The Quiet Woman, page 16
There followed an awkward silence.
Throughout the service I kept my eye on Richard and his daughter, studying their body language. They were side by side but so obviously apart, both in spirit and physically. Which made me wonder: as she spent time with him, was her blame focus shifting? Was she now blaming him for her mother’s death? Or at least seeing the part he’d played rather than turning the blame on the surgery? If so, could she possibly work as an ally? In her thick black coat, she was leaning away from him towards a thin, severe-looking woman with short hair dyed a uniform and unnatural looking lilac. Pink, plastic earrings swung from her earlobes which seemed a minor rebellion against funereal expression. The two women (aunt and niece perhaps?) appeared to be exchanging a whispered argument while Richard sat, upright as a monolith, scrawny neck poking out of a dark sweater and stiff-looking blue shirt collar. He looked straight ahead, distancing himself from the people in the church, rising above their whispers, his lips moving. In apology? Supplication? Criticism?
What was he saying? I wondered.
The final eulogy was delivered by a priest who rather laboured the point, repeating himself with words like ‘tortured’, ‘suffering’, ‘sick’ and ‘unhappy’ making frequent appearances. The hymns were predictable, ‘The Day Thou Gavest’ and the dirge-like ‘Abide With Me’ tinnily playing on an electric organ while the gathering did their best with tentative, plaintive singing.
And afterwards, an unavoidable line-up, where again no one seemed able to vary the phrases as they shook hands or kissed Harriet’s cheek. ‘I’m so sorry.’ And, ‘How are you bearing up?’ Repeated over and over again.
When it came to my turn, I would have avoided them both and slunk past, head down, hoping neither of them would see me. But Harriet Clay blocked my exit.
‘I wondered if you’d come,’ she said in a stiff, awkward manner.
I shrugged. There was no suitable rejoinder.
She grabbed my arm then. ‘I need to talk to you.’
The phrases ‘speak to my legal representative’ or ‘talk to my lawyer’ came to mind. Even holding up my hand – talk to the hand – however inappropriate and rude, flashed through my mind. I was tempted. Instead, I simply regarded her with a face cold with suspicion and hoped she’d recognize my response as wary, if not overtly hostile, so she’d realize I was on to her journalistic tricks.
‘Please,’ she said, her attitude shifting. ‘The whole thing …’ She started again. ‘This whole thing. It’s so wrong. Something’s wrong.’ There was a heavy appeal in her voice and her hand was gripping my arm so tightly I couldn’t have escaped. Her eyes left me to sweep towards her father. ‘I don’t understand what happened.’
That was the first time I wondered if it was possible we could be thinking the same thing.
If only I could read that letter. I held the thought back. We weren’t on that sort of footing yet.
Even through the sleeves of my mac I could feel her nails biting into me. Sharp.
‘You didn’t know my mother.’ She was shaking her head. ‘Not really. Few people did.’ She put her head close to me so I could smell coffee on her breath. ‘She was a woman of many layers.’
I had no idea what she meant.
I could see Richard, in his dark clothes, tall and skinny as death itself, on the periphery of my vision. No one was shaking his hand now. The collected crowd, having sucked the drama out of the situation, had drifted away leaving him standing alone.
Harriet and I too were an isolated island. And I didn’t know what to say to Christine’s daughter. I’d already swallowed back the retort that obviously I had known her mother. That wasn’t what she’d meant at all. There had been a hint of a twisted, dark side to her mother’s character. Now I was curious. And I could feel that curiosity biting into me. What exactly was she hinting at?
Thankfully, realizing her words had grabbed my attention, she’d released my arm. ‘She wasn’t what you think, Nurse Florence,’ she said with a small smile. Then her eyes swivelled towards her father. ‘Neither is he.’
‘Harriet.’ The lady with the pink earrings was touching her shoulder while regarding me with overt hostility. She had a sharp, commanding voice which diverted Harriet’s attention. She stared at me for a moment, frowning and shaking her head, as though she’d lost her train of thought. Or an actress who’d forgotten her lines. ‘Will you come back to the house?’ she asked finally, her voice low and still confused.
I shook my head. ‘No. I have to get back to the surgery.’ I managed a smile and she turned away from me.
Which was when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. Jalissa was smiling at me. ‘You lookin’ very far away, Nurse Florence,’ she said. ‘It is sadness or somethin’ else?’
‘Not sure …’ I still had that awful feeling I was making a mess of this and while I was trying to work out how to respond Will seemed to appear from nowhere and we were both under Jalissa’s all-seeing dark eyes, bright with humour under their fringe of curling black lashes.
‘So,’ she said cheekily to Will, ‘you comin’ here too to the funeral.’
‘It’s customary,’ he replied, his eyes twinkling at her. ‘And polite in cases of unexplained death.’
I addressed him then. ‘I didn’t see you inside.’
Will glanced back at the crematorium. ‘Slipped in just behind you,’ he said quietly, adding, with a slightly mischievous smile, ‘didn’t want you distracted.’
That almost made me giggle. But the black tie and rather smart grey suit distracted me. I was about to say, ‘You look nice,’ when I realized that Jalissa, with her thirst for drama and romance, was drinking the whole scene in.
So I gave up on them both. ‘I have to get back to the surgery.’
‘I’ll walk you to your car.’
Running the gauntlet of Jalissa’s all-seeing gaze, I accepted. I knew he had something to tell me and didn’t want any ears flapping in our direction.
THIRTY-SIX
He waited until we were out of earshot before speaking. ‘We’ve discovered the source of the OxyContin.’
I turned my head, unable to suppress a slight gloat. ‘So you’ve accepted the fact that we didn’t prescribe it.’
He nodded and couldn’t resist defending himself. ‘You understand all these secrecy laws seem designed to confound us.’
‘Confidentiality,’ I corrected.
He dipped his head – the only apology or correction I was going to get, but the side of his mouth twitched in a smile.
‘So …?’
He looked awkward now. And I knew that look too. Mark’s face had been plastered with it when he was about to leak a secret he shouldn’t have while swearing me to secrecy. Will went one further. He even leant his head towards mine and covered his mouth – as though anyone was lip reading.
‘There’s a local connection.’
‘Well, I guessed that.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘those guys that Ryan’s in with are just keeping the county lines in order. Making sure they know what’s to be done if anyone of their little tribe steps out of line.’
‘So …?’
‘The stuff is coming via various routes from somewhere in Germany.’
‘And before that?’
‘We think possibly the USA.’
‘County lines,’ I picked up. ‘In other words, kids. The guys Ryan was with were not kids.’
‘They’re keeping everyone in order.’ The expression in his eyes changed. He looked sad. ‘Ryan seems to be in charge of recruitment.’
‘Oh no.’ All thoughts of the Clays, the recent funeral and my doubts about the ‘true version’ vanished. I knew what happened to the kids who were recruited to ‘help’ distribute anything illegal whether it was prescription drugs, illegal cigarettes or pornography. What seemed tempting to the kids – easy money, a wad of twenty-pound notes, a pair of expensive trainers or the ‘friendship’ of the older guys, all of it, every blood-soaked penny – would cost them. From being ‘useful kids’ who ‘helped’ they quickly became a liability and were dealt with accordingly.
Once they were hooked.
Which was probably one of the ways Ryan, with his honest blue eyes and engaging personality, had been recruited in the first place. And look where it had got him. A four-inch knife wound which had near as damn it severed a nerve. And nerves rarely knit easily. Like lives, I suppose.
I was disappointed – and worried. But then I understood. Maybe Ryan had tried to redeem himself, wriggle free. And that was why the knife wound, the reluctance to attend hospital, instead sneaking into the surgery heading for treatment from me. I felt suddenly akin to the boy he’d once been. Ryan had tried to hit back.
It was against the rules of the NHS but I had to tell Will – who was looking at me strangely.
‘You’re really fond of the guy, aren’t you?’
I nodded. ‘I know his background.’
‘I know some of it. The rest I can guess.’
But another of Mark’s sayings had been resurrected. ‘It doesn’t matter how good their core is. If they’re mixed up in organized crime it will soon wear thin and the crimes they’ll join in will escalate, each step taking them nearer to a life sentence. And however much the public bleat that’– he’d wriggled his fingers – ‘life should mean life, it’s long enough to turn them into the most hardened of criminals. While anything good that was once in them dissolves as though it was immersed in an acid bath.’
I struggled against Mark’s pessimism and tried to steer the conversation back to the Clays.
‘So if you have the source …’ I hesitated. ‘Who actually bought it?’ Then I held my breath.
Will’s mouth had tilted into an even wider smile. ‘What would it tell you, Florence?’
‘It might …’
He was still looking at me. ‘Drop it,’ he advised. ‘Leave it to us to investigate.’
I could feel the chilling of our friendship, the coolness in my voice. ‘But you’re not, are you?’
Silence.
‘The inquest is next Monday,’ he said. ‘It’ll be opened and adjourned.’
We both chimed in with the next line. ‘Pending police investigation.’
‘The coroner’s officer might ask for a written statement from you,’ he added, ‘but I doubt you’ll be called as a witness.’
And that was that. A statement which would be read out in court. Possibly the last service I would ever be able to perform for my patient.
I climbed in my car and returned to the surgery.
THIRTY-SEVEN
3 p.m.
The message came through on my computer as I was talking to a patient undergoing a well woman check.
Can you please ring Harriet Clay on this number? She says it’s urgent.
The number was a mobile – not the Clays’ landline.
I was wary. I read the message through twice and decided forewarned is forearmed.
Tell her I’ll call her back.
Ten minutes later I was free.
It was only a couple of hours since she’d watched her mother being cremated. But I’d sensed the lady with the pink earrings had held her back from speaking to me. She hadn’t wanted any confidences overheard.
Now I was curious.
I dialled the number and the phone at the other end was picked up on the first ring. As soon as I’d spoken my name she started talking in a state of hysteria quite the opposite of the hard-nosed, cold woman who’d practically threatened to expose me as an uncaring charlatan. What on earth had wrought this volte face?
She launched straight into her explanation. ‘I didn’t know who else to call. Honestly.’
And she’d called me? Right.
I felt even more wary, tightly guarded, telling myself this could be a ploy. Luring me to believe she and I were on the same side.
I repeated to myself her very blunt threats. But I couldn’t have guessed the reason for her panic.
‘He can’t wait to get rid of me.’ Her voice was high-pitched. Panicky. ‘He wants me to go. God, I’m his only daughter. His only child,’ she corrected. ‘You’d think he’d want me to stay and, maybe, comfort him.’ Even she sounded dubious at this version but, regardless, she ploughed on. ‘Instead, he wants me gone. Every day he asks me when I’m going. Every. Single. Day.’
Hmm, I thought. Maybe he was worried she would pick up on something that would make her realize what a fake job the whole suicide/failed suicide had been. Maybe, knowing her talent for such things, he worried she would sniff out the holes in his narrative. Naturally I could say none of this to her so instead asked, ‘Your friend’s still with you?’
‘Dekina?’ Her voice was squeaky. ‘The one he calls my lesbian frau.’
Even I didn’t know what to say to this.
‘He’s hiding something.’ Her voice was spiteful now, her desire to get back at her father floating on the top of her words like rancid fat on cold water.
I was still at a loss how to respond. Not only because her profession polluted my mind, but also because I was shocked at her about-turn. Previously her attitude towards her father had been protective. Now it was blatantly destructive. She wanted him down. This is when secrets come bursting out like a squeezed pustule.
Protecting Dekina had changed her loyalty to her father.
Or was there something else? Had she picked up on something else? I was desperate to know, while at the same time I worried that she was using this as a ploy, a trick, to lure me into trusting her, confiding in her, hoping to uncover indiscretion on my part. She could even be recording this conversation which she could then use as a quote.
I don’t trust you yet, I thought.
‘I’m sorry about your mother, Harriet, but—’
She forestalled me. ‘Please, Florence. I think my father …’
I heard the desperation in her voice. She was drawing me in.
‘I understand the inquest’s next Monday,’ I said stiffly. ‘If you have concerns maybe the coroner or his officer would be the best one to talk to.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, scepticism oozing out of her voice. ‘Yeah, and let the whole world know I think he might have—’
It’s the world you and your ilk created, I thought, a world full of suspicions and litigation. But I said nothing, which was fortunate because, almost belatedly, I wondered how she would have finished the sentence.
Her next utterance was softly confiding as though we were terrifically good friends. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s over.’
When it’s over?
I didn’t want to disabuse her of her comfort blanket. And I was itching to remind her we weren’t bosom pals or secret sisters but adversaries.
I dropped back into neutral. ‘I’m sure,’ I said, in my best nurse-voice, fake sympathy oozing out of every pore. It sounded as shallow and meaningless as the ubiquitous ‘take care’ or ‘not a problem’ or even ‘have a good day’, the empty phrases that are spat out numerous times a day.
There was a moment’s pause. Maybe she’d seen through my insincerity. For a moment I felt ashamed and rushed to fill it. ‘So when do you intend returning to London?’
‘Tonight,’ she said huffily. ‘I may as well. There’s nothing I can do here except hang around with a long face, getting in my father’s way, annoying him and tripping over voyeurs.’
Again, she was hinting at an alternative version but I wasn’t going to take the bait.
‘You’re not staying for the inquest?’
‘No point,’ she snapped. ‘It won’t tell us anything we don’t already know.’
Privately I had to agree with her but, as it seemed she was abandoning her mission to expose more flaws in the NHS, I felt I ought to say something. And I did want to learn the truth behind her mother’s fatal misapprehension, learn the source, and find out what exactly Richard Clay’s role in this tragedy was. And so I added, ‘If I can be of any help, Harriet’ – more sincerely this time – ‘just pick up the phone. And, Harriet,’ I continued, ‘I really am sorry.’
There was a pause between us. I was wondering how I could swing the subject round to the letter. Her response was ambiguous. ‘If you do learn something, even if you imagine I won’t like it,’ she said, ‘you will let me know, won’t you?’
I gave a blanket response. ‘Of course.’
The relief I felt when she’d hung up was immeasurable. I revised the words I’d used.
Nothing there that she could use to accuse me.
I was temporarily cheered by a text from Will accompanied by a love heart emoji. What are you up to next weekend? Hoping we can get together? X
Texts have their shortcomings and Lara had intimated she and David might come up again for a visit. She’d actually mentioned that she might see if her dad was around. And I was dying to know what the situation was between Mark and Vivien. I didn’t want to hurt Will or put him off, but I wanted to delay Will meeting my daughter and her partner as long as possible, at least until I was more certain this would be a long-term relationship. And, as usual, Lara had been vague about her plans.
I scanned the message again, reading in it optimism and hope. To respond by text wasn’t appropriate. I should speak to him face-to-face, explain why I wasn’t jumping at the chance of more time together. I sat for a while wondering how best to manage the situation. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Finally I came up with: Will, I would love to spend more time with you but I have family stuff going on over the weekend. What about one night in the week?
His response was curt. Sorry, working. No kisses, no love heart emojis, no suggestion of a substitute date. I was beginning to realize this late dating game was awfully tricky.
