Deadly Practice Read online

  Once in Riverview Lane I decided that my image was most definitely wrong. The lane was bordered by large neat bungalows. A newish estate where lawns undulated in smooth mounds, where garden gnomes guarded small ponds, where weeds only peeked up through the earth momentarily to be killed with speed and precision. Where the world was evergreen and Gardener's World the voice of God. I drove very slowly. I'd have to think this one through.

  Chapter Two

  I'd almost decided to turn back when I realized it was too late. I'd come to the end of Riverview Lane and although what I saw didn't look like a medical centre there were so many police cars and uniformed police about I knew that I must have found the place where Jenny had worked. Parking was going to be difficult, if not impossible. I had two options, reverse back at speed or brazen it out. Deciding not to do either, I stopped, lowered my head and pretended to be rummaging through my handbag.

  Not many of the uniformed branch know me but if the CID from Longborough were in evidence they would wonder what the hell I was doing there. I hoped that Dunsmore CID hadn't joined forces with them.

  Somewhat furtively I glanced up. The river was more of a stream really, some way behind the two bungalows, which were separated not by a wall or bushes but by a low plaque on a wrought-iron stand saying RIVERVIEW MEDICAL CENTRE. A weeping willow stood to the left of the bungalow on the right-hand side; vertically challenged conifers lined the frontages. The small lawns between bungalows and conifers were as neat as carpets. It was all very discreet, as if being a medical centre was something not to be too well advertised, especially in a lane that had garden gnomes and waterfalls. Did I want to work in such a place anyway?

  The police still milled around. I could ring from home, I decided. I started the engine, urging it gently not to make any unforgivable exhaust noises. It complied, but then had the temerity to stall as I tried to do a perfect three-point turn. A young constable watched me eagerly. Luckily he wasn't quite near enough to see that my tyres verged on bald and my tax disc was out of date by two weeks. But he did begin to walk towards me. In my rear-view mirror I saw his face drop as I completed my four-point turn and drove off.

  It was by now three thirty. I could I supposed go back to Dunsmore and ring from a phone box there; then have tea and a bun in a café and hone in on the locals talking about the murder. Or I could drive round to the Martin house and pretend to be from the press. I like to think it was moral conscience that stopped me doing the latter but it wasn't – I'd noticed my petrol gauge was nearly on empty. I could just about get back to Longborough. Anyway mere nosiness didn't pay any bills. I had no reason to get involved at all.

  Hubert was just returning from a funeral as I arrived back in Longborough. He wore his usual black ensemble and sombre expression but he smiled and waved as I drove into my parking space at the back of Humberstones. He came up to the car as I was getting out. His smile hadn't lasted long.

  ‘Your tyres are bald,’ he said. I tried to block his way so that he couldn't see the front of the car but that didn't stop him. ‘And you shouldn't be on the road. You're not legal.’

  I muttered something about getting an MOT done soon but I could see he wasn't convinced. ‘You're off the road from now on then, aren't you?’

  I nodded. Poverty and unemployment does that to you – makes you meek! Takes away your bargaining power. ‘The meek shall inherit the earth,’ I said.

  ‘I won't be holding my breath, then,’ said Hubert, as he passed me by on his way to the front of the building.

  I walked up the two dark and narrow flights of stairs to my office. Day and night the light bulb glowed from inside a purplefringed lamp. All it needed at the top of the stairs was a picture by Munch – The Scream. I didn't feel like screaming but I did feel ready for a good mope. If I couldn't drive then I couldn't get back to my cottage in Farley Wood. I checked my purse for money – a fruitless pursuit. I had enough for about half a gallon of petrol or a bar of chocolate and a doughnut or two. I checked again, unbelieving, peering into the side compartment – which was empty except for two receipts and a book of second-class stamps.

  I made myself a cup of instant coffee and sat staring out at the High Street, watching somewhat enviously as the day-time population of Longborough made their way home to cooked meals, a bit of gardening and TV. In my spartan office I had no stove to cook on, no TV to watch and only a camp bed to sleep on. I've often been told life isn't a bed of roses, as if that's a consolation. Of course life is a bed of roses; roll over on one and you get a thorn in the backside.

  I tried then to contact Riverview Medical Centre. The line was engaged. I tried again and again and again. Then I slammed down the receiver in irritation.

  My good mope had turned into an ‘Is life worth living?’ scenario by the time I saw Hubert again. He appeared in my doorway wearing a smart grey suit and blue tie. The hairs on his head had been carefully arranged in an attempt to hide the baldness beneath. It hadn't worked but he did look very presentable. Dolly Two-Shoes should be impressed.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘You look very nice, Hubert.’

  ‘Nice? Don't I look a bit sexy?’

  ‘In a Norman Tebbit sort of way, yes.’

  ‘I'd rather look like John Major.’

  ‘Tough,’ I said, ‘I'd rather look like Princess Di.’

  That silenced him for a moment. Then he said, ‘If you're quick you'll find fish and chips in the oven and a bottle of wine on the table in my flat.’

  ‘And if I'm slow?’ I asked, smiling.

  He shrugged. ‘If she stands me up I'll be back to share it with you.’

  ‘She won't stand you up, Hubert.’

  ‘It's happened before,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it won't happen this time.’

  ‘You're not right about many things.’

  I ignored that remark. ‘Thanks for the fish and chips. I was sinking into the proverbial doldrums.’

  ‘I've a feeling about the Martin murder,’ said Hubert. ‘It could be a lucky break for you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  I managed to laugh. ‘I'm the one who's supposed to have the hunches.’

  ‘Huh!’ said Hubert as he left.

  I decided to dress down for my meal. I changed into a black track suit. It's hard when you're not working to want to look smart. You feel all dressed up with nowhere to go. Tonight I wanted to feel relaxed.

  Compared with my office and box-room Hubert's flat was palatial. His kitchen boasted a state of the art cooker and with its lights shining and the smell of fish and chips permeating the air it made me feel a lot more cheerful. He'd opened a bottle of Australian red for me and the table was laid. I switched on his portable TV, drank a glass of wine and counted my blessings; Hubert was most definitely amongst their number.

  Halfway through my fish and chips the local news came on. The murder of Jenny Martin was, of course, the top news story. She was thirty-four years old, married and the police had a good description of a man who could help with their enquiries. And they had a name for him too. A joyrider aged nineteen who was known to the police in three counties as Nick ‘the Ace' Fenny. It seems he had been stealing cars from the time he could reach the pedals. He was also keen on arson and nearly always managed to leave his stolen vehicles burnt out.

  The cause of Jenny Martin's death had not yet been disclosed but I got the distinct impression from the police inspector who was interviewed that he thought Nick ‘the Ace' was capable of any crime, was as dangerous as a Rottweiler on heat and should not be approached.

  Car theft and joyriding has become a bit of a problem in Longborough. The large council estate on the outskirts of town is constantly blamed as being a haven for psychopathic would-be car killers. In reality most car stealing in Longborough is committed by bored little boys who doubt they will ever grow into big boys earning enough to buy their own cars. Probably they think they're such good drivers that not only do they live
charmed lives but other drivers and pedestrians do too. Drunk drivers seem to think likewise.

  I drank most of the wine then moved into the lounge, switched on Hubert's huge TV and curled up on one of the plush cream sofas. The black-stemmed lamps with their cerise shades were alight. I felt warm and cosy. I waited to be entertained. It wasn't to be. It was one of those evenings on TV when you can't escape worthy programmes. Programmes you think you ought to watch out of misplaced masochism. Programmes that leave you wondering how you dare to be so complacent about just being alive. In those few hours there were so many things to take a smile off anyone's face. There was bereavement, homelessness, war, famine, gun-running, bombs, AIDS, ecological disasters. Followed by unemployment and Crime Watch.

  By the time Hubert came home at midnight I was never so pleased to see anyone. Not that he reciprocated. He had a face like thunder. ‘You haven't even washed up,’ he said as he peered into the kitchen.

  ‘I'll do it now,’ I said, ‘I didn't expect you home so early.’ He didn't answer but stomped into the kitchen and moved about noisily for a while. Then he came back into the lounge with half a glass of red wine in his hand, saying, ‘You could have left me a whole glass.’ Then he sat down heavily in the sofa opposite mine; held the glass in his hand as if it were a crystal ball and stared into it.

  ‘Hubert, are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to guess?’

  He looked up at me warily. ‘I'm in love,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘is that all? I thought it was serious.’

  ‘You've got no feelings, Kate. It's worse at my age.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘I dunno. It feels like your last chance. I'm so scared I'll botch it.’

  ‘What happened this evening?’

  He stared down into the wine again and mumbled: ‘We had a nice meal at the Grand, went for a drive, walked along the canal. Then when we got back to her place she didn't invite me in for coffee …’ He paused to take a swig of the wine.

  ‘Perhaps she didn't have any Gold Blend.’

  Hubert nearly choked. ‘That's typical of you, Kate. It's no wonder you haven't got a man.’

  That hurt, but I didn't let it show. ‘Hubert,’ I said quietly, ‘just because she didn't invite you in doesn't mean she doesn't fancy you.’

  ‘It doesn't?’

  ‘No. I take it you've arranged to meet again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then. She must like you. She probably doesn't want to rush you.’

  He thought about that for a few moments. ‘What should I do?’ he asked.

  ‘Take her out and then ask her back here. If she wants a chaperone tell her I'll sit between you.’

  He managed a half smile. ‘That won't be necessary, Kate.’

  I made us both cocoa then and Hubert lost his stricken look. We sat for a while watching a late-night chat show.

  ‘By the way, Kate,’ he said, ‘I nearly forgot. I found out something at the Grand. Of course it could only be rumour …’

  ‘Yes?’ I said eagerly.

  ‘The murder victim's car could have been stolen from outside the adult education centre. Jenny Martin was taking evening classes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, that particular evening the centre wasn't running her class, the tutor was ill.’

  I didn't quite know what to say to that. ‘How exactly did you find this out, Hubert?’

  ‘I listened to the conversation at the next table.’

  ‘I hope you didn't neglect Do— Dorothy while you were eavesdropping.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good, I'm glad to hear it. I'm going to bed now, Hubert. I'll see you tomorrow and as soon as I'm working again I shall buy you a present.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A large jar of Gold Blend coffee – then all the coffees can be yours.’

  ‘You're not funny, Kate. Goodnight.’

  The next morning I began ringing Riverview at eight twenty-five. At eight thirty exactly I struck lucky. A pleasant voice answered my query.

  ‘The practice manager isn't in until nine but if you'd like to leave your telephone number I'll get him to ring you back.’ Him! I thought. General practice was changing. I stayed by the phone hopefully all morning. I dusted my two rooms, cleaned the sink, polished my desk, tidied the filing cabinet, made my bed, bit my nails and still had change from an hour. Unemployment was making me demented.

  At one o'clock the phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Miss Kinsella,’ said a smooth deep voice. ‘Riverview practice manager here. I believe you were making enquiries about a job here as a practice nurse. Do you have any experience?’

  ‘Of nursing?’

  ‘Of practice nursing.’

  ‘I do have accident and emergency experience and I'm quite well versed in preventative health care.’ (A slight exaggeration.)

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, then there was a long pause. ‘We do need someone, as you've probably heard. Our last practice nurse … was tragically killed.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I murmured.

  ‘It could be an awkward time for anyone new but as I said we do need someone pronto. I'll have to take up references before the interview. When would you be able to start?’

  ‘Whenever you want.’

  ‘I see, you're not working at the moment.’

  ‘I have done agency work until fairly recently but there isn't any work at the moment.’

  ‘Quite. What's your UKCC number?’

  ‘Hold on, please.’ I rummaged in my desk drawer like a deranged mole and eventually found my card. I gave him the number. Luckily the expiry date was a year hence. Otherwise – no payment, no nursing work.

  ‘I'll make a provisional date for interview tomorrow, that's Wednesday, at two o'clock. Tonight I'll pop an application form in the post to you. Please bring it with you to your interview.’

  ‘I will, thank you.’

  As I put down the phone I realized I was wary of the practice manager with no name. He sounded a real smoothie – not in what he said but the way that he said it. And I got the impression that he thought Jenny Martin had been somehow disloyal in getting herself murdered.

  Chapter Three

  Just before 2 p.m. on Wednesday I arrived, by Daimler, in Riverview Lane. Hubert insisted on driving me but I insisted no one saw us. I sank as far down in the front seat as possible and asked Hubert to drop me at the top of the lane. Arriving in a hearse was the way not to get a nursing job. Hubert had, in ways he often keeps secret, managed to glean a few more bits of information about the murder: Jenny Martin had, according to him, been hit over the head then strangled, and Nick ‘the Ace' Fenny, the chief witness and suspect, had gone to ground. That was all; and although I was interested I told myself it was none of my business.

  I slunk out of the Daimler and hurried down the lane at a brisk trot. I saw the large backsides of two residents who seemed to be grovelling in the soil as if praying to the deity responsible for handsome petunias. I hoped no one lurking behind lace nets saw me.

  Today there were no police in evidence and as I neared the medical centre I slowed right down so that I wasn't puffing. I had a choice between the right bungalow and the left. I chose the left. The front door merely said ‘Enter' so I did. The receptionist sat at a desk in the hallway. Health promotion leaflets decorated the walls and a further selection was housed in a plastic stand near the receptionist's arm. She was in her twenties with a cheerful smile and blue eyes that were slightly crossed. She asked me to wait in the adjoining waiting-room.

  A plastic-coated bench lined one wall and there was a variety of straight-backed chairs along the other two. In one of them sat a middle-aged woman who was staring out of the window. She looked up once, I smiled – she didn't. She had a face as long as a frosty bucket. If she was the only other candidate then I was in with a chance.

  In the middle of the room was a coffee table scattered with more leaflets and some magazines: Acu
puncture Today, Reflexology News and Aromatherapy Update.

  These magazines worried me. I know hardly anything about alternative therapies and although I had spent a week reading through a book on practice nursing in the local book shop (I couldn't find one in the library) it had merely covered ‘straight' issues. Hubert had taken a passing interest in Reflexology News, but only because he's excited by feet.

  There was a corner table in the room too with upright books and above that certificates mounted in glass on the wall. Two names cropped up: Amroth and Holland. Dr Amroth, it seems, had been in the army and had acquired a first-aid certificate in 1956. That was disquieting. Somehow you feel first aid should have been incorporated into medical training.

  The woman in the corner continued to glower towards the outside world. Perhaps she was nervous I thought. It was then that I heard more footsteps and into the room came – the real competition. She was so … smart and pretty. Fair hair tied back with a black bow, grey suit, crisp white blouse, tall and slim as a model. I hated her! Then she smiled a ravishing smile. ‘I'm Gina,’ she said. ‘My appointment's for two fifteen – when's yours?’

  ‘Two,’ I mumbled. I glanced at my watch. It was now two fifteen. She smiled at me again and sat down next to misery personified. Within minutes they were chatting together. Not only was she stunning looking she was also nice. The practice nurse's job was slipping away from me as fast as an eel down a drain. Already I'd begun to justify not getting the job by telling myself I'd have hated it anyway.

  The sound of heavy male footsteps made the three of us look up. A tall man in his early thirties stood there, craggily good looking and dressed in a sharp blue-grey suit. His black hair was close cropped, his eyebrows thick and bushy. I'm a sucker for intrepid-type men and he looked pretty intrepid to me. When he said in a deep, smooth voice ‘Miss Kinsella?’ I didn't budge. ‘Miss Kinsella,’ he said again. This time I found my voice. ‘That's me,’ came out in a high-pitched croak. He smiled a smile of dazzling white. ‘Follow me,’ he said.