‘UPS here. I’ve got a delivery for a Mr Gerber. Have I got the right number?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m coming off the A432. I’m only a few minutes away.’
‘Come down the second track on the right. It’s signposted.’
‘I’m tight on time. Need to just drop and fly. Can you get someone to come out and meet me at the front?’
‘I don’t know. This is getting to be a habit with you guys.’
‘Yeah – I’m sorry about that.’
‘I can’t always do this, you know.’
‘You’d be helping me out.’
‘Oh, ho ho. Now there’s an incentive.’ The receptionist sighed. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll get his secretary to wait for you. But just this once.’
‘Good girl.’
By the time he got back to the office the phone call had already come from Reception. Marsha was on her feet, replacing the handset. ‘I’ve got to go. I won’t be long.’
‘That’s OK.’ He sat down. ‘I’ll wait.’
She looked at him, looked at the chair he was sitting on. Then she looked at the computer. She bent over and, very coolly, very deliberately, logged out of the session. Taking her handbag off the back of the chair, she gave him a tight smile. Caffery smiled back and held up his hand. If you can’t trust a cop who can you trust?
That was what his mother used to say. It had always made his dad laugh.
When she’d gone he went to the window and waited for her to appear on the gravel driveway. She came out with her chin held high. Taut and controlled, arms crossed, looking off down the driveway. In his thirty-nine years’ experience he’d learnt that girls who dressed and behaved like Marsha never followed it up in the bedroom. Guys would get fantasies about whips and leather and being sat on, but girls like Marsha wanted more gentleness between the sheets than the ones who wore angora cardigans. Out of the bedroom, though, the Marshas of the world could be true predators. She’d got him – nailed him with logging out like that. This was going to end up with a sodding warrant. More time wasted.
He looked back at the computer. No, he thought. Not a chance he could get into it. Not a chance in hell. But then, he reasoned, it would be rude not to try. He went to her chair and sat in it, staring at the log-in screen. Two empty spaces – USERNAME and PASSWORD. The choke point – and in the movies it’d always be on the third try that the hero got the password. He searched the desk for clues. Nothing. Ran his hands over the computer, opened the drawers and felt up under them for taped pieces of paper. Nothing. He turned Marsha’s nameplate to face him. Marsha Wingett. Typed ‘m.wingett’. Thought, What the fuck? and typed ‘Cruella’ into the password box. Hit enter. The message flashed up. Oops! Have you forgotten your password?
He deleted Cruella. Typed in: ‘Cruella1’. Hit enter.
Oops! Have you forgotten your password?
It was like being heckled. And he knew there wasn’t long. Marsha wasn’t going to stand out on the gravel all morning waiting for a non-existent parcel.
‘Cold bitch’?
Oops! Have you forgotten your password?
‘Five eight seven QU zero.’
A woman stood in the doorway, watching him expressionlessly. Sandy blonde hair tied at her neck, a handbag over her shoulder and – who’d believe it? – a pink angora over her shoulders. She was holding a cardboard Starbucks carry-out tray with a coffee on it. Car keys dangled from her fingers.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said, “five eight seven QU zero”.’
‘Her password?’
‘Yes.’
He typed in the sequence. Hit enter.
Have you forgotten your password?
He looked at the woman. She looked back at him.
‘Uh?’ he said, waiting for her to speak.
She made an impatient noise in her throat, tipped sideways a little and studied the screen. She had little white pearls in her ears. ‘The username’s wrong. No dot after the initial.’
‘I should have known that.’
‘Yes. You should.’
‘Server’s acting like a mule. Everything’s going snail’s pace.’
She looked at him as if he’d just changed colour right in front of her eyes. ‘I know. I was the one who reported it to you.’
Caffery closed his eyes. Opened them. What were the chances? ‘Yes. Of course you did. Thank you for that.’
‘That’s OK. What time will you get to mine?’
‘Twenty minutes. As soon as this is done.’
She went to the desk in the far corner, set down the coffee, took off her angora and hung it carefully on the back of the chair. Baby pink. She’d be the one who’d walk over you in stilettos, he thought, deleting the dot. He hit enter and the screen lit up in front of him. All of Gerber’s consultations today.
It was the same system the other secretary had used and, having seen it in action once, it was easy for him to hop-skip backwards even though the database was working slowly, the diseased server grinding its cogs like a dray horse. He went back through the timeline two years and found the days in question. The name Lucy Mahoney came out at him like a bolt. At ten o’clock on the morning of 4 May she’d been given an abdomectomy and a sympathectomy by Georges Gerber FRCS.
Georges Gerber FRCS.
One hundred and eighty. Got you, you bastard.
He closed the database, logged out and stood up just as Marsha appeared in the doorway.
‘Hello.’
She gave him a courteous smile. ‘Are you leaving?’
‘I’m going to talk to Mr Gerber.’
‘He’s not here.’ She looked beyond him to the chair he’d been sitting in. ‘I think I mentioned that earlier.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘At home?’ She came past him, and stood for a moment looking at the chair again. Then she hung her handbag over the back and sat on it – tentatively, as if she thought it might burn her or give way. ‘Probably at home, I don’t know. I tried to call him a few minutes ago. He didn’t answer his phone.’
‘Thank you, Marsha. You’ve been a great help.’
He was at the door when she said his name. He waited. Hand on the door. Turned back slowly. From the other desk the pink angora girl had stopped what she was doing and was watching over the top of the monitor.
‘Yes?’
‘I just saw the other secretaries. They said you were looking for patient records.’
‘That’s right.’
‘The database is a bit slow but it’s still working.’ She pulled the keyboard towards her. Logged on and the screen came up. ‘I can go through Mr Gerber’s records, if you’d like?’
Caffery stood half in, half out of the door, and looked at her black hair, her little curranty eyes. Wanted to laugh for a moment. He thought, Marsha, bless every hair on your head, I take it all back. You’re an angel, a Samaritan. And probably a vixen in the sack. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But I’ll speak to Mr Gerber directly.’
‘In that case I’ll print out his home address for you.’
57
Home and Away’s just finished and Ruth’s pouring her third rum and Coke when someone knocks at the door. She checks the clock. Only one p.m. Little Miss PI said later in the afternoon. It annoys her to think she might be early. She’s been trying to work out how to approach the subject, how to go about upping the amount. Maybe it’s the rum but she hasn’t got it sorted in her head yet, and that annoys her.
Another knock. Irritated, she sets her drink down, goes into the hallway and puts on the safety chain.
‘Yeah, what?’
But when she looks out she finds Mr Gerber, the surgeon from the clinic, standing on the doorstep. The last person she was expecting. He’s wearing something strange. Like a tunic made out of denim, but there’s a bottle of champagne in one hand and a sheepish smile on his face.
‘Ruth?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m sorry.’
br /> ‘Sorry about what?’
‘I shouldn’t be here.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not ethical. If I wore a hat,’ he gives a rueful laugh, ‘I’d have it in my hands now.’
She opens the door a crack more, puzzled. He looks odd out here in the sunlight. He’s got very fine bones, a tiny nose and a thatch of wiry hair shot with grey threads, which he keeps running his fingers through nervously.
‘When I asked if you lived alone, Ruth, it wasn’t my place to do that. That’s the clinic staff’s job.’
‘Eh?’
He bites his lip and glances up and down the road. Looks back at her again and something dawns on her. She thinks about the Mercedes and the Aston Martins she saw in the staff car park at the clinic that morning. She thinks about sitting down at the pub, waiting for someone to speak to her. And then she thinks about the way she’d arranged her legs sitting opposite him earlier on.
‘My first name is Georges,’ he says.
‘Hello, Georges.’
‘Can I come in? I won’t stay long. Not if you don’t want me to.’
She opens the door, lets him in and he walks down the corridor, looking from left to right. She follows, stopping for a moment in front of the hall mirror to dig out clumps of mascara from the corners of her eyes. Quickly she puts the wad of gum she was chewing in an ashtray, cups her hands round her mouth and checks her breath.
When she gets to the living room he’s standing in the middle of the carpet.
‘Nice place.’
She adjusts the strap on her bra and makes sure her breasts are sitting up high. Noticeable. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘That’d be nice. If it’s not too much trouble. What’re you having?’
‘I’m . . .’ She indicates the drink sitting on the bar. ‘Rum and Coke. But I can get you something else.’
‘Rum and Coke.’ He smiles. He really isn’t all that bad-looking. Just needs a bit of grooming. ‘Sounds perfect.’
He sits politely on the sofa, his feet together, and watches her mix the drink. When she turns to hand him the glass, she finds he’s holding out the champagne in both hands. ‘I think this needs to be chilled.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Veuve Clicquot. Stevie loves Veuve. She puts the glass on the table next to him and takes the bottle. It is a little warm. She carries it into the kitchen and puts it in the freezer, packs a bag of ice round it. When she comes back into the room Georges is standing next to the bar, looking at the photos. In the middle there is a picture of a dolphin in Greece. She stands shoulder to shoulder with him.
‘Lovely animal.’ She picks up her drink from the bar and takes a sip. ‘Isn’t it?’
Gerber turns and looks steadily at her. ‘I can think of something lovelier.’
She wants to giggle, but stops herself short. Georges isn’t the sort to appreciate giggling. He’s serious. Classy. So she smiles and points at another photo.
‘My ex-husband. And my son. He lives near by. Drops in from time to time. But otherwise I’m on my own. Like I said.’
‘I’m sorry I quizzed you like that. I’m sorry about all of today. You made me nervous. That’s all.’ He sits down on the sofa. ‘I made a mess of the whole thing.’
‘No, you didn’t. You were lovely, just lovely.’
He gestures at the wall. ‘Tell me about the dolphins, then. You’re quite a sailor, I take it.’
Gratified by his interest she sits on the recliner and arranges her skirt nicely. She starts to talk about the animals, the dolphins in Greece, the guillemots she saw flying over a harbour near Sitges once. He lets her lead the conversation. Asks her lots of questions: what’s it like living on a boat? Is she happier on land? Do the cats prefer it here? He supposes it’s nice that she can keep so many animals. He really is quite lovely, she decides. Appearances can be deceptive.
‘You’ve finished your drink.’
She looks at the glass in her hand and sees he’s right – it’s empty. They’ve been talking a long time. His drink is still untouched on the table next to him. He twists in the chair and looks towards the kitchen. ‘What about that champagne? Do you think it’s cold yet?’
She gets up and goes into the kitchen. She takes the champagne out of the freezer and pulls down two crystal bowl glasses Stevie stole from a restaurant in Sardinia. While she’s uncorking it she has a moment of dizziness. She puts the bottle down and leans on the work surface to steady herself. This isn’t like her. A few rums can’t put her on her back usually. She scoops a little water straight out of the tap into her mouth, dries her mouth on the tea-towel and continues with the champagne. It’s open and both glasses are poured when she feels strange again. She puts down the bottle noisily and within seconds Gerber is at her side.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine.’ She smiles. ‘Feel great. Just a little—’
She puts out a hand and he takes her under the arms, then leads her through into the living room. Helps her into the armchair.
‘Do you feel faint?’
‘Feel strange.’
‘I know why. When I took your blood pressure earlier, I thought then it needed to come down.’
‘My blood . . . What did you say?’
‘Don’t move. I’ve got some tablets for it.’
‘Tablets? My blood pressure’s always OK. The doctor says it’s good for my age.’
She looks down. He has taken a small brown bottle out of a pocket and is shaking white tablets into his palm. The pills seem huge and very white in his hand.
‘What are they?’
‘They’ll bring the pressure down. Make you feel better straight away.’ He nods to the computer. ‘What’s the password?’
‘My password?’ She puts a finger to her head. The room seems smaller than she remembers it. ‘Why do you want to . . . ?’
‘I need to check a dosage. What’s the password?’
‘Stevie21.’
‘And how much do you weigh?’
‘How much do I . . . ? I don’t know.’
He goes to the computer and she hears him tapping keys. Her head’s too heavy to turn and look. She rests it on her hand and imagines for a moment that it’s made of stone, like a statue’s, and will crack if she moves it. Gerber comes back and drops loads of tablets into her hand.
‘So many?’
‘They’re homeopathic.’
Homeopathic. She’s heard of that. She puts them into her mouth and takes the glass of Coke he’s holding out. The tablets are bitter and scratch her throat but she swallows them in two gulps.
‘I think you need to go for a drive. Get some fresh air. Where’s your car?’
‘Outside,’ she mutters. Her mouth seems full of dust. ‘Outside in the . . .’ She tilts her head back. Tries to focus on him. ‘Over there next to the patio.’
She tries to push herself to her feet but she can’t. And instead of it worrying her, she finds she couldn’t care less. Her feet are a long, long way away. Her legs are just fuzzy poles of light. She looks at her shoes and thinks: Beautiful, beautiful shoes. Red and shiny like rubies. Thank you, God, for lovely shoes.
‘Your keys.’
Gerber is next to her. Shaking her. She lifts her heavy eyes.
‘Where are your keys?’
‘I think I need something to eat.’
‘No, you don’t. Just tell me where your keys are.’
‘In the hallway. Hanging up.’
‘The front-door keys too?’
‘Yes. But why do you need my door keys?’
Instead of an answer all she hears is the distant sound of bird-song. And when she tries to see where he is she realizes he’s left the room. She drops back into the chair and her eyes roll upwards into the lids. She sees constellations of light and electricity. She sees dolphins jumping and ruby red shoes. ‘There’s no place like home,’ she murmurs, smiling. ‘No place like home.’ She floats to the stars and Stevie’s there next to her, holding her hand.
> Mum, I think you’d better get up now. Come on. Get up.
Hello, Stevie, darling. You’re a good boy. A good boy.
Listen to me. Get out of your fucking chair. Bitch.
Stevie – what’re you talking about?
Shut up about him now and—
Her eyes open. The light is too bright. Georges is there, his face close up. He’s smiling.
‘Get out of your chair,’ he says encouragingly. ‘Get out now.’
She pushes herself up. He’s wearing gloves, she thinks. Didn’t notice that before. He’s wearing latex gloves. But, then, everything today is strange, really strange, like a dream.
He puts his hand under her elbow and she lets him lead her to the door.
58
Years ago a trainer had told Caffery that if he ever felt faint on parade he should look at something green: a lawn, a tree. Colours had an effect on the brain – stopped it freezing and giving up – so when he got out of the car in the quiet country lane outside Georges Gerber’s house he stopped for a moment and rested his eyes on the grassy bank. His head was sluggish and staticky from lack of sleep. He needed it to be clear.
Darcy said Susan Hopkins had caught Gerber stealing. Lucy had been blackmailing him: maybe she’d threatened to take him to the GMC over the abdomectomy. Maybe she’d also witnessed the stealing, or whatever had been happening in the recovery room. It had taken him two years to get fed up with the blackmail and kill Lucy. With Susan Hopkins it had been quicker. Maybe she’d confronted him. Maybe he’d already been stirred up enough by Lucy’s murder to have killed again in quick succession.
An early butterfly flapped its lonely way across the lawn, then over the hedge that grew alongside the house, attracted by the blue of a disused swimming-pool. It was very clean – no slime growing on the painted blue walls. He stood on tiptoe and looked past it. About twenty feet on was the distinctive sand mound and manhole inspection cover of a septic system. The house itself was to the right: square and grey, set a long way back from the quiet lane. Everything was tidy, very well kept. Tidy but wrong, Caffery thought, dropping back on to his heels. In spite of the tidiness something felt out of kilter.