Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3) (35 page)

Romney was a little taken aback by her abruptness and lack of empath
y. ‘I think that I suffer from iatrophobia. It’s a pathological fear of doctors,’ he managed, with some effort.

‘I know what it is
, Mr Romney, and you don’t suffer from it. No one who suffers from iatrophobia could hardly bring themselves to voluntarily walk into a doctor’s surgery. You just share a commonality with a large portion of the population – you get anxious when you visit the doctor or the dentist. It’s perfectly rational and normal. Just accept it and deal with it like a man is my professional advice. Now, why don’t you sit down and tell me what seems to be the problem?’

Romney sat. He heard himself explaining that he had been sore around his back passage for a couple of weeks. There was an unusual swelling. A sort of spongy protrusion. He had found blood on the toilet paper when he wiped. He could have also added that he was slowly dying of embarrassment, but felt that any attempt to explain his feelings in front of this cold and businesslike dowdy lump would earn him short-shrift.

‘Right. You have two choices,’ she said. ‘Given the personal nature of your complaint you can reschedule to see a male doctor who will give you a brief examination, or you can make your way over to the bed, drop your trousers and your underpants and I can do it now. You won’t have anything that I haven’t seen before.’

The complete and utter ignominy of it all washed over Romney
, like a heavy salt-water wave. Deep within himself he found barely glowing embers of his police inspector fortitude and made a conscious effort to fan them. ‘Let’s just get it over with can we?’ he said.

‘That’s the spirit,’ she said, clapping her hands together loudly.

He shuffled over, fiddled with clumsy fingers at his belt-buckle and his clothing and was soon standing with his back to the room, using one arm to lean against the bed and the other to hold up his shirt tails. His exposed backside detected a chill in the air. He heard her moving around behind him and the rubber snapping of skin tight gloves being put on.

She applied gentle pressure to his lower back to encourage him to bend over. He closed his eyes in his humiliation and tried to think of somethin
g jolly to cheer himself up. All that came to mind was the AIDs poster he had been looking at in the waiting room.

‘Dear me. Romney by name, Romney by nature.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Romney.

‘
Bit hairy aren’t we? Like one of the Romney Marsh sheep on my father’s farm,’ she said.

He was trying to make sense of why she would make such
a personal remark when he felt a cold, latex finger probing his anus. He instinctively clamped his backside shut and then realising that this would not be helpful made an effort to relax and breathe. She could have bloody warned him. She prodded and poked while he died a little bit more of the shame.

To compound his wretched degradation a little pocket of trapped foul-smelling gas he had not been aware of was released by her intrusion to colour the air around them.
Romney mentally braced himself for another farmyard comparison, but the farmer’s daughter showed some professionalism and ignored it.

After the worst thirty seconds of his life
, she said, ‘All right. All done.’ Her voice indicated she was moving away. ‘You can get dressed now.’

By the time she was at the sink washing her hands vigorously he had his trousers up and fastened.

‘Sit down if you can,’ she smiled. Had she actually enjoyed his discomfort? he wondered.

She came back around to sit behind her desk and ignored him while she tapped a couple of keys on her computer keyboard. Then she turned the computer monitor around to face him. The screen was filled with several small diagrams of a human anus. Each was labelled with words that Romney could barely pronounce let alone understand. She pointed with her pencil at one of them. ‘See this?’ she made a circling movement with her pointer. ‘Perianal haematoma. Aka haemorrhoids. Also known as piles.’

‘Piles?’ said Romney. ‘Are you sure? I mean can you be sure, just from that examination?’

‘Quite, but you’re free to ask for a second opinion if you like. Had any constipation lately?’

‘No. Actually, yes. A couple of weeks ago.’

‘Straining on the toilet?’

‘No. Well a bit. Maybe more than a bit. But it’s all right now.’

‘Any itching around your anus.’

He opened his mouth to say no, but remembered that there had been a noticeable itchy sensation for a little while and said yes.

‘Do you practise anal sex?’

‘Certainly not,’ he said, with as much indignation as he could muster, which considering not three minutes ago she’d had her finger up his arse, sounded a little flat.

‘Piles,’ she repeated. She patiently explained the different types and told him that his were the external kind. Simple small blood clots around the exterior of the opening of the anus and they would probably clear up on their own after a few days. If he wanted to he could buy some over the counter cream at the chemists, but in her opinion they were all a waste of money. Let nature and his body deal with it.

She scanned the printout of his vital signs that had come through and told him that they were all what she would expect for a man of his age. She advised him to think more about his diet and getting enough exercise. Then she bid him good day.

Stepping out of the building Romney felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders. He was not going to die after all. He breathed in the clean fresh air and got the tang of salt from the Channel. By God it was good to be alive. Piles. Idiot.

***

21

With good will in his heart after his stay of execution
, he had called in at home and selected a few decent paperback titles for Marsh. He’d also snuck in a copy of Edy Vitriol’s,
‘All Women Are Prostitutes’
. On his way to the station, he dropped them into the hospital, along with a replacement bag of grapes for the ones he’d eaten on his previous visit and some flowers bought in the hospital foyer that looked like they’d been recycled from a cheap wreath.

When she’
d shown her surprise at his inclusion of one of Vitriol’s signed hardbacks, he told her he’d seen a couple of online reviews that had panned it and the general consensus of opinion was that it was a load of rubbish and that the man’s death, however sad for him and his loved ones, was no great loss to English literature. He did enjoy her reaction when he told her that Vitriol’s mother had unloaded the whole box of books from her son’s room onto him and that instead of making a fortune on an online book auction site, he’d now be taking them to the nearest charity shop at the earliest opportunity.

*

As if Romney’s morning hadn’t been remarkable enough, his evening became, without a close contender, the most surreal of his life. He doubted whether even Dali could have conceived of such a cast and plot.

In his forty-and-a-few-years, Romney had had
some strange nights, bizarre nocturnal experiences, been involved in weird twilight incidents, but the night of that Friday the thirteenth raised the bar in biscuit taking. Indeed, such was the outrageousness of it all – the interplay of statistical improbability regarding the unfolding of coincidences and the characters involved – that he, a committed Atheist, was even forced to briefly wonder whether he’d been the temporary plaything of a bored deity who had finally got around to punishing him for his lack of faith.

The evening began ordinarily enough. As per Diane Hodge’s emailed instructions
, he found his way to her home in a classy suburb of Deal, the next town along the coast. He’d hoped she might like to dine somewhere local to her house so that they could walk or taxi. He might then be able to risk a couple of glasses of wine. She had other, more definite plans. She had reserved them a table at a new Greek taverna-style eatery that she’d heard of in Dover. Somewhere called
The Olive Tree
. Did he know it? Yes he did.

They arrived a little after eight-thirty. The place was quite busy. Alexis greeted them and showed them to their table. Romney stole a furtive glance at her and
noted that she looked tired and anxious. She gave no indication of their previous encounter but welcomed him as a repeat customer should be welcomed. He wanted to tell her that he’d made enquiries that had borne no fruit. He wanted also to ask if they’d been paid a visit by the extortionists, but the opportunity did not reasonably present itself and when she’d seated them she moved away to another table.

‘Did you see that sad frumpy looking woman sitting on her own reading a book?
’ said the forensic scientist.

Romney
followed her gaze to see Dr Lawrence at a table set for one, apparently engrossed in a thick paperback, as she spooned up her soup. A ripple of embarrassment, at the memory of passing wind while she had her finger up his bottom not twelve hours previously made him hot.

‘I think it’
s a bit pathetic and attention-seeking to take a book out for dinner, don’t you?’ she said.

Romney shifted his chair so that his back was more fully to the medic and mumbled an agreement.
It had struck him as a pitiable sight.

In the table’s candle-light
, Diane Hodge looked particularly stunning in a revealing dress that she almost had on. The jet black of her garment and her hair contrasted in a most appealing way with her crimson lipstick, crimson nail polish and crimson stilettos. Her fragrance had filled Romney’s car so that by the time they’d driven back to Dover he was almost completely intoxicated by whatever she’d sprayed all over herself. He found himself hoping she might invite him in for coffee when he took her back and then wondering idly if the toilets at
The Olive Tree
boasted a contraceptive dispenser. As an ex-boy-scout Romney would carry their motto,
Be Prepared
, to his grave.

They were through their starter when Romney looked up to see a familiar face staring intently in his direction. It took him a moment to recognise the handsome an
d refined features of Dr Puchta – her hair now out of its tight bun and hanging loosely to frame her classical face – sitting a couple of tables away in the company of another woman. She raised her glass to him and he excused himself from Diane Hodge for a minute to go across and speak to her.

‘Evening
, Dr Puchta,’ he said. He waited to be introduced to her companion.

‘Hello, Inspecto
r Romney. Allow me to introduce my partner, Dr Mills.’ It was very formal.

For something to say
, Romney said, ‘I thought you worked alone?’

‘I do. I didn’t mean that kind of partner.’ To sweep away any doubts
regarding what exactly she did mean, she leant across the table and covered Dr Mills’ hand with her own.

‘Ah. My mistake. Never assume, eh?’ Then realising that this could be interpreted as a comment about Dr Puchta’s sexuality, he quickly said, ‘Did you get over to the prison today?’

‘I did.’

‘And how was he? Can you help him?’

She raised a mockingly playful eyebrow at him. ‘Surely, Inspector, you remember that the ethics of doctor-client-confidentiality dictate I can’t discuss it with you.’

‘Even though I’m paying for it?’ said Romney.

‘Afraid so. And anyway, bumping into you here has saved me a phone call. I’ve decided to make Jez Ray’s treatment complimentary. I’ve decided to give something back. As you probably worked out for yourself, I did very nicely out of Edy Vitriol and the NHS. In fact, the sense of irony is so strong that I can’t not oblige the poor young man for as long as he’ll put up with me. But seriously, I think I can help him to deal with his demons and, if I’m honest, I often wondered through Edy’s period of treatment whether the NHS’s money was being spent on the right person.’

Before Romney could say something suitably appreciative, Dr Mills said, ‘Well
, I’m familiar with complementary medicine but this is the first instance of complimentary medicine I can recall hearing about.’ Dr Mills and Dr Puchta dissolved into stifled hysterical laughter at something Romney didn’t think was that funny and that made him feel a little foolish and stupid. Eventually, he was able to bid them good evening and leave them to their lesbianism.

The food was, if anything, better than on any of th
e three previous occasions he’d dined there. Diane Hodge was proving to be an alluring and engaging dinner partner. She had even rubbed his leg under the table in an archaic display of flirtatiousness that had done something to his pulse rate.

They were through the main course waiting for their plates to be cleared, when the front door was opened and in blustered Hugo Crawford with
Susan Sharp from White Cliffs FM on his arm.

The director
was regaling her with some obviously witty anecdote and the noise they made with their laughter attracted a good deal of the subdued clientele’s attention. Romney suspected they’d been drinking.