The Watchful Eye (12 page)

He needed more.

At six o’clock Brian rose, showered and heated the meal Claudine had left for him. He had an hour and a half before he needed to make his way to the police station.

Daniel had prepared dinner before he had left. Lasagne, a bag of green salad, tomatoes sliced with onion, basil and balsamic vinegar, and a tarte au citron he’d bought from Sainsbury’s. He and Holly had laid the dining room table – hardly used since Elaine had left. It looked lovely set with cutlery, glasses, serviettes and candles waiting to be lit.

The two girls touched him with their responsibility and he and Claudine watched them indulgently as they put a match to the candles’ wicks.

He opened a bottle of wine – French claret – in her honour.

‘I am so enjoying this,’ Claudine said as she raised her glass to her lips. ‘This is just lovely. It’s such a shame that Brian…’

He guessed she would say that it was a shame that Brian couldn’t be with them but she didn’t. Instead she returned her glass to the table. ‘It’s a shame,’ she said again, ‘that Brian
finds it hard to enjoy such a night. Such simple pleasures as fine wine and good company. He is a…’ She stopped, lowered her eyes as though she knew she had gone too far, that she had committed the sin of being disloyal about her husband. So instead she fell silent, smiled, and they all helped themselves to some salad.

He watched her dainty dinner manners, admiring the cool way she dished out the salad with a flourish, obviously enjoying the food, chewing each mouthful slowly, savouring every morsel. Halfway through she looked across at him. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said, laughing, ‘but I didn’t expect you to be such a good cook.’

Daniel didn’t even affect modesty. He beamed at her and muttered something about it being a pleasure to cook for company. Appreciative company, he added.

He’d never cooked for Elaine. She had put meals in front of him (usually convenience stuff from Waitrose at Newport) with a sulky, almost martyred air that had made him feel guilty for having put her to so much – any – trouble. He beamed at them all and thought how happy he felt.

The girls chattered easily and noisily throughout the meal, hardly pausing their conversation to eat. Perhaps he should have scolded them for talking with their mouths full but the truth was he felt too happy. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal like this, around his own dining table, for ages – possibly ever. Maybe in his entire life. The animation of the two girls, the still elegance of Claudine, in her simple black dress, the jacket carefully hung up in the hall. The whole ambience of the evening made him feel so happy he could have sung.

He wished it wouldn’t end.

Brian was watching some Saturday night television, sitting in his dressing gown. He fingered the lighter in his pocket. It was usually kept somewhere on his person, often in his trouser pocket. It gave him a feeling of power, of being in control of his own fate. Claudine had found it there on more than one occasion and asked him, ‘Why do you keep a cigarette lighter in your pocket when you don’t even smoke?’

He’d snatched it away from her. It was his and he never would tell her its story. He had mentioned parts of it to her – the bits he didn’t mind her hearing – but the details were his to chew over when he was alone. He fingered the lighter now and knew that deep down he still possessed all the hatred and fury that had welled up inside him on that bright, September day.

The girls vanished upstairs as soon as the meal was over leaving him and Claudine to clear the dishes, load the dishwasher and tidy the kitchen. Then they went into the sitting room and chatted idly – mostly about the girls and their idiosyncrasies. At nine o’clock she rose. ‘We should go,’ she said. ‘It’s way past Bethan’s bedtime and I don’t like her to be too late on a Saturday night because we have Mass early on Sunday.’

She was, he decided, a creature of habit.

‘Where is she?’ Bobby Millin had arrived at Vanda’s flat to find her sitting with Arnie, watching television. Of Anna-Louise there was no sign.

Vanda jerked her head towards the door. ‘She was sniffling. I think she’s got a cold so I dosed her up and she’s gone to bed. I haven’t heard a sound out of her since. First bit of peace we’ve had all day.’

Bobby stood in front of her daughter, blocking her view of the TV screen. ‘Have you checked up on her?’

It was Arnie who answered. In spite of his bulk and his naturally aggressive personality he was still in awe of his mother. It didn’t do to cross her. When riled she could be more scary than Godzilla.

‘I looked in on ’er half an hour ago, Ma. Sleeping like a baby.’

He and his sister giggled over the silly joke.

‘Well – she is a baby,’ Vanda said, trying to extend her neck so she could still pick up on
Strictly Come Dancing
. ‘Move it, Mum.’

Bobby Millin didn’t answer but disappeared into the tiny bedroom where Anna-Louise slept.

She was in there minutes before she returned, carrying the limp child. ‘She’s not breathing again,’ she said.

Vanda yawned.

‘She isn’t breathing,’ Bobby said again, shaking the child.

‘’Ere. Let me ’ave ’er.’ It was Arnie who tried to take the toddler from his mother. ‘Give ’er ’ere.’

Bobby was blowing into the baby’s mouth. ‘Got to get ’er back,’ she said, between blows. ‘Got to revive her.’

‘Shall I call an ambulance?’ Vanda had finally realised what was happening. ‘Give ’er ’ere, Mum.’

There followed a bizarre fight in which each of the three tried to grab the child but Anna-Louise remained unresponsive. She lay in Bobby’s arms, pale and floppy, while Arnie dialled 999 and Vanda hugged herself, wailing. ‘My baby. Has she gone, Mum? Can’t you bring her round? Come on, little thing.’ She smacked the child’s head. Bobby was making a clumsy attempt at mouth-to-mouth.

When the ambulance arrived minutes later there was no doubt about it. They found three hysterical adults and one dead child.

They took Anna-Louise from Bobby’s arms gently but firmly, knowing exactly what they should do. They lay her on the floor and gently blew breaths of air into her lungs. They put their fingers on Anna-Louise’s chest and pressed over her sternum to try and get her circulation restarted. But they were getting no response. The other paramedic had connected the child up to a cardiac monitor. But there was only a flat line, the only flicker a response to the cardiac massage. After half an hour of their valiant efforts, with Vanda watching, feeling helpless and hopeless, they said they were transferring Anna-Louise to the hospital. All the time they didn’t stop in their effort to resuscitate the child but they were despondent. However great their efforts, they knew they had lost this one. When they reached Stafford General the doctors and nurses were waiting for them. One of the nurses took the child in her arms. The double doors swung closed behind them and Anna-Louise was gone.

Vanda was stunned. ‘What’s happening?’

Bobby put her arm around her daughter. ‘I expect they’re still trying to resuscitate her,’ she said. ‘There’s lots they can do these days.’

Her daughter moved away. ‘Bring the dead back to life,’ she said scornfully. ‘Who are you trying to kid, Mum?’ She stared at the doors, still now. ‘There must have been something wrong with her. She was always ailing. Always a bit strange, wasn’t she, Mum?’

Her mother nodded. ‘Yes, love.’

Arnie was standing apart, fingering an unlit cigarette, his mouth half open. It gave him a gormless, simple look, transformed him instantly from a thug to an object of pity.

It seemed like hours later that a doctor came out and told them what they already knew.

The three of them looked at each other, stunned. Vanda opened her mouth then closed it again, the only sign that she had heard a loud sniff and tears rolling down her cheeks.

The doctor continued, still in the same quietly controlled voice, that the coroner would be informed and that they would be carrying out a post-mortem to ascertain the precise cause of death.

It was something that assisted Guy, the fact that she was a creature of habit. She always went to church on a Sunday morning. The Catholic church in Stafford. He’d followed her all the way there, early one Sunday morning. She hadn’t realised the little red Daewoo was following her. He’d pulled up outside the church and waited for almost an hour, until she came out again. Then he had pulled away, not wanting to chance it that she might realise he was there. She always went to morning Mass, taking the little girl with her. Never her husband. Brian did not seem to be a Catholic. Perhaps the house would be empty. So he rose early and walked the short distance to the field, crossing the stile, noting, with pleasure, that no one else was around. He was earlier, even, than the dog walkers.

He prowled at the back of the garden. No washing was hanging out today. He wondered if the policeman was in. If he’d been on nights he’d be back by now, probably in bed.

The house looked deserted. The bedroom curtains were
open but he sensed that the policeman was there, inside. The trouble was that the impulse to acquire something more of Claudine’s was strong. He
had
to have something more. Never mind what. Something of hers that she had touched recently. He stood and scanned the back of the house for a long time, his pulse quickening in time with his breathing as he saw a pair of Wellington boots, pale blue, plain and very clean standing neatly, side by side, on the back doorstep. Obviously they were not Brian’s. And they were far too big for the little girl so they must be
hers
. He could feel his excitement mount as he focused on them. He imagined her slipping her dainty feet into them, one at a time, ready to go for a walk, or do some gardening. He closed his eyes and dared himself to walk the few steps. Brave the lion’s den even though the lion was in his lair.

Brian was in the bath. It usually helped him to sleep but today he was too disturbed with his horny, thorny problem. He could feel hatred welling up inside him for the person who was inching his way into his home. His life. His wife.

Bethan had left her cardigan behind so Daniel bundled Holly into her coat to walk the few hundred yards to the policeman’s house. Brian would probably be asleep, in bed. Claudine and Bethan would be at Mass. He wouldn’t disturb the household but would leave the cardigan in a plastic carrier bag on the front doorstep where it would be found when they returned. He’d penned a short note of explanation.

But it was Brian who found it, walked around the house just before he realised that something else was missing.

As the Monday had been a Bank Holiday Holly had stayed for an extra day. They’d spent Sunday clearing out her bedroom, making up a charity bag of clothes she had outgrown and toys she no longer wanted, as they were too ‘childish’.

Daniel loved everything about even this routine chore: Holly’s reminiscences about where she had worn the numerous T-shirts and jeans, skirts and blouses, a couple of thick sweaters and a puffer jacket that she declared she ‘wouldn’t be seen dead in’. Daniel seemed to recall that she had begged him for it a brief year ago – as she had begged him to buy the pink wellies last week. To the pile she added half a dozen Noddy books and a few Beatrix Potters – until she changed her mind about the Beatrix Potters and said they were still ‘sweet’. The bedroom tidy, the Sunday meal eaten and cleared away, and the manes of her collection of My Little Ponies washed and dried, he’d had the rare luxury of snuggling up to her after her Sunday night bath and watching a wildlife film on the television, breathing in the
wholesome scent of Pears Coal Tar soap. In some ways she could still be quite unsophisticated.

But the extra day tacked onto the weekend would bring its own penalty. It was even harder to see her leave on the Monday afternoon.

And surgery was always doubly busy on the Tuesday after a Bank Holiday.

In spite of the low he always felt after Holly had gone, Tuesday began well for Daniel. He rose early, showered, dressed and checked his emails. Instant luck. Amongst all the spam, adverts for Viagra and jollies from friends there was one from
her
, his ‘match’ from the website. He felt an instant hit of excitement. He had no time to savour it now, much less respond, so he closed it down, knowing it would be something to look forward to all day long. He would know it was there right through the inevitably busy surgery and long list of visits and then tonight, over a beer, he would read it and decide if she was a woman he wanted to meet. He felt a little skip of the heart as though some doe-eyed lovely was waiting in the wings. Waiting especially for him.

He was walking along the High Street, pausing to look in the shop window of L
ITTLE
M
ONSTERS
, wondering what treat Holly would want next, when he sensed someone behind him. He half turned to see Maud Allen standing behind him.

‘You look happy,’ she commented.

He couldn’t but agree. ‘My daughter’s been staying for the long weekend,’ he said. ‘I don’t get to see her enough.’

‘That’s a shame,’ she said. ‘I suppose she stays with her mother.’

‘In Birmingham. I wish she could be up here. She’s only
seven and she’d love it. Especially if she could have a pony of her own.’

Her blue eyes looked shrewdly into his. ‘You’ve no room for a horse where you are, have you, Daniel?’

He shook his head. ‘Not a chance unless I can persuade a local farmer to rent out a stable and a field.’

She laughed. ‘You’ll be lucky.’

He would have asked her how she was, commented on her healthy appearance, but at that moment Arnie Struel planted himself in front of him.

‘You’re a bloody useless doctor,’ he sneered. ‘You heard what happened to our Anna-Louise?’

Daniel shook his head.

‘She died.’

‘What?’ Daniel was stunned.

Arnie nodded in a slow, threatening way, his chin jutting out and his dark eyes flashing with fury. ‘We lost her,’ he said, ‘Saturday night. Our little angel.’

Daniel felt his face contort into a frown. ‘What did she die of? Septimcaemia? What happened?’

‘Same as before. She stopped breathing. They don’t know yet exactly what her problem was.’ He moved a step closer. ‘But I can promise you, Doctor, we’ll be wantin’ an enquiry.’ He sneered in Daniel’s face. ‘You’d better speak to your lawyer, mate.’ He shoved his face even closer so Daniel breathed in nothing but cigarettes and beer. ‘You’re goin’ to need ’im.’

Daniel made to walk past him but Struel hadn’t finished with him yet. He put a hand on his collar. ‘You oughta be suspended. That’s what.’

For a while after Struel had marched away Daniel stood stock still. He could feel his reputation, his career, his entire
future ebbing away into nothing. The question was, what had Anna-Louise died of? Had it been preventable? How culpable was he and, overlying that with a thick sludge of misery, what could he have done to prevent her death? The questions rolled round and round in his mind while at the back of it was the dreadful certainty that, whatever the two-year-old had died of, her family would hold him responsible. Whatever the verdict of the coroner, the Struels would never forgive him. And in a small town a vociferous family could ensure that his life and career were made impossible. He was vulnerable and would be judged an incompetent doctor who had failed to save the life of a child, and that reputation could well mark him in this town as a failure. Patients would refuse to see such a doctor. They would lose confidence. The partnership would be dissolved and he would be a ruined man. His instinct was to run fast and far back to the safety and privacy of his house, but it was Maud Allen’s wrinkled old paw that prevented him. She smiled into his face. ‘Surely, Daniel,’ she said, ‘you’re not allowing that bully-boy to threaten you?’

He shook his head. ‘Anna-Louise, his two-year-old niece, has died,’ he said. ‘He’s angry – naturally. He holds me responsible. I was the last doctor to see her.’

The old lady’s eyes followed Arnie swaggering up the High Street, people shifting out of the way for him. Then she turned back to Daniel. ‘Your life will change,’ she said, almost prophetically. ‘Soon.’

Had he not been so distracted he would have asked Maud Allen about her hospital appointment, or at the very least checked when she was next coming to see him, but his mind was busily running through every consultation he
had had with the little girl, hunting for some hidden clue that something serious had really been wrong. But even in the labyrinths of his mind he found nothing and when he stopped thinking about Anna-Louise and returned to the present he found that Maud Allen had gone. He couldn’t even hear the tap-tap of her walking stick. He peered along the High Street but she had vanished – probably into one of the numerous shops. Hardly aware of moving forward he found himself in the Co-op, a bottle of wine in his hand, Guy Malkin patiently waiting for him to hand over £4.35. He didn’t remember selecting it or picking it up. He knew then that his day was ruined.

He gave Guy the money, watched him flush as their eyes met. He put the bottle inside a plastic carrier bag and proceeded to the surgery.

Whatever had happened he had no option but to be professional, disassociate himself from what had been said and try to concentrate on his patients. But however many times he delivered this lecture to himself he kept having doubts. His one reassurance was that the hospital doctors hadn’t been able to find anything wrong with Anna-Louise either. He couldn’t be
that
bad.

Lucy Satchel met him outside the surgery with a bright smile. ‘Morning, Dan,’ she said.

She hasn’t heard, he thought miserably.

He told her about Anna-Louise and watched her face harden. ‘When did you last see her?’ she asked, her face moving from friendliness through various phases, settling finally into suspicion. She even moved back half a step.

Have you ever noticed how quickly people detach themselves from you when you are under suspicion?

Most people, at least.

‘On Saturday.’ He watched her face change again into the frosty, polite stare of a stranger.

‘And how was she?’ Her voice was formal.

He drew in a deep breath. ‘She had a nasty boil on her leg,’ he said, ‘I gave her some antibiotics. But there was nothing else I could put my finger on. I expedited her paediatric appointment. She would have seen the paediatrician this week, I would have thought.’ He appealed to her then. ‘But you know what she was like, Lucy. She was always here at the surgery. She’d been in and out of hospital virtually all her life.’ He could feel his anger rising. ‘She’d had every bloody test under the sun. Not one of them was significantly abnormal. No one ever found anything.’

She looked disturbed at his anger. ‘But you say she died.’

His anger increased. He’d
tried
, for goodness’ sake.

Lucy nodded slowly, the constraint still making her face a strange mask. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and left it at that.

Daniel felt frustrated. He’d expected Lucy to at least back him up, show him some loyalty.

He regretted that Sammy was on holiday, back in his native New York, visiting family, so he couldn’t speak to him. He wandered into his surgery.

Somehow he got through the day and out the other end. He had booked a few minor surgery cases in the afternoon so didn’t even go home for lunch. He hadn’t fancied running the gauntlet of the High Street anyway, possibly running into Vanda or Bobby or even Arnie all over again. By the time he had finished for the day he felt weary, exhausted and worried. Every time the phone rang he expected it to be the coroner
with the results of the post-mortem, but no one contacted him, which left his questions unanswered.
What did she die of? Was it preventable? Could I
, should
I have prevented it
?

When he left the surgery he noted that Lucy Satchel’s car had already gone and he felt alone, deserted and isolated. Marie Westbrook was on holiday this week so he couldn’t even confide in her or go for a swift drink. Head down, he walked the short distance home.

The four messages on his answerphone from his mother wondering why he hadn’t been in touch over the Bank Holiday just about put the lid on the dustbin. He sighed. He couldn’t face talking to his mother. Not her. Not now. Not tonight.

He hardly had the heart to open the email, but sat, for a while, staring into the screen, reflecting how very different he felt from this morning. How his optimism and hope had so completely evaporated.

But finally he did.

‘Hi, I’m M. It was nice to get your contact.’ He liked her breezy tone. ‘I’m a professional woman who lives in south Staffordshire and am divorced following a short and very unsatisfactory marriage. I have no children though I’d love some, especially a daughter. I’m 34 years old and have no ties. My family are from London. I enjoy a wide variety of activities: dancing (Salsa especially!), country walks, music Classical and folk, some Pop. I also love reading – mainly modern novels, crime, romances and anything with a historical interest, and of course eating, in particular Italian food and even more when it’s served with a good bottle of red wine.

‘I’d love to meet you. Soon.’

Daniel read the sentence twice. She’d
love
to meet him.
That sounded good. He felt himself cheering up. It was like coming home to a friendly wife. She sounded ideal – and available. Claudine might be his fantasy woman but she had a policeman husband which to the local doctor was a serious impediment. He read on with quickening interest.

‘I enjoy cooking. Now then.’ Her tone had changed. ‘You must be wondering whether I’m attractive. Well – I don’t think people are generally sick when they see me but even I can’t pretend I’m a showstopper. I’m five-foot ten inches tall and quite slim, have medium brown hair cut round my face (medium length and straight). So why don’t we meet for a drink? Next week would be great. Just suggest a pub, Dan, and I’ll be there!

‘Yours, M.’

Daniel read the entire email through twice before hitting the reply button. No point in hesitating.

‘How about Wednesday?’ He named a pub on the outskirts of Stafford. Eccleston was far too public a place to meet someone on a blind date. Particularly now when his reputation was under threat.

In spite of downing almost the entire bottle of wine and yet another spat on the telephone with Elaine about the coming weekend, he woke the next morning feeling buoyant – bullish even. He would sit this one out.

He had a day’s grace.

He had been waiting for the coroner’s office to contact him about the death of Anna-Louise but it was the pathologist who eventually rang. Even though Daniel had anticipated the phone call he could still feel his hand shake when the receptionist rang through. He spoke into the telephone,
deliberately making an effort to make his voice sound confident, deep and fully in control. ‘Doctor Gregory here.’

The pathologist introduced himself as Doctor James McReady, briskly informing Daniel in a rich Scottish accent that he was a locum filling in for Michael Gray. The fact that Daniel didn’t know him increased his unease. At least Gray was familiar ground.

‘I’ll be frank with you, Doctor. The cause of death of the little girl is by no means certain or clear.’ He was choosing his words with precision. ‘Bu-ut…’ There was a wealth of meaning in the strung out word. ‘I have my suspicion that this was not a natural death.’ He proceeded to give Daniel a tutorial.

‘Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is well known amongst the general public.’ Daniel gave a confident murmur of agreement.

‘Reye’s Syndrome is a similar sudden death in older children.’ Like a good professor he paused for his student to absorb this fact before hurrying on. ‘Certain characteristics led me to suspect this diagnosis.’ Another pause. ‘According to her mother, Anna-Louise had a history of apnoeic attacks?’

‘Yes.’

‘Reye’s Syndrome frequently follows a viral infection such as coryza.’

Why couldn’t he just say a common cold?

‘The incidence of Reye’s Syndrome is also greatly increased if there is a history of aspirin ingestion. I spoke to Anna-Louise’s mother on this matter and she admitted she had given her daughter half an adult aspirin, i.e. 37.5 mgms, two hours before the child’s death because the little girl was snuffly.’

Daniel felt a familiar irritation.
Don’t they just love the sound 
of their own voices? Simply half an aspirin would have done.