A Lovely Way to Burn (21 page)

Stevie said, ‘He told you?’

‘No, but it was written all over him.’

Summers looked straight at Stevie, challenging her to disbelieve him.

She asked, ‘Did you say anything to him?’

‘Not then. Carol was with me and she’d been through enough. I tried to tell myself how hard it must be for a doctor to lose a patient, especially a young patient. But I knew it was more than that and it ate at me. Every time I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep, I’d see that doctor’s face, the shame on it. Other children were being subjected to the same useless procedure, and other parents were lying awake in their beds, praying that everything would work out, when what they should have been doing was enjoying the child they still had.’ He lifted his pint and emptied the last of the dregs from his glass. ‘I knew there was no point in trying to make an appointment to see him. He’d just find reasons not to meet me. So I staked out the hospital.’

Django pulled a bottle of beer from his pocket and struck its cap against the edge of the table. A slice of cheap veneer splintered from the tabletop and the metal cap bounced on to the carpet. He handed the frothing bottle to the dentist. ‘What happened?’

‘I saw him swanking across the foyer with another couple of doctors, all white coats and stethoscopes. I didn’t say anything, just walked up and stood in front of them. He recognised me straight away. It was obvious I’d been waiting for him, but he was smooth. You don’t get to that level without being smooth. He actually seemed pleased to run into me.’ The dentist grinned again and tilted the bottle to his mouth. ‘Looking back, I can see he was desperate to get me out of the building in case I’d come to make some kind of public scene. A
brouhaha
. He suggested we went for a drink.’ Summers flicked a fingernail against the rim of the beer bottle and it made a small
ping
. ‘I guess he got my measure pretty quickly. I seem to remember that I drank three malt whiskeys and he had one beer which, now that I look back, might have been non-alcoholic.’ Summers smiled at Django. ‘Never trust a man who drinks non-alcoholic beer.’

‘Unless he’s operating on a sick kid the next day,’ Django replied softly.

‘God forbid.’ Melvin Summers spat on the carpet. ‘I laid it all out in front of him. My observations, the way the research and the reality didn’t stack up, and he listened patiently.’

Summers paused again and Stevie said, ‘I’m sensing a “but”.’

‘There was no “but”. Not straight away. He was tight-lipped, but you’d expect that. Britain’s becoming as litigious as the US. No one admits to anything unless they’re forced to. The doctor told me he was just one of a small team who made up Fibrosyop and that as far as he knew the trials were watertight. Nevertheless, he said, he took my concerns seriously and would initiate a review of the treatment’s results.’

Django said, ‘Sounds reasonable.’

‘I thought it sounded like a pile of shit, and I was right.’ Melvin Summers grinned, like a man about to lay his trump card on the table. ‘That evening two police officers came to my house. They told me that the doctor had been clear that he didn’t want to file an official complaint because of my “obvious and understandable distress at my recent bereavement”, but if I persisted in harassing him, he would seek an injunction. It was all rather gentle.’ He shook his head. ‘They were your typical coppers, big guys. The kind you suspect might have turned to crime if they hadn’t joined the force, but it was like a little bit of Dr Sharkey was in the room with us. Apparently he had called in at the station personally to make sure there were no mix-ups. He’d obviously impressed them.’

Stevie started at the sound of Simon’s name, but neither of the men seemed to notice.

Melvin Summers let out a sigh. ‘I’d already put the website online. That may have been one of the reasons the police didn’t take the case seriously. They thought I was some kind of Internet vigilante.’ He took another swallow of his beer. ‘I let Joy down twice. First when I handed her over to Fibrosyop, then when I confronted Dr Sharkey. I should have held fire and got everything in place before I showed my hand.’

Django patted the dentist’s shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself, mate.’

Stevie said, ‘Grief makes people do all sorts of strange things.’

Melvin Summers took a mobile phone from his trouser pocket and handed it to Stevie. A photograph of his daughter beamed out from the screensaver. Joy Summers was sitting bolt upright, her neck and head supported by her wheelchair’s pillowed headrest. The girl’s hair was dark and tied in a silver ribbon, her eyes framed by glasses. Her smile was a hundred watts.

‘She was beautiful,’ Stevie said, and she meant it.

‘Carol and I knew about our daughter’s condition from the start. We knew the name Joy Summers would sound silly to some people. But it suited her. She was a joy and quite frankly I don’t care if it sounds corny to you or anyone else. She brought sunshine into the life of everyone who met her.’

Django leant forward and said gently, ‘She wouldn’t want you to be like this though, would she, mate?’

The dentist picked up his bottle of beer and drained it. He threw it at the fireplace. The bottle glanced against the mantelpiece, dislodging the carriage clock and clinking loudly as it bounced unbroken on to the hearth. One of the drinkers opened his eyes, got to his feet, and then sat down again.

‘Take a look around,’ Summers said. ‘I think the moment for joining AA might have passed.’

The two men laughed. Django took another beer bottle from his pocket, knocked the cap free and set it foaming before the dentist.

Stevie said, ‘Dr Sharkey is dead.’

Melvin Summers stopped laughing. He lifted his beer bottle in the air.

‘May he rot in hell, and may all those whom he loved join him there before too long.’

The curse sent an electric current along the back of Stevie’s neck.

‘Someone killed him.’

‘Nothing to do with me, love. I wish it was.’

Django put his hand over Stevie’s and she realised why he had sat patiently with them while Melvin had recounted his story.

‘Stephanie didn’t come here to accuse you, Melv,’ Django said.

The dentist snorted. ‘Christ, you always did have a tendency to get cuntstruck, didn’t you, mate? Look at her face. That’s exactly what she came here for.’

A sound of splintering wood and raised voices came from the other bar. The three of them glanced towards the lounge door, but they remained in their seats. Django turned his gaze on Stevie and squeezed her hand more tightly than was comfortable.

‘Is he right?’

‘Not exactly . . .’

Django repeated, ‘Not exactly?’

The pressure on her hand increased.

‘Dr Simon Sharkey was my boyfriend. He was part of Fibrosyop. I think someone may have murdered him. I want to find out who and why.’

Django pulled her close. Stevie smelt beer, sweat and desire. He whispered, ‘You told me you’d lost a kid.’

‘No I didn’t.’

He tightened his grip on her hand. ‘You let me think you had.’

Another crash came from the adjoining room. A woman screamed, a dog started barking and a rumble of male voices clashed with the confused protests of the drinkers.

Django knocked Stevie’s stool from under her as he got to his feet, toppling her to the ground. She thought he was about to kick her and braced herself to roll away from his boot, but he gave her a look of contempt and said, ‘Be careful who you make a fucking fool of in future.’

The noise in the next room was louder. Django went to the lounge door, glanced into the other bar, then slammed the door shut and bolted it. ‘Fuck, you’d think the police would have better things to do with their time.’ He pulled on the denim jacket he had hung on the back of his chair and patted the two beer bottles he had slipped in its inside pockets. ‘Sorry, Melvin. I wouldn’t have brought her over if I’d known.’

Stevie got to her feet holding the stool in front of her, ready to hit Django with it if he came too close. Glasses were shattering in the bar beyond and someone began battering their fists against the other side of the connecting door.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ The dentist seemed unaware of the chaos in the next room. He nursed the dregs of his pint like a man who had been felled by yet another bereavement. ‘She brought good news.’

The curtains in the lounge were closed. Django pulled one open a crack and peered out of the window. ‘Usual stupid plods, they’re concentrating on the front entrance.’ He looked at Summers. ‘If we go now we might make it out through the back.’ The drunk who had woken was already at the door that led on to the street. Django shoved him out of the way.

‘You’re at the end of the queue.’

He unbolted the door, opened it a crack and peered out.

The dentist leant back in his seat and looked at Stevie.

‘My old gran used to say, “The Devil knows his own.” When I was a kid I used to wonder what she meant by it. Now I know. Look at you, fucking invincible.’

Django said, ‘It’s now or never.’ He gestured to Melvin Summers, but the dentist shook his head and raised his empty beer bottle in tribute. Django returned the salute with a nod. He stage-whispered, ‘Geronimo,’ and slid outside, the newly woken drunk at his heels.

A swell of rising voices came from the street. Stevie stayed where she was.

‘Did you kill Simon Sharkey?’

The dentist shook his head. ‘No.’

The banging on the connecting door had grown more desperate. One of the sleepers woke, stiffly unfurled his body and staggered to his feet, his footsteps sure as a zombie’s.

Stevie said, ‘You had a good motive.’

‘So did a lot of people.’

‘Perhaps, but you’re a dentist. You work with anaesthetics; you had the means to kill Simon and make it look natural.’ The drunk was still struggling with the bolts, but he would master them soon. Stevie forced herself to be cruel. ‘Plus I’m guessing you lost more than most, your wife and your child.’

Melvin Summers flinched.

‘If I’d killed your boyfriend, do you think I’d deny it? Believe me, I’d be fucking boasting.’

There was a clunk and a small exclamation of satisfaction as the drunk managed to slide the bolts free. Stevie looked at the dentist, as if staring at him could uncover the truth. The bar door opened and she ran for the exit.

Twenty-Seven

Outside was a commotion of black-uniformed police officers and dazed civilians scuffling in the weak, tobacco-coloured dawn. Stevie saw Django in their midst, tussling with a policeman. One of the bottles of beer slipped from his pocket and shattered, foaming against the pavement. He let out a roar and smashed a fist into the policeman’s neck. The roar turned to a scream and Django crumpled to the ground, Taser wires snaking from his thigh.

Stevie flattened her body against the wall of the pub and edged her way along the side of the building. When she reached the corner she broke cover and ran, bracing herself for the electronic sting of a Taser. Her limp had returned but she could see the Mini, parked where she had left it, on the other side of the road. Stevie took the key fob from her pocket and unlocked the car, still running. She threw herself into the driver’s seat, slammed the door and turned the key in the ignition. The daylight dimmed, as if the engine’s grumbling start had leached power from the rising sun. She looked up and saw a policeman at her window. The policeman grabbed the handle of the driver’s door and pulled, but Stevie had already clicked the lock home and it held tight. She crunched the gearstick into first, swearing under her breath. Her foot hit the clutch too hard. The car bucked and stalled, dead.

The policeman banged against the window with a gloved hand. Stevie turned the key in the ignition again, slid through the gears and pressed her foot to the floor. The Mini accelerated forward, just as the policeman brought his baton down hard, against the glass. Stevie had queered his aim, but he caught the side window a glancing blow that cracked the glass like ice beneath a stone.

Stevie looked in her mirror as she sped away. The policeman had tumbled to the ground, but he was already getting to his feet and she hoped that only his pride was hurt. She wondered if it mattered that he had probably got her registration number, or if things had gone beyond that.

Somewhere deep in her bag her mobile phone started to ring. Stevie unzipped it and felt blindly inside, keeping her other hand on the wheel and her eyes trained on the road. The phone wasn’t in the side pocket where she normally stowed it, and her fingers scrabbled against her water bottle, hairbrush and make-up bag, things recognised and unrecognised, until eventually it stopped its jaunty tune and Stevie abandoned her search. She turned the car radio on, unsure of where she was going but determined to put as many miles as possible between her and the Nell Gwynne.

Classical music was playing, soft and sombre, on the radio. Stevie wondered if it indicated a new phase in the crisis, or if it was the kind of thing that always filled the airwaves in the early hours. She shifted through the stations until she found a news broadcast. The sweats had slipped from headline position and the news was dominated by riots that had spread across Britain’s southern cities and into the north as far as Newcastle.