Others (18 page)

‘Bastard!’ I said aloud in the solitude of my metal capsule.

When you’re as I am, you rarely completely forget your condition, your own oddity is always present in your mind (usually right at the front) and you never need reminding of how different you are to normals. You never ask to be reminded, either. You might have thought that Wisbeech, in light of his profession and lettered qualifications, would have understood that; as a learned and obviously civilized human being he might even have appreciated the insult his remarks might have dealt me. My guess was that he cared little about my sensitivities and nothing about the question itself: my belief was that he had been testing me. What that test meant, I had no idea; I just had the feeling that I’d failed.

Switching the isolation switch off and the engine on, I angrily shoved the gear stick into first, pulling away from the home’s front entrance a little too fast, a little too powerfully, the tyres throwing up stones from the drive. I violently twisted the steering wheel to head towards the high gates, giving one last disgusted glance back at the building as I did so. My foot almost slipped from the accelerator in my surprise, for the dark upper windows of Perfect Rest were now filled with pallid faces.

It was as if most of the elderly residents had come to their windows to watch me leave. I only caught a glimpse, for the turn completed itself of its own accord and the car was set straight for the gates, but the image of those grey-white blobs against the glass, the rooms leaden behind them, stayed in my mind as I changed gear and controlled direction. A quick look in the rear-view mirror presented a receding reflection of the building itself and it seemed suddenly ominous in the sullen, rain-dulled light, a semi-Gothic mansion that was full of secrets rather than a restful haven. A raindrop had dripped into the crevice between my neck and shirt collar, running sideways around my hump and down my back, causing me to shiver. I gripped the wheel more tightly, straightening the car, and wondered at the home’s sudden lack of charm. Now I could feel a hundred or more sets of eyes watching my retreat, every pair hostile.
Idiot,
I berated myself.
Imagination,
I tried to convince myself. They were just sick old people with nothing better to do, curious about strangers, bored inside death’s waiting-room. There was no antagonism towards me on their minds; they probably watched every new coming and going in the same way. Visiting hours - if they had had set visiting hours - would have been a riot.

That’s when I realized that on neither visit to Perfect Rest had I seen any other visitor. Nor anybody else who looked like an outsider, for that matter. This place really was private.

I kept the car in second all the way down the drive and when I entered the short, wooded area the gloom forced me to switch on my headlights. I passed through the gates that had already opened for me and pulled up outside. Taking out my small notepad and pen from my inside pocket, I leaned across the passenger seat, wound down the window on that side, and peered out at the sign on one of the stone pillars. I wrote down: md, frcs, frcog, frcp, dch. Then I drove on, quickly reaching third, sticking with it while the car splashed through instant puddles and lurched into existing dips. The landscape began to open up again and the rain pelted the windscreen with some force; the wipers struggled to keep vision clear, but I was soon forced to lean even closer than my usual position to the glass in order to see my way ahead. The turns seemed to come up too fast even though I was still only in third, and it was a while before I realized the engine was labouring, desperate for a shift upwards; unconsciously I had been trying to speed away from the home and the sinister - yes, I admitted to myself, that was the word, he
was
sinister - Dr Wisbeech. I eased off the accelerator, slowing to a more appropriate speed.

High and far ahead I noticed bright blue patches in the otherwise troubled skies that told me the storm would not last too long. In fact, the further south-east I went, the clearer it would become. But that was for later - right now it was cats and dogs out there.

I was approaching the now familiar abandoned house by the side of the lane when I saw the tiny figure sheltering hunched-up under a tree. Elbow-crutch resting against her hip, Constance Bell waved a hand at me to stop.

18

She was soaked, the tree she cowered under affording scant protection. As I drew up alongside her she took a couple of faltering steps towards the car.

‘Get in before you drown,’ I called out, pushing open the passenger door.

Constance put a hand on top of the door frame and peered in at me, her lovely eyes blinking away raindrops; she did not have to duck to see me. She looked like a child, a very troubled child.

‘I can’t,’ she shouted over the pounding of the rain. ‘I have to get back before they miss me.’

‘You sound as if you’ve made a jailbreak.’ I tried to ease her obvious tension with a grin.

‘No, I mean it, I don’t have long.’

Then at least sit in the car so we can talk without hollering.’

She took a quick look around her, first back down the lane towards the home, then in the opposite direction. She pointed towards the abandoned house and the overgrown track that led towards the rear.

‘If I do, will you drive us out of sight?’

I’m sure I registered disbelief, but I nodded anyway. ‘Sure. Just get in out of the wet.’

She eased herself into the seat backwards, resting the elbow crutches against the door as she did so, then swivelled round so that her legs were also inside the car. Retrieving the crutches, she closed the door.

Terrific,’ I said and steered the Ford off the lane on to the bumpy track. Apart from the odd untidy heaps of timber and rubble, there was little else behind the house: a half-collapsed shed stood some distance away and beyond that there was only long grass and shrubbery, woodland their backdrop. I brought the car to a halt beside the building’s battered rear door.

What are you afraid of?’ I asked my passenger as I switched off the engine and shifted round in my seat so that I could take her in more easily.

She was dabbing raindrops from her face with a tiny handkerchief, bedraggled locks of hair loosened from the tie at the nape of her neck to stick against her cheeks. I wanted to reach forward and brush the strands away, to push them gently behind her ears, an excuse to touch her, to feel her soft skin beneath my fingertips. Naturally, I sat there and did nothing.

Why… why do you think I’m afraid?’

Her poor imperfect body rested awkwardly in the passenger seat; her gaze on me was intense.

You obviously don’t want to be seen talking to me,’ I replied to her question.

‘It’s just that…’ She gave a little shake of her head. ‘Mr Dismas -‘

‘Please. People who know me call me Dis. Or Nick - my friends call me Nick.’ (In fact, even my friends called me Dis, but I wanted Constance to use my proper Christian name.)

‘I don’t think you should come back to the home.’

‘Hey, I’m not going to upset Hildegarde again. Besides, I only get to see her if your boss decides she’s well enough. I promise I’ll treat her gently.’

‘You don’t understand. It’s the doctor I don’t want you to upset’

‘Wisbeech? Why should I upset him? I only need the answers to a few questions, none of which have anything to do with him.’

‘Please listen to me.’ My hand was resting on the handbrake between us and she touched the top of my fingers with her own. ‘Dr Wisbeech is not someone you should anger. He’s a very powerful person.’

I found it difficult to get my thoughts back on line despite the gravity of her tone. Her flesh against mine: dear God, was this how teenagers felt when first crush led to first touch? I wasn’t experienced in these things, so I had no way of knowing (I guess that same lack of experience also accounted for my over-reaction right then).

‘Did you hear me?’ she asked, leaning a little closer, her puzzled eyes examining mine in the gloomy interior of the car. ‘Mr - Nick, please understand what I’m trying to tell you.’

Her hand left mine and I managed to pull myself together enough to say: Why are you going to so much trouble to warn me?’

She seemed to withdraw into herself; certainly she moved away from me.

‘I’m not going to any trouble. I nearly always take a walk along the lane some time during the day, usually in the late afternoon.’

‘In the pouring rain?’

‘It wasn’t raining when I left.’

‘But you are concerned.’ I almost added ‘about me’, but that would have been foolish - and probably wishful thinking. ‘What exactly do you think the doctor can do to me?’

‘I have to go.’ She began to turn, to reach for the door release.

Wait a minute!’ I caught her arm. ‘Please. Talk to me a little while longer, okay?’

She was facing the door and I studied the long curve of her neck through the damp, loosened hair, a graceful line that led to her cruelly stunted body. Slowly her head came round and she rested back in the seat.

‘I can’t tell you any more than I already have,’ she said quietly.

You haven’t told me anything.’

She remained silent.

‘How could I anger Dr Wisbeech, Constance?’ Just speaking her name for the first time sent a shiver through me. ‘How is he powerful, in what way? He’s only the manager of an old people’s nursing home -‘

‘He
owns
Perfect Rest.’

‘Okay, he owns it. How does that make him powerful? Are you telling me he has connections in high places and if so, why should my enquiries put any noses out of joint?’

‘I used the wrong word. I simply meant he is very wealthy.’

Wealthy enough to pay someone to discourage me?’

You’ve got it all wrong…’

But I was on a roll, my PI instincts coming to the fore. ‘Dr Wisbeech has an awful lot of letters behind his name. They look pretty fancy for someone who only runs an old folks’ home. Why should he be paranoid about a few questions to one of his residents? And tell me this: why does he keep a two-way mirror in the visitors’ room?’

That gave her a start.

Those kind of mirrors are easy to spot,’ I went on, pushing for an answer.

‘Dr Wisbeech likes to study people before meeting them, particularly those applying for residency.’

‘Odd way to vet future clients.’

‘He prefers to see their real condition, not the one they put on for interviews. Dr Wisbeech is very selective of his guests.’

‘But why should he want to observe me beforehand?’

What makes you think he did? I told you, it’s used when dealing with prospective guests.’

‘Kind of weird though.’

We have high standards.’

‘So I noticed. I’m still wondering, by the way, how someone like Hildegarde Vogel could afford your services.’

That isn’t a mystery. Hildegarde is a very special guest of Dr Wisbeech. She worked with him many years ago when he was a consultant for several major hospitals.’

I allowed a moment or two for that to sink in. They worked together…’ I said, more to myself than to Constance.

‘Yes. The Doctor once told me that Hildegarde was invaluable to him during those years and because she’s in such poor health now, with no friends or family to support her, he feels responsible himself for her wellbeing. I suppose it’s his way of repaying Hildegarde for her loyal service.’

‘He doesn’t come across as the guardian angel type to me.’

‘First impressions can be deceptive - as you, of all people, should know. Dr Wisbeech is a wonderful benefactor.’

‘So why are you warning me against him?’

To try and stop you becoming involved in something you don’t understand. The Doctor doesn’t tolerate disturbances to his work.’

‘His work with old people? You know I’m still puzzled by his medical virtuosity. Isn’t he a little over-qualified to be taking care of geriatrics, ailing or otherwise?’

‘It’s his choice. Perhaps he feels he can do so much more by dedicating himself to one area of medicine rather than many.’

‘Yes, but
old
people?’

What have you got against the elderly? Haven’t they earned the right to live out the rest of their lives in some comfort? Haven’t they paid their debt to society?’

‘Some, maybe.’

‘As I said, Dr Wisbeech is very discriminating. Now I really must get back.’

‘Constance…’

It was too late: she had already pushed open the door and was sliding from the seat before I had a chance to question her further. We hadn’t noticed, but the rain had lost its intensity to become a steady drizzle.

‘Let me take you,’ I pleaded as she braced herself with the crutches on the uneven ground.

‘No. It’s better that you just leave.’

As she lurched away I wondered why she didn’t want to be seen with me. Was she that afraid of this wonderfully benevolent boss of hers?

‘Can I phone you?’ I called out.

‘No!’ But she paused. ‘I don’t know. I think it’s probably better that you don’t. Goodbye, Mr Dismas.’

‘Dis. Call me Dis.’ But she was gone. ‘Or Nick,’ I said to myself with a sigh.

19

When I got back to the office I sent Philo out for sandwiches and coffee while I went through paperwork that had accumulated throughout the morning. Working lunches were not unusual either for myself or for Henry - even when out on fieldwork a quick snack in a pub, or sandwiches scoffed in my car, were frequently the order of the day (the latter particularly when on surveillance). Lunchtime was also good for getting things done without being disturbed by phone calls from clients and contacts. I allowed Henry to get his daily fix with one movie question, mercifully an easy one: Which Marx Brother failed to appear in 1942’s
Hellzapoppin?
Answer: All of them; the film was an Olson and Johnson starrer, who were serious rivals of the famous brothers at the time. After that, it was strictly down to catching up on boring but vital correspondence and office minutiae. There was one special phone call I wanted to make, but I had to consider the fact that others actually lunched out most days.

An hour or so later when I was readjusting a client fee that Philo had submitted for approval - he had a habit of forgetting to add ten per cent to all costs and expenses, including hours spent travelling on a case, so that the agency could realize a reasonable profit (standard practice in our business, my friend - pays for overheads, wear and tear, and all indirect costs), Etta Kaesbach appeared at my open office door.

‘I thought I might catch you on my way back from lunch,’ she said by way of announcing herself.

‘Come in.’ I laid my pen down and smiled, always pleased to see her.

She shook her dripping, half-closed umbrella out, making tiny puddles on the floor; I caught Henry’s disapproving frown through the doorway.

‘What a summer,’ Etta complained as she took the seat on the other side of my desk. ‘Glorious one minute, monsoon season the next.’

She laid the short umbrella on the floor beside her and removed the grip from her hair, pushing wayward strands back and regripping them once they were tidy. I watched, comparing her to the girl with whom I’d shared my car earlier in the day. Both had special qualities, but my feelings for them were different. Vastly different. And, of course, I thought I might stand a chance with Constance.

‘My God, what’s happened to your face?’ Etta’s own face was aghast.

Involuntarily, I touched the swelling below my absent eye. ‘I took a tumble down the steps of my flat,’ I lied, unwilling to revisit the humiliation of two nights ago.

The wages of wine?’ She was being lyrical, perfectly aware that I rarely touched the grape, beer and spirits my usual juice.

‘Slippery stone. Sometimes the steps are tricky with this ol’ leg of mine.’ I tapped the offending limb under the desk, rapping on wood with my other hand at the same time.

Etta smiled as she shook her head, letting me know that she suspected booze was the cause of my ‘downfall’. Then she got straight to the point: Why are you upsetting my client, Dis?’

Oh Lord, someone else I was upsetting today. ‘Shelly Ripstone?’ I asked.

The solicitor nodded. ‘She called me yesterday, claiming you’ve dumped her twice. Shelly might be somewhat melodramatic on occasion, Dis, but she’s a good client and her late husband was an even better one. Looking after her interests is a duty my firm takes very seriously. So please tell me what’s going on. One minute you’re on the case, albeit reluctantly, the next you’re off it. Then you’re back working for her again, only to give it up once more.’

I groaned wearily, resting my elbows on the desk and cupping my head in my hands. ‘Would you believe me if I told you I was back on it yet again?’ I said.

‘Shelly doesn’t appear to be aware of that’

‘I forgot to call her back when something else came up.’

‘Something to do with her alleged missing son?’

‘Possibly. I suppose at the back of my mind was the thought that it might be another wild goose chase - like the previous one of trying to find a record of birth and death. I didn’t want to build up her hopes again.’

‘Dis, I think you’d better tell me everything you’ve done so far, then perhaps I can pacify her.’

So I did. I went over the case from start to present moment - everything except hallucinations and visions of wings and birds and debonair men seen only in mirrors. I didn’t mention whispering voices either and only spoke of Louise Broomfield in passing, implying that she was a friend of Shelly’s rather than some clairvoyant mentor of mine now. But Etta was sharper than that.

‘Who did you say this Broomfield woman was?’ she asked, watching me suspiciously.

‘She’s a kind of, well, a kind of spiritualist. A clairvoyant, actually.’

‘Oh Dis.’ It was a reprimand.

‘Hey, I didn’t bring her in. That was our mutual client’s idea.’

‘I said Shelly was melodramatic. I hope you’re not taking this Broomfield woman seriously, Dis.’

You know me better.’ Another deceit, but I really didn’t want to get into all the psychic stuff right then. The point is, I’m hoping to see the old ex-midwife again tomorrow if she’s well enough.’

‘And you really think she might be helpful?’

‘I seemed to hit a nerve the first time I spoke to her.’

‘But she’s sick and she’s senile?’

I nodded. Tup.’

Etta rested back in her chair and shook her head despairingly. ‘You should have let it go, Dis.’

‘I thought you thought I had and that’s why you were telling me off.’

‘No. That was because you kept changing your mind so my client didn’t know where she was. Now I think you should stick to your original decision. Ill explain it to Shelly, I’ll tell her you’ve done your best but without further firm leads there’s no point in going on with it. You’d only be wasting her money and your time.’

‘I already mentioned that to her.’

‘It’ll come better from me. She might just see some sense.’

‘And so lose control of a lot of money?’

‘Sometimes that’s the way it falls. She’ll have to live with it’

Tough guy, huh?’

‘Only when there’s no alternative. It’s best for all concerned.’

‘I don’t think she’ll see it that way.’

Etta shrugged. That’s too bad. One of my duties as her legal adviser is to make sure she doesn’t throw away her money on lost causes.’

I surprised myself by pleading for a second time that day. ‘Give me a little longer, another day or so. Let’s see what happens tomorrow. If Hildegarde Vogel is well enough for me to visit, I may be able to wrap the whole thing up.’

‘I doubt it, even if the poor lady is feeling better. There’s no sense to it, Dis.’

‘Only one more day then. Remember, it’s Shelly Ripstone who’s employing me, not your firm.’

Tough guy, huh?’ she countered.

‘I won’t even let Shelly know I’m back on the case and I won’t charge her for my extra time if there’s no result’

‘Is this the Nick Dismas I thought I knew? No charge? Come on, Dis, what’s got into you? And what would Henry say?’

There was a mumbling from the outer office, but I didn’t think Henry had caught the drift of our conversation, otherwise he would have been in like a shot. He must have just heard his own name mentioned.

When I started this agency,’ I said quietly to Etta across the desk, ‘I promised myself I’d give every case one hundred and ten per cent’s worth of effort and I’ve always stuck with that principle, even when the fee amounted to nothing more than the cash to buy a couple of rounds in the nearest and cheapest bar. We both know that attitude has served me well over the years, so I’m not about to break with tradition now, no matter how cynical and hard-faced I’ve become about the business. This extra day will just be that ten per cent over the odds.’

She held up her thin hands. ‘All right, all right, you’ve convinced me. You’re a noble person. In any case, as you’ve reminded me, Shelly’s contract is with you, not my firm. It’s up to you how far you go with it’

‘You know I wouldn’t go against your wishes, Etta.’

At last she smiled. ‘Yes, I do. Fine then, Dis, it’s your baby.’

We both winced.

‘You know what I mean.’ She picked up her umbrella and rose from the chair. ‘But promise me you won’t give Shelly any more false hopes.’

‘I didn’t give her any in the first place.’

‘No, but her expectations rose when you took up the case again.’

This time she won’t even know.’

‘She’s expecting me to call her, but I won’t for a day or two. And if she phones me in the meantime, I’ll say I couldn’t get hold of you, you were out every time I tried.’

Thanks, Etta. I mean it.’

‘I’m aware that you’re crazy, but at least you’re fairly harmless. Will you contact me if you discover anything that will help?’

‘Of course. And if I do, shall we tell Shelly together?’

‘Might be an idea. Then at least she’ll know her solicitor is looking after her interests. Take care, Dis, and keep in touch.’

With an air-blown kiss, Etta left my office.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with more mundane agency work.

Mundane stuff, but vitally important to the business, because it meant a constant turnover of work and that was the difference between success and failure for an outfit like mine.

All the cases I entered into my day-to-day, week-to-week, month-to-month instructions book, the entries later to be filed on computer by Henry. Hard files would also be kept, these held in the current-work cabinets in my office, later, on completion, to be stored in cupboards in the outer office. Letters of acceptance would have to be typed for each new commission, fees for services included where necessary as well as requests for more information (usually unnecessary, for most of our professional clients knew the form). As neither Philo nor Ida could type, letters and reports were a task I shared with Henry, and it was part of the job I detested. I always promised myself that one day I’d hire a proper secretary.

Henry dealt with most of the incoming phone calls that afternoon, although one did come through to me when his line was busy. It was Ida and she was using an old ploy to obtain a certain telephone number (the one she was ringing from, in fact), which I’d used myself many times in the past. She was chasing down a divorced absconder who owed his ex-wife maintenance money for their kids; my instructing client, the woman’s solicitor, needed the ex-husband’s telephone number so that the man could be harassed for payment not just by letter, but also by verbal ‘assault’ (another old ploy greatly enjoyed by ex-partners). The absconder, who had gone to ground, naturally had gone ex-directory, so no BT operator was going to give out his number.

His new address was easy to find by the usual methods, and Ida, attired in her best granny clothes, had parked her car right outside his front door, claiming that it had broken down when she knocked and our target had appeared on the doorstep. He had taken pity on her (the ruse doesn’t
always
work) and allowed her to use the phone inside the house to call her regular garage. While there she had done a swift and necessarily superficial inventory of the house’s contents, peeking through open doorways, perhaps even asking to use the loo, so that she could sneak a look into the upstairs bedrooms. She would have already made notes on the building’s exterior and surrounds, so that together with what she had learned from inside, she would be able to provide a reasonably comprehensive status report for our legal client (very handy should the ex plead poverty). However, the prime purpose was to obtain the covert telephone number, so instead of ringing a garage, Ida rang the agency using a special codeword we’d devised that indicated the phone she was calling from did not have its own number displayed. After a short dialogue with ‘Harry the Mechanic’ - ‘Harry’ being our codeword - she rang off, no doubt thanking the gullible householder profusely for the use of the line. The moment I heard the receiver replaced, I dialled 1471 and made a note of the number given by the automatic operator. Simple but effective; this runaway was going to get a lot of nasty phone calls from his ex-wife, her solicitor, and maybe even his abandoned kids. I had no sympathy for him.

Philo arrived back from a trip to Eastbourne further along the coast, where he had delivered a set of legal documents to a firm of solicitors for me, the papers too urgent to post and too important to risk a courier service; personal delivery was another of our minor but no less crucial services. I immediately sent him off to photograph a vehicle that had been involved in a road-rage incident, its headlights and windscreen not smashed in the accident itself, but by the driver of the other car wielding a tyre lever. The insurance company, who regularly used the agency when their own assessors were too busy, wanted the book thrown at the offender.

Nothing glamorous about our daily routine, rarely very exciting, and not often involving anything to fire the imagination. Despite my physical drawbacks, I was an ordinary guy conducting a fairly unexceptional line of work; flights of fancy were not the order of the day (night-time privacy was another matter). I guess I’m just trying to lay down a solid, even mundane base to emphasize just how extraordinary and unimaginable to me were the events that were to follow.

Anyway, it wasn’t until towards the end of the working day that I got the chance to call the BMA, the British Medical Association.