Deliver Them From Evil

by Andrew Puckett

  Deliver Them From Evil

  Andrew Puckett

  Copyright © Andrew Puckett 2000.

  The right of Andrew Puckett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by his in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the UK by Severn House Publishers Ltd 2000 as The Gift.

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Extract from Death Before Time by Andrew Puckett

  1

  If anyone had told me I’d ever agree to work with Tom Jones again, I’d have laughed at them. If they’d told me how it would end, I’d have wept. Correction—I’d have been at Birmingham International, queuing for the first plane out.

  It was exactly five minutes to twelve when the phone in my office rang; I know that because I was staring at the clock at the time, willing it to reach midday.

  ‘Can I speak to Sister Farewell, please?’ said a rounded, educated voice.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s Marcus Evans here, Miss Farewell. I don’t know whether you remember me?’

  The name took about half a second to register, then I laughed. ‘How could I forget? How are you, Mr Evans?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you. And you?’

  ‘Oh, fine, thanks.’ It’s what people expect you to say, so I said it.

  ‘Good. I was wondering whether we could meet for lunch. On me, of course.’

  ‘Are you here? In Latchvale?’

  ‘Yes, I should have mentioned it earlier. Sorry.’ Ever the gentleman.

  ‘No, don’t worry about it, I’d love to. When and where?’

  ‘When and wherever you like. I’m at the main entrance of the hospital at the moment.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in a few minutes,’ I said, and put the phone down.

  Mary, my deputy, was at the desk in the Duty Room.

  ‘I have to go out for a while,’ I told her. ‘There aren’t any problems are there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Inexcusable, but I was feeling very fed up at the time. I quickly changed out of my uniform into the dress I keep in my locker and hurried away.

  Marcus Evans—Tom’s boss. I hadn’t had any contact with Tom for months—he’d be a father by now, I remembered a trifle sourly. It wasn’t until I’d nearly reached the main entrance that I wondered what could have brought Marcus up from London. Not me, surely. Something in Birmingham perhaps, although whatever it was must have been rather early in the day, or late, for him to be available for lunch now.

  And there he was, his bald dome of a head and black walrus moustache marking him out immediately from the rest of the crowd.

  ‘Hello, Miss Farewell, it’s good to see you again.’ He shook my hand formally. ‘Good of you to spare me the time at such short notice.’ He was wearing a dark suit, as he nearly always did.

  ‘Rubbish, I was glad of the excuse to get away.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Boring day.’

  ‘I find that rather hard to believe in an Intensive Care Unit.’

  ‘Oh, I’m just feeling rather jaded at the moment.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Something in the watchfulness of his dark-brown eyes told me he wasn’t all that sorry, which should have warned me. ‘Still, where would you suggest we go for lunch?’

  ‘D’you have a car?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I came by train.’

  ‘And mine’s at home. Never mind, we’ll go across the park to the Hind’s Head, it’s only about five minutes.’

  It was early April and the park was at its best: the daffodils were out; leaves were emerging from buds on the trees; and birds were singing in a warm blue sky. We exchanged pleasantries about the season until we were nearly halfway across, then I said abruptly. ‘How is Tom?’

  ‘He’s very well. He’s a father now, you know. A boy, they’ve called him Harry.’

  ‘I somehow couldn’t imagine Tom with a daughter,’ I observed drily.

  Marcus laughed. ‘No. He wanted a son, and he got one. Funny how things like that seem to go his way.’ He paused. ‘You said just now you were jaded. Work?’

  ‘Among other things. The hospital’s recently become an NHS Trust, and because of that, I’ve got a new boss, who’s insisted I re-write all our standard operating procedures, not to mention safety precautions.’

  ‘Ah.’ He managed to put a world of understanding into the syllable. ‘How far are you with it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just about finished now, but it’s been an absolute pain. I’ve become a glorified administrator, which isn’t why I took up nursing. No offence intended.’ I added quickly. Marcus is an administrator, albeit one with a difference.

  He smiled. ‘None taken.’

  By now, we’d emerged from the other end of the park into the street.

  ‘That, I imagine, is the Hind’s Head.’ He nodded towards the sign.

  ‘Yes.’ As we started towards it, I said, ‘Mr Evans, you haven’t told me yet what’s brought you here.’

  ‘I think we know each other well enough for Marcus and Jo now,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’

  I smiled at him. ‘Yes. But you still haven’t told me…’

  ‘Let’s wait until we’re inside, shall we?’

  He bought some drinks and asked what I recommended to eat, and I said cottage pie. Sounds pretty ordinary, I know, but the Hind’s home-made version is a million miles from the swamp and sawdust they serve up at the canteen.

  We found a table and sat down. I took a mouthful of shandy and lit a cigarette.

  ‘What is it, Marcus? I’m not waiting until we’ve finished eating.’

  ‘We need your help, Jo,’ he said simply.

  ‘In what way?’ I didn’t have to ask who we meant.

  He took a breath and steepled his fingers. ‘As you know, part of my job is to screen allegations of crime, serious crime, that concern the Department of Health, and decide which ones bear investigating.’

  ‘I do know that,’ I said gently. ‘You’re procrastinating.’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I? The point is that ReMLA, the Reproductive Medicine Licensing Authority—that’s the body that inspects and licences fertility clinics—has come to me with a rather disturbing story.’

  ‘About a fertility clinic?’

  ‘Yes. As you know, assisted fertility methods have been in the news a lot lately: there was the woman of fifty-nine who had twins; the black woman who insisted she wanted a white baby because she thought it would have a better chance in life.’ He sighed. He was still procrastinating.

  ‘So what was the disturbing story?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t go into the details now,’ he said deliberately, ‘not unless you agree to help us, but a woman who was undergoing fertility treatment apparently overheard the staff saying that the embryos they were implanting in her had not been fertilised by her husband.’

  ‘Sperm donation, you mean, that’s not so unusual these days.’

  ‘Not in this case, no. The clinic had specifically stated that the baby would be her husband’s.�
�

  ‘Unethical, no doubt, but does that really count as a serious crime? Besides, DNA testing after the birth would soon prove it one way or the other, and they could sue.’

  ‘There won’t be a birth in this case. The woman died, apparently from an infection, shortly after she’d told her husband what she’d overheard.’

  ‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘And you suspect the clinic might have…?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘ReMLA held an enquiry at the time and found it to be a bona fide accident, but that was before the husband came to them with his story.’

  ‘Have you met him? The husband.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘So what do you think this clinic is up to?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s why I want them investigated.’

  ‘So how do I come into it?’ I asked. ‘Fertility’s not really my area. Can’t you send in Tom as an inspector or something?’

  ‘They’ve just had one inspection,’ he replied. ‘Besides, for this sort of investigation, you need the kind of cover that involves you staying overnight. We think a married couple with infertility problems would be the best bet.’ He hesitated. ‘We were hoping to persuade you to go with Tom as his wife.’

  It took a second for it to sink in. ‘Of all the bloody cheek—’ I began, but at that moment, the waitress arrived with the cottage pie.

  ‘This does look good,’ Marcus said fulsomely as she put it down in front of him.

  ‘Of all the blood—’ I began again as soon as she was gone.

  ‘Jo,’ he interrupted. ‘We can’t really eat this and talk meaningfully at the same time, can we?’

  It was all very well for him to switch off, not so easy for me. I picked up a fork, picking with it at the food, and reflected…

  I was pretty fed up. There had been problems in my life other than work, namely, the death of my father, and the break-up of my relationship with Colin Anslow.

  The truth was, I suppose, that I’d used Colin as a substitute for Tom, and yet I had become fond of him, grown accustomed to him as a rock to lean on.

  I don’t know what it was that attracted me to Tom, let’s face it, he’s nothing special. Somewhere in his thirties (late, probably), average height (a shade under, if anything), brown hair and eyes and a rather hard, ferrety face. Not as good-looking as Colin, and nothing like so considerate.

  And I’m not generally regarded as such a bad catch myself. I’m twenty-six, I have long chestnut hair, hazel eyes, small features (Colin said I had the face of a depraved elf), and not a bad figure.

  But I knew Tom would never leave his wife for me, especially not now that he had a son. And I’m not sure I’d have wanted that anyway.

  But to be asked to pose as his wife, his infertile wife at that—talk about pouring vitriol into a wound.

  I couldn’t eat any more so I pushed my plate away, lit another cigarette and to hell with bad manners; besides, Marcus’s little bombshell hadn’t been exactly tactful.

  ‘I take it you don’t want a pudding,’ he said with a faint smile after he’d finished.

  ‘No.’ I blew smoke. ‘You realise your proposition wasn’t only offensive, it was hurtful.’

  ‘Yes, I do realise that.’ He looked me in the eyes and I could see that he did. ‘But it’s important.’

  ‘Why me?’

  He leaned forward. ‘Because you’d be the best. Because you’ve worked with Tom before, worked well, whatever your relationship was.’

  ‘That was self-preservation.’

  ‘Even so…’

  ‘Even if I were willing. I’d never get the time off. We’re talking at least a month, aren’t we? Probably nearer two.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. It would be a sabbatical for as long as it took.’

  I believed him. I’d seen for myself that underneath the politeness and diffidence, he had real clout.

  Then, I had a revelation.

  ‘How much would I be paid, Marcus?’ I asked slowly. ‘On top of my normal salary.’

  ‘I thought around four or five thousand, double your normal salary, let’s say—’

  ‘I want at least ten thousand.’

  The cogs turned in his brain, then he said quietly, ‘I hadn’t envisaged that much. But I will look into it, see how much we can afford.’ He hadn’t expected nice little Nurse Farewell to be so mercenary.

  ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I’ll consider it.’ My heart beat faster as I said this; I think we both knew what consider meant.

  ‘Good,’ Marcus said softly. Then, ‘I think the next step is for you to come down to London so that we can discuss it in more detail.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today’s Friday. Could you come on Monday?’

  ‘Tuesday’s probably best for me.’

  ‘We’ll say Tuesday, then.’ He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Directions on how to find us, and a rail warrant.’

  ‘You were certainly sure of me.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘Just hopeful. Another drink?’

  ‘No thanks, I’d better be getting back.’ I wanted to go, wanted to think about it away from him.

  We didn’t say much as we walked back through the park, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable or unfriendly silence, just charged somehow. The blue of the sky was more electric, the daffodils more fulgent, the birdsong more vibrant. All in the mind, doubtless.

  We said goodbye at the main entrance and I walked away without looking back, allowing the implications of what I’d agreed to consider to float to the surface.

  My father had been a lovely man, a cabinet-maker, a true craftsman. And because he’d been so good at his craft, he’d been reasonably well paid, by his standards anyway. But both he and my mother had been children where money was concerned. After we’d buried him, my mother and I discovered that although he’d left her adequately provided for, there was still a mortgage outstanding on the house. There was an insurance policy and Dad had obviously assumed this would pay off the outstanding amount after his death, but the small print had dictated otherwise.

  Neither my mother nor I wanted us to live together—not because we didn’t have a good relationship, we did and we wanted to keep it that way. And not surprisingly, for the sake of continuity, she wanted to stay in her own house. I’d made arrangements for a bank loan to cover the mortgage, but the interest was going to take a large bite out of my already stretched salary. Strange how the low interest rates we’d heard so much about weren’t reflected in bank loans! And my Mini was beginning to make retirement noises. It had never really recovered from its violent embrace with Tom’s car. Rather like me and Tom, really…

  The amount owing on the house? You’ve guessed it—ten thousand pounds.

  2

  There’s always something exciting about arriving in a big city, especially by train, and especially when it’s London. Perhaps it’s the way the buildings become larger, more concentrated, more dominating, until you feel as though the train is burrowing through them, then the final plunge into darkness before arrival at the terminus, with its echoing whistles and taxi horns—so much more civilised than an airport.

  Following Marcus’s directions, I took the tube to Westminster, then walked along Whitehall until I found the right building, where I was shown up to his office.

  Marcus and the two others with him stood up as I came in.

  One was Tom, the other, a tall, spare man in a grey suit. ‘Good morning, Jo.’ Marcus greeted me. ‘Good journey?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘Jo, may I introduce Professor Fulbourn, who’s head of the Department of Reproductive Medicine at St Michael’s, and also the national collator of statistics concerning fertility clinics. Professor, this is Sister Jo Farewell of St Chad’s in Latchvale.’

  ‘How d’you do, Sister?’ he said as he stepped forward to take my hand. His deep, incisive vo
ice had a touch of the north about it and he had a long, lined face and aquiline nose with a somehow military moustache beneath it. He looked to be in his sixties.

  Marcus said, ‘Tom, you already know, of course.’

  ‘Hello, Jo,’ Tom said softly.

  ‘‘Lo, Tom.’

  ‘Have a seat, Jo,’ Marcus said, indicating one, and we all sat. ‘We’re waiting for Dr Ashby, the microbiologist attached to ReMLA. We’ll have some coffee when he arrives, unless you particularly want one now, of course?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said, although I could have done with one.

  ‘You had no difficulty in finding us, then?’

  ‘None. Your directions were very clear.’

  There was a short silence. To break it. I said, ‘I understand you’re to be congratulated, Tom.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How are you finding parenthood?’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Is your wife well?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  I don’t know how long I’d have kept this up if there hadn’t been a knock on the door. Marcus’s secretary put her head round it.

  ‘It’s Dr Ashby, Mr Evans.’

  ‘Good. Come in, Miles.’

  ‘Shall I bring the coffee now, Mr Evans?’

  ‘Please.’

  As soon as she’d gone, Marcus introduced us to Ashby, a plumpish man of medium height, with thinning, sandy hair, gold-rimmed glasses and an engaging smile. The coffee arrived. Marcus asked Tom to be mother (Tom’s lip curled as he caught me repressing a smile), then opened the proceedings.

  ‘I’ve called this meeting so that we can pool our knowledge concerning the death of Mrs Tracy Murrell at Catcott Manor Fertility Clinic, and then decide on what action, if any, should be taken. Miles, since you conducted the enquiry, perhaps you’d like to start by outlining for us the facts of the Murrell case?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Ashby took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, cleared his throat and began speaking in his pleasant, light voice.

  ‘Catcott Manor is a small, private fertility clinic on the edge of Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire. It’s been open for about five years and is owned by a company called Fertility Enterprises, which, so far as I can ascertain, doesn’t own any other clinics. The Medical Director is Dr Davina Kent, there are also a Scientific Director, three qualified nurses and a lab worker. They used to do mainly conventional IVF work, but they’ve always been interested in male infertility, and since acquiring microinjection equipment two years ago have tended to specialise in male fertility problems. The building is leased from National Heritage and the lease has only another six months to run. I understand National Heritage doesn’t intend renewing it.’ He paused and looked round briefly before continuing.