The Malcontenta (23 page)

But no sound came from Brock until over half an hour had passed since the first needle had gone in. Then he suddenly gave a snuffling grunt and scratched his beard.

‘Well, thank the Lord!’ Rose helped him sit up and offered him a glass of water.

‘All done?’ Brock asked, disoriented.

‘All done, indeed! We never even began. Do you feel all right? I’ll fetch the doctor.’

Beamish-Newell came bustling in and gave Brock a quick check-over.

‘You seem to be all right. Maybe you’ll do better after you’ve taken in some nutrition. You have another session scheduled for tomorrow morning, don’t you? Well, we’ll try again then. You’d better go and lie down in your room now for an hour or so. What’s your second session this morning?’

‘I think it’s the exercise bicycle or something.’ Brock found it hard to focus his thoughts. ‘Better give it a miss.’

‘I’ll see Mr Brock to his room,’ Rose said, helping him on with his dressing gown.

Walking seemed to revive him, and by the time they reached the lift he felt considerably better. He shook his head as they waited. ‘Stupid,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what brought that on.’

‘You’ll feel just fine after a wee lie-down.’

‘I met your fiancé yesterday, Rose, while I was walking outside with Grace Carrington.’

‘Is that right?’ The professional solicitude faded from Rose’s voice. ‘Are you a one for the ladies, then, Mr Brock? I hear you tried to take on Martha Price, no less. And then there’s your friend Kathy Kolla.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing, Rose.’

The lift arrived, a tiny box squeezed into the width of a cupboard in the old masonry structure, barely big enough to take the two of them.

‘You wouldn’t be in the same line of work as Kathy, would you, Mr Brock? A policeman?’

Brock smiled. ‘Do I look like a policeman? Anyway, would it matter if I was?’

The lift wheezed to a halt and they stepped out.

‘I don’t know,’ she said as they walked down the deserted corridor. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said, about you taking her a message. I’m not sure. I’m in an awkward sort of position, you see. And it may do no good anyway. After all, the poor man’s dead, isn’t he? Nothing can alter that.’

‘Depends how you feel about that. Sometimes it’s harder to live with than it should be. When something hasn’t really been sorted out, for example, or when a cloud hangs over a person’s memory that shouldn’t be there.’

They were at Brock’s door. Rose didn’t reply, and to keep the conversation going Brock added, ‘Martha Price seems to guard his memory quite jealously.’

‘What does she know about him!’ Rose’s voice was low but suddenly fierce, and Brock saw that her eyes were glittering with tears. ‘She doesn’t know a damn thing about him, interfering old bitch!’

Brock nodded. ‘My sentiments entirely.’ He waited for Rose to go on, and for a moment it seemed she would, but then she turned abruptly on her heel and walked quickly away.

Brock stayed in his room through the rest of the morning, listening to the sounds of activity come and go from below as the patients gathered for the mid-morning break, and then disappeared for their second therapy sessions. The sun was back again and warmer this time, as if encouraged by its success on the previous day. A wood pigeon up on the parapet nearby began cooing complacently in the background as Brock lay on his bed, tapping at his laptop.

At twelve-fifteen he got up and dressed himself in the outdoor clothes he had arrived in three days before. They felt unfamiliar and looser than they should. He took the fire escape at the end of the west wing down to the basement level and left by way of the door where the boots and coats were kept. The snow had been melting fast and he had to detour and jump puddles to avoid getting his shoes full of water as he made his way to his car. Along the edge of the drive, bluebells which had been caught by the late snow were beginning to poke their heads out again into the brilliant sunlight.

The car splashed along the wet lanes to Edenham, and when he reached the High Street he turned through the archway of the Hart Revived to park in the yard at the rear. He found Kathy at a small corner table in the deserted snug bar. She gave him a big grin, and he sank into the seat beside her and sighed deeply. It took him a moment to speak.

‘Kathy, you have no idea how wonderful it is to see you again.’ He sighed once more. The log fire crackled in the big stone fireplace and an electronic games machine in the far corner bleeped plaintively for attention. ‘Normality, the real world. I never thought I’d be so pleased to get back to it.’

Kathy laughed, ‘Oh dear, is it as bad as that?’

He nodded. ‘Worse. Much worse.’

‘But you’ve only been there a couple of days.’

‘Time means nothing. It feels like an age.’

‘Well, you’ll appreciate that.’ Kathy indicated the pint of bitter she had ready for him. He looked at it apprehensively and said, ‘No, no. I’d better not.’

‘Oh, come on. You can relax in here, can’t you? I mean, it’s not as if you’re really there for your health.’

‘Kathy, you have no idea. They take you over, body and soul. I swear, if I drank that he’d know about it. He’d just look at me and see the poisons oozing out of the pores of my skin and the guilt written all over my face.’

Kathy thought this was hilarious. ‘“He” being Dr Fiendish-Cruel? So you agree he’s scary.’

‘Oh yes, I agree. This morning I passed out while he was sticking his damned acupuncture needles into me.’ ‘Yuck! What’s the food like?’

‘What food? I haven’t had a thing apart from water and lemon juice since I arrived. They put me straight on a seventy-two-hour fast to purify my system. When I come off it tonight, I might be allowed a glass of carrot juice.’

‘Well, since you’ve already been wicked and gone over the wall, you might as well make it worthwhile and give yourself a treat. The steak-and-kidney pie looks pretty good. It’s home-made.’

Pleased as he was to see her, Brock was finding Kathy’s response to his tale of suffering a little flippant. He was reminded of Grace Carrington’s remark about the difficulty of adjusting to the outside world again. The thought of Grace and her problems made him suddenly ashamed. It was almost as if the processes of the clinic had reduced him to childishness.

He shook his head, ‘No, no,’ he muttered. ‘You go ahead.’

‘OK. I’m ravenous, I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.’

She caught the look on Brock’s face and added, ‘Sorry. Really I am. You must be wishing I’d never got you into this. Let me ask them if they’ve got something mild for you, break you in gently from your fast.’

‘It’s all right, Kathy,’ he smiled at her. ‘Get me a glass of mineral water if you like.’

‘With ice and lemon?’

‘Yes, why not. The works.’

He settled back into his seat, slightly dizzy from the cigarette smoke and the smell of frying that hung heavy in the air.

After a moment Kathy returned, holding a ticket for her meal in one hand and Brock’s drink in the other. She waited while he removed the straw and lifted his drink and sipped at it, letting him begin his story in his own way.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I’m not sure I’ve really marshalled my thoughts, but I’ll give you what I have. Yes, Beamish-Newell is quite a formidable character. But not necessarily the dominant force he once was. He had to get outside finance to keep the clinic going five or six years ago, and the financier, Sir Peter Maples, has clipped his wings somewhat. Ben Bromley, the Business Manager, is Maples’s man, he’s there to keep the Director under control.

‘Beamish-Newell has been married before, by the way. The name of his first wife was Gabriele. She was Italian, from a wealthy family, and gave him his start at Stanhope. I haven’t really formed much of an impression of Laura Beamish-Newell, the second wife. She seems distant, efficient, not a very endearing bedside manner, but the regulars like her, think she’s good at her job and cares for them.’ He shrugged.

Kathy nodded. ‘Yes, my impression was much the same.’ She had her notebook out and was writing as Brock spoke.

‘Number eighteen?’ a voice called from the bar, and Kathy held up her ticket. ‘Yes, over here, please.’ The barmaid approached them with a large plate heaped with battered plaice and chips.

‘Oh my God,’ Brock groaned.

‘Ketchup, dear? Tartar sauce?’ The woman gave Kathy some cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin and sauntered back to the bar.

‘Anyway …’ Brock made a superhuman effort to recall where he’d got to. ‘Rose. Yes, she certainly knows something. She almost came out with it this morning. Her boyfriend, Parsons, is worried about her. He’s a nondescript sort of character, isn’t he? I caught him creeping around; he followed us twice when I was out walking in the grounds with Grace Carrington. She’s one of your regulars, you remember? Along with Martha Price and Sidney Blumendale. I really don’t think they know anything about what happened to Petrou. They seem baffled, disoriented by it; and they won’t hear a word said against Beamish-Newell or the clinic. Now, the interesting bit. Norman de Loynes. Ever heard the name?’

Kathy shook her head. ‘I’m never going to finish all this. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of it? The fish is good. So are the chips, actually.’

‘Forget your stomach, Kathy, and just concentrate on what I’m telling you.’ Brock reached over for her notebook and printed de Loynes’s name.

‘Lower case “d”. You sure he wasn’t there when your storm-troopers took the place apart?’

‘Certain. I’d have remembered a name like that.’

‘Well, he says he was. And Grace Carrington remembers him being there too.’ Brock watched the startled look on Kathy’s face with satisfaction. Keeping his eyes on her, watching the surprise turn to perplexity, he reached forward for his glass and had taken a big swallow before he realized he was holding the pint of beer.

‘Oh hell!’ He licked his lips. ‘Nice, though.’

‘How could he have been there?’ Kathy said.

‘There’s a class of patrons of Stanhope Clinic called “Friends”. They pay a large sub every year and have the place as a sort of private health and social club. They enjoy privileged terms and can make use of the therapeutic facilities. I get the impression that their diet is somewhat more interesting than the one the ordinary patients endure. I suspect, although I don’t know for sure, that they were invented by Ben Bromley as an entrepreneurial initiative to raise funds for the clinic. They have their own private lounge somewhere in the house, which no one else uses, and half the time you wouldn’t know they were there.’

Brock took another mouthful of beer. ‘Bliss,’ he murmured.

‘You mean he might actually have been in the building all the time we were carrying out our investigation?’

‘It’s conceivable. Or maybe he was tipped off to leave as soon as there was a hint of trouble or scandal.’

Kathy shook her head. ‘The office staff, Beamish-Newell -they would all have had to lie to us, cover up. They provided the lists.’

‘Yes. And if there was one of them there at the time Petrou died, there could have been others.’

‘Hell!’ Kathy pursed her lips with annoyance. Brock admired her mouth - a strong mouth, he thought, determined.

‘That would completely undermine the whole of my investigation, Brock. Are you sure?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t hurt to have a look at their files, look at their bookings, find out the names of the Friends.’

Talking had restored Brock somewhat, and he was beginning to feel almost normal again.

‘You mean, break into the office? Could you do that?’

‘I’d rather not,’ Brock said. ‘I thought you might be able to have a go. Their records will all be on the computer. Ben Bromley’s keen on that sort of thing, I should imagine. The office has two new machines, and he has another on his desk. Couldn’t your systems analyst hack into them?’

‘Belle Mansfield? I’ve no idea.’

‘Why don’t you give her a ring and find out?’

‘Now?’

‘Finish your lunch first, Kathy, before it gets cold.’

While she ate, Brock pulled the sheaf of Stanhope brochures that Bromley had given him out of his pocket and began thumbing through them. One of them, an annual report, had photographs of some of the principal figures: Beamish-Newell, Bromley and, above them at the top of the page, the Chairman of the Stanhope Foundation and its associated companies, Sir Peter Maples.

Kathy pointed with her fork.
‘That’s
the one who was in Bernard Long’s office with Beamish-Newell and Tanner that time when Gordon Dowling and I were pulled off the case. I knew I recognized him from somewhere.’

‘Really? So he’s not just a figurehead. Bromley certainly implied that he took it all very seriously.’

‘Should I know about him?’

‘If you read the business section of your paper. He’s what the
Express
likes to call a “Eurotycoon”. Interests in lots of areas, seriously rich.’

Kathy put down her knife and fork. ‘That’s as much as I can manage,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of Belle.’

When she came back she saw that Brock was clutching a ticket. She smiled to herself but made no comment.

‘Any luck?’ he asked.

‘I got her. She isn’t sure if she can help. The computers would have to be connected to a phone line, you know, to receive electronic mail or fax messages. Then any computer outside with a modem could communicate with them. And then it would depend on how the system had been set up, how security-conscious our comedian was.’

‘Comedian?’

‘Mr Bromley. Didn’t he try to tell you any of his awful jokes?’

‘He began to. So, is she going to have a go?’

‘Apparently, it’s possible the Stanhope computer would record the number of anyone calling in. She doesn’t think it would be a good idea to use one of the police computers or phone lines.’

‘Ah.’

‘Number forty-two?’

Brock glanced up at the call from the bar and signalled. The barmaid came over and placed in front of him a plate of steak-and-kidney pie, chips and mushy peas. ‘Brown sauce, dear?’

‘Please.’ He looked at Kathy. ‘Might as well be hung for a goat as a sheep.’