Deadly Admirer Read online

  Deadly Admirer

  The second Kate Kinsella Medical Mystery

  ‘Green's writing has all the requisite crackle and tension.’

  - The Guardian.

  Every small town in the English Midlands needs a nurse and an undertaker. Private eyes and shoe-fetishists are less common.

  In Longborough, Kate Kinsella is the nurse who wants to be a detective; local undertaker (and shoe-fetishist), the ‘gloriously weird’ Hubert Humberstone is her enthusiastic side-kick.

  Christine Green’s ‘constantly enjoyable’ Kate Kinsella medical mysteries updated the cosy village ‘whodunit?’ to small town Middle England in the 1990s and spiced her stories with a generous helping of traditional British seaside postcard humour.

  CHRISTINE GREEN was born in Luton but escaped at the age of 17 to train as a nurse in London at the Royal National Ear Nose & Throat and Hampstead General hospitals. She has worked in District Nursing and Health Visiting, as a midwife, a teacher, a youth worker and as a prison visitor. She and her nursing sleuth Kate Kinsella made their debuts in fiction in 1991 with Deadly Errand (also available in Ostara Crime). Since then Christine Green has written fifteen crime novels and two historical novels centred on the famous Coronation Street during the years of World War II. Twice married, with two daughters (both nurses), Christine Green now lives on the Isle of Wight.

  Ostara Crime is a new imprint which aims to collect and republish quality crime writing for new readers. The series editor is Mike Ripley, an award-winning crime writer and editor who was crime fiction critic for the Daily Telegraph and then the Birmingham Post reviewing almost 1,000 crime novels in 18 years. He now writes the Getting Away With Murder column for Shots E-zine on www.shotsmag.co.uk and is also the series editor of Ostara's Top Notch Thrillers imprint.

  Also by Christine Green

  Deadly Errand

  Deadly Practice

  Deadly Admirer

  Christine Green

  Ostara Publishing

  Copyright © 1992 Christine Green

  Ostara Publishing Edition 2012

  The right of Christine Green to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 9781906288761

  A CIP reference is available from the British Library

  Printed and Bound in the United Kingdom

  Ostara Publishing

  13 King Coel Road

  Lexden

  Colchester CO3 9AG

  www.ostarapublishing.co.uk

  For Richard and the girls, V.J. and K.C. With all my love.

  Deadly Admirer

  Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Chapter One

  On Saturday nights the inhabitants of Longborough are either indoors watching television or out eating, drinking, fornicating or fighting. The casualty department of Longborough General sees the results.

  This Saturday was busier than most. At two a.m. we were still full, each bay containing the result of a misspent Saturday evening. All still alive, bar one. He, poor chap, had died as a result of irregularity. Irregular drinking and even more irregular sex.

  He and his common-law wife had been out celebrating his retirement from his job as a postman. He'd drunk at least six whiskies and the light of love had shone once again. Its candle had flared only briefly and then been snuffed out. He had died post-coitally, another Saturday night victim.

  His wife seemed more peeved than distressed.

  ‘Just like him,’ she said, as she unbuttoned her grey coat, her face flushed with the oppressive hospital warmth. Later, she would be pale and trembly when the realisation came that no amount of nagging would ever stir him into action again. For the moment, however, annoyance buoyed her up, a shield against shock and misery.

  ‘Just like him,’ she repeated. ‘He always rolled over and went to sleep afterwards. This time though, he didn't wake up. Selfish pig!’

  She accepted my offer of tea and I sat her down in the room, no bigger than a cupboard, that we reserve for grieving relatives. My companion nurse, Jane Simons, continued to cope with the observations of the more serious patients while I went to put the kettle on.

  The ward ‘kitchen' contained three wooden chairs, an electric cooker with only two rings working and a fridge. On one of the chairs sat the casualty officer, Ben Haselbech. He was fast asleep, with his straight fair hair flopping over his forehead. It seemed a crime to wake him but with just the three of us on duty it was impossible to cope without him. I made the tea and placed a mug on the table and then, kneeling down, I shook him gently by the shoulder.

  ‘Oh, God!’ he said after several shakes. ‘I dreamt I was in my bed. It was wonderful. What's going on?’

  ‘Nothing's changed. We're still full. The registrars haven't turned up yet and I've checked the bed statement. We've only three empties.’

  ‘Bloody typical,’ he said as he swept his hair back from his forehead. ‘Is that tea for me?’ he asked, glancing at the full mug. I nodded. ‘Will you have a word with Mrs Flore? She's in the relatives' room.’

  ‘Can't you do it, Kate?’

  I shook my head. ‘You'll have to tell her about the postmortem. I'll speak to her afterwards.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly, ‘I'm on my way.’

  The night wore on. Mrs Flore sadly left her late husband behind and we carried on working solidly. By four a.m. we had patched up, discharged, reassured and performed a minor miracle – casualty was empty.

  All three of us had just sat down exhausted in reception when a young woman walked in. She was wearing a black tracksuit and white trainers and surveyed us over the top of the counter.

  ‘Please, I need help.’ She spoke calmly. ‘I've just taken an overdose.’

  We weren't surprised at what she'd done. Saturday night was ever popular as a time that proved life's disappointments. Sometimes, though, I thought Saturday night was the night, only because Sunday followed and to the lonely and afraid Sunday offers only Songs of Praise on TV and the promise of work on Monday. What did surprise us was her calmness and the fact that she came in alone. Most people bring a friend, or a relative or both.

  Scrabbling to our feet, the three of us stood up as guiltily as if we'd been caught by the general manager pilfering aspirin. Ben guided her to a chair and began to fill out the medical notes.

  Once we'd had an all-night receptionist but cut-backs meant that from midnight we were on our own. Even the porter deserted us to collect bodies from the ward or do security patrols of the ward areas.

  ‘Paracetamol and sleeping pills – Temazepam – they are prescribed,’ she said in a low-pitched, rather gentle voice.

  Ben didn't usually have much patience with would-be suicides but for her he managed a kind smile.

  ‘How many have you taken?’ he asked.

  ‘Fifteen,’ she replie
d, ‘of each.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now,’ she said. ‘A few minutes ago. I drove here straight away.’

  ‘Staff Nurse,’ he said, giving me a friendly wink, ‘do your bit – stat!’

  Doing my bit meant giving the stomach a wash out and stat meant pronto.

  Paracetamol kills. Not instantly, as many desperate to die think, but slowly, cruelly, poisoning the liver, making you vomit, making your head bang, making your last days or weeks worse than anything you ever suffered before.

  Vanessa Wootten was thirty-one but looked twenty-five. She had the sort of elfin face that lasts well, a clear pale skin and large blue eyes full of unshed tears and misery. A fresh bruise had marked her cheekbone but even that didn't diminish her beauty. Her blonde hair, cut short, was jauntily spiky on top, and from her delicate ears golden circles hung. I wondered when she had felt happy or hopeful enough to put on those earrings.

  I walked with her to one of the six empty bays, pulled the green-leaved curtains around the nearest bay and helped her clamber on to the trolley. Then I began my explanation of the inglorious technique of stomach wash out.

  ‘There's no need to explain,’ she said with a wry smile, ‘I'm a district nurse. If you give me the tube I'll swallow it myself.’

  The wash out trolley stood in permanent readiness in one of the treatment rooms and I trundled it in and lubricated the tube to make the passage down her gullet easier. Laying the tube on ice makes the tube stiffer and even easier, but there was no ice in readiness and no time to waste.

  ‘Pretend it's a piece of steak,’ I suggested, which was my usual patter and works well, although since I've been saying it I can't seem to cope with steak any more. Bravely she took the tube and began to swallow. I found myself gulping with her, willing the tube to go down easily and sighing when finally it was down her oesophagus and into her stomach. She then positioned herself on her side and I began to syphon warm water via the stomach tube in, and out again, in and out again, until after a while my arm began to ache. Finally I once more raised the funnel and drained out the last of the deadly solution into the bucket.

  As I worked I murmured nursely encouragements: ‘Soon be over,’ and ‘Just relax, breathe easily,’ and ‘Not long now.’ Sayings that did more to reassure me than perhaps my patient.

  Eventually the water ran clear and I slowly eased up the tube and used a tissue to wipe the moisture gently from nose and mouth.

  I left her for a while to rest. Dr Haselbech had found the strength to get to his bed and Jane was tidying up the minor ops theatre. Vanessa Wootten's first ordeal was at an end.

  ‘Found out why she did it, Kate?’ Jane asked as she placed a fresh white paper sheet on the theatre table.

  ‘I haven't asked her yet. I wanted to give her time to recover first.’

  ‘No doubt some man's given her the elbow. Is she very disturbed?’

  ‘She's as cool as yesterday's rhubarb. Not even a tear yet.’

  ‘Well, that's good,’ said Jane, ‘because Ben wants you to try to assess her mental condition and keep her here for a few hours until he's had a sleep. Then he'll refer her to the psychiatric registrar, if necessary.’

  ‘And what if she doesn't want to stay?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘You're the qualified psychiatric nurse.’

  She left me to continue with the tidying, her tall slim body swaying as she walked, as fragile-looking as a newly planted sapling. Appearances were deceptive: Jane, although young, was stalwart oak, with an appetite like a navvy and, when she chose, language that could match any drunken football hooligan. The casualty porter at the first hint of trouble would cower behind her, while she stood imperiously before the most obnoxious troublemaker giving them verbal hell.

  Vanessa lay on the trolley, eyes closed, hands folded defensively across her chest. I stood and watched her for a while, wondering if she had felt as I had on my thirtieth birthday. I'd woken mildly miserable that morning, received five cards, one from Hubert, and had spent most of the day reading a book called Your Aging Process. From it I gleaned that I would get shorter in height, my brain cells would disappear and indeed had been disappearing for years, and my nose would continue to grow for ever. Information so depressing should be banned. For weeks afterwards I became obsessed with measuring my nose. It was still quite small and didn't seem to be growing at any calculable rate so I stopped worrying. What did it matter anyway? Would I really mind being four foot ten, thin-boned, shapeless and with a long nose when I was eighty? I decided that with my eyesight on the wane and my brain cells in single figures I'd probably be quite satisfied with myself.

  At the moment I was five foot four, a size fourteen, had good skin, and eyes that were greenish-blue on bad days and turquoise on good days. I had no deformities, few friends, but no known enemies either. I'd resolved then that no other birthday would upset me quite so much again.

  ‘I expect you wonder why I did it?’ Vanessa's voice shook me from my self-indulgent reverie.

  I nodded.

  She smiled at me and said quietly, ‘I expect you think my boyfriend's ditched me.’

  ‘Could be a reason,’ I agreed.

  ‘Well it wasn't that. I ditched him. I'd been trying to ditch him for ages. Every time he threatened suicide. Once he slashed his wrists, another time he drove the car into a tree. Wrecked the tree, he came out without a scratch. He made my life a living hell. Tantrums, emotional blackmail. So this time, though, I thought I'd show him I really meant it. He'd have to accept the break-up then, wouldn't he? It was only a gesture really, but once I'd started I couldn't stop. He left after seeing me take the first few. I realised then that he'd wanted me to die. He'd probably wanted it all along. Then no one else could have me. I seem to attract nutters. By the time I'd swallowed the lot I realised he'd be getting just what he wanted. So I came here.’

  ‘How do you feel now?’ Which was a daft question but she smiled.

  ‘I feel exhausted, but relaxed, sort of dreamy.’

  I supposed that was how a bucket of water away from death might make me feel too.

  ‘Do you want to talk any more or shall I let you rest?’ I asked, trying to be diplomatic.

  ‘I do have another problem,’ she said. ‘I'm sorry to be a nuisance.’

  I could believe that. I'd found during the time I'd worked in casualty that most overdose victims struggled with far more than just one problem. ‘Try me. I'm a good listener. And sometimes it helps to talk. Puts a new perspective on things.’

  She stared at me for a moment. ‘Are you married?’

  I shook my head. ‘I'm thirty,’ I answered, as if that was a benchmark for spinsterhood. ‘I lived with someone once. He died, an accident. Since then I suppose I've been ultra-fussy or ultrawary. Anyway, the men I meet seem to think I'm either tempestuous or forever randy. Their disappointment is agonising to watch.’

  Vanessa didn't smile, she frowned. ‘I'm being followed,’ she whispered. ‘A man is following me. Sometimes during the day, sometimes in the evening. He's watching me. I think he wants to kill me.’

  Uncharitably the first word that came to mind was paranoia, but I couldn't remember much about it except that people imagine they are being persecuted.

  Before I could comment, Vanessa said, ‘I know you don't believe me. I've been to the police. They don't believe me. They think I'm a neurotic woman who is probably lonely. I might be lonely but I'm not imagining being followed; he …’

  She tailed off as if having told me she had said too much. I had to make a quick decision – was she mad or not? I decided, intuitively, that she was sane, but very frightened. And although I suspected that her boyfriend was probably the man in question, she still needed help. He sounded much more loopy than she did.

  ‘I may be able to help you,’ I said. ‘My name's Kate Kinsella and I run a detective agency from an office in the High Street – above Humberstones the funeral directors. Come and see me when you feel better and perhaps to
gether we can sort this out.’

  I'd made a sneaky move here and I hoped she didn't think I always found my clients this way, but her face brightened in surprise.

  ‘How do you manage to do two jobs?’

  I shrugged, trying to look modest. I didn't want her to assume that I was some sort of super-efficient jack of all trades. ‘I only do occasional work here through the Berkerly Nursing Agency,’ I explained. ‘Just the odd night but it helps to pay for a few luxuries.’

  I tried to make it sound as if my working nights were merely an optional extra. In reality I would have starved without the income.

  ‘And do you really think you can find this man?’

  ‘I'll have a damn good try,’ I replied. ‘I might be able to warn him off at least.’

  ‘I hope you're right, Kate,’ she murmured. ‘I'd like to go home now.’

  ‘The doctor wants to see you again. He'd prefer you to stay.’

  ‘Can I discharge myself?’

  ‘Well, you can,’ I said, ‘though I think you should wait to see the doctor. But if you are sure you want to go now I'll explain it to him.’ I didn't say that I probably wouldn't be able to wake him. He'd been without sleep for thirty-six hours. ‘It's hospital policy that all non-accidental overdoses are given a psychiatric appointment. Will you be willing to attend out-patients in a day or two?’

  ‘Of course I'll come.’

  ‘You'll ring tomorrow?’

  She nodded. ‘I'll do that. I promise. And I'll come to your office.’

  She smiled then a little sadly and whispered thank you; I knew that with such a pleasant smile and such a pretty face few people would refuse her anything. In fact she still seemed as calm as she had appeared when she first arrived, but was she still a suicide risk? Pure intuition told me she wasn't. But then sometimes my intuition lets me down.