The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) (25 page)

Tessa answered the door and broke into a warm
smile. Her loose blonde waves were styled into natural-looking order, and she
wore black cropped leggings, gold gladiator sandals, and a furry white sweater
with little pearl beads sewn on in swirls.

‘Erica! Come in!’

Erica followed her through the hall, noticing that
the murder room door was shut. Tessa led the way into a big living room with an
arrangement of seating put together like gigantic pricey Lego with occasional
square glass tables. The floor was polished hardwood with carefully scattered
rugs to trip over. A wall hung gas ‘fire’ flickered quietly.

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I was out
on a run, and I was passing.’ If her relationship with Tessa was still
therapist/patient, she was technically out of line turning up unasked at her
house. She was hoping that they’d progressed beyond that after all the trials
of the past few weeks. Tessa hadn’t rung Erica herself. Was that progress to
independence, guilt at getting Erica involved, or was she embarrassed at having
told Erica about Kingston’s abuse? Tessa might want to back off from her after
confiding in her so freely. It was a common enough reaction.

‘You look wet. And a bit muddy...’ Tessa glanced
at the floor.

‘Sorry.’ Erica kicked off her trainers and took
them back into the hall, leaving them by the front door.

Back in the living room she perched on the edge of
a seat, aware of her mud-splashed legs and the pale cream of the suite. Luckily
it was the inevitable leather. The coffee table was scattered with leaflets and
brochures. Colour charts from decorating firms. Swatches of fabric. And details
of houses for sale from estate agents in the town.

‘Thinking of moving?’ Erica asked, Peter Wimsey to
the life.

‘I might. Or I might just have it completely
redone. When probate’s granted, I’ll have enough money to live on for a good
while, so I can take my time deciding. This place needs a makeover anyway even
to sell. And so many bad memories here.’

She gazed into the ersatz fire. A house where she’d
been a terrified wife, and where her husband had been murdered by some
intruder. Was moving back in, planning the future, a step towards independent
adulthood? Or was Tessa just waiting to live on her husband’s money? Erica had launched
herself into investigating Kingston in the hope of proving her innocent, or at
least not the only suspect. As usual, she had felt too protective of her
patient, too involved, hoped to save her, set her free, while it seemed that
Tessa preferred to have Farrow and Ball repaint the bars of the cage. But was
she just trying to control Tessa, mould her in her own image? But then denial,
and surfaces, were what had sustained Tessa for many years, maybe always. No
big surprise she’d cling to a strategy so familiar when so much else had
changed.

‘You’re so fit, Erica. And thin. I’ve been
spending more time at the gym myself since all this happened. Gotta keep in
shape, haven’t we, us girls? Got to be a bit careful to pick the right exercise
though. Men don’t like a girl to have too many muscles.’

And there it was. Forming yourself according to
what men liked. Had this woman learned nothing? Erica stopped herself pointing
out that a few more muscles could have helped her fight off Kingston at the
beginning and avoid living in terror for years. Her period of self-analysis was
over, it seemed. Back to the airhead. Well why shouldn’t she be an airhead,
Erica you control freak, she was berating herself, when Tessa topping up her
cup paused to pick up a strand of Erica’s hair, feeling it with her fingers
like fabric in a dress shop.

‘How do you get yours that colour?’

‘Choosing the right parents, I suppose. Being
outside in the summer. Ow!’

‘Oops sorry. My ring...’ Tessa disentangled her
ring, which flashed through Erica’s hair. Erica felt trapped and impatient,
wanting to pull away but unable to.

 ‘It’s gone all curly and big now with the damp. I
hate that.’

‘I use these new straighteners, they’re just as
good for curling. You can only get them from Harrods. Or Bendel’s in New York
City.’ She released herself from the hair. ‘This ring came from Tiffany’s on
5th Avenue! Robert bought it for me to celebrate something, being made Captain
of the Golf Club or some big payout from private work or something. It cost a
mint. He was good to me sometimes.’

To Erica, the hoop of diamonds and sapphires
criss-crossed with platinum looked like barbed wire. Symbol of ownership and
wealth. A sign of his success.

‘Erm yes very nice. Tessa, have the police been in
touch with you, since the second murder?’

‘They’ve asked me to stay in the area. Tara told
me all the details. That must have been some grievance the killer had. She
thought it would confirm my innocence but that snide Inspector Bennett as good
as hinted that
I
might have done it, the second one I mean, to cover up
my tracks, make it look as if a psycho serial killer did both killings! Tara
says it’s just police desperation. She told them, the risk of doing a second
murder, when they’ve no hard evidence against me for the first one, well, it
would be insane.’

‘I did think the police would be watching you
after releasing you without charge. They should be able to provide you with an
alibi themselves.’

‘That’s what Tara said. Most of the officers were
called up to the city for the big match. They admitted, when she pressed them,
there was one man watching me at the relevant time. He must have been very fed
up sitting outside a women’s gym instead of watching the football.’

Will must be spitting nails; his own man gives
Tessa an alibi.

‘Did you know Paul Chambers?’

‘Really, Erica, you sound like the police
sometimes. No, well I’ve probably met him, I don’t remember though. He might
have been at some big do or other when we were. It seems Robert knew him when
they were younger and through the city Golf Club. But he never talked about him
that I can remember.’

‘I was only thinking the police would have a job
linking you with him if they can’t prove you knew him at all.’

‘Well I’m trying to stay positive, like you’ve
always said. They’re bound to catch the Operator soon. I’m not sure yet whether
a murder happening here will be good or bad for selling this place, if I do.
Usually, these houses go for a bomb, you know.’

‘Even with the occasional golf ball crashing
through the conservatory?’

‘Absolutely, Erica. When Robert’s mother died, he
had no trouble selling her house at an inflated price. That sad old guy Harry
Archer jumped at it. Literally, about an hour after the FOR SALE sign went up,
he was round here! Golf’s like a religion, you should hear them all at the club
droning on about their scores or whatever they are. Robert used to make me go
to the social do’s of course. Thank god, never again!’

Was there any point in going to the Golf Club do
with Mel? It didn’t sound like much fun. Still, they couldn’t
all
be
that bad. Tessa was bound to be biased, associating the sport with Robert
Kingston and all his cruelty. Speaking of which...

‘Tessa, you know I write for the
Evening
Guardian
. I’ve been researching a piece about your late husband. I’ve
turned up a lot of things, like your experiences of him, which are at odds with
his public image. Legally, I can write what I like. And there don’t seem to be
any close relatives to be upset, apart from you.’

‘Oh no, Stephen Blair and Robert weren’t close.
Robert didn’t feel he was worth spending time with. Bit of a loser. He’s left
him some money, which I was quite surprised about, but I suppose blood’s
thicker than water.’

‘Good because I’d like to write the piece warts
and all.’

‘Ooh yes. I’d love all his stuck-up cronies to
know what he was really like. I’m sure they all despise me for leaving him, not
that any of them have bothered to contact me. It’s time they knew why I left.
Well that he was violent and abusive. I don’t want you to quote anything he
used to say to me. I couldn’t bear people here to know that intimate stuff. But
go on, give the rotten bastard hell!’

‘By the way, Tessa, what about a funeral? I can
see how difficult it might be for you.’ As the almost-ex, do you turn up in
veil and hankie, sobbing? Or dance on the grave? Or not turn up at all?
Hallmark should do a card for this tricky social situation.

‘Those old bores at his church are going to
arrange a memorial service and the Golf Club have offered to do the drinks and
nibbles afterwards. They pushed a note through the door here to let me know. As
his executor, Stephen will be sorting out the funeral. Some people would expect
me to be there, but I don’t want people pointing and staring. And gossiping
about whether I killed him! I couldn’t bear it.’

After a pause, she went on thoughtfully, ‘I expect
Stephen’s been hoping I did. He’d have got all the money then. And I hear he’s
hard up. I don’t want him staring at me, giving me the evil eye.’

Erica jogged home along the
sea front, the sea darkening to violet, the sand to brown, the wind colder
though the fine drizzle had stopped. As she ran, just as when she was swimming
lengths, her mind ran on tracks of its own. Two murders. Two doctors, surgeons,
consultants, but in different spheres of medicine. What were the possibilities?
She listed them mentally, as her breath chilled her throat and her feet pounded
the damp ground.

1. A serial killer was on the loose, aka ‘The
Operator’, a nutjob who had it in for doctors in general. It was unlikely that a
patient had personal grudges against an orthopaedic surgeon
and
a
vasectomy specialist. This being the case, there could be others to come. The
speculation about Kingston’s death had alarmed the medical profession. Now normally
complacent consultants would now be going around in pairs, feeling the fear
that women so often felt, though this time there’d be no helpful police
messages for surgeons to ‘stay indoors’ as there were when women were attacked.
Would the Operator stick with male surgeons, or include female ones? An
interesting thought... anyway, if this was the case, Erica didn’t have the
resources and computer software to collate all the factors in common between
the two victims. Both were men, and not young. But then most consultants were.
Both were involved in private practice as well as the NHS. But then again, so
were many hospital doctors. Both played golf; so did lots of doctors and white
collar workers, and they weren’t even in the same club. They lived in the same
area, but not the same place.

Even if the police had DNA, unless they had the
profile on record already, how would they find the killer - they could hardly
test everyone in the area.

2. Kingston had been murdered by someone with a
personal motive, hatred and resentment, a desire for revenge. Someone Erica
might have spoken to already, or not. A patient, a colleague, the possibilities
were potentially endless for all practical purposes. Then, after that, someone
else had done a copycat crime, killing Chambers for some reason of their own,
either personal or professional grudge, hoping to pass it off as the work of
the first killer and disguise it as a serial killing. Would she be able to find
out about Paul Chambers as she had about Robert Kingston? Maybe the editor
would let her do an article on Chambers as well. Good excuse for making
enquiries. Erica’s thoughts leaped over the little obstacle of Dunne reading
her exposé of Kingston as her trainers did over puddles.

3. Kingston had been murdered by someone with a
personal motive, someone so concerned about being caught that they killed
Chambers to make it look as if a serial killer was on the loose. Very risky.
But possible, given someone so twisted by hatred that they could hammer nails
into a human head with a rock.

The two killings were similar, but not the same.
The killer had echoed the first killing by pinning Chambers’ hands down after
bashing him over the head. Had the second killing been done by someone else or
the same person varying the mutilations to match the speciality of the victim?
It seemed to be open to question, perhaps deliberately so. Where to go now,
apart from the shower, and to work.

Erica’s pregnant patient was
preparing to give birth by taking Caullophyllum, and was now asking for
Staphysagria to take with her for pain after childbirth. She’d had a rough time
in a Dickensian hospital with her first baby, a combination of modern
technology and medieval morality having ruined the experience for her. This
time she wanted to get it right. She had of course already been drinking
raspberry leaf tea, an ancient herbal strategy for an easy labour. Erica had
converted her to homeopathy by curing her horrendous morning sickness.

As they came to the end of the consultation, her
patient remarked, ‘You know, I’m really grateful to have you to talk to, and to
have the remedies. It makes me feel more in control. I’m glad you’re willing to
prescribe these remedies, but you don’t lay down the law. Some alternative
practitioners are very extreme. A friend of mine was having bad morning
sickness, and when I told her how you helped me, she went to a homeopath up in
the city, where she lives.

‘He refused to help her unless she turned over all
her health care to him, and insisted she didn’t see her GP any more or even go
to antenatal appointments at the hospital. So she left him and bought herself some
tablets like mine, and it didn’t work. So now she’s sceptical about alternative
medicine.’

Erica sighed. She wasn’t surprised they hadn’t
worked, since they hadn’t been prescribed specifically for her. Some other
remedy might have been perfect.

‘Who was this guy?’