The Various Haunts of Men (49 page)

But he had
not known how many people were aware of her appointment with him, he had not made careful checks and planned ahead. One impulse had been enough. He was not a risk taker and did not want to become one. That way danger, madness and detection surely lay. Risks were for the stupid.

Karin McCafferty had panicked and reacted badly to the treatment. It happened occasionally. He had driven her home in
a semi-conscious state, taken her key from her bag, helped her upstairs and on to her bed and stayed with her for fifteen minutes, to see that she was safe to be left. That had been another risk, taken because he was in a hurry to meet Freya Graffham.

Then, recalling the policewoman in the Embassy Room, smart among the smart people, he smiled. She found him of interest, he could tell, she was
intrigued by him. She would not have met him otherwise. It had been the right move to make, the intelligent move and he had redeemed himself in his own eyes after the mistake. There would not be any more of those.

He sped along the access road and turned into the business park. The first avenue was empty but as he reached the second, leading towards the side road in which his own unit was situated,
he saw four police cars and three others, unmarked, together with a white police van whose back doors were open. Dog handlers and their dogs were climbing out and gathering on the pathway.

He turned hard left and out fast on to the south avenue. As he reached the entrance to the main road, another two police cars came screeching in.

The fact that there was clearly some kind of raid ought not
to have unnerved him. They would scarcely be interested in his own unit, but he needed to find out exactly what was going on and where and for the moment had no idea how he might do so. He sat in the lay-by thinking carefully, not allowing himself to panic, holding his feelings in check as if he were muzzling a dog.

He could return to the business park and simply ask one of the policemen. He
could telephone the police
station. He doubted if he would be given any information in either case. He could telephone Freya Graffham, but that would give rise to inevitable questions.

He could do nothing. If in doubt do nothing had been a rule he often followed and it had stood him in good stead. They were not interested in him or his unit. How could they be? What could they know about either?
He started the car and drove on to the main road.

At home he made toast and sliced an apple on to a bowl of wholegrain cereal, filled the percolator and fetched the newspapers from the doormat. He felt quite steady, quite calm, ready for a full day’s appointments and for the evening to come.

But at moments in the course of the next few hours, his mind went off at a tangent of its own which he
could not anticipate or control, and flashed up pictures of Karin McCafferty on the couch where a different patient now lay, and of the dogs and their handlers scrambling out of the back of the police van a hundred yards away from the unit in which he did his work.

At one o’clock, the CID room was half empty. At ten past, the doors blew open and a dozen or so people came banging in, including DC Coates, looking mutinous.

‘Honest, Sarge, I’m thinking of putting in for dog-handling.’ He crashed into his chair and hitched one leg up over the side. ‘It’s cool, that is, they’ve had a fantastic time this morning sniffing all over the business park
and what have we been doing?’

‘Sitting in a car on the Meadow Field estate.’

‘Right. Now it’s all called off again.’

‘Did they do a bust on the business park?’

‘Haven’t heard. Someone said so, someone else wasn’t sure, usual stuff. You don’t get much out of those boys.’

‘I can’t see you at the other end of a lead.’

‘Naw, they’re all strong silent types. And that’s just the dogs. You got
anything for me, Sarge, only I could do with a bit of action. I’ve had it up to here with sitting about in cars with Dave Green. All he knows about is Bolton Wanderers and the Campaign for Real Ale.’

‘Go and find DC Hardy, will you, Nathan? I want you to go and talk to Aidan Sharpe.’

Nathan Coates parked outside Aidan Sharpe’s house and consulting room in Wellow Wood Drive and sat for a moment,
looking at it and working out how much it would fetch. This was the bit of Lafferton he knew little of and liked even less. The detached houses with front drives and magnolia trees, wrought-iron gates and mock-Tudor gables did not fill him with envy but with a sort of bemusement that anyone could aspire to live in them. They seemed so stand-offish, so unneighbourly and closed in; people here drove
smart cars and sent their children to school in panama hats and caps with crests on them and kept themselves apart, except perhaps for a few cocktail parties at Christmas.

If he and Emma got married he would like to own a cottage with a bit of ground in one of the villages outside Lafferton, or if that was beyond their reach, then one of the nice three-bedroomed houses on the private estate at
St Michael’s Gate. But he would never want to cut himself off in a place like this, however big the bay windows and broad the driveways, however flashy the dark blue BMWs parked there – like the one outside Aidan Sharpe’s house.

He peered into it as he and DC Will Hardy went by – champagne-coloured leather seats, state-of-the-art CD player and nothing else … no maps, spare shoes, torn-off envelopes,
spare jackets. This might have been a car fetched from the showroom that morning. He glanced over at DC Hardy, who shrugged.

Nathan rang the surgery’s bell, and pushed open the front door.
Reception. Surgery. Private
.

Reception was perfectly pleasant and the receptionist looked OK too, crisp hair, fashionable oval spectacles and one of those professional smiles.

‘Can I help you?’

Nathan flipped
open his ID wallet. ‘DC Coates, Lafferton CID. I’d like a word with Mr Sharpe.’

She looked startled, but did not lose her poise.

‘Mr Sharpe has a patient with him at the moment. I’m afraid I can’t interrupt.’

‘That’s fine. We’ll hang on.’

‘Yes, of course. Please take a seat and I’ll tell him as soon as he’s free. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee? A glass of mineral water?’

Nathan and
Will shook their heads. ‘No, thanks.’

They sat down and glanced at the magazines … smart magazines,
Vogue, Tatler, Country Life
, the
Spectator
, all up to date. There was obviously money in this alternative-medicine lark. Nathan thought of the average GP waiting room, let alone hospital clinic … a few copies of
Woman’s Own
and
Reader’s Digest
from three years ago if you were lucky, tatty chairs,
and the smell of very old people and babies with dirty nappies. This room smelled of flowers and polish and something faintly antiseptic.

‘How many patients does he see in a day?’

She looked at him over her computer screen. ‘Mr Sharpe has a very full appointment book.’

‘Yeah. How many?’

‘There are four new appointments a day … those last a full hour. And four half-hour appointments for ongoing
treatments.’

‘All sorts, are they?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Men, women, children, old, young … you know.’

‘Mr Sharpe rarely treats children. Otherwise, I suppose you would say we have a good cross-section of the community, yes.’

‘Does it hurt? I don’t fancy having needles stuck all over me.’

She smiled in a patient way. ‘That is a misconception a lot of people have who know nothing about acupuncture.
They imagine themselves, well …’

‘Like pincushions?’

‘More or less. In fact, it’s very selective … you may only have two or three needles, possibly a few more … each case is unique, each patient has a different treatment.’

Nathan decided that when he left she was going to hand him a nice leaflet. ‘I should think women go for it more than men.’

‘Would you?’

‘Yeah, all this stuff is more in
the woman’s line, isn’t it?’

‘I wonder why you think that?’

‘You get men as well then?’

‘Certainly.’

The door opened, and a middle-aged woman came through. That’s it, smart suit, nice hair, nice expensive handbag and shoes, she’s your average patient.

‘Please sit down, Mrs Savage. I’ll make up your account in a moment.’ She glanced across at Nathan. ‘I’ll have a word with Mr Sharpe.’ She
walked out, high heels clicking smartly.

Nathan grinned at the woman. ‘Painful, is it?’

She gave him an unsmiling glance. ‘No.’

‘Never fancied it myself. Still, if you think it does you good …’

She leaned forward, picked up the shiny new copy of
Country Life
.

Nathan felt like making the sort of face he had made at passers-by over the school playground wall as a small boy, but settled for
raising one eyebrow in the direction of the PC, who smiled and looked away.

The high heels came clipping back. ‘Mr Sharpe asks if you could come back at five thirty. He’ll have finished with patients for the day then. He has two calls to take and then his next appointment but he’ll be glad to see you then.’

When Nathan and DC Hardy returned they found the door slightly ajar and the reception
room empty, the cover on the computer and the magazines retidied. Nathan waited. He could find no bell to ring.

‘DC Coates?’

He seemed to have materialised silently, oozing out of the walls. The bow tie was red with thin navy stripes.

‘I do apologise for asking you to come back, but I was in the middle of my surgery. And this is?’

‘DC Hardy.’

Aidan Sharpe nodded. ‘Please come through.’

He had expected to interview Sharpe in the waiting room, but instead, Nathan was led through the door marked
Private
and along a short passage into the house.

‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘How can I help you? I imagine this is about that poor girl Debbie Parker. Have you news of her?’

‘Afraid not, sir, though we’re following some leads.’

‘Ah yes. Leads.’

The room was oppressive,
with a huge sideboard, dresser, desk and bookcases of heavy dark oak and a sofa
and armchairs covered in brown leather. The fireplace was dark, too, and elaborately carved. There were portraits on the walls in heavy gold frames, old men in wigs and fat men on horseback, and stuffed fish in a case.

Opposite him, Aidan Sharpe sat very still in the armchair, hands together, finger to finger. His
eyes stared. Surprise him, Nathan decided, no lead-up, no charm, straight in.

‘Do you own a watch showing moon phases?’

Not a flicker. The eyes did not leave Nathan’s face, the fingers were motionless.

‘I do.’

‘Are you wearing it now, sir?’

‘I am.’

‘I’d like to see it, please.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Just take it off, Mr Sharpe.’

A thin smile, like the flick of a lizard’s tongue. Gone.

‘I’d
like to know why you want me to do that.’

‘Where did you get the watch?’

‘If you mean where was it bought, I have no idea.’

‘How’s that then?’

‘It was a gift.’

‘Who from, sir?’

‘That is my business.’

‘We’re investigating the disappearance of three women.’

Sharpe did not react.

‘One of them was a Miss Angela Randall. Was she a patient of yours?’

‘I have a large number of patients. I would
have to check.’

‘You came to tell us Debbie Parker was your patient.’

Silence. The eyes stared.

‘So you’d know if Angela Randall was a patient too, wouldn’t you?’

‘As I say, I would have to check.’

‘Would you do that?’

‘Tomorrow. I’ll ask my secretary. If she finds that this … Miss Randall has been treated here, I will contact Sergeant Graffham.’

‘Did Miss Randall give you the watch, Mr
Sharpe?’

A flicker. The eyes were momentarily angry.

‘Mr Sharpe?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve already said we’re investigating Angela Randall’s disappearance. Did you know her?’

‘Not that I can recall.’

‘Can I see your watch?’

He smiled, shot his cuff, slipped off the wristwatch and held it out. It was nice, thin as a wafer. The moon had little stars beside it on dark blue enamel. It was a
half-moon.

Nathan handed it back. ‘Thanks.’

‘Is that all?’

‘For the time being. But if you could check your records in the morning like you agreed?’

‘By all means.’

On the way to the front door Aidan Sharpe said, ‘There seemed to be something important going on early this morning … I happened to drive by the business park. There were police everywhere – vans, tracker dogs … what on earth
was that all about?’

‘Sorry, sir, not my department.’

‘A drug raid, do you suppose?’

‘For all I know, Mr Sharpe. Thanks for your help.’

Nathan looked back from the car. Bow Tie was still standing there, staring at him.

He stopped the car round the next corner and took out his mobile phone. ‘Sarge?’

‘What did he say?’

‘Not a lot. I asked him if he knew Randall, asked if she’d given him
the watch … got nowhere. Claims not to remember if she was a patient … said he’d ring you if he found her name in his records.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah. Sergeant Graffham he said. Don’t want to chat with the lowlife. He’s creepy, ain’t he? You been in the house?’

‘No.’

‘Like one of them castles they take you to from school. All big black furniture and that. Real old stuff, you know? Spooky.’

‘But that
was it?’

‘One thing … just when I was leaving he asked what had been going on at the business park earlier … said he’d driven by and seen all the vans and tracker dogs and that. Asked if it was a drugs raid. Only, what was he doing up there at half five or six in the morning? It was all done and dusted before eight, they’d gone. And another thing was, they were up the far end; if he was just
passing he couldn’t have seen nothing from the end of the road.’