Without Consent (28 page)

She had a face like a nice round cheese, eyes like raisins. He was expecting me, Bailey said; he told me midday at the latest, but I'm early. All that announced with the answering smile which could terrify a guilty conscience, but not this innocent. And if you don't mind, he added, I shall wait.

Of course. He's a good man, your cousin; good to me. But only, it seemed to Bailey, marginally good to himself.
An adequate flat, because of the generous proportions of the living-room, but still a chunk, carved from grander accommodation, with an air about it of the temporary and something suggesting the perpetual student, or the genuine academic to whom surroundings are transitory and a taste for comfort a distraction not yet acquired. The mean furnishings granted by a landlord, with little added; indulgence discovered in the kitchen cupboards when the Filipino girl obligingly left him alone and went on to her next job, closing the door behind her so softly she could have been in a convent.

The man liked food; he had all the taste of a delicate gourmet who lived alone. Packets of smoked salmon and trout, speciality soups, olives, lemons and a variety of flavoured oils and green leaves in the fridge along with free-range eggs and a vacuum-packed loaf labelled as containing sun-dried tomatoes. Nothing here a really hungry man in need of a high-cholesterol bacon sandwich in white sliced toast could really crave, but Bailey noted the bread for future reference and did a mental inventory of the herbs for interest only. With a cup of coffee made in the man's cafetière and flavoured with the man's skimmed milk, he strolled into the bedroom which doubled as study. He was Dr Littleton's cousin, after all.

It smelt of flowers in here. The whole of the small high-ceilinged room was dominated by the desk rather than the small single bed which was simply cramped against the far wall; the bed a white-coloured couch with a much-washed cover; bare walls. There were no posters or pictures to indicate interests; the room of a celibate, with a random selection of unmatched clothes on a rail. Bailey touched a
dozen polyester shirts, trousers of a synthetic linen-look mix and wondered. The only thing he liked about this man was the quality of his coffee and the fact he was good to his cleaning girl.

Perhaps there would be a clue to everything in the sheaf of notes spread all over the desk, the only untidy feature of the whole place and a complement to the piles of books on the floor. A confession, neatly word processed and double spaced. In a long life, Bailey had never come across such a thing, but this area, for sure, was where the good doctor kept a life.

The window was double glazed, making this room alone semi-quiet if not entirely so. Bailey could see why the place was unsaleable for development, what with that subdued roar in the near distance, the slight vibration of the underground which would rattle nerves on the ground floor and still echoed slightly at the sixth. He waited, listened to nothing, waited. He found a medical card for the doctor; fluttered his hands over piles of paper, and then began to read. He was sitting on a good chair, built to hold male weight; supportive without being cosy and, even so, the subdued traffic hum was oddly seductive; the room felt warm, but protected from another hot day. His own eyelids heavy as lead.

Time passed. When he opened his eyes, there was the doctor's life, told in code. And his own rumbling belly.

T
wo rings, then dial off, then ring again, that was her code for Ryan from the phone box outside the clinic, and when Helen reached him all he could say was, get in there, girl, like someone encouraging a greyhound. Well, at least she
didn't have to phone work. The day off today had been organized well in advance, although she had not expected to spend it this way. Pretend you need an abortion or something, Ryan said. Helen stroked her own stomach, a trifle swollen from half a loaf of bread and three milky coffees from a thick white mug in a café where no one took much notice, provided she did not stay there long enough to interfere with the small breakfast crowd and the serious trade at noon.

There was no one of the doctor's description going out or coming in, but she could well have missed him. Her predominant feeling was one of intense foolishness. Trying to appear unconcerned, wishing she knew as much about pretence as she did about keeping secrets. All I want is sight of the man, she told herself.

Proof he exists.

T
he reception was small, comfortable without luxury, a sensible-looking place with a counter reached through swing doors and flanked by four armchairs. The glass-panelled swing doors muffled the noise of shouting. Leaning across the counter was a woman with a large bosom and red hair, clutching the blouse of the receptionist in one fist and shaking the other, yelling, ‘I want that doctor; I want Dr Littleton … where is he?' with the receptionist, trying to repeat, ‘He isn't here, he isn't here,' her face flushed with panic as she tried to avert her head from the woman. It was difficult to detect what was being said, although the import was clear, the voice rising in insistence, the fist ready to connect, the receptionist looking round wildly for help, but it was not the kind of
establishment which ran to a security guard and the door both in and out minimized sound. In an instinctive copying of Ryan's methods, Helen ran forward, grabbed the raised fist and twisted the woman's arm behind her back, her other arm round the neck, pulling her back, holding her still. The hold on the blouse was relinquished, the woman suddenly still.

‘There, there,' Helen said in her ear. ‘Now what was all that about?' What she did not know was how long she should hold her captive, so she let her go, slowly, patting her shoulder, making calming noises, the way she used to talk to her cat. ‘Dr Littleton is not here,' she said calmly. ‘That's a pity, isn't it? I was hoping to see him, too, but we can't, can we? Why don't you go home and phone him tomorrow?'

The aggression seeped away. The woman seemed accustomed to obedience; she produced a brilliant tremulous smile, straightened her hair and her cotton jacket and made unsteadily for the door. She wore a dress with a sweetheart neckline, appropriate for a little girl rather than a woman; she smelled of baby lotion, her arms shiny with it. Helen opened the door for her with a flourish. The receptionist sank into her own seat, gratefully.

‘Get many like that, do you?'

‘No … I didn't know what she was going to do …'

‘Don't worry about it; hope she doesn't come back. Look, could you help? I'm Dr Littleton's cousin; I've been away for a while and wanted to make contact. Could you give me his home address? Oh, and I've got to give you a message from Anna Stirland. She won't be in today, touch of flu, but you know what she's like, probably fine tomorrow.'

It was easy. Stepping out into the road, Helen looked right and left for the redheaded woman, grateful for her intervention which had made the difference between cooperation and the lack of it. She found that she was shaking, caught between a desire to laugh and another to run, with an underlying shame at how easy it was for a person who so prized truth, to be a liar.

She looked at her watch. Was there any point calling Bailey again? To say what? A lovely mess, this was. A gut-churning mess which was set to damage life beyond repair and there was nothing she could do to redeem it, except be braver and more reckless than she felt. A silly bitch.

B
ailey made toast out of the bread with the sun-dried tomatoes, detested it and chewed it solidly, without benefit of butter, since there was none of that. At least the bread had been vacuum-packed, otherwise he might not have chosen it, reluctant as he was to touch what the doctor had touched with his own fair hands. The doctor's bathroom was as clean as his kitchen; it was not a lack of hygiene that made his skin crawl.

‘Juniper extract, overdose fatal,' he read. ‘Hellebore and aloes … iron dust, ivy …' all used to effect an abortion. ‘Internal douching, strong brandy, water as hot as possible, brine vinegar …' Abortifacients, first swallowed and then inserted via syringe as time passed and more was known. Abortionists using a Higginson's syringe, or an enema with soapy water, stirring up the contents of the uterus with a long sound … Syringing was the commonest form of death because it was the commonest practice … it risked the inclusion of air … death by air embolism could
produce a fatal airlock in the lungs and brain within minutes of the procedure. Fat embolisms may be produced by soapy particles used in solution. But most, death from air, entering the bloodstream via vulnerable dilated bloodvessels …'

And in the doctor's bathroom cabinet, two packeted syringes. Sixty millilitres, bladder wash, womb irrigation, for the use of, like the one he had left in the park. Nice souvenirs the man kept.

He was an historian of his trade, that was all; nothing more sinister than that. There were library cards and certificates and, in the drawers of the desk, the history of a long and failed legal case. The doctor seemed to divide his interest between obstetrics and law. Not a humorous person, Bailey surmised; there was nothing in his book collection which suggested the least desire for entertainment. Bailey started in on the legal documents, wearily but intensely interested, sitting on the edge of the chair, his body tense, so that when the doorbell went, he sprang to his feet clumsily, cramp in his calves, scattering paper far and wide, then moved in ungainly fashion towards the door. He had a right to be here, he told himself: he was the doctor's cousin, and beside the doctor, a picture of health.

R
ose was feeling in a mood of more than usual insolence. Even though she thought it was nonsense, there was something about the impending state of being a married woman which had a stimulating effect, as if it meant joining the real world, giving up the conversation of a girl and entering a club of those who could justifiably moan about men from a position of established authority. The wife. As in a
nagging wife, scolding wife, she-who-must-be-obeyed wife; mustn't let it go to her head, it was only the party which mattered, but all the same, another life began here and she had no regrets about the one she was ending. What day of the week was it, now? Days of the week did not matter in this office or a courtroom; there was no routine which made the same thing happen on successive Mondays, not even a canteen with the same weekly menu. The only reason she was thinking about the days of the week was counting down. One afternoon and two working days to go, and then she and Michael would be off to Majorca, via the wedding, of course. Such a lot to do. Sneaking out of the room she shared with five others, down the corridor where she joked with the workmen who were replacing the lights, into Helen's office where she could use the phone in peace in order to check the progress of the damned cake. Being a busy bride-to-be and making them laugh in the shared room was all very well, but there was a limit to how much they could take. Rose knew colleagues did not always like you for being so volubly happy; there were times in her own working past when she had teased a wedding candidate, mercilessly, with the crudest jokes she could find and she wasn't sorry for it.

Standing in Helen's room, wanting to tell Helen about the dress, watching the staff across the road in the early afternoon, she leafed through Helen's diary. Now why had Aunty H wanted a day off? The page-a-day diary had a line through today's date with the initials B-RO. Didn't mean much, possibly an interesting assignation with a washing-machine man. Rose saw the supervisor of the
paint people opposite sitting near the window, chewing in what Rose imagined was a furtive manner; she felt sorry for those who could not eat as they pleased and stay thin, as she could, and, in the same breath, thought of Anna. Give her a call, too. Leave her a message in case she forgot to organize the flowers.

She was surprised to get an answer. Wasn't anyone but herself and those in the immediate vicinity at work today? Was the rest of London at home in this muggy warmth? Anna's voice was cool but apologetic, saying wasn't it unutterably silly and downright embarrassing to have got measles at her age? Confining her to home quarters, forbidding her the joys of weddings or flowers; sorry, sorry, sorry.

The woman over the road continued to chew and Rose tapped her fingers on the desk impatiently, mouthing commiserations, chatting a bit, being as nice as she knew how and all the time thinking, well, never mind the flowers, then, who needed them? Knowing that Anna's measles were more important than her floral decorations in a few days' time, but nevertheless annoyed, because it meant something else to do. She didn't much care about bloody flowers, but other people did.

Get well soon, then. See you after Majorca. Byeee.

What did RO stand for?

Register Office? The old cow.

T
he two cousins of Dr Littleton met on his doorstep without much more than an initial shock of recognition. The progress of Helen's day was making her immune to surprise and her heart had been beating so fast with fear at
what she might encounter, this kind of surprise was a relief.

‘Hello.'

‘Do come in,' he said politely. ‘Who referred you? Was it treatment you wanted, or merely a consultation?'

His smile was false; she felt suddenly and profoundly ashamed.

‘I'm glad you're here, though I don't know how or why,' he continued, waving her in blithely as if he owned the place. ‘I've been needing some help. Doctor Titillation here has an interesting desk. Needs some deciphering.'

He sat on one side of it, she on the other, like a pupil at an interview with the headmaster.

‘I can only presume that you know something about the resident of this not-very-nice apartment,' Bailey went on in headmasterly tones. ‘The theory being that he used his job at a clinic to pick out disturbed or unhappy women, either pregnant or not; gained their trust; offered or foisted upon them some kind of alternative treatment and then raped them.'