The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) (28 page)

As she poured out her Masonic theory his eyes
narrowed to chips of blue glass like the fragments of Victorian medicine
bottles on the beach, now ‘boody’ polished by the sea. Her residual anger at
Ian Dunne spilled over into her telling which didn’t help.

‘So are you saying the Superintendent is the
Operator?’ He indulged in a nanosecond of fantasy of himself with a knee in a
prone GB’s hated back with handcuffs poised...

‘You know I’m not. I’m saying there might be a
Masonic connection you could look into.’

‘Well thank you very much Erica. It’s alright for
you, Ms Warshawski...’

‘I’m more of a Ms Harriet Vane at the moment, I’m
rereading the Wimsey books.’

‘Ah yes, more amateur sleuths. It’s alright for
you to cherry-pick which aspects of the case you are going to interfere in, and
which you are delegating to me and my team. I don’t have that luxury. I came
out for a run because I was going mad indoors, chasing up leads and scores and
scores of possible suspects of one, both or either murder.’ He gave her a quick
run-down of some areas they’d explored. ‘To say nothing of chasing the usual
knife fights, alcoholic punch-ups, vandalism, car theft, and drug dealers.’

Erica opened her mouth to reply but he went on. ‘Speaking
of which, I assume it was definitely your Stacey who’s been nicking your sugar
pills and selling them on?’

‘She’s not my Stacey but I’m saying nothing. Not
even if you dangle me over the railings.’

‘Don’t think I’m not tempted.’ He took a step
towards her and she stood firm, looking up at him like a furious little cat at
a big dog.

‘That’s where I’m going when I’m dead, but not
yet.’ She gestured towards the restless waves heaving themselves endlessly
against the stone, wearing it away with all the patience in the world.

‘Check the wind direction first. You’ll end up
like ground black pepper in somebody’s fish and chips.’

They both laughed, and as a particularly ambitious
wave splatted across the wall and landed behind them on the pier path, they
turned as one and began to jog loosely back along the pier, scurrying past the
damp patches where waves had scaled the wall and might again.

‘Hard luck about your article.’

‘Thanks. Yeah, well it’s my own fault. I’ve chosen
the wrong paper, editor, time and place to be a hard-hitting writer of exposés.
Maybe Dunne’s right, I should give up trying to be a proper journo and just do
the recipes.’

‘That’s not going to happen Erica.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yeah. The readers would starve trying to live on
what you eat.’

‘Cheeky bugger!’ She clouted him on the arm.

‘Actually I wish he would print it. It might stir something
up... provoke some sort of reaction in the case. Though I think you might be at
risk yourself if you’re not careful.’

‘You and Stacey, two minds with but a single
thought.’ She told him about their conversation about the golf ball. ‘But I’m
going to write a feature about a fanatical homeopath instead. The kind you hate
even more than me. The kind you’d like to lock up.’

‘I look forward to reading it. Seriously though
Erica be careful.’

‘I am. If anyone really wanted to kill me they’d
not have left it at one near miss with a golf ball. They’d have plenty of
chances while I’m out running, or at Ivy Lodge, or at home. It must have been a
one-off, an accident probably. Anyway I’ve got Stacey as intern and now
bodyguard as well.’

‘Thanks for the warning. I suppose there’s no
point in telling you to stop interfering?’

‘I suppose there’s no point in asking you to say
Tessa’s totally in the clear?’

They stopped at the point of separation, looking
at each other, hot inside and cold outside, feeling very aware of how near they
were to each other. And how well they knew each other’s skin, body, scent,
feel, heft.

‘You’ve got a boyfriend,’ Will said. And Erica had
a flash of annoyance, not wanting it to be true right then, and after all she’d
made no commitment to Jamie and wasn’t going to, but Will was old-school like
that, she’d be handing him too much ammunition if she said let’s kiss anyway
and pulled his head down to hers and fastened her lips on his and opened her
mouth to him... Abruptly he spun round and set off, raising a hand in farewell
without looking back.

A good work out at the gym
helped get her remaining editor-rage out of her system, and a good night out on
the lash put things in proportion. While there was house music with heavenly
synthesiser tunes and infuriating beats, while she had a body to move with it,
in motion with all the other ecstatic bodies, while she could move her hips
against the body of a beautiful young man and feel how much he wanted her, that
was all that mattered. At least, at the time.

She never knew when she’d see Jamie much in
advance, his hours were horrendous, and when he was free she might not be. Much
as she longed to spend time and energy with, on, under and around him, she didn’t
want to be hanging around waiting to rearrange her schedule for him. Not a good
pattern to get into.

However, until such time as Erica took over
writing about how to use left-over cauliflower and banana yogurt to make an
amusing supper dish for two, she was still editing the health page, despite
that dickhead Dunne. So although she had got over the first flush of fury, she
was not in the mood to indulge overbearing men. Pity, really, that she’d
arranged to see Craig Anderson, the purist homeopath. As with Kingston, she’d
have to control her own feelings to get an interview and maybe some information
out of him.

Anderson’s terraced house
was quite a walk from the metro station. It had leaded windows, a square porch,
and a grey front door. Below the doorbell was a plaque: ‘Craig Anderson, BA,
MNCHM, R.S. Hom, Homeopath’. She rang the doorbell. This time she’d made no
concessions to conventional fashion which might lull the suspicions of an
establishment figure. Anderson was right-on alternative by all accounts, and he
would probably know she was a homeopath herself. She wore black skinny jeans
and a cerise sweater, with pink Converse high-tops.

Craig Anderson opened the door. She was pleased to
see no one had nailed him to a table. Always a good start to an interview.

It was obvious the guy worked out and with serious
weights. He was stocky, muscular, his arms bowing out from his sides slightly
as they do in body builders. His neck was thick. His smile was thin. His eyes
were very pale grey; a shaved head with a dusting of fair stubble; a
conspicuous crucifix on a thin gold chain round his neck. He wore a black, blue
and white striped Adidas polo shirt, tucked into grey jeans which barely
contained his bulging thighs. A bit like Will, if a heavy weight had fallen on
him from above. His bottom though was almost flat, she noticed when he turned
to show her in. Too much exercise had distorted his body instead of perfecting
it.

Several things were immediately clear. One, that
he would have no trouble bashing someone’s head in with a stone, would barely
work up a sweat in fact. Two, that he would be a hard victim to kill unless
they brought a machine gun. Three, that no one would ever question his bill.

She followed him down a long, narrow hall. The
house, though small from outside, went back a long way. It was the kind of
place that has a back yard with a high wall around it, so not much light gets
in except through the front windows.

She could only hope that this being a formal
interview for a newspaper would keep her safe if Stacey had been right in her
speculations that Erica might be a target; Anderson could theoretically be the
killer. Just in case, she claimed that her editor had sent her. He showed her
into a room looking onto the back yard and switched on the light; the shade was
a large white paper lantern like a swollen moon. The room was painted all in white,
with the original stripped and polished floorboards. She was not surprised to
see woodchip on the walls under many layers of paint. He himself was too young
to be that out of date. He must be aiming at some kind of retro chic. A bit of
Seventies spirituality, perhaps. Or just indifferent, leaving the previous
decor as it was.

There was a black ash desk, another retro box
ticked, and lots of books bending built in shelves. A wicker chair painted
white faced the desk. She perched on it at his invitation. He sat down on the
black swivel chair behind the desk. Obviously he was keeping his distance.
Maybe he was scared of her. Yeah right.

On the stark white walls were framed texts in big
swirly calligraphy of the ‘Desiderata’ type. Texts like ‘PHYSICIAN, HEAL
THYSELF’. ‘A GOOD TREE BRINGS FORTH GOOD FRUIT’. ‘IF THINE EYE OFFEND THEE, PUT
IT OUT. IF THY HAND OFFEND THEE, CUT IT OFF’. ‘IF YE WILL NOT HEARKEN UNTO ME,
I WILL BRING MORE PLAGUES UPON YOU’. She sighed inwardly. A fundamentalist,
with the fun taken out, and the mental left in. He was religious, and not just
about homeopathy. Great. She switched on her digital recorder and placed it on
the desk between them. He made no objection.

‘Well, Mr Anderson, thank you for agreeing to talk
to me. We’ve covered the subject of homeopathy and most of the alternative
therapies in our health pages. Perhaps you’ve seen them.’

He went on calmly looking at her, not yet
responding. His desk was arranged so the light went onto his face, lighting up
those pale eyes. His stillness was disturbing, except that she suspected it was
conscious and contrived.

‘My editor and I felt you might offer our readers
a different slant on homeopathic practice. Perhaps you could tell me why you
became a homeopath?’

‘Because I believe it is the natural way to good
health, the
right
way. I’m against drugs that alter the mind and work
against the body’s own immune system. Alternative medicine is a way of life,
not just correcting malfunctions, but a whole philosophy.’

He’d learned the knack of speaking quietly in such
a way as to make people listen hard. A good teacher’s, or preacher’s, trick.

‘Like these texts on the wall? Some of them sound
a bit drastic....’

‘People need to realise they are responsible for
their own health, their own God-given bodies. It’s a sacred trust, Ms Bruce.’

‘I see. And how did you begin - how did you come
to be a homeopath? Most of us start out as something else....’

She held his eyes. He wanted to seem in control;
the desk between them, the steady stare, the unnaturally still body language,
but she could sense a tension in him and something, maybe an emptiness at the
heart of him.

‘I started out as a cost and management accountant
for a big firm down south. Kent, actually. ‘

The bathos of this unlikely start almost made her
laugh. She choked it down. Maybe she could spur him on a bit.

‘Really! That’s most unusual. Most people would
think that alternative therapists are too impractical for such careers. Did you
find you couldn’t handle it?’

‘No!’

His stillness held but his hands whitened, tensed
on the desk top.

‘I was good at my job. It was a good job, with
prospects, we - I was doing very well. But I decided that this would be a more
socially useful line of work. So I retrained.’

‘I see. And had you always used homeopathic medicine?’

‘A little. ‘

He’d clammed up again. She tried to shake him
loose another way.

‘Rather like me. I took a course in homeopathy
just for treating myself and family and friends, ended up being more interested
in that than in following up my degree. I don’t like too structured a life. Was
that how it was for you?’

‘You can’t really compare us. ‘Therapists’ like
you just play at it. Handing out pills, just like doctors.’ He almost spat out
the last word. ‘It’s pointless, giving remedies to people who swallow
paracetamol and ibuprofen like sweets, go running to their GP between
appointments, smoke, drink, eat bad food, take no exercise, ruin their health.
It’s a kind of sacrilege. They’ve got to be made to see. Health is life. They’ve
got to live healthy lives, and then they won’t need doctors.’

Erica controlled her anger at his jibes. No way
was she going to get into a row with this guy. There was something fuelling his
agenda though, she could feel it. Both of them had given up conventional
careers to become alternative therapists, but he’d also moved to the other end
of the country. There was also that hastily corrected ‘we’ which made her
wonder. Time to push him further, see what popped out.

‘The health page I write deals with issues of
prevention, good health and natural remedies of all kinds. But we can’t tell
people not to see doctors. We’d have deaths of cancer patients on our hands,
and the law on our backs. Surely you’re not telling me you can cure cancers, or
put back amputated limbs?’

‘Most cancers are caused by bad lifestyle choices.
So are accidents, come to that. Drinking and driving.... drugs... and doctors
are just sales reps for the drug companies. If they knew that arthritis could
be cured by a change of diet, or by, say, chewing an oak twig, do you think we’d
ever get to hear about it? No way, it wouldn’t bring any money to the drug
companies’ shareholders and directors. No, they’d go on developing
anti-inflammatory drugs which have side effects and don’t cure the condition,
so long as the money goes on pouring in. There’s no profit in prevention.’

Much of what he’d just said could have been, in
fact had often been, said by Erica herself at times. Yet this whole black and
white, people must/must not, was totally alien to her. Go further, get him to
say it so there’s no room for doubt.

‘Is it true then, Mr Anderson, that you only take
patients who agree to leave their GPs’ lists?’