Night Visit (17 page)

I
knocked on Sylvie’s bedroom door, told her to keep the house locked, to let no one in, to guard Rosie. I told her where I was going. I told her when I would be back.

Then
I got into my car and drove.

*

I had been right about the lane. Rivulets poured along the twin furrows. Droplets as big as marbles beat a tattoo on the car windscreen as the wiper blades sliced across my vision, diverting the cascade.

I
put the radio on, craving the tranquillity of Chopin or Schubert. But tonight there was no music, only
Gardeners’
Question
Time
. Questions about pruning and bulbs for a long distant spring. I was disappointed. Music helped me not to think. So my mind was too busy as I drove.

I
would examine the old lady, test her son’s story and remove her to a place of safety if it was necessary. I had a duty to protect her. At the time I believed that all the malevolence was in the son. Although I had recognised the cottage as having some sort of atmosphere I forgot that sometimes sons could take after their mothers or fathers. Pritchard’s father had been violent and I was certain he had been murdered, either by Pritchard, even though he had only been a small child, or his mother. The GP had pointed me in the right direction.

Where
had
Pritchard
hidden
Melanie’s
body
?

‘
This is silly, Harriet.’ My voice echoed round the car, normal, disapproving. Maybe I should have asked for police protection. But I knew they would have laughed. ‘What, a harmless old man and a sick old lady? This is no drug addict, Doctor. There is no threat.’

I
sliced across the causeway, looking both left and right into the Heron Pool. No moon reflections there tonight. It was as dark and cold as the grave. Splashes of rain bounced across the surface, picked out by my car headlights.

I
turned left and headed along the avenue underneath the bowing hedge until I found the glimmering lights of the tin shack. His Lada was standing outside as though it had decided to declare itself. No subterfuge now. We were in the open. I switched off the engine, turned off the headlights, paddled through the yard and banged on the door.

Immediately
I knew he was aware of my suspicions.

For
the first time he was formal. ‘Good evening, Dr Lamont.’ It was a distancing from friendship. The headmaster must have said something. Pritchard was no longer my uncomfortable friend.

And
I felt as threatened by his distance as I had recently been by his forced and uninvited intimacy. So I was brusque. ‘Where is she?’

I
hadn’t needed to ask. From the bedroom I could hear the unmistakable sound of retching. I knew that sound. There is vomiting and there is the sound of an empty stomach heaving. I knew she was violently ill. But even I was unprepared for the hollow cheeks, the exhaustion, the skin so deprived of moisture it lifted between my fingers in a pleat and stayed there.

Her
eyes were glazed. She did not know me. ‘How long has she been like this?’

‘
A day or two.’ Pritchard was calm. Maybe the tricks were no longer any fun on his mother. Maybe she was just too weak, too old, too decrepit. Or maybe she was simply in the way.

‘
Has she ever vomited like this before?’

‘
No.’

‘
Has there been any blood in the vomit?’

‘
No.’

‘
Did she eat something?’

An
imperceptible pause. ‘I’m not here for most of the day. I work.’

I
gave the old lady a quick examination. Stomach rigid, desiccated skin, coated tongue.

Surely
the police had interviewed her too? Surely ten years ago she had given or not given her son an alibi? Maybe there was the answer. Maybe she had. Now she might be dying she might yearn to tell the truth. I might not be given another opportunity.

I
lifted the phone and called an ambulance. I had to answer the usual questions, justify the use of siren and blue light at this late hour. But the old lady was still conscious and I tipped some of the vomit from the inappropriate washing up bowl into a specimen pot. I would send it for analysis.

This
vomiting could kill her. So what had caused it?

Pritchard
’s eyes were hostile. ‘What are you doing that for?’ Sometimes lies can be justified. ‘I think there may be blood in it.’

‘
So what?’ He was unsympathetic.

‘
It could help with diagnosis.’

His
face was too close, to mine. ‘So what is the diagnosis?’ There was mockery in his voice now. He was challenging my knowledge.

I
had my suspicions, although I had no intention of telling him what they were: that she was now dying in exactly the same manner as her husband had died years ago.

Doctors
can lie too. ‘At the moment I’m wondering whether your mother might have a bleeding gastric ulcer.’

Pritchard
was unimpressed. ‘I’ve never heard her complain.’

‘
It could have happened quite suddenly.’

His
eyes dropped to the shrunken figure on the bed. ‘Have you pain, mother?’

She
could hardly bear to look at him but dropped her head back into the bowl, groaning.

I
wanted to be alone with the old lady. ‘You’d better pack some clothes,’ I said. ‘And then go and watch for the ambulance.’

I
felt a bully questioning the old woman. ‘Amelia,’ I whispered. ‘Did you give your son an alibi? Did he kill Melanie Carnforth?’ Her eyes fluttered open. ‘Tell me,’ I urged. ‘You’re very ill. You mustn’t keep secrets now.’

I
knew she had heard me. Her eyes might be dull and lifeless but I knew she could understand all that I was saying. I would use any weapon against him. ‘You are a Christian,’ I hissed. ‘You must tell me.’ I flung all on my last throw. ‘This might be your last chance to tell the truth.’

Her
head rolled across the pillow and she retched again. One claw hand shot out and gripped me. ‘You’re right. It was murder.’ At last. I had known it. My instinct had told me right. He had killed her. I had found the murderer of Melanie Carnforth. The old lady would confess all now.

I
could hear Pritchard moving in the room beyond. ‘Tell me,’ I ordered.

‘
I fed him.’ Her eyes bored into me. We were connected, soul to soul. ‘The Destroying Angel. The Destroying Angel.’ She cackled. ‘The Angel Destroys.’

And
yet my mind was so focused on Melanie Carnforth I was not listening. Instead I was busy connecting. My mind was filled with pity for the little girl. The angel had been destroyed.

‘
Melanie?’ I asked eagerly.

For
one second her mind was as lucid as mine. ‘Not Melanie,’ she said quite clearly. ‘Rupert, my husband.’

14

In
the morning I rang the hospital and learnt that Amelia Pritchard had died two hours after admission. There was to be a post mortem.

The
pathologist was a friend of mine, an old mate from the same medical school. He was perfectly frank with me. ‘I have to tell you, Harry,’ he said, ‘not only can I not find a cause of death but I can find no real reason for the vomiting.’

Science
may have most answers but not all. Never all. ‘So what next?’

‘
I’ve sent some samples off to toxicology,’ he said, ‘and to biochemistry. We wondered whether uraemia might be the cause of her vomiting.’

‘But
vomiting causes uraemia,’ I said. ‘So you’ll find that anyway.’

‘
Yeah,’ he said casually. ‘True.’

‘
I don’t suppose she could have been poisoned?’

‘
Got anything in mind?’

‘
No.’

He
gave a coughing laugh. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If you think of anything.’

I
mailed the specimen myself and filled out the form. Sometimes you have to keep suspicions to yourself.

*

It was to be a bad week. Two nights later I left the surgery at a little after seven both tired and irritable. Rosie was having tea with a friend and I was looking forward to getting home. Rain had sharpened to frost by the time I left in pitch darkness through the back exit. Vandals had smashed the lamp and we had not yet replaced the bulb. We were at a disadvantage. Though our patients’ car park was conveniently round the front of the building, well lit and public, staff cars were parked round the back. It was a remote patch of land overlooked by a derelict factory that had recently been bought for development. Like all patches of dereliction many people had a use for it, drug addicts, ‘fences’ with goods to sell, courting couples, dog owners.

I
don’t know where Danny had been hidden. I was unaware anyone was there until I felt an arm smash into my back and my face kiss the car window.

‘
Hand us your bag.’

I
handed him my handbag. Five pounds cash and my credit cards. My anger bubbled away.

‘
Don’t look at me.’ I didn’t need to. I knew it was Danny. Keep calm. This was something they did teach us at medical school. Keep calm. Take the heat out of the situation. Avoid eye contact and confrontation. And above all keep calm.

I
could hear him rummaging through my bag and risked a peep. That was how I saw the knife. Don’t think what he could do with that knife.

My
bag dropped to the floor.

‘
There’s bugger all in here.’

My
face was pushed harder against the window of my car. Through it I could see my Gladstone bag on the passenger seat. So could Danny.

‘
Open the door.’

I
moved my hand towards the handle. He wasn’t that stoned. As my fingers pulled the handle he stopped me by pricking the knife against my neck. ‘I don’t want the alarm to go off.’

Cold
steel has a curious scent to it. Not just the steel, something else, metallic and pungent. My own fear? Or was it anger? Because they have a scent too.

The
blade had been polished clean. By the light of frosty stars it shone. Danny must have cleaned it. For me?

I
was afraid of that knife. In a determined hand it could cut as deep as a scalpel. Keep calm.

‘
Where’s your keys?’

‘
In my bag.’ I was tempted to add his name. ‘Danny.’ Would it have helped or not? I could not risk it. He was too unstable. The wrong word at the wrong time could cost me. Visions of Rosie flashed through my mind and the word
if
... just
if
... What would happen to her
if
.. ?

Robin?
Janina? Help my child. Protect her.
A
vision
of
a
child
hugging
a
poisonous
toadstool
.

This
was my fear, deep and paralysing. I was tempted to beg. On my knees. On behalf of my child I wanted to beg. Leave me alone. Don’t kill me. Please. She needs me. She is innocent. She does not know the danger.

My
bag was shoved into my back. ‘I said, find your keys.’

I
opened my bag and for a moment this ordinary activity calmed me. I always carried a large, deep bag. And I never could find my keys, because they always dropped to the bottom, hiding behind my purse or slipping inside my cheque book, tangling with my comb or sliding through the lining.

My
fingers scrabbled blindly, hunting for the sharp, irregular shapes. Delay. They appeared in my hand as though by magic. I pressed the electronic key, tugged the door open and Danny reached over me to grab my doctor’s bag.

It
had been bought by a proud mother even though I had warned her it was drawing attention to my profession. That, of course, was why she had bought it. To rub it in, revenge herself finally on her husband. It had been a venomous gift, heavy with years of suppressed spite. Even now simply to carry it made me uncomfortable. It was as though she was with me.

And
now Danny had it and was scrabbling around inside it. ‘What’s this?’ He had found something. He held it up in front of the car courtesy light.

I
risked a glimpse and was tempted to laugh hysterically. He’d homed in on a ten millilitre ampoule of potassium chloride, KCI. Main line that, Danny Boy, and you’ll be off doctors’ lists for ever and onto someone else’s. And he’ll visit you at night, whether you ask him to or not.

With
the familiar object my fear receded. My confidence was returning. Perhaps he would not kill me or maim me. Maybe he only wanted the usual. Money, drugs.
He
must
not
know
I
recognised
him
.

‘
Potassium,’ I said. ‘Potassium chloride. We use it…’

He
knew what it was. Drug addicts are knowledgeable. They are also cunning. With a grunt he flung it across the floor. I heard it smash. Tinkle tinkle.

‘
Great.’ He’d found something else.

I
risked another peep beneath my elbow.

He
’d found a bottle of Temgesic. A patient had returned them. They hadn’t helped her sleep. I’d dropped them into my bag without thinking. To me they were returned drugs, a waste product. To Danny they were a lifeline.

He
pocketed them before delving back into my bag like a lion returning to a scavenged carcass and I was left cursing myself for the Temgesic.

We
had had a talk a few months ago from a Police Constable Harper with a ‘special interest’ in drugs. He had come to give us a code of conduct, helpful advice in the care of drugs. Already I knew he would sneer.

‘
So you had a bottle of Temgesic in your possession?’ And he would give a sad shake of his large head. ‘And you wonder why they keep targeting you doctors. They go for your cars, your surgeries, your homes. You’re your own worst enemies, Doctor. We’ve told you before. Don’t carry drugs.’

Useless
to protest that we were doctors. We had to carry drugs. They were life savers, sometimes.

Danny
was still grunting like a pig foraging for truffles. He fished out another trophy. Adrenaline this time. More grunts. He’d found some Prozac now and I almost rubbed my hands. I couldn’t have prescribed better myself. I was feeling brave now. Forgetting about the knife. Swallow them whole, Danny Boy, the ruddy lot. Then sit back and wait for them to take effect.

He
stuffed them into his pocket. He’d come to the bottom. He threw the bag down and pressed the knife against me, right through my coat, into my blouse. I heard material tearing, felt the prick of the knife. I felt bile well up in the back of my throat.

Danny
had been disappointed.

He
would take revenge on me.

I
wanted to plead again. ‘Please...’ For Rosie I tried to beg. ‘Please.’

Danny
snarled into the back of my neck. ‘I know where you live, Doctor. And I know where your little girl goes to school. That’s not all I know. I know you’re not there at the gates to meet her. You tell anyone about this and I’ll pick her up one day. Instead of the slimy old goat in the Lada it’ll be cousin Danny with a nice little happy pill for her to try.’