The Private Patient (36 page)

Dalgliesh had hardly clipped on his seatbelt when his mobile rang. It was Detective Inspector Andy Howard. The note of triumph in his voice was disciplined but unmistakable.

“We've got him, sir. A local lad, as we suspected. Been questioned four times previously about sex attacks but never charged. The justice department will be relieved that it's not another illegal immigrant or someone released on bail. And, of course, we've got his DNA. I'm a bit worried about the way in which we keep the DNA if there's no charge, but this isn't the first case in which it's been useful.”

“Congratulations, Inspector. Do you know if there's a chance he may plead guilty? It would be good to spare Annie the ordeal of a trial.”

“Every chance, I'd say, sir. The DNA isn't the only evidence we've got but it's clinching, and it'll be quite a time before that lass is fit to stand in any witness box.”

It was with a lighter heart that Dalgliesh shut his mobile. And now he needed to find a place where he could sit for a time alone and in peace.

9

He drove westwards from Bournemouth until, taking the coast road, he found a place where he could stop the car and look out to sea over Poole Harbour. In the last week, his mind and energies had been occupied only with the deaths of Rhoda Gradwyn and Robin Boyton, but now there was his future to face. Choices had been placed before him, most of them demanding or interesting, but until now he had given them little thought. Only one life-changing thing was certain: his marriage to Emma, and about that there was no doubt, nothing but the certainty of joy.

And at last he knew the truth about those two deaths. Perhaps Philip Kershaw had been right: there was an arrogance in wanting always to know the truth, particularly the truth about human motives, the mysterious working of another's mind. He was convinced that Candace Westhall had never intended to murder Sharon. She must have encouraged the girl in her fantasy, perhaps when they were alone and Sharon was helping with the books. But what Candace had wanted and planned for was the one sure way of convincing the world that she and she alone had killed Gradwyn and Boyton. Given her confession, the coroner's verdict was inevitable. The case would be closed and his responsibilities over. There was nothing further he could do, or wanted to do.

Like every investigation, this one would leave him with memories, people who would, without any particular wish on his part, establish themselves as silent presences in his mind and thoughts for years but who could be brought to life by a place, a stranger's face, a voice. He had no wish regularly to relive the past, but these brief visitations left him curious to know why particular people were lodged in his memory and what their lives had become. They were seldom the most important part of the investigations and he thought he knew which people from the past week would remain in memory. Father Curtis and his fair-haired brood of children, Stephen Collinsby and Lettie Frensham. During the past years, how many lives had briefly affected his, often in horror and tragedy, in terror and anguish? Without knowing it, they had inspired some of his best poetry. What inspiration would he find in bureaucracy or the fruits of office?

But it was time to get back to the Old Police Cottage, to collect his bags and to be on his way. He had said his goodbyes to everyone at the Manor and had called at Wisteria House to thank the Shepherds for their hospitality to his team. There was only one person now whom he longed to see.

Arriving at the cottage, he opened the door. The fire had been relit, but the room was in darkness except for one lamp on a table beside the fireside chair. Emma got up and came towards him, her face and dark hair burnished by the firelight.

She said, “You've heard the news? Inspector Howard has made an arrest. We don't have to picture him out there somewhere, perhaps doing it again. And Annie is going to get better.”

Dalgliesh said, “Andy Howard rang me. My darling, it's wonderful news, especially about Annie.”

Moving into his arms, she said, “Benton and Kate met me at Wareham before they left for London. I thought you might like company on the drive home.”

BOOK FIVE

Spring
Dorset, Cambridge

1

On the first official day of spring, George Chandler-Powell and Helena Cressett sat side by side at the office desk. For three hours they had studied and discussed a succession of figures, schedules and architects' plans and now, as if by silent agreement, both stretched out a hand to switch off the computer.

Leaning back in his chair, Chandler-Powell said, “So financially it's possible. Of course, it depends on my keeping well and increasing the list of private patients at St. Angela's. The income from the restaurant won't even maintain the garden, not at first anyway.”

Helena was folding the plans away. She said, “We've been cautious over the St. Angela's income. Even with your present sessions you've achieved two-thirds of the figures in our estimate over the past three years. Agreed, converting the stable block is more expensive than you'd planned, but the architect has done a good job and it should come in slightly below cost. With your Far East shares doing well, you could cover the cost from the portfolio, or take a bank loan.”

“Do we have to mention the restaurant on the gate?”

“Not necessarily. But we must have a notice somewhere with the times of opening. You can't be too fastidious, George. Either you're running a commercial enterprise or you're not.”

Chandler-Powell said, “Dean and Kimberley Bostock seem happy about it all, but there has to be a limit to what they can do.”

Helena said, “That's why we've allowed for part-time helpers and an extra cook after the restaurant gets established. And with no patients—and they've always been demanding at the Manor—they'll only be cooking for you, when you're here, the resident staff and me. Dean is euphoric. What we're planning is ambitious, a first-class restaurant, not a teahouse, one that will attract customers from the fringes of the county and beyond. Dean is a fine chef. You're not going to keep him if you can't offer him scope for his skill. With Kimberley happily pregnant and Dean helping me to plan a restaurant he can feel is his own, I've never known him so happy or so settled. And the child will be no problem. The Manor needs a child.”

Chandler-Powell got up and stretched his arms above his head. He said, “Let's walk down to the stones. It's too good a day to sit at a desk.”

In silence they put on their jackets and left by the west door. The operating suite had already been demolished and the last of the medical equipment removed. Helena said, “You'll need to give thought to what you want done with the west wing.”

“We'll leave the suites as they are. If we need additional staff they'll come in useful. But you're glad the clinic's gone, aren't you? You never approved of it.”

“Did I make it so obvious? I'm sorry, but it was always an anomaly. It didn't belong here.”

“And in a hundred years it will be forgotten.”

“I doubt that; it will be part of the history of the Manor. And I don't think anyone will ever forget your last private patient.”

He said, “Candace warned me about her. She never wanted her here. And if I had operated on her in London she wouldn't have died and all our lives would be different.”

She said, “Different, but not necessarily better. Did you believe Candace's confession?”

“The first part, killing Rhoda, yes, I did.”

“Murder or manslaughter?”

“I believe she did lose her temper, but she wasn't threatened or provoked. I think a jury would return a verdict of murder.”

She said, “If the case ever came to court. Commander Dalgliesh hadn't even enough evidence to make an arrest.”

“I think he was close to it.”

“Then he was taking a risk. What evidence had he? There were no forensics. Any one of us could have done it. Without the attack on Sharon and Candace's confession, the case would never have been solved.”

“That is, of course, if it has been solved.”

Helena said, “You think she could be lying to protect someone else?”

“No, that's ludicrous, and who would she do it for except her brother? No, she killed Rhoda Gradwyn and I think she intended to murder Robin Boyton, too. She's admitted as much.”

“But why? What did he really know or guess that made him so dangerous? And before she attacked Sharon, was she really in any danger? If she was accused of murdering Gradwyn and Boyton, any competent lawyer could convince a jury that there was reasonable doubt. It was the attack on Sharon that proved her guilt. So why did she do it? She says it was because Sharon had seen her leaving the Manor on that Friday night. But why not lie about that? Who would believe Sharon's story if Candace denied it? And that attack on Sharon—how could she hope to get away with it?”

George said, “I think Candace had had enough. She wanted an end.”

“An end to what? To continued suspicion and uncertainty, to the risk that someone might believe her brother was responsible, to clear the rest of us? That seems unlikely.”

“An end to herself. I don't think she found her world worth living in.”

Helena said, “We all feel that at times.”

“But it passes, it isn't real, we know it isn't real. I'd have to be in constant unbearable pain, my mind failing, my independence gone, my job gone, this place lost to me before I felt that.”

“I think her mind was failing. I think she knew she was mad. Let's go to the stone circle. She's dead and now all I feel is pity for her.”

Suddenly his voice was harsh. “Pity? I don't feel pity. She killed my patient. I did a good job on that scar.”

She looked at him, then turned away, but he had caught in that fleeting glance something uncomfortably close to a mixture of surprise and amused understanding.

She said, “The last private patient here at the Manor. Well, she was that all right. She was private. What did any of us know about her? What did you?”

He said quietly, “Only that she wanted a scar removed because she no longer had need of it.”

They began slowly pacing side by side down the lime avenue. The buds were open, and the trees still showed the first transitory green of spring. Chandler-Powell said, “The plans for the restaurant—of course everything depends on your being willing to stay on.”

“You'll need someone to take charge—administrator, general organiser, housekeeper, secretary. Essentially the job won't greatly change. I could certainly stay on until you find the right person.”

They walked on in silence. Then, without stopping, he said, “I was thinking of something more permanent—more demanding, I suppose. You may say less attractive, at least for you. For me, it's been something too important to risk disappointment. That's why I haven't spoken before. I'm asking you to marry me. I believe we could be happy together.”

“You haven't spoken the word ‘love'—that's honest of you.”

“I suppose it's because I've never really understood what it means. I thought I was in love with Selina when I married her. It was a kind of madness. I like you. I respect and admire you. We've worked together now for six years. I want to make love to you, but then any heterosexual man would feel that. I'm never bored or irritated when we're together, we share the same passion for the house, and when I return here and you're not about I feel an unease which is difficult to explain. It's a sense that there's something lacking, something missing.”

“In the house?”

“No, in myself.” Again there was silence. Then he asked, “Can you call that love? Is it enough? It is for me, is it for you? Do you want time to think about it?”

And now she turned to him. “Asking for time would be play-acting. It is enough.”

He didn't touch her. He felt like a man invigorated but one who was standing on delicate ground. He mustn't be gauche. She would despise him if he did the obvious thing, the thing he wanted to do, to take her into his arms. They stood facing each other. Then he said quietly, “Thank you.”

They had reached the stones now. She said, “When I was a child, we used to pace round the circle and gently kick each stone. It was for luck.”

“Then perhaps we should do it now.”

They walked round together. He gently struck each stone in turn.

Returning to the lime walk, he said, “What about Lettie? Do you want her to stay on?”

“If she's willing. Frankly, it would be difficult at first to do without her. But she won't want to live in the Manor once we're married, and it wouldn't suit us. We could offer her Stone Cottage once it's been cleared and redecorated. Of course, she'd enjoy having a hand in that. And she'd take pleasure in doing something with the garden.”

Chandler-Powell said, “We could offer to give her the cottage. I mean legally, make it over to her. With its reputation it won't otherwise be easy to sell. That way she'll have some security for her old age. Who else would want it? Would she? It seems to smell of murder, unhappiness, death.”

Helena said, “Lettie has her defences against those things. I think she'd be content in Stone Cottage, but she wouldn't want it as a gift. I'm sure she'd prefer to buy.”

“Could she afford to?”

“I think so. She's always been a saver. And it would be cheap. After all, as you've said, with its history Stone Cottage is hardly saleable. Anyway, I could try her. If she moves into the cottage she'll need an increase in salary.”

“Won't that be a difficulty?”

Helena smiled. “You're forgetting that I have money. After all, we've agreed that the restaurant will be my investment. Guy may have been an unfaithful bastard but he wasn't a mean bastard.”

So that problem was settled. Chandler-Powell thought that this would probably be the pattern of his married life. A difficulty acknowledged, a reasonable solution proposed, no particular action necessary on his part.

He said easily, “As we can't very well do without her, at least at first, that all seems sensible.”

“It's I who can't do without her. Haven't you noticed? She's my moral compass.”

They walked on. Chandler-Powell could see now that much of his life was going to be planned for him. The thought caused him no disquiet and much satisfaction. He would have to work hard to keep both the London flat and the Manor, but he had always worked hard. Work was his life. He wasn't entirely sure about the restaurant, but it was time that something was done to reinstate the stable block and the restaurant customers wouldn't need to enter the Manor. And it was important to keep Dean and Kimberley. Helena knew what she was doing.

She said, “Have you heard anything about Sharon, where she is, what job they've found for her?”

“Nothing. She came out of nothingness and went back to nothingness. She isn't my responsibility, thank God.”

“And Marcus?”

“I had a letter yesterday. He seems to be settling down well in Africa. It's probably the best place for him. He couldn't hope to recover from Candace's suicide while working here. If she wanted to separate us, she certainly went about it the right way.”

But he spoke without rancour, almost without interest. After the inquest they had rarely talked about Candace's suicide, and always with unease. Why, she wondered, had he chosen this moment, this walk together, to revisit the painful past? Was it his way of making some kind of formal closure, of saying that it was now time for the talking and speculation to stop?

“And Flavia? Is she, like Sharon, out of your mind?”

“No, we've been in touch. She's getting married.”

“So soon?”

“Someone she contacted on the Internet. She writes that he's a solicitor, widowed two years ago, with a daughter aged three. About forty, lonely, looking for a wife who loves children. She says she's very happy. At least she's getting what she wanted. It shows considerable wisdom to know what you want in life and then to direct all your energies towards getting it.”

They had left the avenue now and were re-entering the west door. Glancing at her, he caught her secret smile.

She said, “Yes, she was very wise. That's how I've always acted myself.”