Know Me Now

by CJ Carver

  He’d come home early evening and to her dismay he was still cool. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded.

  She wanted to ask him where he’d been but didn’t dare. She wrung her hands together. Inside, she was trembling.

  ‘How long have you been so unhappy?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not—’

  ‘Grace, please don’t bullshit me.’

  ‘But I feel so pathetic.’ She spread her hands. ‘People up here are so tough. They never complain. I feel such an outsider . . . I can’t plaster a wall or fly fish, let alone chop wood or make a clootie dumpling.’

  A whisper of what might have been a smile made her spirits lift.

  ‘Nor can a lot of people up here.’

  A pane of glass rattled in the wind. Neither of them gave it any heed.

  ‘Would you like to return to England?’

  She hadn’t expected him to be so blunt.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re here.’

  ‘But if I’m making you unhappy—’

  ‘It’s not you!’ she cried. ‘It’s the mess! I just want to walk through the rooms of our house without collecting an inch of dust! I want a hot bath without having to bang the bloody boiler first! I want the central heating to work . . . Carpets would be nice too, and I know they’re coming and that I’m being horrible and demanding but it’s just taking so long . . .’ She drew a breath and at the same time a gust of wind threw what sounded like a bucket of water against the windows. She looked around to see water dribbling through a crack in one of the panes and puddling on the windowsill.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the weather.’ His voice was dry as he unfolded his arms and stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘I know.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I sound like such a selfish, self-centred bitch.’

  ‘Hey.’

  Grace felt the warmth of his hands on hers as he pulled them gently down. He looked at her. ‘What else?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If we’re airing things, then we have to be totally honest here, OK?’

  She nodded, anxiety rising as she wondered where this was leading.

  ‘Personally,’ he told her, ‘I’ve been missing home-cooked meals in the evenings—’

  ‘Oh, God, Ross—’

  ‘Which is why I’m doing a cookery course.’ He held her eyes. ‘Your turn.’

  She squirmed.

  ‘Come on, Gracie . . .’

  It was the fact he’d used his nickname for her that gave her the strength to continue.

  ‘Well, um . . . I’m not sure if I’m . . . well, very keen on doing DIY.’

  She could see the surprise in his eyes.

  ‘I thought you were OK with it.’

  ‘I thought I was too. But it’s kind of . . . getting me down a bit.’

  ‘OK, so we’ll find someone else to do it.’

  ‘Really?’ Her eyes widened.

  He dropped his hands from hers. ‘Jesus, Grace. Don’t you get it? I’ll do anything to make you happy! I’d do all the DIY myself but if you want the house perfect by the end of next week, it’s not going to happen!’

  Silence.

  ‘Can we afford it?’ Her voice was small.

  ‘Yes, we can afford it.’

  He put his arm out and she stepped into his embrace.

  ‘I’ll do anything for you Grace Reavey. Don’t you know that by now?’

  She raised her face and kissed him. Relief flooded every cell, every vein. She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I don’t deserve you.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ he said, but he smiled. ‘What about this job? Do you really want to take it?’

  She studied his face, the slightly crooked nose, the laughter lines around his eyes.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Perhaps you just need a holiday. With knee-deep carpets and a boiler that works . . .’

  ‘And no damp in the bedroom.’

  ‘And a three course—’

  ‘Home cooked meal—’

  ‘With spotted dick for pudding . . .’

  A wicked gleam came into his eye. ‘I seem to recall I had something else in mind when that particular pudding was mentioned earlier but we were rudely interrupted—’

  ‘By the damp-proof guy,’ Grace finished just as his mouth swooped on hers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  On the street Dan dialled Sophie’s number. When she answered, he said, ‘Gustav? Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Her voice was brusque.

  ‘The Hotel Isterberg.’

  ‘Give me thirty minutes, OK?’ she said. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  Killing time, Dan began tracking down shops that sold children’s clothes, asking the assistants if they’d heard of Alice Lange or George Müller. Lots of shaking heads. Everyone knew of the school, though, the Grundschule Isterberg.

  He returned to his hotel to find Sophie at the bar with a large glass of something rust-coloured poured over ice.

  ‘Punt e Mes,’ she told him. ‘Italian vermouth.’ She pushed the glass over. ‘Try some.’

  He took a sip. Bittersweet, it had a syrupy edge overlaid with astringent herbs. Sweet and sour, he thought, not unlike Sophie.

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘What would you like?’ She gestured at the barman who was looking at him enquiringly.

  ‘Beer,’ he said to the barman. ‘Something local. Not too strong.’

  Sophie propped her foot on the bronze foot rail, sipping her drink while looking at him from beneath her eyelashes. ‘So, you caught us out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Sophie, it’s really none of my business.’

  She grinned. ‘I hoped you’d say that.’

  ‘I thought you were happy with Nick.’

  ‘I am!’ she protested. ‘I love him to bits, you know that! And I have no intention of leaving him or anything. He’s a great guy. It’s just that . . . well, being married can get a bit dull.’

  ‘You’re having an affair with Gustav because you’re bored?’ He couldn’t help the incredulity in his tone.

  ‘Don’t get all prissy on me, Dan. You weren’t exactly snow white, remember?’

  It was like a punch to his midriff. Nobody outside the firm knew about his affair. Nobody.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he said. His voice was perfectly puzzled but inside his nerves were fizzing.

  ‘Oh, shit.’ She put a hand over her eyes. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t believe I said that . . . Shit, Dan. I’m sorry.’ She lowered her hand. Her mouth was twisted. ‘You don’t remember, do you? It was before Luke died. You came to me for advice. It was tearing you up.’

  ‘I don’t remember having an affair,’ he agreed. But he knew he’d had one because of the evidence presented to him last year. He thought back to when he and Jenny had visited their son Luke’s grave on his birthday, the second of December. Jenny had thought Dan was in love with one of his colleague’s wives, which was why she’d lied to him about his past. She hadn’t wanted him remembering his old lover. She’d done just about everything to stop him uncovering the truth and her lies had nearly broken them apart. It was only when he discovered that he’d engineered the affair in order to uncover a mole in MI5 that they’d managed to save their marriage.

  ‘Fuck it,’ she said. ‘I’m really, really sorry, OK?’ She looked mortified.

  ‘What was her name, do you know?’

  ‘How do you know it was a woman?’ Her gaze turned sly.

  ‘For God’s sakes—’

  ‘Sorry, sorry!’ She held up her hands. ‘I couldn’t resist it, sorry! You’re right, it was a woman, but you never mentioned her name.’

  At that his nerves untangled their tension and his shoulders loosened. ‘OK,’ he breathed ou
t.

  ‘OK,’ she echoed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  He took a long pull of his beer. She drained her Punt e Mes and ordered another. They sat in silence for a while.

  Dan couldn’t help it. He arranged his expression into one of total disbelief and as he looked her in the eye he said again, ‘Gustav?’

  Her eyes creased at the corners and he felt a bubble of humour rising. Suddenly, they both burst out laughing. They laughed so hard tears came to their eyes, Sophie clutching his arm as she creased up. Dan couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed so much, and when they finally stopped, wiping their eyes, the scar across his stomach was aching. It felt good to laugh, especially with an old friend.

  ‘You used to look at him with such contempt,’ Dan told her.

  ‘That was years ago. We were just kids.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘He’s fun. He adores me. He buys me gifts.’ She turned her wrist to show him her watch.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Are those diamonds?’

  She pulled back her hair to expose a pair of elegant long-drop earrings that dazzled and glittered when she moved her head.

  ‘They’re a girl’s best friend,’ she purred. ‘I love being spoilt.’

  ‘Doesn’t Nick do that?’

  ‘Well, yes . . .’ For the first time, she looked uncomfortable. ‘But graphic designers don’t earn much. I love Nick, but I want so much more.’ Her expression suddenly turned impassioned. ‘I want to sail around the world. I want to moor my yacht in the Caribbean and drink cocktails as the sun goes down.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘And since I can’t do that, Gustav keeps me entertained. He’s different.’

  Was she really so easily bored? he wondered. He felt a stab of pity for Gustav as he recalled his puppy-dog eyes following her everywhere. ‘I think he’s been in love with you since he first saw you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ Sophie gave a careless shrug. ‘We’re just having a bit of fun. That’s all.’

  Dan decided to let it drop. As he’d said, it wasn’t his business, but even so, he didn’t fancy being around when Sophie dumped Gustav.

  ‘How’s Christopher bearing up?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  ‘As expected.’

  ‘Poor guy.’ She shook her head slowly, staring into her drink. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like, losing a child.’

  ‘It’s one of the worst things that can happen.’ His tone turned tight.

  ‘Fuck!’ She screwed up her face. ‘I can’t believe it. I’m a walking diplomatic disaster today, aren’t I? It’s not that I forgot Luke, it’s just me and my big mouth, speaking without thinking first.’

  ‘Hey.’ He touched her arm. ‘I know you didn’t mean any harm.’

  ‘OK.’ She exhaled noisily. Took a gulp of her drink. ‘Can I ask . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘How is the investigation going? God, I still can’t get over what happened to your dad. He was such a terrific bloke. What an awful way to go. What was he involved with, do you think? Was it to do with his consultancy work?’

  Dan hadn’t found anything suspicious in his father’s affairs but he still hedged. ‘Maybe. I’m not a hundred per cent sure.’

  She looked amused. ‘You’re as reticent as ever. Do you think we’ll ever change? As people, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I hope not.’ Her expression turned wistful. ‘It’s nice knowing we’re the same underneath as we were all those years ago.’

  Dan took another pull of the beer called, apparently, Golden Barbarossa. The colour was surprisingly dark and although it was full of flavour, it wasn’t too strong. His father had always liked German beer and now he could see why.

  ‘I hate to ask,’ Dan said, ‘but how’s Rafe?’ He decided not to tell her what Anneke had said. That Sophie’s father had asked Bill to help him with his assisted suicide.

  She pulled a face. ‘Pretty awful, to be honest. I find myself wishing he’d just die. Does that make me a terrible person?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think it’s entirely natural.’

  Sophie rattled the ice cubes in her glass, expression sad.

  ‘Sophie, can I ask . . . Did Rafe ever mention a Project Snowbank?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘I think it might be to do with Dad’s death. But I can’t find out anything about it.’

  Sophie mused for a while before shaking her head. ‘He’s worked on loads of projects over the years, but Snowbank? It doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  ‘I thought I’d go and ask his old work colleagues at TSJ. Would that be OK?’

  Although she said it should be fine, she gave him an odd look that made Dan feel as though he’d stepped over some invisible line, but what it was, he had no idea.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Grace looked through a handful of discharge summaries, her body flushing at the memory of last night’s love-making. She couldn’t stop replaying it. Ross had been exceptionally attentive, and she had been too. It had been powerful as hell, and later, wrapped in thick dressing gowns and slipper socks, curled up in front of the wood burning stove with glasses of red wine, they’d talked everything through.

  ‘Are you sure they’re that unfriendly?’ Ross asked her. He was talking about the surgery staff as well as Constable Murdoch.

  ‘No. They just look at me differently.’

  ‘I think they just want you to prove yourself.’

  ‘I order too many autopsies,’ she admitted to Ross. ‘Except I don’t, not really, because I’m actually very concerned at the high death rate.’

  ‘What’s worrying you in particular?’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve lost four people to cancer recently . . . All of them had retired of late and should have been enjoying their new lives.’

  ‘Four?’ He looked shocked.

  ‘There are more, but every time I bring the subject up at the surgery, everyone just says We all die young up here.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What do you reckon is going on?’

  ‘I think it’s linked to their diets,’ she sighed. ‘Most people up here have porridge for breakfast, meat-filled sandwiches for lunch and more meat for dinner with the odd pea thrown in on Sundays. But bad diet or not, I can’t keep demanding autopsies or I’ll get run out of town.’

  ‘If you’re that concerned, you’ve got to keep at it, love. You’re damn good at your job, and if you’re worried you must get to the bottom of it.’

  It was all very well for him to say, but she didn’t want to make herself any more unpopular than she already was. Could she do a little digging around the edges, without letting anyone know?

  Before she could lose her nerve, she picked up the phone and rang an old uni friend who had a PhD in pharmacology and was now heading the research department in one of the most famous teaching hospitals in the world: St Bartholomew’s, otherwise known simply as Barts.

  ‘Grace Reavey?’ Ben sounded disbelieving. ‘Isn’t that the gorgeous doctor who moved to the Outer Hebrides?’

  ‘The Highlands, you twit,’ she told him fondly. ‘It’s not that far away.’

  ‘Far enough that we don’t meet up anymore,’ he grumbled.

  ‘You’re welcome to come and stay anytime.’

  ‘What? Me, actually breathe some fresh air for a change? It might kill me.’ He chuckled. ‘Now, what can I do for you? I’m guessing you’re at work so I take it it’s not a social call.’

  ‘Correct. Look, I was wondering what you knew about red blood cells mutating due to a bad diet. I’ve had seven patients die recently, all in their sixties. Four of cancer, one of heart disease, one of an infection, and one of liver disease. They were all massive meat eaters and if they saw a green vegetable it was probably once a year at Christmas. What’s really weird is that none of them showed any symptoms until they were really close t
o death.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Days, weeks.’

  ‘Hmmm. There is some work being done in this area. Our cells are constantly exposed to reactive molecules that can cause DNA damage, so they need anti-oxidants to mop them up – which as you know, fresh foods supply. If red blood cells mutate, they can be easily spotted if you’re looking for them.’ His voice suddenly brightened. ‘You want to send me their blood samples? I could have a look for you?’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘Nothing post-mortem?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘Ben, when someone dies up here, they’re buried faster than I can say the word pathologist. No frills.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, you could well be right, and if you have another patient go the same way, grab a blood sample and send it down. It wouldn’t harm to have a look.’

  ‘Thanks, Ben.’

  ‘I love looking at weird stuff.’

  After writing a couple of referrals and processing a dozen clinic letters, she turned to the surgery’s patient records to have another dig around. Interestingly, the people who’d died in their sixties had all been locals, born and brought up here. The Polish and other European immigrants seemed unaffected by the early-death rate, but that could be due to the fact many of them hadn’t reached their fifties yet.

  She’d just returned to her admin when her phone rang.

  ‘Dr Reavey,’ she answered.

  ‘It’s Disa Tavey,’ said Sara the receptionist. ‘Alistair’s just taken a turn for the worst but he refuses to go to hospital. He says if he’s going to die, he wants to die at home.’

  Grace was already up and reaching for her doctor’s bag.

  ‘Tell her I’m on my way.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Grundschule Isterberg was on the edge of a forested valley. Unprepossessing, built out of concrete and dark brown aluminium cladding, it looked tired and dated. Basketball hoops graced the front drive along with some benches and great clumps of hostas. Dan couldn’t see any children but he could hear their chattering through an open window.