Deadly Practice

by Christine Green

  I drove off at speed and it wasn't until I got to Humberstones' that I examined my face in the car mirror. There was swelling and the beginnings of a bruise under my right eye, my wet hair looked pasted to my head and my mascara had run on to cheeks whose blood supply had temporarily gone elsewhere. Really I hadn't felt much at the time, only shock, but now I was beginning to feel pain. And I was starting to get tearful. It would only upset Hubert if he saw me like this so I sat in the car park for a while and then drove back to Farley Wood.

  Once in the house I snivelled for a while, made a cold compress for my face using a pack of frozen peas in a wet flannel, drank some cheap sherry, dried my hair and tried to decide what to do next.

  When the phone rang I hoped it was Hubert. It wasn't, it was Neil and I found myself telling him what had happened.

  ‘I'll come over,’ he said, ‘I'm on my way!’

  In thirty minutes Neil was at my door. He put out his arms to me immediately and cuddled me, then with his arms around my shoulders he took me into the house. He smelt of soap and aftershave and I must admit I was glad I hadn't phoned Hubert, he would only have nagged.

  Neil made tea while I sat at the kitchen table and told him I'd gone to see Geoffrey Martin because I felt sorry for him.

  ‘Do you think he killed his wife?’ asked Neil.

  ‘I didn't but I'm not sure now. Although I do think he would have killed the car driver who mowed down his son if he'd found her—’ I broke off as Neil looked at me sharply. He shrugged. ‘Strange about my mother, isn't it? Some people suspect she left suddenly because she'd run down Simon Martin, others believe my father killed her four years ago. What do you believe?’

  ‘I'm not sure. Is your mother alive? Have you really had letters from her? Has anyone seen them?’

  Neil laughed. ‘Come on, Kate, I told you my mother wrote to me. I certainly wasn't going to let anyone else read those letters – even my father. They were totally personal. My mother's alive and happy, she didn't drink and drive and if she'd had a car accident she would have stopped.’

  ‘Unless she panicked?’

  Neil smiled good-naturedly. ‘She wasn't the panicking type. My mother is the cool, collected sort.’

  She would be on a full tank of vodka, I thought. Most people can stay pretty laid back, if well anaesthetized with alcohol.

  Neil stayed for dinner, which he insisted on cooking, and afterwards he looked round the house and offered to do lots of odd jobs that needed doing. ‘Only if you agree to go out with me again though,’ he said laughing.

  I didn't need my arm twisting and we arranged to meet on Tuesday evening. Just before leaving Neil said, ‘Please be careful of Alan. I know he likes you but not only is he a womanizer he also likes killing animals – did you know one of his hobbies was hunting?’

  I shook my head. When Neil eventually left, I thought getting beaten up was almost worth it.

  Late on Sunday morning I called in at Humberstones'. I'd made a few notes on the case and I wanted to see if there was anything I'd missed. I had of course lost yet another client but I'd come this far and I wasn't going to give up on the case now.

  My notes were scrappy but everyone I'd talked to was there. One name and one fact stood out as the most important; Bill Stone's final and I hoped truthful statement that he'd seen two cars after midnight on that night.

  Nick however had said that the Golf was the only car there. And on that point he had no reason to lie. Therefore Jenny's car didn't leave that car park until Nick stole it. Why? Why leave one car behind earlier? Who did Jenny phone that night? Who was the most obvious person – her husband! Or maybe Charles Amroth? Teresa had to come by car because she lived in Longborough but Jenny could easily have gone on foot, the college being only about ten minutes' walk from where she lived. The only reason she would have taken the car was because she wanted to go somewhere after the evening class. Was the plan to return to Dunsmore and then for Teresa to drop Jenny back at the college? And then Teresa would either go home or … or go to see her lover? What was Charles Amroth's alibi for that night? And why didn't I know?

  I sat and mulled through my so-called evidence, not getting very far, when I heard Hubert coming up the stairs. He looked as glum as a pigeon fancier whose prize pigeon has failed to return.

  I'd forgotten for a moment about my bruised face and his glum expression quickly turned to a surprised one. ‘What happened, Kate? Who did it? Come on, tell me – I'll sort him out.’

  ‘Calm down, Hubert, it was an accident. Really. Too much cheap sherry, I walked into the side of a door.’

  ‘You're lying,’ said Hubert, ‘I know you well enough now, you're lying.’

  I denied it of course. He continued to look at me suspiciously and walked round me in a circle, trying, I suppose, to see my face from all angles, or merely unnerve me.

  ‘Do sit down, Hubert.’ He sat opposite me and lifted my chin so that he could assess the damage. ‘Don't fuss, please, Hubert – it's nothing.’

  He continued to look at me thoughtfully and then said slowly, ‘Didn't you say Jenny had bruises occasionally and when you found the man who gave her those bruises you'd have the murderer?’

  ‘Hubert, you know I talk rubbish at times.’

  ‘It's not what you say, Kate, that worries me, it's what you do and who you meet. When did it happen?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Why didn't you ring me?’

  ‘Because I walked into a door?’

  ‘I tried to phone you,’ said Hubert. ‘You were out.’

  ‘That's enough, Hubert. Let's drop it, shall we? I need help on this case, a bit of common sense and intelligence.’

  He managed a gratified smile at that and I went over the hitand- run scenario and said a little bit about Jenny's wish for revenge and suspicion of Helena Amroth.

  ‘What about her husband: is he bitter and twisted?’

  ‘He is now.’

  ‘Where is this Helena Amroth?’

  ‘That's just it, Hubert, I don't know.’

  ‘She's the answer to everything, isn't she – if she's alive.’

  ‘DCI Hook is convinced she's dead.’

  Hubert shook his head. ‘That's a bad trait in a detective. An open mind, that's what's needed. Maybe he's too sure Charles Amroth is a killer and that's blinded him to the more obvious suspects.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The husband.’

  ‘I don't think he did it, Hubert. I do think he, Jenny and Teresa were intent on finding Helena …’

  ‘Maybe they did find her.’

  ‘Oh God, Hubert. I've just realized that if they had found her and Geoff knows where she is … what has he got to lose by killing her?’

  ‘Someone must know where she is. Her son.’

  ‘He might, but he says he doesn't. And why should she be living near here?’

  ‘Why not?’

  I stared at him in surprise. ‘Hubert, you're brilliant,’ I said excitedly. ‘I could kiss you.’

  ‘What did I say?’ he asked with a quick grin.

  ‘It's crystal-clear now,’ I said. ‘Well, almost. Helena Amroth is alive and well and living somewhere locally. Jenny and Teresa found that out, Geoff too, and they were planning to kill her. All that stuff I heard about Jenny saying she was “living dangerously” makes sense now. What could be more dangerous than planning to kill someone?’

  ‘How, though?’

  I shook my head. ‘I suppose they wanted to plan a murder they could get away with, a perfect murder. A reciprocal murder … they were planning to mow her down.’

  I got so excited at this point I jumped up from my chair, gave Hubert a hug and jigged up and down.

  ‘Hang on, Kate, don't get too excited. If three people planned to kill Mrs Amroth – how come two of them are dead?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  On Monday morning I carefully applied make-up over my bruise before setting off for Riverview. I needn't have worried, no one
noticed anyway.

  Dr Amroth was back at work and seemed relatively cheerful. David Thruxton was in a foul mood. Two patients had left in tears, a receptionist had threatened to leave and Ian Holland had been heard muttering to himself and seemed quite seriously depressed.

  The morning passed quickly and just after twelve Charles Amroth went off to do home visits leaving Ian Holland in his consulting room. Of the four doctors Ian, although the youngest and outwardly the most relaxed looking, didn't seem a very happy man. On a few occasions I'd noticed his breath smelt strongly of peppermints. Maybe I was wrong about the Morris dancing.

  In the few weeks I'd been at Riverview the only time Ian Holland had spoken to me was to refer patients. Today I decided I'd try to rectify our non-communication by taking him a cup of coffee and staying until he was forced to talk to me.

  I made two cups of strong coffee, knocked loudly on his door and walked in. He was at his desk signing prescriptions. He looked up and a vague look of puzzlement crossed his face as if wondering who exactly I was.

  ‘Coffee?’

  He nodded and I placed the coffee in front of him.

  ‘Do you mind if I have my coffee in here, Ian?’

  It wasn't a question because I'd already sat down. Today he wore a green-and-white-flecked hand-knitted sweater that was already wearing at the elbows. He ignored both me and my coffee, and for a while I began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Then telling myself that private investigators and practice nurses should have the constitution of an ox and a hide to match, I said, ‘This coffee needs a lift – you haven't got anything to go in it, have you?’

  ‘Whisky,’ he said quickly, opening the top drawer next to him, taking out a gold-capped flask and placing it in front of me. I smiled and poured us both a generous measure. It certainly improved the coffee but still he studiously avoided looking at me.

  Although I knew he was popular with patients I sometimes wondered why. He always seemed rather shy, especially of me, and he tried to avoid eye contact whenever possible. He was conscientious and I knew he was kind and tried to explain patients' conditions whenever possible. His real talent, though, lay with children. He wasn't shy with them and he always treated the mothers with respect; and he spoke to them in language they understood.

  He suddenly put down his pen, uncapped the flask and drank steadily.

  ‘I hate this place,’ he said, staring into his coffee cup. ‘I don't like being a GP much either. Would you go into nursing if you had your time again?’

  I smiled. ‘No, but tell me what's wrong with being a GP.’

  ‘It would take too long. Increased bureaucracy, the gradual breaking down of the NHS, a work-load that would kill a donkey … a depressing amount of suffering and a number of patients who would try the patience of Job himself.’

  ‘They should suffer in silence, shouldn't they, and be grateful,’ I said in jest. Ian managed a half-hearted smile.

  ‘Perhaps it's this place,’ he muttered. ‘Murder, disappearances, affairs, interviews with the police. I find it … enervating.’

  ‘It interests me,’ I said, which sounded better than just being nosy. ‘Have the police given you a hard time?’

  ‘I wouldn't say that exactly. The first few days were the worst – non-stop questions then. Finally they seemed to think the alibis were if not cast-iron at least stainless steel, and then they left us alone.’

  He swigged again desperately on the whisky and I avoided looking at him.

  ‘I can go days without a drink so don't get the wrong impression. I'm not an alcoholic … yet. I'm working on it. It's so common among doctors now I think it should be classed as an occupational disease.’

  ‘You mentioned “affairs” – I'm intrigued.’

  He seemed relieved I'd changed the subject but stayed silent for a while.

  ‘Did you mean the affair Jenny was having with Charles Amroth?’ I prompted.

  He laughed. ‘Jenny may have been keen, but can you imagine Amroth working up much steam? No, I meant … another affair.’

  I waited for him to explain but he didn't. ‘You can't just feed me a titbit like that, Ian, and then leave me in the lurch.’

  ‘More whisky?’ he asked.

  I nodded. The coffee had been drunk by now but to keep him company and to keep him talking I would at least appear to drink it.

  Then, abruptly standing up, he turned and walked the few paces to the window to stare out at the neat soulless flower beds, stroking his beard in the way people stroke a cat, for comfort. ‘I didn't tell the police. I don't know why,’ he murmured as if forgetting I was in the room.

  ‘What didn't you tell them?’

  He said quietly, ‘I was in London the day Jenny died, I told them that of course. I went for an interview for a job in Papua New Guinea – I thought it might be more civilized there. My wife met me at the station about nine—’ He broke off, still staring at the garden.

  ‘What exactly did you omit to tell the police?’ I asked.

  He turned then to glance at me as if trying to diagnose how trustworthy I looked. I obviously passed this test.

  ‘This is confidential,’ he said as he resumed staring out at the garden. ‘Although I do have to tell the police now, I should have told them in the first place but I thought it might make them even more convinced that the answer lay in this practice. I assumed that soon they would leave us all alone and look elsewhere for suspects. But they keep on harassing Charles and I'd rather they heard it from me, before Charles hears about it, second or even third hand.’

  ‘Charles?’

  ‘Yes. I saw them outside the National Gallery. David Thruxton and Helena Amroth.’

  ‘You're sure it was her?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘I didn't think you knew her.’

  ‘I've seen photographs. She's altered but it was definitely her – she's a very striking woman. I've been wondering what to do ever since. I mean, this really could break up the practice. Poor old Charles under a cloud for so long and his partner busy screwing his very much alive wife.’

  ‘And Ros's best friend,’ I muttered.

  ‘I have to tell them, don't I, Kate?’ he said flatly.

  ‘Who knows about this – your wife, presumably?’

  ‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘She doesn't know and I don't want her to know. She's beginning to think the practice is jinxed anyway.’

  ‘I can understand that. When do you plan to tell the police?’

  ‘Today. The strange thing is I think I saw them getting on the train that evening. It may have been imagination, though – I only saw their back views and I didn't see them get off.’

  He turned slowly, sat down at his desk and resumed signing prescriptions. I picked up the coffee cups and saucers and murmured, ‘Good luck,’ but he didn't look up as I left.

  Back in the treatment room I checked my diary for the next afternoon then, flicking through the pages absent-mindedly, I noticed Jenny had made two entries about a dripping tap. Two, I thought, two! It made sense; Jenny's diary, the one I saw at her home, wasn't her only diary. All that weather trivia was in an open diary, she had another diary, one that was far more personal, more revealing. Or at least she had had one, once.

  I drove back to Longborough just in time to see Hubert and Desperate Dan walking towards the Swan. I felt a surge of irritation and mild jealousy. It wasn't so long ago that the only person Hubert took to the Swan was me. I felt as discarded as a fag end and I sat in my office watching from the window to see if they came back together. They did. I then waited for Hubert to come up my staircase. He would have seen my car in the car park but I waited and waited and still he didn't appear.

  Just after three I rang Geoff Martin. He sounded both surprised and sober.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ he said, ‘it was completely out of character. Drinking is a new pastime and I know it brings out the worst in me. I've been feeling very ashamed—’

  I cut his apology short, now was the time to get tough with him. ‘Jenny
's diary – I want it. I'm at my office.’

  ‘You've seen her diary.’

  ‘Come off it, Geoff, I know she had another one.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do. I'll be expecting you in about half an hour.’

  ‘What if I don't come?’

  ‘I report you for common assault.’

  ‘I don't have much choice, do I?’

  ‘None at all, Geoff. I think you've hindered this investigation for long enough.’

  A few minutes later Hubert came up. He looked like the man who'd just won the only prize in the national lottery. I smiled coolly.

  ‘Danielle understands me, Kate, she really does …’ He paused as he saw my expression.

  ‘I've got Jenny Martin's husband coming to see me, Hubert. I'd like you to sit in on the interview.’

  ‘Why? You scared of him? Was he the one who—’

  ‘No, he wasn't,’ I interrupted, ‘but I may need a witness.’

  Hubert looked pleased at that. ‘When's he due?’

  ‘Any minute, and I'd like you to make him wait downstairs in the hall for a few minutes when he does arrive.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ said Hubert giving me a salute and mumbling about the Caine Mutiny and the disappearing strawberries which I took to mean he thought I'd gone power crazy.

  I kept Geoff waiting for ten minutes on the ghastly armchair at the bottom of my stairwell and by the time I came to collect him he looked paler than usual.

  ‘You must be a hard woman,’ he said, ‘to work here.’

  ‘As the proverbial nails, Geoff.’

  Hubert stood in the corner of my office facing my desk and Geoff got a shock as he walked in. I must admit in his funereal black and with a weird forced smile on his face Hubert did look like an understudy for the Prince of Darkness.

  ‘What's he doing here?’ Geoff asked. ‘I didn't expect a third party.’