mirrors, even two armchairs. One was reserved for the lavatory attendant who sat in a corner reading a romance. She wore a zipped overall which only just held her in, her grey hair was scraped back into a bun and she had a broad, bare face that reminded me of an elderly Russian grandmother. I'd seen her before but never spoken to her. This time I made the effort. First though I placed a large tip noisily into the saucer. She glanced up at me. ‘Lovely flowers,’ I commented. ‘You really do keep the place beautifully.’

  ‘I do me best.’

  I was a bit stumped then but I got straight to the point. ‘A friend of mind used to work here on reception. I don't suppose you know all the workers, though.’

  ‘I know the women.’

  ‘Her name was Teresa Haverall …’

  She stared at me for a moment as if judging if I was half witted. ‘You from out of town?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, me duck. Poor Teresa's been murdered. Battered about the head.’

  ‘I think I'll have to sit down,’ I said.

  Mrs Attendant put down her book. ‘It's a shock, I know. I liked Teresa. She was ever so lively and cheerful. She was one of me favourites.’

  ‘The police don't know who did it, then?’

  ‘No. Haven't got a clue. I mean it must be a lunatic, one of them serial killers like you read about.’

  ‘I expect the police have interviewed you.’

  She laughed. ‘I wouldn't call it an interview. A young policeman spoke to me – but I don't reckon he thought I knew anything – only took him about three seconds and he was off.’

  ‘What did he ask you?’

  ‘Just if I knew her and what was she like.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told him the last time I saw her she said: “Bella, I'm happier now than when I was a teenager.”’

  ‘What do you think she meant by that?’

  Bella frowned and shrugged her large shoulders. ‘I dunno, duck, do I?’

  ‘Did you see any of her boyfriends?’

  ‘No.’ She sounded uncertain.

  ‘No one tall, wearing black?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she mention any boyfriends?’

  Again Bella shook her head. Still she seemed uncertain, a little worried. ‘You can tell me,’ I said quietly, ‘I was her friend.’

  ‘Very friendly, were you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘very friendly.’

  ‘Well … she did have someone special. Known each other some time. Going to move in together. She was excited about it, said she hated living alone.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  Bella stared at me for a moment. ‘It wasn't a man, m'duck. It was a girlfriend. That's the awful bit – she was murdered too.’

  She waited for her information to sink in, then said in a conspiratorially low voice, ‘Lesbians, see. Killed by a man who hates them. Just like the Yorkshire Ripper. I mean he hated prostitutes, didn't he? This one hates lesbians.’

  ‘Thank you, Bella, thank you very much.’ I put another pound coin in her saucer, she smiled, picked up her book again and said meaningfully, ‘I'm sorry about your friend.’

  When I appeared back in the restaurant the first course had arrived and Neil looked somewhat peeved. ‘I was just about to send out a search party. You're not ill, are you?’

  ‘No, I'm fine. I met someone I knew and we had a chat. Sorry.’ His good humour returned after two full glasses of champagne. I lied convincingly telling him that the friend I'd met in the loo had known Jenny.

  ‘What did she say about her?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing much, just that they'd done their nurse training together and she'd heard her son had been killed by a hit-andrun driver …’

  ‘Hey, come on, Kate,’ interrupted Neil. ‘Let's change the subject. Drunken drivers are a depressing topic.’ He refilled my glass before I had chance to decline.

  ‘You won't be able to drive home if we keep on drinking.’ He laughed. ‘Don't worry, Kate, there are plenty of taxis. The night is young and this champers is only the start.’ Taking my hand he squeezed it tightly, and his foot touched my ankle. Oh God, I thought, realizing then I should have guessed this would happen. By the time the evening was over I was going to have to fight him off.

  By the second bottle of champagne I was talking giggly nonsense about nothing in particular. At the end of the meal we drank brandies from huge balloon glasses and I'd got delusions of grandeur, the beginnings of a headache and the stirring of desire for the young, muscular body of Neil Amroth. A little voice kept saying, Control yourself. You are a mature woman. Another voice said, What the hell! Enjoy yourself.

  In the taxi on the way back to Farley Wood I realized I felt light-headed. Neil put his hand on my knee and I clamped my hand over it very swiftly. He seemed to mistake this for passion and he began kissing me with lots of
youthful enthusiasm and not much finesse. Luckily the taxi driver drove like the clappers and we were back to Farley Wood before Neil's heavy breathing became hyperventilation.

  ‘I'm coming in for coffee,’ said Neil. I could tell by his voice he wasn't as tipsy as I was. Indeed, all he seemed to have lost were his inhibitions. I'd lost my legs and stomach somewhere between the hotel and home. ‘Please yourself, Neil,’ I managed.

  I managed to pour the boiling water in the cups but got the coffee into the saucer as well. It was a shambles. Neil followed me into the kitchen where his hands began to roam. He took the cups from me and placed them on the kitchen table. He also began to talk in a sort of husky whisper, sweet nothings, ‘Kate, you're wonderful. I'm falling in love with you. Kate – just let me …’ His hand had by now engulfed my left breast …

  I felt my face flame but recognized that it was not passion I was feeling but some sort of reaction to the lobster. My stomach heaved. I pushed him away and rushed upstairs to the bathroom and locked the door. There I allowed my stomach to heave some more. Neil, thank God, hadn't followed me up the stairs. An audience was the last thing I needed.

  It came soon enough. ‘Kate!’ he shouted. Then I heard the thump-thump-thump of his footsteps up the stairs. ‘Open up. Are you all right?’

  ‘Neil, I feel terrible. Thanks for a lovely evening but I …’ Clutching my stomach I just made it to a kneeling position in front of the loo.

  After a few moments Neil called out again, ‘Kate, I don't like to leave you like this. Let me in.’

  I managed to answer in a fairly normal voice, ‘I'll be fine, really. Please, Neil, just let yourself out. I'll ring you tomorrow.’

  ‘Make sure you do, Kate. I shall be worried.’

  I washed my face then, cleaned my teeth and perched on the edge of the bath. Once before lobster had had this effect on me; I had assumed it was a once only reaction. I'd been wrong. The lobster had had its revenge. Perhaps I should become a vegan – future poisoning by fruit and veg seemed pretty unlikely. I decided I wasn't going to come out until I heard him go. Any sweet stirrings of my libido had been well and truly flushed away, all I desired now was my bed and my duvet.