by Liz Lawler
She was shocked that he could so easily recognise her careful cover-up. She was still only taking diazepam, but had increased the strength to 5mg. Still not enough to space her out, but it just took the edge off the panic. She was nervous about her visit to the psychoanalyst tomorrow, and was more than half afraid that he would tell her it was all in her mind.
‘Relax, no one else has noticed. It’s only because I’m working with you that I can tell. Caroline hasn’t noticed because she’s too busy trying to smell your breath. But Alex, you need to stop. It will affect how you work, and I would hate to see you make a mistake.’ He turned back to his notes. ‘Maybe yoga or something like that isn’t such a bad idea.’
Hiding her burning face, she pretended she was OK with what he said. But of course she wasn’t. Nathan was becoming a good friend. He was kind and undemanding, and she valued his confident and capable mind. He never let on that he minded chaperoning her, never let on to the patient that this wasn’t completely normal.
She trusted him. She had also realised, since the night of the doctors’ party, that she liked him. She no longer averted her gaze from his face when he was looking at her full on. The birthmark was becoming less noticeable as she saw the man beneath the blemished skin.
Blushing now for a different reason, she wondered what on earth was the matter with her. Nathan Bell was a colleague, for goodness’ sake. Just because she recognised he was attractive didn’t mean to say she had to get all hot and bothered.
She jumped when his hand touched her.
‘You want the last piece?’ he asked, holding up a square of chocolate. Still feeling the heat in her skin, she took the chocolate and ate it.
A short while later, after cooling her flushed face with cold water, she stared in the mirror and groaned. Her hair needed cutting, her eyebrows plucking and her skin was pale and washed out.
She wondered what Nathan thought of her. What he’d say if she asked him out for a drink? No, scratch that. Definitely a bad idea. A walk in the park, maybe, or they could go to see a show or an exhibition. That was a better idea. She could have a spare ticket because a friend had let her down.
Feeling like a silly teenager, she stared at her reflection again. There was no harm in wanting to look attractive again. Her shoulders were straighter and her head held higher as she walked back to the department, and on her lips there was a hint of gloss.
Chapter twenty-two
It had been a good night so far and the hurt she felt had melted away. Fiona had hugged her as if her life depended on it and repeatedly said sorry for being stupid and callous, just to get attention. She had never meant to mimic those actual words, but they were fresh in her mind and just fell out of her mouth. ‘I’m a jealous cow, sometimes,’ she said. They met up at nine and had several cocktails before making their way to the city centre. They were now in a nightclub with a load of wasted people.
A tall young man with his upper body and face painted a Braveheart blue was jumping up and down on the spot as high as he could. He looked like he was off his head. Beside him, his partner was dressed in a red tutu, a red top with black spots, and had black mesh wings attached to her back. On her head she wore black wired fluffy antennae and on her feet a pair of white trainers.
The ladybird and the warrior were not the only ones to stand out. The place was crammed with them. Everywhere Alex looked she saw strange clothing and wondered if it was a fancy dress night. She felt old.
‘Nathan Bell!’ Fiona yelped in a strangled screech. She had a bottle of Peroni in one hand and a Nicorette inhaler in the other. Her brown frizzy hair had been straightened for the evening, narrowing her already thin face. ‘Nathan Bell? Are you kidding?’
‘Shush, will you? Don’t let the whole world know,’ Alex shouted back, equally loudly. It was impossible to talk quietly. The music, or rather the noise, was louder than a train passing through a small room, and in truth nobody, unless they had their ears against Fiona or Alex’s mouth, could hear their conversation.
‘I can’t believe you’re going to ask him out,’ Fiona yelled some more.
‘Oh shut up, will you? I wish I hadn’t said anything,’ Alex answered crossly.
‘It’s just he’s so . . .’
‘What!’ Alex challenged, feeling a sting of resentment for what she felt was coming. ‘Ugly? Unattractive? Embarrassing to be seen with?’
‘Boring! I don’t give a flying fuck what he looks like. You’ve seen my exes. None of them were beauties. No, he’s fucking boring, that’s why I can’t believe you’re asking him out. Jesus! Think again before you get yourself into a situation. He’s gonna fancy the hell out of you and then you’re going to have to dump him.’
Alex really wished she hadn’t said anything, but this was the first time in ages they’d gone out. So tonight, after making up and catching up on normal work stuff and skirting around her recent experiences, they naturally chatted about men. Fiona had no current boyfriend, and now, neither did Alex. Only a potential one, and she had told Fiona about him.
Her expression must have shown how she was feeling, because Fiona lunged at her and Alex was suddenly buried against her breast. ‘Come here, you silly cow. You know I love you, babe, and I’m only concerned about you, but if you fancy him, go for it.’ She eased back, letting Alex breathe again. ‘At least he’s not a dickhead like Patrick.’
At the mention of Patrick, Alex felt a small knot of pain in her stomach. It was hard to believe it was over. Maybe it was too soon to be thinking about someone else.
‘You fancy him, go for it,’ Fiona hollered. ‘At least you can be sure he’ll fancy you back!’
Alex stared at her and then got as close as she could to avoid shouting. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Fiona waved the plastic cigarette casually. ‘Nothing.’
Alex knew she was lying. ‘Fiona, did you think what happened last year was my fault, that I asked for it?’
Fiona’s mouth dropped open, her eyes widened. ‘Babe, don’t be stupid. You weren’t to know that would happen, even if you did fancy him.’
Alex looked away. It was clear Fiona believed that some of it was her fault, implying that she was so besotted she had walked into the situation blindly.
‘And what about what’s happened to me recently? My car? And the night I was found in the car park? Do you think this is all in my head, Fiona?’
Fiona sighed. ‘Look, babe, a lot’s going on in your life at the moment. You know you’re a sensitive soul, don’t you? That brain of yours has a capacity to overthink things sometimes. None of us knows how we’ll react when we’re stressed.’
‘Like making a drug error?’
Fiona shook her head. ‘You said you didn’t do it. I believe you. And so did Dr bloody Fielding. Cheeky cow. Talk about doctors sticking together.’
‘They don’t,’ Alex protested. ‘I’m sorry she said that to you. She . . . she probably just knows I’ve been having a rough time.’
‘OK,’ Fiona conceded. ‘I believe you, and she’s right of course. Like I said, none of us knows how we’ll react in times of . . . and I don’t mean you caused that drug error.’
‘But perhaps I painted the car myself?’ Alex asked sharply.
Fiona shook her head. ‘Alex, there’s no way you could have done that. You were at a party, for God’s sake.’
Alex felt like crying. Why couldn’t Fiona have just said, what are the police doing about it? Or, we need to find out who did that? Or, you need to be careful because someone is stalking you, doesn’t like you, is trying to scare you. Instead she had given a lame reason to explain why Alex couldn’t have done the actual deed. Leaving gaps large enough for Alex to fall through.
‘Hey, Miss Moneypenny, you want me to whisk you away from all these bad men?’
Alex stared in amusement. Fiona really should have gone on the stage. She was a born entertainer.
‘You fancy a kebab?’ Fiona yelled in her own voice.
Alex didn’t, but she would agree to anything to get out of this place. She was rattled by what Fiona had said. Their friendship was important to her, but at this moment it felt a little false, and it left her with a bad taste in her mouth.
‘Why don’t we get a takeaway and go back to mine instead?’
Fiona grinned. ‘Now you’re talking. But on one condition . . . I get the bed.’
*
Alex yawned as she settled under her spare duvet on her couch. She was comforted by the thought of Fiona sleeping in the next room. The night had ended earlier than expected; it was only just gone one and she was pleased at the thought of not waking up tomorrow hung-over.
Conversations from the present and past played on her mind, and she squeezed her eyes shut to banish Fiona’s voice from her head. She loved Fiona and didn’t want these negative thoughts. Regrettably she had a good memory and she would always remember what Fiona said a year ago, Are you sure that it was as bad as you say it was, babe? Are sure you didn’t lead him on, give out the wrong signals?
Turning sharply onto her side she thumped her pillow, willing away these dark memories. She would not give into self-pity. Fiona had been brilliant to her after it happened, had insisted Alex stay at her place until she was mentally strong enough, had helped her find this apartment. Without Fiona she would not have coped. She focused her mind on pleasant thoughts, sunny days, beach scenes, blue skies, silky sand, Nathan’s eyes . . .
The shrill of the telephone jerked her wide awake.
Her mind grappled with several thoughts. What day was it? Was it the hospital, or Patrick, or her mother? She grabbed the receiver to shut off the noise and mumbled hello.
‘Soon . . .’ the voice said, and her breath caught in her throat. His one word seared her brain and took over her entire being.
She unclenched her jaw and stuttered her plea. ‘P-Please.’ His silence stretched, then he spoke again.
‘I’m coming back for you soon.’
Shaking uncontrollably, the receiver fell from her hand, and when Fiona touched her, she jerked as if electrocuted. ‘Christ, don’t tell me you’re on call again?’ she pleaded with Alex.
Alex couldn’t talk. Small whimpers struggled from her throat. She stood rooted with fear.
‘Christ alive . . . I’ll say it’s my fault. Or better still, I’ll say you’re ill. Let me—’
Her scream silenced Fiona. Then neat vodka, forced on her by Fiona, burned her throat before words formed and she told Fiona that he’d called.
‘I’m calling the police!’
Alex shook her head. ‘They won’t believe me.’
Her chin lifted determinedly ‘They’ll believe me! They’ll trace the call!’
Alex laughed, a hysterical sound. ‘They will never trace him! And what can you tell them? That you heard a phone ringing? That you found me shaking in my shoes? They won’t believe me, Fiona. They think this is in my head.’
Chapter twenty-three
Laura Best dug her elbow sharply into the ribs of the young man sleeping beside her. He called out resentfully and wriggled further away. Not giving up, she shook his shoulder hard and spoke loudly in his ear. ‘Oi, sleepy head. Time to go home.’
Bleary eyed, Dennis Morgan raised his head off the pillow. ‘I can’t drive. I’ve been drinking.’
‘Get a taxi, then,’ she said.
‘But my car?’
‘I’ll bring it to work in the morning.’
‘But then I’ll have to get a taxi to work as well.’
‘Not my fault, Dennis. You shouldn’t have assumed you could sleep over.’
‘Well you shouldn’t have opened the wine,’ he snapped, now wide awake and looking at her with disbelief. ‘Are you serious? You really want me to leave?’
With her head raised higher than his, because she was half propped up in bed, he saw her nod.
‘I don’t believe this!’ he said, sounding completely astounded. ‘What did I do?’
‘We finished, Dennis,’ she stated calmly.
He flushed, angrily. The meaning of her words doused any notion that she was only half serious. They’d had sex, and now she wanted him gone. Scrambling out of the bed, he scurried around looking for his clothes.
‘What’s your problem? I wasn’t going to walk out of here and let the neighbours see me. I would have been discreet!’
‘The neighbours don’t worry me, Dennis. Sharing my bed does.’
He stopped in the process of buckling his belt. ‘Thank you very fucking much. I thought making love usually led to sharing a bed.’
She gave an amused smile. ‘Don’t take it personally. It really isn’t.’
He was angrily throwing on his jacket now. ‘Sure. Nothing personal in sex, right? I’ll take my car tonight, thank you very much. Not sure I want you in it any more.’
She sighed theatrically, impervious to his distress. ‘Keep to the back lanes then, there’ll be less chance of you being seen.’
He had his back towards her and was walking out the bedroom door when she called sweetly, ‘Dennis, want to do it again sometime?’
‘No, I don’t,’ he shouted back. ‘You’re not that good, Laura.’
She laughed softly, but ceased as he shut the front door, triggering feelings of guilt and shame. She had done it again. Pushed someone close to her away. Punishing them for what she had experienced. Despite the degradation she had felt at the hands of Greg, she was willing to make someone else feel the same pain. Dennis was nice and he really liked her. But a bitterness had grown in her this last six months, a bitterness that had set a hardness around her heart, and she was not prepared to allow it to crack.
She had thought Greg liked her. What a foolish notion.
Her mobile pinged, and with resignation she reached for it, but the text wasn’t from Dennis, it was from her friend Mandy, a call handler. Dr Taylor had received a threatening phone call from her abductor. Laura smirked. Of course she had. It was only a matter of time. Sending back a text, she asked her friend to keep her informed.
With her mind now on her job, she got out of bed and went downstairs. In the kitchen she turned the lights on and closed the blinds properly. Her neighbour, Gus Bird, liked watching her when his wife wasn’t home.
She poured herself a glass of milk and then took the beige envelope out of her briefcase and sat at the kitchen table.
It had been easy to get hold of this information; she was the police after all, and it was only a photocopy she required. The fact that she knew the woman from personnel made it just that little bit easier. There was no need for a search warrant, or for anyone else to be involved. There was one proviso – that she shred the document afterwards and tell no one where she got her information.
Dr Alexandra Taylor’s professional résumé was now in her hands. She scanned the first couple of pages. Even without reading it in detail it was impressive, and Laura felt a livid jealousy. The doctor was only two years older than herself, twenty-nine next month, and there were far too many letters after her name: Cambridge University – MBChB. Intercalated BSc. FCEM (Fellow of the College of Emergency Medicine). ALS/ATLS Trainer (Adult Life Support/Adult Trauma Life Support).
Some of the places where she’d worked jumped off the page: the Royal London; St Bartholomew’s; St Mary’s; Paddington. The Royal Victoria, Belfast.
With a tight lump in her throat she turned several more pages and saw interests and hobbies. Running was listed first, climbing next. Wilderness medicine third, whatever that was. And then she read her special interest: ‘Helicopter flying (holds commercial helicopter licence). Spent six months with HEMS (Helicopter Emergency Medical Service).’
Laura’s jealousy ballooned. Alex Taylor was not only a highly qualified doctor, she could fly a fucking helicopter! She had taken a dislike to the woman within ten minutes of meeting her, and the dislike had grown every hour thereafter. The deferential and reverent way in which she was spoken about was evident as soon as Laura
walked into the hospital. There had been a hush as colleagues’ eyes followed her across the floor to the private exam room, a message in those eyes saying, ‘Look after her; she’s special.’ The immense respect Tom Collins had for the woman was obvious. The Kiwi forensic medical examiner could hardly find the time to say good morning to Laura when he was at the police station, yet he had sat outside the examination room for well over half an hour looking every bit as upset as any relative. And this was a man who never showed his feelings.
Dr Taylor certainly seemed to have it all – brains, career and respect – and she had worked in London, where Laura had wanted to work. She had applied to the Met, but had been flatly turned down. She had fared little better with the Thames Valley Police and the other constabularies where she applied. The rejection letters were all the same – sugar-coated and dangling the carrot that she might be considered if she reapplied when they were recruiting again.
She was finally accepted by Avon and Somerset Police and had worked in every provincial town in the area, where the possibility of getting involved in anything exciting was almost non-existent, before being given the ‘prize’ of Bath city.
Laura was stuck in a city where serious crime rarely happened, and when it did, especially a murder, it stayed in the public’s minds for years to come. It was famous for its architecture, its Georgian buildings, Jane Austen and the fucking Romans. She now wanted it to be famous for the next big serial killer – another Dr Harold Shipman would do – so that she at last could have a bite of the cherry and make her name by catching him . . . or her. Not a thought she would share with anyone, of course. She wasn’t that stupid. She didn’t want to be labelled, like the good Dr Taylor.
She could spend the next five years stuck here and still end up without a promotion – unless she got her teeth into something big. And Dr Alex Taylor could well be it. Mulling over the last few weeks, there was certainly some interesting stuff mounting up: her supposed abduction; the death of Amy Abbott, which Taylor declared a murder; the death of Lillian Armstrong, who Taylor just happened to find; and the talk of that near-fatal drug error, which again Taylor was involved in. Maybe it was only by chance that she never had the opportunity to make her patient sicker before she saved him. Did she, in fact, intend to just kill him? Laura was aware this contradicted her theory about Munchausen’s by proxy.
