The Beauty of the End (15 page)

28

T
he next morning, there's still no response from Beatrice. Planning to visit the hospital, I get up later than planned, shower, then head to the dining room for breakfast. I pour a cup of coffee and pick up a couple of the papers lying on a side table

Knowing exactly what I'm looking for, but not happy when four pages in, I find it.

It's mentioned in the other paper, too. God knows how they got hold of this. So now the speculation will start. Someone will find April's name and her relationship to Norton. The past she'd left behind will catch up with the life she's built for herself, the people who hold her in such esteem. Who rely on her, trust her. What impact will it have on them?

What little appetite I had gone, I get up and drop the papers in the bin. Then I head for the hospital, my head full of thoughts about the unfairness of what's happening. How whether she's guilty or not, the world will know what April tried so hard to keep hidden.

* * *

As soon as I enter ICU, I see the familiar face of one of the nurses.

“Morning, Mr. Calaway.”

“Good morning. How is April?”

“She's doing okay.” Quiet, guarded words that don't raise my hopes, that tell me she's no worse, but nor is she better.

It's not a surprise. I nod my thanks, continuing along the corridor toward April's room.

“You've just missed another visitor,” the nurse calls after me.

I turn round. “Who was that?”

The nurse shakes her head. “She didn't say who she was. She had fair hair. A little shorter than I am. She was here for some time. I think they must be friends—she seemed quite upset.”

Bea. She'd read my Facebook message. It must have been her.

“How long ago?” I ask the nurse, my hopes rising.

“She left only a few minutes ago. I'm surprised you didn't pass her on your way in.”

“Thanks. I think I know who she was. I might just see if I can catch her,” I call over my shoulder, already jogging down the corridor because there are many ways in and out of there, a three-dimensional maze of stairs, lifts, corridors. Once I'm through the swing doors, I break into a run, take the stairs, then at the bottom glance left and right, desperately searching for a glimpse of her.

There's no sign. I gamble then, going for the left corridor, which is the most direct way to the car park, breaking into a run, apologizing to the tide of people sweeping toward me, until I'm outside. But as I jog up and down the parking lanes, scanning the cars, there's no sign of her.

* * *

“Did you find her?” When I get back, the same nurse is waiting for me.

I shake my head. “She must have gone. Was it the first time you've seen her here?”

The nurse nods. “Apart from you, and that lady today, there've been no other visitors—not while I've been here—that's if you don't count Mr. Farrington. Such a wonderful man. She's lucky to have him looking after her.”

Will, again. Inexplicably I'm struck with irritation that everywhere I go his glittering presence is inescapable.

Pushing him from my mind, I continue along the corridor to April's room, noticing straight away, it's different in there. In spite of the rules, there are flowers.

29

H
aving looked up the clinic where April works part-time, I find it's in Guildford. It seems a long way from where she lives when there are other clinics much closer, but maybe she has an expertise they felt was needed there.

The roads are clear and the drive doesn't take long. It's midday when I pull up outside the large, converted town house, realizing too late, as I go inside, that any clinic that's any good is likely to be busy and that I haven't exactly thought this through.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” The receptionist looks up from her desk.

“I don't. Actually, I'm here about one of your therapists. April Rousseau.”

“Oh? One moment.” She glances down and quickly finishes typing something, and I notice pinned on the cerise cardigan she's wearing, the gold-edged name badge says “Elizabeth.”

“What about her?” She looks up again.

“I'm a friend. I'm also her lawyer.”

Elizabeth glances behind her, then leans toward me. “ don't know what's happened, but there's enough gossip about that poor woman. She left a voicemail, explaining she didn't know when she'd next be in, so to please fit her clients in with other therapists.”

I frown. “When was this?”

“Sometime the other night. Late. I picked it up the next morning. She sounded terribly upset. I tried to call her back, of course, but she didn't answer. Has something happened?”

“Yes.” I glance around, wondering if there's a manager I should talk to. I judge Elizabeth to be trustworthy, knowing I need as much help as I can get. “Look, it's important—is there somewhere we can talk?”

“I don't know.” She looks doubtful. “I'm on my own just now.”

But I look past her as one of her colleagues walks in.

“If you wait a moment, I'll see what I can do.”

It's a busy practice, the phone constantly ringing and being answered in hushed tones, clients wandering in and out, to and from appointments. I glance at a board that lists the names of the therapists who work there, then at the young woman who comes over and sits down next to where Elizabeth was. Then Elizabeth comes back and I follow her into a small room.

“I'm Elizabeth Coleman,” she tells me. “I've worked here for fifteen years, so there's not too much I don't know. Please tell me—what's happened?”

Sensing genuine concern in her voice, I tell her.

“It explains why the police were here,” she says quietly.

“When?” My ears prick up.

“Yesterday. Two of them called to see the practice manager. She's called a meeting later today.”

“About April?”

Elizabeth nods. “I suppose it must be. I'm sorry, but I just don't believe it. Not April, of all people. She's gentle, compassionate.. . . She's a therapist.” She looks completely flummoxed.

“If it's any help, neither do I,” I tell her. “Can you tell me anything related to her personal life that might be helpful?”

Elizabeth shakes her head. “April kept to herself. She's an excellent therapist. And enormously popular. It makes no sense. I suppose we'll have to tell her clients.”

I pause, because this is tricky. “I know that many, if not all, of her private clients had difficult pregnancies. Some knew they were likely to lose their babies. I know it's confidential, but do you happen to know what kind of issues she dealt with here?”

But Elizabeth clamps up. “I'm sorry, but I don't know anything about her clients—and even if I did, I wouldn't be able to discuss them with you. We deal with a whole spectrum of problems here, in confidence, as I'm sure you must appreciate, Mr. . . .”

“Calaway,” I say quickly. “Noah Calaway.”

“Mr. Calaway, I'd like to help, but you do understand, don't you?”

“Of course. I shouldn't have asked.” In a professionally run practice such as this, her response is what I'd expect.

“It's fine.” Elizabeth gets up. “I'll tell you what I can do. She used to have lunch with one or two of the girls. I could ask them for you—maybe if they know anything, they could give you a call?”

“Thank you.” I'm nodding but I'm not hopeful. “I'll leave you my phone number. Er, do you have some paper?”

I'm silently cursing that I don't have a business card to give her, realize how unprofessional it makes me look. She looks at me suspiciously. “Come over to the desk and I'll make a note of it.”

* * *

After I leave there, I walk around Guildford until I find a small stationery shop that, for an inflated price, promises to have a hundred business cards printed in two hours' time. Then hungry, I find a pub by the canal, where I order a pint and a sandwich, sitting outside, wondering whether Elizabeth will do as she promised.

I'm halfway through my pint when a number flashes up on my mobile. Hopeful that it's one of April's therapist friends, I answer it.

“Noah Calaway.”

“Mr. Calaway?” My heart sinks as I recognize the voice instantly. “Detective Sergeant Ryder here. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course, Detective Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

“Just one or two questions, sir. About Ms. Rousseau.”

“Okay.”

“Well, we've been analyzing calls to and from her phone. The day before the murder took place, she called your home number in Devon. Three times, to be precise. Would you care to explain why you didn't tell me?”

I'm completely astounded. April called me? How did she have my number? And why? “I didn't know. Are you sure?”

“We have the times, sir. Five-thirty
P.M.
Again at five-thirty-five, and then ten minutes later, at five-forty-five.”

“I had absolutely no idea she'd called me. I work from home. It's rare for me to go out except maybe to get some food—it could have been around that time. I don't remember. Even if I'm there, I don't always hear the phone. In fact, I don't use it.”

“Is there anyone who may have seen you to confirm your whereabouts?”

“No. Unless, maybe my neighbor saw me? Clara Hayward—she lives next door. She notices most things.” “One other thing. Am I right in saying that some years ago you and Ms. Rousseau were engaged to be married?”

He sounds almost unbearably smug, as though he's enjoying the chance to catch me out. “That's right. We were. She broke it off.”

“So I heard. But she must have told you, surely, that she'd been raped?”

Anger twists inside me, that he even knows about this, that he's been digging into the fine print of April's life.

“Or perhaps you didn't know?”

I know then, from the edge in his voice, the exaggerated fake surprise twisted with delight as he hits a nerve, he's enjoying this.

“She didn't tell me. I never found out why,” I tell him, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “She never explained. If you must know, I heard only very recently, from someone else.”

At the other end, Ryder coughs. “You expect me to believe, sir, that the woman you were about to marry didn't confide in you? Strange, wouldn't you say? Or maybe she didn't trust you. Thought you might do something rash . . .”

“We talked about most things. Just not this.” I knew I sounded defensive at his barbed words and sharp tone. “It was her choice—she must have had her reasons. It wouldn't be that surprising, surely, to want to forget?”

“You tell me. . . .” I can tell from his voice Ryder smirks. “Anyway. That will be all for now. Sir.” That last mocking me; pausing for effect. “No doubt someone will be in touch.”

After he's hung up, I drain the rest of my pint, slam the empty glass down on the table before hurling my sandwich into the canal, where a flurry of ducks fight over it before it sinks. Online or otherwise, I'm not an easy person to find. And again I'm thinking, where had April got my number? And why?

Then I'm remembering finding out about the rape, from Will, in the pub. How I had been fraught with horror at the picture my mind had painted. Had he seen it, written on my face, that I hadn't known?

Ryder would undoubtedly have questioned Will. But also, if he was any good, he would have checked April's medical notes. Presumably it's all there, from her time in the hospital.

* * *

Back in my room, I remember the little notebook that I found hidden at the back of April's bookcase, that I've previously only glanced at. Trying to decipher the scrawl of names, I recognize some from her client notes. Again, there are dates, but also what appear to be the names of hospitals. Effingham Wood, Croydon Central, and St. Richard's being the ones I recognize. Then next to some of them, two initials.

The
WF
catches my eye. Will Farrington? He told me he referred patients to April. Perhaps she was tracking where most of her clients came from.

Then, out of curiosity, I google Will and start to understand why people are in awe of him. According to the articles I find, he's involved in groundbreaking surgery in newborns with heart defects. This must have been what John at the North Star had been talking about.

The more I read on, the more I realize just how highly he's regarded. It also explains his association with April, because surgery on a newborn carries a far higher than average risk. As Will told me himself, not all his patients make it. Some of their stories are there, too—stories like Daisy Rubinstein's and stories where Will's or someone else's skill changed the course of a baby's life.

Even so, I've an inescapable sense I'm missing something. There's no arguing with the cold, hard facts—the motive, the evidence, the murder victim, an unconscious murder suspect—but it's too neat, too obvious. Too perfect. Then there's the broken security camera. The police may be mistaken. There's another possibility they can't rule out. That all along, this was planned by someone.

That April was set up.