by Keith Nixon
Hamson watched Gray with amusement. The pair enjoyed half a cigarette before Hamson spoke. “What’s going on, Sol?”
“People keep asking me that. I haven’t got a bloody clue, but I’ve just had a DI landed on me.” Gray passed her Pennance’s personnel file. She flicked it open and glanced through the contents. She brightened at Pennance’s photo, frowned when she absorbed the detail.
“Why you?” she said.
“Apparently, I’ve upset Superintendent Marsh and Carslake again, so this is atonement. I thought I’d give you a heads-up before the DCI has a word.”
“Bloody Carslake. Chauvinist.”
“Which is why I wanted to warn you, he wouldn’t react well to an accusation like that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Maybe, but he’s still the boss.” Gray remembered Carslake’s earlier comment - this job was all about keeping the boss happy.
Hamson hissed smoke through her teeth, shook her head. “The Met, though. What’s that all about?”
Gray crossed his fingers behind his back. “You know as much as I do, Von. Anyway, he’ll have to wait for now. I’ve got an appointment.”
Sixteen
“Edward Festival?”
The battle-hardened, grey-haired receptionist cast an imperious gaze over her glasses, regarding the small cluster of people seated before her, over which she wielded the ultimate power. That of access.
Mr Festival, the lucky recipient of the golden ticket, jerked into life and made his way towards his appointment.
While others idly flicked through magazines and suffered their lot within the plush, hushed surroundings, Gray grew increasingly irritated as the second hand flicked around the face of his watch at an agonisingly slow pace. He’d been kept twenty minutes over the appointment time already. This was supposed to be a private clinic, not the NHS. He got up to enquire of Dr Mallory’s gatekeeper how much longer it was likely to be. Her chilly response was that he should just wait.
Gray sat back down, swore under his breath. An old boy to his left passed him a magazine. Top Gear. He couldn’t think of anything worse.
“Read it,” said the man.
Just as Gray relented and flicked open the front cover his name was called out.
“Works every time,” said the old boy.
Gray passed back the magazine and got to his feet.
“Consultation room three.”
Gray glanced around, uncertain where he was supposed to go. With the condescending stab of a finger and a practised, entirely audible huff the receptionist pointed to the corridor on the far side of the waiting room.
He threaded his way through the rows of waiting patients and down the passage. A short distance along was consultation room three. Along with the number, a sign read, “Out of politeness, knock first.”
Gray twisted the door handle and stepped inside. He took in certificates mounted on the wall beside tasteful artwork, medical journals lined up neatly on shelves. All very different to a standard GP’s office.
A besuited man sat at a large desk with his back to the entrance, hunched over his desk, scribbling away. He tossed his pen down and spun around at Gray’s interruption. He was a short, tubby man with watery eyes. He looked ill himself.
“Did you not observe my note on the door?” said Mallory.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“You didn’t say please.”
Mallory stared hard at Gray and jotted on his pad. “Take a seat.” Gray closed the door and did as he was bid. “Now, what seems to be the problem?” The doctor’s tone was soured cream.
“Nothing. I’m absolutely fine.”
Mallory blinked, whether because of Gray’s response or the state of his own eyes, it was hard to tell. “I hear something different from your Occupational Health Department.”
Gray shrugged.
“You don’t agree?” said Mallory.
“I’m under orders to be here.”
“I see.” Mallory made a further notation. “I was just reviewing your file. I see my predecessor, Doctor Stone, prescribed anti-depressants.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Gray was pleased to detect frustration in the doctor’s voice. “I stopped taking them.”
“Why?”
“They ran out and I didn’t need them anymore. I still don’t.”
Mallory sat back and steepled his fingers. He regarded Gray for a few moments and Gray stared blankly back.
“Sleeping all right?”
“Reasonable, thanks.”
“All the way through the night?”
“More or less.”
“Which?”
Gray didn’t reply. He knew it was childish to needle the man. A warmer bedside manner wouldn’t go amiss, though.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Isn’t that what policeman say on television?” said Mallory.
“The made-up ones.”
“Fictional or not, your commanding officer is awaiting my report. It’s my call as to whether you take an enforced leave. Or not.”
“I’ve got too much work to take time off.”
“Then play the game, Sergeant.”
They glared at each other. Gray blinked first. He needed to keep busy. Both he and Mallory knew it. “Okay.”
“Let’s have a look at your blood pressure.” Mallory dragged a rectangular black box across his desk, flipped it open and started assembling the equipment. “Roll up your sleeve, please.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I thought we’d just covered this? I have to do a basic examination before I can decide what action to take. Now please do as I’ve asked.”
Gray removed his jacket, undid the cuff and rolled up the sleeve. Mallory wrapped the black band around Gray’s arm and set the machine going. The band constricted. Gray didn’t like these examinations, he always thought the device would just keep squeezing and squeezing until it burst muscle, breached sinew and met bone. As usual the device stopped when the tightness was becoming uncomfortable, emitting a penetrating beep.
The doctor pursed his lips and made a further illegible scribble.
“Is everything all right?” Gray couldn’t help himself.
“Open your shirt, please.”
Gray loosened his tie, undid the first three buttons and held the fabric open while Mallory applied a stethoscope to first his chest and then his back.
“You could have warmed it first.”
“I only do that for the children. Can’t abide them bawling.”
Scooting the scope around Gray’s rib cage, Mallory asked him to breathe in and out a few times.
“You can do yourself back up now.”
While Gray rearranged his clothing the doctor scratched at his pad. As Gray knotted his tie the doctor lifted his ophthalmoscope and held it out like a weapon.
“I’m just going to take a look into your eyes.”
Without pause Mallory shone a tight beam of light into Gray’s left, then right pupil.
“All done?” Gray blinked several times.
“Yes,” replied Mallory, sitting back in his chair.
Gray shrugged his jacket back on. “So I’ve got the all-clear then?”
“No.”
Gray paused, his fingers poised over a shirt button.
“You’re a policeman, which is a high-pressure job.”
“Everyone experiences stress to a certain degree.”
“Has anything happened at work recently?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Both your blood pressure and heart rate are significantly higher than your last recorded check-up, which, to be frank, was far too long ago. In addition to that, your pupils are dilated, you appear tense, and I think it is fair to say that you are irritable.”
“No more than usual.”
Mallory smiled thinly. “That
’s as may be, but you can’t tell me you’re feeling normal. Otherwise your commanding officer wouldn’t have seen fit to send you in.”
“What’s normal?”
“Quite.”
“So you’re saying I’m subconsciously seeking help?”
“Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Mallory spread his hands wide. “Then why are you here?”
“Because Carslake insisted!”
“How’s everything at home?”
Gray was caught off guard by the sudden change in tack. “Fine. I’ve plenty on the go.”
“Out of the office?”
“The garden is a constant challenge.”
“Where did your daughter move to?”
“Why is this relevant?” Gray clenched his fists, dug his nails into his palms.
“Just answer the question.”
“Initially she went to live with her grandparents. Now? I’ve no idea. She might still be there. I never hear from Hope these days.”
“She’s not been in contact since she left?”
“No.” It had been five years.
“And how long since your wife passed away?”
The heat within Gray rose another notch. Through gritted teeth he said, “She didn’t pass away. She committed suicide.”
“Is that an important distinction?”
“No.”
“Then why mention it?”
“I don’t know! Why all these fucking questions?”
Mallory sat back in his chair, considered Gray for a few moments while he calmed down.
“Sorry,” said Gray. “That was uncalled for.”
“There’s no need to apologise.” Mallory’s tone was softer. “You ought to consider counselling.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You need help, Solomon. I see you refused to consider it at the time, and I suspect all you’ve done since is bottle things up.”
“That’s not true.” Gray thought of Pennance and the case files at home. “I’ve been proactive.”
“Good.”
“And they were different times back then. The police wasn’t the touchy-feely thing it is now. We were expected to get on with it. We still are.”
“Nevertheless, I’m going to recommend you see Doctor Ichan. She’s an excellent therapist.”
“I don’t need one.”
“She’s very professional.”
“I already said no.”
“In that case, I agree with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You shouldn’t be on those pills.”
“Thank Christ for that.”
Mallory picked up his pen and scribbled away at a prescription pad. A moment later he tore off the page and flourished it at Gray.
Gray took the sheet, glanced over it. “You’re giving me something else?”
“Yes. You need help. If you refuse counselling, medication is the only other option. Be warned. It’ll be about three weeks before you feel their full effect and your moods may cycle in between.”
Gray sat, still holding the prescription, the unverified threat hanging in the air.
It’s my call whether you take an enforced leave. Or not.
“I need to work.”
“Yes, I suspect you do. So would you like to see Doctor Ichan instead?”
Gray nodded.
“Expect a letter in about a week’s time confirming your appointment. And I want to see you again in a month. Make an appointment on your way out. Any problems, call me.”
Mallory pulled a keyboard towards him and started to tap away. Gray had no choice but to take the unsubtle hint.
“Could you close the door behind you?” said Mallory, still focused on his computer screen. “Please.”
Gray did as he was told, feeling like a contrite schoolboy leaving the headmaster’s office. He looked once more at the prescription and then stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
“Bloody overpaid quacks,” he said.
Gray ignored the receptionist as he strode out of the surgery and into the sunlight.
***
The key grated in the Yale lock. Gray fetched several shopping bags from the doorstep into the hallway. He then brought the rest of the produce into the house from the car and pushed the door shut with his foot.
He lugged his purchases into the narrow kitchen, all pretty basic stuff – ready meals, pies, a few frozen vegetables that could be microwaved, and some single pieces of fruit. Most of it was on offer, which had been the primary influence on Gray’s selections.
The last item Gray unpacked was Mallory’s prescription. He’d handed the paper in at the beginning of the shopping trip and collected the medication at the end, just as the chemist was closing up.
Gray placed the innocuous-looking container on the counter. He bent over and stared through the brown plastic. He’d taken various chemicals for depression and anxiety over the years and honestly believed he was past all that. He was pissed off to discover he wasn’t.
He picked up the bottle, began to unscrew the cap, then put it back down. Using the pills would be an admission of a problem, one Mallory had rightly observed he had always refused to talk about. He wasn’t about to now, either.
There’d be no giving in. He’d handle this himself, his way. And lie to everyone in the process. Gray tossed the bottle into a drawer. Of course, Carslake would check up on him; that was one hundred percent certain. Gray needed to carry the pills around for show. He took a couple of the pills out of the bottle and threw them into the bin. It would give the appearance he’d been consuming them.
A ready meal got its just desserts in the microwave, zapped for five-and-a-half minutes until it was, as the packaging put it, piping hot throughout. Gray poured a beer, placed crockery, glass and utensils onto a tray and lugged everything upstairs to his bedroom, three flights of stairs away.
The tray went onto a desk shoved in a corner, pushing the computer keyboard out of the way first. He flicked on the fan heater and it whirred into life. Gray pulled over the folder of information he’d printed out earlier and stuck a label on the front, writing on it, Buckingham, Nick.
As the first forkful of food entered his mouth Gray began to read.
Seventeen
In the reception area, Gray took Pennance in at a glance. Good-looking, well-dressed, and well-groomed. He looked mid-thirties, but likely to be a decade older given the rank. It was hard to tell. He probably used expensive anti-ageing creams, worked out five times a week and only drank mineral water. The picture of a modern man. No wedding ring.
“Good to see you again, DS Gray.” Pennance stepped away from the front desk and held out his hand. The handshake was dry and on the right side of firm. His expression conveyed a serious, business-like attitude.
“Been a while.” Gray had mostly dealt with him over email, occasionally via the phone, and only once face to face, when Gray had headed to London to follow up on the lead regarding Tom.
“I’m just keen to get going. Thanks for accommodating me at such short notice.”
“Not a problem.” It was. “What precisely is it you want to get going on?”
Pennance shook his head. “You know I can’t. Not here.”
“Come on through. I’ll show you around.” Gray jerked a thumb at the desk sergeant, who leant beneath the desk and pressed a release switch. The door unlocked with a distinct click.
Gray led Pennance from the public area into the back office, along maze-like corridors and to the door marked CID. He opened it to reveal the jumble of desks, chairs and phones. Usually it was a hive of activity. At the moment it was embarrassingly quiet, and the three residents bore expressions that ranged from expectant (Hamson) to suspicious (Fowler).
Fowler tugged at his moustache, kettle poised over a couple of cups.
“Is this him?” Fowler asked Gray.
Pennance answered. “If you mean, am I DI Pennance? Then yes.”
“I suppose you�
��ll be wanting a coffee.”
“Just some water if you have it.”
“Plenty round here. You’ve got a choice of source, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“The sea or the toilets.”
Gray smiled inside. Pennance’s face didn’t move a millimetre.
“The comedian here is DS Mike Fowler,” said Gray. Fowler raised his mug in a greeting.
“I’m DI Yvonne Hamson.” Hamson left the confines of her desk to cross the floor. Then she enveloped Pennance’s hand in both of hers and shook it. “Nice to meet you. And don’t listen to Mike. We have a water cooler. I’ll gladly get you some.”
“Be careful there, mate,” said Fowler to Pennance as Hamson departed.
“Ignore him,” said Gray.
“You don’t sound much like a cockney,” said Fowler. “Your accent. No apples and pears in it, is there, Sol?”
Gray shook his head at Fowler. They’d be having words later.
“That’s because I’m from Hampshire.” Pennance smiled. “I’ve moved around a lot over the years. Home is where the job is. Currently London, temporarily Margate.”
It was a neat speech. Pennance had probably delivered it many times.
“Here’s your water,” said Hamson on re-entry. In her hand was a clear plastic cup. Condensation mottled the exterior.
“Thank you.”
“Kiss-arse,” said Fowler, which won him a glare from Hamson. He took his coffee to his desk and started hammering away at a keyboard.
“I presume this is our guest?” Carslake filled the doorway, friendly in a grandfatherly way. He introduced himself, took Pennance’s hand and vigorously shook it. His arm was probably beginning to ache, given the amount of attention it was getting.
“Delighted you could make it. Good journey?” said Carslake.
“Not bad. Slow from Ashford onwards.”
“We’re a bit out in the sticks here, I’m afraid.”
“The rest of the team will be in shortly. You can meet them all then,” said Gray.
“Had anything to eat yet?” asked Carslake.
“I grabbed some toast on the train.”
Fowler pulled a face over his shoulder, interested again now Carslake was on the scene. “I bet that was a disgusting experience. Bacon and eggs, that’s what you need. Put some meat on your bones.”
