Healers (3 page)

Lily supposed that professionally they were doing well for themselves. They had that in common. She had heard the story of their conversion to alternative medicine many times. Both, for different reasons, had been interested in health since childhood. Daniel’s father had been a consultant neurologist and Daniel had enjoyed the reflected glory, the status, the power. He had applied to medical school himself but had been turned down. These days nepotism could not overcome mediocre exam results. At the interview it had been suggested that he go in for nursing but that would hardly have provided the same rewards. He’d drifted for a while after that, travelled. Subsidized by affluent and indulgent parents he’d made it out to India, joined second-generation hippies seeking enlightenment had his consciousness raised. Or so he claimed. Came across the idea of natural therapy, took to acupuncture like a duck to water. It was logical, he said. It made sense. And it made him feel useful.

His parents were sceptical but determined to be liberal. He was their only son. They funded his training at the Traditional Acupuncture College at learning ton Spa. When he set up in his original practice they paid the first six months’ rent and when he and Win moved to Mittingford they paid the deposit on the house. The venture at the Old Chapel soon flourished. He was everything his patients required in a practitioner grave, calm and authoritative. He wore a white coat and they treated him as an old-fashioned family doctor. He encouraged them in the belief that he was infallible.

Win’s childhood encounter with medicine had been as a consumer. Her father had died, when she was a baby, of one of those strange genetic disorders for which there is no cure. She had suffered dreadfully from asthma and eczema. In the playground she wheezed and scratched and was picked on by other children. Her mother was a remarkable woman who had survived bereavement without bitterness, but she was determined not to lose her child too. Win was dragged along to a variety of doctors, all of whom diagnosed her illness as psychosomatic. Only after she consulted a homoeopath did the condition improve. Both mother and daughter were instantly converted to the benefits of complementary medicine. The mother, as she admitted wryly later, rather went overboard. She went on numerous courses, took up strange diets and settled for a while on reflexology as her preferred method of healing. Throughout Win’s adolescence their house was filled with unfamiliar people who exposed their feet to her mother’s gaze. It was quite natural for Win to follow in the same path. She had never been a natural rebel. She believed, quite literally, her mother’s assertion that homoeopathy had saved her life, and saw it as her mission in life to spread the word to others.

In time Win’s mother had moved on from reflexology to re birthing Now she was an establishment figure in the movement, an old hand, regarded as a guru and a leader by the younger people who followed her. She had written widely and had been featured in the national press. “The Acceptable Face of Quackery’ one of the headlines had said. She gave advice on childbirth, relationships and her photogenic face made her one of the strong women loved by the colour supplements. Her fame gave her a special mystique. She had a reputation among her young disciples for wisdom, though they never defined what that meant. She set up a clinic in a house in Hampstead and had politicians and rock stars among her clients.

Then Daniel had persuaded her to join them at the Old Chapel. It was a great coup. Everyone admitted that and wondered how he had managed to pull it off. Perhaps all the publicity in the capital had frightened her away. She did talk occasionally about needing to return to the simple life, and she seemed quite content in the little flat next to the Alternative Therapy Centre, under the roof of the old chapel. She had sold the big house in Hampstead and there was considerable speculation about what had happened to the money. Lily was occasionally tempted to ask her, but had never quite found the nerve. Magda didn’t encourage idle conversation.

But Magda Pocock had definitely brought success, Lily thought, looking round the Abbots’ stylish house. The Alternative Therapy Centre must be a thriving business now. Then she was ashamed that financial calculations had entered her thoughts because Magda had become a guru to her too, besides a surrogate mother and role model.

“Are you going to Magda’s group this afternoon?” Lily asked. Win was pouring coffee into hand-thrown mugs. She looked haggard, tired, undernourished. Not a brilliant advert for homoeopathy, Lily thought, but perhaps that was what motherhood did to you. Win had given birth to two boys, only a year apart, as if she wanted to get the mucky business over with as soon as possible.

“No,” Win said. “Not this afternoon.” She offered no excuse.

On Sunday afternoons Magda ran what she called her Insight Group, a nineties version of the encounter group.

“We’re doing Voice Dialogue,” Lily said. “What about you, Daniel?” she added. But Daniel obviously thought he had no need of insight. He led workshops but seldom participated in them. He shook his head, smiling slightly.

“I suppose babysitting must be a problem,” Lily said. “Now Faye’s not around any more.” She saw Win turn away and realized she’d put her foot in it. She went on, to make amends: “You know I’d always babysit if you’re stuck.”

“Would you?” Win turned to Daniel. “Perhaps Lily could babysit tomorrow night. So I could come to the lecture with you.”

“Why not?” Daniel said, but his response was half-hearted, and Lily had the impression that he would have preferred to go alone.

“Sure,” Lily said. “I’ll come straight from work. Daniel can give me a lift home after, if he doesn’t mind.”

She was pleased with the arrangement. At least she would have an evening away from the caravan and Laverock Farm. She did wonder, briefly, what Daniel could be up to.

That Sunday afternoon, in a small terraced house in Wallsend, a dozen misfits and loners crammed into the tiny front room to sing rousing choruses to praise the Lord. Despite the heat the men wore dark suits and ties and the women gloves and mushroomshaped fluffy hats. There was a squeaky harmonium. After the songs and some prayers they sat, excitingly crushed together on the settee or on dining chairs brought in for the purpose, to listen to Ron Irving giving the address.

Brother Ron prided himself on his topical sermons. He was a small, dark man given, some of them knew, to violent tempers and secret drinking, but he was a skilled speaker. In the previous week the newspapers and television had focused on an illegal New Age festival, held on some common land in Gloucestershire, a precursor to the solstice assault on Stonehenge. Ron took up the subject again, with delight.

“You must not think of these followers of the New Age as being simply misguided seekers of the truth,” he boomed. In the house next door the television was turned up louder in compensation. “Oh no! Most have had a way to the word of the Lord and have turned away from it. They have joined the path to sorcery, witchcraft and the devil. Through choice and deliberate wickedness.”

There was a shuffling of seats in anticipation. They liked to hear Ron talk about the devil. It was better than a good horror film any day. But they were disappointed. His tone changed.

“That path always leads to misery and disaster,” he said, so quietly that they could hear the football commentary through the wall. “We know that, don’t we? We’ve seen it in our own congregation. Our own little Faye, my step-daughter, Joan’s beloved baby, turned her back on righteousness and paid the ultimate price for her sin.”

Magda Pocock was a striking woman. Her background was mixed Eastern European and minor English gentry. When she was younger her features had been too large to make her attractive but she seemed to have grown into them. The high cheekbones, the heavy eyebrows gave an impression of gravity and power, of someone at least who should be taken seriously. “The Germaine Greer of the New Age’ one of the Sundays had called her. She had laughed at that but taken it as a compliment; looking at herself in the mirror she had understood what was meant. They had cleared all the furniture from the reception area in the Alternative Therapy Centre. It was still cramped but it was the best she could do, better at least than using a draughty church hall or a school gymnasium smelling of cabbage and sweaty children. The group were sitting on the floor, chanting. Not choruses to the glory of God but a low, communal tone. Magda always started her session that way. A deep breath into the pit of the stomach, then an exhalation which became vocalized, relieving tension, making new members feel part of the group. Lily, sitting cross-legged, shut her eyes and felt herself relax for the first time that day. Magda looked round the circle to see who was there. She saw a couple of new faces but mostly the old crowd: Lily Jackman, Val McDougal.

“Get into pairs,” she said. Lily and Val moved together. Lily looked towards Magda, expecting her to separate them so their experience could be shared, but she must have decided not to make an issue of it. Lily was pleased. She did not have the energy today to work with a stranger.

“Just a few exercises to help us feel at ease with each other,” Magda said, and got them to shut their eyes and explore each other’s faces with their fingertips. Her voice, compelling, still slightly foreign, allowed no awkwardness. Lily, feeling Val’s hands on her neck and forehead, felt like crying.

“Now stand facing each other. Imagine one of you is the mirror image of the other. As one moves so must the other. But let no one be the leader. Be so aware of each other that you move together, almost instinctively.”

She walked among them, encouraging them. Then told them to sit again while she explained about Voice Dialogue. “Each of us has different sub personalities within us,” she said. “Each with its own voice clamouring to be heard: the submissive child, the critic, the pleaser, the pusher, the rule maker the playful child and many others.

Some of these sub personalities we are conscious of, some we identify with very strongly, some we disown, not wanting to admit even to ourselves that these energies belong to us. Others we are yet to discover. By giving expression to the different voices inside us, each pulling us in its own direction, we can begin to be more aware of our complexity, more aware of balance, of what is best for us as a whole.”

In their pairs they should explore these different voices, Magda said. They should speak with them. Move to different chairs or cushions as they gave expression to the different facets of their own personality. Starting with the ‘primary self; the sub personality they identified most with. It would not do, Magda said, to blame their background or upbringing for weakness or lack of confidence. They could take responsibility for their own emotional well-being. Voice Dialogue could help them to do that.

Chapter Four

News of the murder came to Stephen Ramsay early on Monday morning. He was in a meeting, one of the endless meetings the Chief Superintendent regularly called. The Superintendent was a new appointee. He had been on management courses, spent a secondment in industry. Ramsay supposed the new Home Office plans for accountability and professional appraisal would attract others like him, grey men whose idea of effective management was more memos, more meetings. The talk was of limited resourcing, cuts. Ramsay found it hard to concentrate. The summons from Hunter came as a relief.

They stood together in the corridor outside the conference room.

“Definitely murder,” Hunter said. He tried unsuccessfully to contain his relish.

“Where?”

“A place called Laverock Farm. In the wilds beyond Mittingford.”

“Not a bad day for a trip into the countryside,” Ramsay said and Hunter thought his boss was almost human these days. Almost. It was getting his end away after all this time. Ramsay never talked about Prue Bennett at work but everyone knew what was going on. You couldn’t hide an affair like that in a place as small as Otterbridge.

“Who’s the victim?” Ramsay asked.

“An old bloke. A farmer called Bowles. Strangled.”

“I was only up that way at the weekend,” Ramsay said.

With your fancy woman, Hunter thought, but did not say. He was changing too. Learning some tact with the years. Ramsay heard the silence and was grateful. He and Hunter were rubbing along better now than at any time since they had started working together.

It’s time he settled down, Ramsay thought. He should find himself a good woman. Recognizing the evangelical zeal of the newly converted, he smiled to himself.

Look at him! Hunter thought with a trace of envy. Like the cat that’s got the bloody cream.

The isolation of Laverock Farm was a complication. There was a worry that the scene-of-crime officers, the photographer, the pathologist, might not find it. Ramsay ordered the fax of Ordnance Survey maps. He talked to an inspector in charge of the northern division about using the old police station in Mittingford as a base. When he and Hunter left Otterbridge almost an hour later he saw, with satisfaction, that the budget meeting was still in progress.

They found Ernie Bowles in the farmhouse kitchen, lying on the floor.

“Not a pretty sight,” Hunter said. “But then he wouldn’t have been that when he was alive.” He saw a squat plump man in his late fifties. A paunch bulged over the belt of his trousers. He was wearing a suit of sorts, shiny at the elbows with a stain down one lapel. Hunter was cared for by a doting mother and was prepared to spend half a week’s wage on a designer shirt.

“He must have lived on his own,” he said. “No woman would have let him out looking like that.”

Hunter had definite views on the role of women.

Ramsay said nothing. Hunter’s prejudices dismayed him but he did not want to break the fragile peace between them. He was surprised by the shabby discomfort of the kitchen. In his experience farmers, despite their pleas of poverty, still had a reasonable standard of living. They drove big cars, perhaps not replaced every August now but seldom more than a couple of years old. His ex-wife Diana knew girls who had married into farming families and he had been taken occasionally to visit. They had drunk good red wine in farmhouse kitchens, equipped with an expensive new Aga and a dishwasher and Liberty print curtains. There had been many good years, after all, before the recession. Then it occurred to him that any girl who had been a friend of Diana’s probably had a private income. Perhaps this was more typical. No money had been spent on this place for a quarter of a century. The furniture was not new but there was nothing of quality. No family heirlooms but postwar utility and sixties mass production. The person who had furnished this house had been mean.