“We’re not joking Pauline,” Tala whispered, pushing her notes to Pauline’s side of the table.
Pauline’s pale English face, paled even further under her foundation.
“Why are you telling me then? I’ve got naught to do with it.” Pauline’s pushed the folder back towards Tala.
“There’s no one else to trust-”
“It was Johnny Paulson disappearing that made me think about it-”
“And the phone call I overheard-”
“Tracey is selling body parts-”
“In cahoots with the doctor-”
“Doctor Perry.”
Tala and Benson talked over each other like a pair of nightingales, and Pauline held up her hands to stop them, her head spinning. For the hundredth time in less than an hour, she wished she’d never come to this country.
“As if! And if they are, what do you want me to do?” she asked. Whatever they wanted, she wanted no part in it, no part at all. If she read what they wanted her to read, she’d be an accessory or whatever it was they called it on the crime shows on tele.
“Help us get enough evidence so we can go to the police, before any of the more residents are butchered,” Benson mumbled.
“Oh aye, and how am I meant to do that when I’m here in the kitchen? I don’t waltz round the place with a folder under me arm looking important. I’m in ‘ere, working. That’s that I do. I work, I go home, and I come back. I don’t even take me holidays, cause there’s never anyone to take me place. Now you lot want to get me tangled up in this… whatever it is. I’ll lose me job and then what? Who’ll give me a job at this age then?”
“Pauline, you will not lose your job, I promise. You only need to listen and watch, and we know how good you are at that. You know everything that happens here, everyone tells you stuff-”
“Because you’re a good listener,” Tala interrupted, smiling for the first time.
“Damn straight I’m a good listener,” Pauline agreed, mollified by their platitudes. “If that’s all I have to do, then yes, but so help me, if I get fired I’m coming to live at your house, cause I ain’t got any savings to fall back on. I spend everything on me Mam, so she doesn’t have live in a place like this. She’s in a proper old folks home, one where they get to go play bingo every week. Once they even had a stripper in for one of the girls on her birthday. Can you imagine that? That’s the way I want to die, surrounded by oiled up young men, gyrating themselves against my wheelchair.” Pauline laughed and demonstrated the gyrations she meant. “I still think you’re barking mad, both of you. Tracey, selling body parts. She spends enough on fixing up her own parts that’s for sure. But what would anyone want with the bits and pieces of the poor sods who live ‘ere then?”
“You don’t have to read our notes if you don’t want, Pauline, but the evidence is in there. Almost all. We’re certain that’s what she’s up to, it’s the only explanation-”
“Stop your babbling, I don’t want to hear it. La la la la la la la,” Pauline sang, her fingers in her ears.
“You are the only one we can trust here. We need more time before calling in the police. More time and solid evidence,” Benson looked to Tala. “We’re only asking you to keep your eyes and ears open, and we need to keep our papers here with you, with your papers. It’s safer in here than anywhere else,” Benson finished.
“Fine, but I still think you’ve both been into the good stuff in the drug cupboard. Get off with you both now, I’ve work to do,” and Pauline took the file out of Benson’s hands, as if handling a contagious pathogen. She hadn’t read Benson’s notes and didn’t want to but she could file it away. That was one of her problems, she was always the one people came to for help and she always said yes. Got her into miles of trouble - financial and personal, but she could never say no when someone needed help. Body parts, they were both dreaming.
36
Myra jumped as the doorbell sounded. She’d been on edge since her husband had called to say Social Services would be round to pick up the baby boy they were fostering, and that he wouldn’t be there for the handover because he had an urgent patient to see.
Myra had been there for the handover of their fostered children several times, but always with her husband there to oversee things. But this time was different. She didn’t want to give up the baby. He’d been with them longer than usual and they’d connected. He needed her.
The doorbell sounded again, chastising her for her tardiness. Myra brushed away the tears forming and lifting her chin she strode for the door. Papering over her heartbreak with a forced smile she opened the door.
Shoulder to shoulder on the front step were two tieless men holding badges. Her eyes blurry from the tears, Myra couldn’t decipher the delicate lettering on the shiny badges nestled in well-worn wallets.
“Mrs Perry?” asked one.
Myra looked up from the brassy badge to the man’s face. Clean shaven, around the same age as her and as unremarkable as she was herself. A face made to blend into the background. Even his eyes were plain, sandy with lashes that were neither short nor long. Eyebrows which did nothing other than sit dutifully on his face, and hair which fell ordinarily upon his head. Why then did he make her step back? Why did her breath catch in her throat?
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m Detective Gary Pemberton, and this is Detective Tony Street, may we come in?” The sandy haired detective waited.
Myra stepped forward, closing the door behind her. She hadn’t looked down the hall before closing the door, if she had, she might have seen the twins poking their heads out of their bedroom before exchanging glances which would send shivers down any psychologist’s spine.
“Sorry, but the baby is sleeping inside, can we go round the back to talk?” Myra tried to quell her rising panic. Maybe it was her husband? Had he been in an accident? Perhaps one of his patients had laid a complaint, a serious complaint? Regardless, she didn’t want them talking where the boys might hear. They’d just lost their mother and didn’t need any more trauma in their young lives. The sooner her husband found proper care for them the better.
Following Myra along the manicured path, the detectives took their seats at a table in the garden. The wrought iron chairs were never that comfortable at the best of times, and the two policemen did their best to make themselves comfortable in the breezy backyard. Myra saw them scanning the house and the garden and her, judging her. She felt their observations as keenly as the wind against her skin although the goosebumps on her flesh were more to do with the frank gaze of the first detective.
“Has something happened to my husband?” Myra asked, the wind whipping away her words, and silence filled the void.
Gary Pemberton shook his head, running his hand through his hair. His partner had his black notebook open on the table, his pen poised like a snake ready to strike.
“Your husband is fine as far as we’re aware, but it is your husband we’d like to talk to,” Gary said.
Pale to start with, Myra paled even further. She looked nervously back at the house, “My husband?”
“We need to ask a few questions about his medical practice.”
“I’m not involved with the practice, so won’t be much help.” Myra considered her husband’s medical practice. She’d been there once, when they were first married, and after that he’d made it clear she wasn’t to interrupt him there, ever. A doctor’s surgery was a place of serious work and he didn’t need his wife bothering the patients or the staff. Of the staff, there was only the receptionist. Her husband had on the rare occasion moaned about her capabilities, but maybe it was a different one now. She couldn’t remember her name and rifled through her cloudy memory for the name of the receptionist she had met. Rose? No. Jasmine? No, but she was sure it was the name of a flower, Violet? Then it clicked, it had been Lily, she remembered commenting to the girl that she loved lilies.
Myra knew the detective was watching her as she trawled through her memory. That he sat ther
e silently was even more disturbing. Myra was unaware he was letting the silence speak for itself; as per his training. People felt obligated to fill a silence because silence made them uncomfortable. And Myra rushed to fill it.
“I can’t tell you anything. We keep work and family life separate. I’ve only met Lily once.”
The other detective scribbled in his notebook and Myra paled further, worried what she’d said which caused him to write in his notebook. Myra babbled more, her unease taking charge of her mouth.
“I think her name is Lily, named after the flower, that’s why her mother called her Lily, because she loved lilies. Nice girl, but I only met her once. My husband doesn’t talk about his work but he works hard. I think he’s been struggling with a patient this week, he’s worked a lot of late nights, so I think someone is ill…” she trailed off, conscious that her mouth had run away on its own accord.
“And her surname?” Gary asked. His own notebook sat idle next to him, his long fingers splayed on the wrought iron.
Myra shook her head. “To be honest that was months ago, I’m not sure if she’s still there. As I said, my husband doesn’t discuss his work. And if I need to speak to him, I call his mobile.”
“And his patients, what does he say about them?” Gary probed.
“He doesn’t. He’s not allowed to.” His questions flustered her further, and she questioned herself. Why didn’t her husband talk about his work? It was normal, to mull over the days happenings. He didn’t need to give her specifics, but he didn’t even pass comment on the smallest things. They talked about their foster children, or how busy he was, especially with all the work he did at the old folks home. “He does lots of work at the Rose Haven,” Myra blurted out, filling the awkward silence in the yard. She need not have worried because chimes of the doorbell disturbed the silence, echoing around the garden. Myra and the detectives turned towards the sound.
“Oh,” Myra said, her hands fluttering above the table. Social Services, she wasn’t prepared for this right now.
“Are you expecting someone?” Gary asked.
“Yes, Social Services are here to pick up my… I mean, picking up a baby we’ve been fostering, and now they will have found a permanent home for him. Usually my husband is here, but he had an urgent call, so I’m to…”
“We’re happy to wait here,” Gary said. His partner hadn’t stopped scribbling in his notebook, and spidery words marching across the pages.
Myra couldn’t help thinking each of the pen strokes were spider steps down her back and she shivered. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, I need to spend some time with them for the handover. Perhaps you should go and I get my husband to call you when he’s back?”
“I understand, of course. We’ll be in touch,” Gary said.
The bell rang again and as Myra dashed off, Gary asked another question.
“One last thing, Mrs Perry. Do you often act as foster parents for babies?”
Myra nodded. “I haven’t been able to have children, so at least this way I get to experience being a mother. It really is the most amazing gift and I only wish we could adopt one ourselves. There have been so many, but this one has been special and I’ll miss him. I’ve still got the twins to look after. We’re just waiting for the child welfare people to find a home for them. I don’t normally foster school age children. Sorry, but I must go,” and Myra hurried away, leaving the detectives in the yard.
Gary Pemberton searched the windows of the house for any sign of Mrs Perry and the people at the door. They must be on the other side of the house for there was no sign of any life in the kitchen. A movement upstairs caught his eye, and two identical faces peered at him through a second floor window. He waved, and the faces vanished.
“Let’s go, Tony,” Gary said.
“That was odd,” Tony replied, reading over his notes. “Them being approved foster parents wasn't in the file. Did you see that?”
“No, nothing I’ve read. We'll drop in and see the child welfare team on the way back. Did you see the faces at the window?”
“Yup, looked like there was a mirror up there. Kind of creepy, like those demon kids in that horror movie, can’t remember the name of it now.”
They climbed into their car and Gary started the engine. “Make a note of the number plate of that car and run it through the system. I’ve got a funny feeling.”
37
Mary Louise made it as far as the grocery store and a quarter of the way home before feeling faint and stopping to rest on a park bench. The broken slat at the front of the bench dug into her leg but she was too sore to move. She’d overdone it — too far, too soon, too fast. The bench was uncomfortable but her ribcage threatened to poke through her barely healed skin and even taking the tiniest of breaths sent waves of nauseating pain through every part of her body. She’d wait a few moments to build up the courage to walk home again. She’d brought very little at the store, knowing she had to carry it home, so leaving the bag on the bench wasn’t a disaster. It only held two oranges, a pint of milk, a packet of cereal and a microwave dinner for later. A normal person could carry the bag to the top of Mt. Everest and back, but she didn’t think she could lift it off the bench.
The dizziness passed, and the world returned to normal… for a moment, her field of vision had narrowed to a tiny pinprick of light, which was when she’d flung herself onto the seat instead of decorating the pavement. Slowly colour returned, and the trees morphed from shadowy beige fingers to an artist’s palette of twenty shades of green. Her lungs weren’t threatening to explode and the dagger-like pins and needles in her legs had faded enough that she could gingerly test the strength in her reconstructed knee before finally standing.
Casting a longing look at her groceries, Mary Louise pushed off the bench and wobbled down the sidewalk towards home, a hundred times slower than when she’d set out.
Near the end of her street, Mary Louise leaned against a concrete power pole, the smooth lines reassuringly solid against her frame. It wasn’t the pain in her legs or chest forcing her to stop, but her narrowing frame of sight, viewing everything in front of her through a pin hole camera.
“You okay?”
A disembodied voice came from behind and Mary Louise struggled to twist around. The face swimming in front of her eyes wasn’t one she recognised. And her vision narrowed even further
“Miss?”
The face was talking to her, his mouth opening and closing, but she could only hear the giant roar of surf pounding the beach somewhere, which was odd because she lived nowhere near a surf beach.
Mary Louise opened her mouth to reply but nothing came out — that was usually the way of things when someone held a cloth over your mouth. She could hear herself screaming inside her head but no one came running to help.
The man faded like an old photograph until she could only grasp at his blurry features. And then nothing. A nothingness swallowed her whole. No one saw and no one came to help. The curtains at the window didn’t twitch but billowed slightly as the front door opened and closed, and the lock slid home.
38
Molly held the off-white business card in her hand. What did the colour say about the owner? Did off-white say something white didn’t? Was it cream or did the printers call this colour ivory? And was there a hierarchy to business card colours and where did that place the man who’d given it to her?
She slid the card onto the dining room table, lining it up against the piece of notepaper where she’d jotted down additional details — home address, weight, eye colour, allergies… all things she hoped to find out but she liked to know these things in advance. Molly refused to waste anymore time on someone still living with their mother or had a strange cohabitation agreement with their ex wife and her new partner. She’d been there before and it was always far more complicated than her prospective partners tried to make out.
Molly eyed the phone. When should she ring? The perennial question for most teenage girls, but she was
far from being a teenager and still suffered crippling angst about it. A recent read of Teen Vogue at the checkout counter had added no light on the subject. He’d handed her his card, so the ball was in her court. She’d already saved his number, so didn’t need to dial anything — only one press of a manicured finger away. Still, she hesitated.
Pushing back from the table she hurried to the toilet. A nervous wee and then she’d ring him because heaven forbid if she needed to go to the toilet when he answered. Who knew what the etiquette was. On the porcelain seat, she examined her fingers and picked at her nails, rehearsing the potential conversation openers she’d fine tuned the night before whilst simultaneously planning their wedding and the names of their two children or three children, she hadn’t decided. She was young, but maybe not young enough to pop out three babies in quick succession.
Being honest with herself, the only reason she hesitated was because of something she’d overheard after leaving the clinic. She’d walked as far as the corner of the block before realising she’d left her house keys in her desk drawer, or she hoped that’s where she left them because they weren’t in her handbag. And at night she preferred walking to the bus stop with her keys in her hand in case of any trouble — that’s what her grandaddy had taught her. No one could accuse her of carrying an offensive weapon if she only carried her house keys, but keys could inflict real damage if you held them right. After locating her keys on her desk, she was back locking the door, chastising herself to add her work keys to her house keys, when she heard screaming. Sometimes patients screamed, she hated it but understood that not everyone’s pain threshold was as high as others. She’d just not expected him to be a screamer, especially not just for a shoulder injury, one well on its way to being fully healed.
Molly had stood in the clinic’s entrance for a moment, wondering if she should pop her head in and offer to help. Holding Don Jury’s hand whilst Doctor Perry did his thing had its appeal, but his childish screaming was just so loud that she’d shuddered on the threshold of the office, physically repulsed by it.
Doctor Perry Page 15
