Nearly Almost Somebody (27 page)

‘What do you see in Jonathan anyway? Isn’t he about sixty?’

‘He’s fifty-five and plays a lot of tennis so he’s got a great body. He’s intelligent, funny, considerate and he likes buying me shiny trinkets. Best of all...’ Zoë’s grin grew. ‘He’s the most amazing shag. He’s into BDSM.’

‘What, you let him hit you?’ Libby stared, repulsed, but Zoë laughed.

‘Jesus, no. He’s the one who likes being tied up.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I am the mistress of all his fantasies and oh my God, does he have some filthy fantasies. Needless to say, it’s not his Times-reading wife’s knitting bag, at all.’

Libby opened her mouth, but finding herself speechless, she closed it again.

‘Your face.’ Zoë stood up, laughing. ‘Anyway, I was thinking we could try Kendal next. A little less
Deliverance
than here.’

Libby watched Zoë leave, frowning at the heels she had in her hand. Well, Jonathan Carr’s sexual preferences and trinket buying explained Zoë’s addiction to the metal-studded Louboutins – hardly the getup for a respectable estate agent, but for the dominatrix mistress of the boss? Perfect.

Sometimes she wondered if she knew Zoë at all.

It wasn’t her fault. The driver who knocked her off her bike had to take the majority of the blame, and the surgeon who’d left a piece of bone in her back, his hands weren’t entirely spotless. Even God, whose benevolent nature she’d been brought up to believe in, he’d let this happen to her.

But it wasn’t her fault.

Fee had been left in constant pain, the bone fragment sitting too close to her spine to be removed. She winced as she tried to lift the teapot.

‘Let me?’ Elizabeth McBride said, taking the pot from her. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know. No worse than usual.’ It’s what people expected to hear. They didn’t want to know about the ineffective prescription painkillers rattling inside her handbag, or the more effective but illegal drugs she had in her knitting bag.

‘And have you…’ Elizabeth paused, sipping her tea. ‘Have you read the paper?’

Through the fug she’d lived in since Halloween, Fee laughed. The effort sent a bolt of agony up her spine. ‘Do you mean about Jonathan and his latest whore?’

For fifteen years, she’d been unable to make love to her husband, not that she’d been overly anxious to do so before her accident. It was only natural that he’d look for his release elsewhere, but how funny that it should be with Zoë Horton. The sense of history spiralling around, always moving on but at times colliding, filled Fee with awe. Maybe God did have a plan.

Maggie Keeley had been Fee’s source of a very good anaesthetic: marijuana. News of her death had been a bitter blow and Fee had fallen into a depression, lost without her only source of the drug. She was a fifty-year-old woman. How could she buy
dope
?

Then one day, back in September, Jonathan informed her that Maggie’s niece, Zoë, was working for him at the Estate Agent’s. She’d considered it fate and invited the girl over for lunch, planning to ask if she had the marijuana plants while Jonathan was out of the room. What she hadn’t planned on was Jonathan being overly-familiar with the twenty-something girl who bore more than a passing resemblance to her great-aunt. And he’d barely managed to eat his salmon, too busy staring at the girl’s cleavage. Fee had merely poured more wine, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

Zoë refused to sell the plants, but as recompense, did promise a regular supply of marijuana. The girl was so reliable, the skunk so effective, Fee stopped caring that Jonathan had taken to making… no, what they did could hardly be described as
making love
. Jonathan had taken to fucking his little whore in their guest room, just like he had Maggie.

The doorbell rang, returning Fee to Elizabeth’s polite, but banal chatter.

‘Should I get it for you?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘No, no. Jonathan’s here. How’s everything at the surgery? I am sorry to let you down.’

Elizabeth smiled. ‘Fee, you need to look after yourself. Please, don’t worry about work. Everything’s fine. Grace is helping out.’

The silence stretched between them,
the Archers
filling the space.

‘Did the police ever catch anyone for the break in?’ Fee toyed with the glass vial in her cardigan pocket.

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Patrick was devastated, blames himself, and Grace feels just as bad, the poor wee thing, but she swears she’d switched the alarm on.’

‘Poor Grace. Dreadful business.’

Jonathan popped his head around the door. ‘Fee, I’m heading out for an hour or two. Squash.’

Fee smiled, not believing a word of it. ‘Have a nice time, dear.’

‘Night, Jonathan.’ Elizabeth gave a little wave.

Fee sipped her tea, longing for Elizabeth to leave so she could let oblivion take over. She’d take a little more tonight, in case Jonathan brought his whore back to the house again.

In the darkened room, with Vivaldi playing quietly in the background, Fee’s pain eased. Her arms and legs were floating as she glided along the sand towards the sunshine, leaving her ravaged body on the bed. She glanced back. When had she grown so old?

‘Are you okay, Fee?’ God stretched out a hand, stroking her hair.

I’m fine. Happy. But why did you do it?

‘Do what, Fee?’

Hurt me, God.

‘I didn’t hurt you, Fee. That was Mr Simmonds in his BMW. Remember?’

She wandered on along the beach, glancing behind her, at the single track of footprints.
Are you really carrying me?

‘Of course I am.’

Is it time to let go?

‘Only if you want to Fee.’

I want to. It hurts so much. Every day, it hurts so much.

‘Then just stop.’

But who’ll look after Jonathan? Who’ll wash his clothes, make sure there’re always bananas in the house?

‘He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’

Fee smiled as she breathed out.

Her mind simply forgot to breathe in again.

* * *

Tears splashed from Jonathan’s face onto the bed. Relief, grief, he had no idea which. He stroked his wife’s hair. She’d looked so beautiful on their wedding day. He’d loved her so much, but he’d let her down. He’d selfishly let her sink into prescription drugs so she wouldn’t care that he was indulging in his own addiction.

No, it wasn’t like that. He’d tried so many times to help her, but the pain had been too much for her to bear.

But not anymore. She looked so peaceful, with her gentle, kind smile. Had she died happy, finally free from pain? He took her hand, bringing it to his lips, but a small glass bottle fell to the bed. He lifted it to the lamp, peering at the label.

Ketamine? Where the hell had she got Ketamine from?

A staff meeting was not the way to start the day after his worst day ever, but Patrick dutifully sat in the Haverton waiting room, the only space big enough to house the McBride Veterinary Clinic staff. With him and his parents were Fergus and Kate, his fellow vets, plus Grace, Hannah and the two other RVNs. He was fairly sure the two nondescript brunettes were called Sarah and Susan, but which was which, he had no idea.

‘What’s going on?’ Grace whispered as she sat down next to him.

‘Did you cancel everyone?’

She nodded. ‘I bumped Manor Farm to eleven and Mrs Dawson to five. Sorry, I know, but you’ll never get away from Tom’s ’til after lunch. What’s happening?’

Patrick leant in, so the others couldn’t hear. ‘Fee died last night. Maybe an overdose, maybe natural causes. I don’t know.’

Grace stared at him, her eyes filling.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Grace. You’re worse than Libby for crying.’ He regretted the words the minute they came out. Grace bristled, sulking at his mention of her arch-nemesis, and he couldn’t help wondering how Libby was after their fight yesterday. He’d been harsh.

‘But I called her a prescription drug junkie...’

‘Pull it together,’ he hissed. ‘She
was
a prescription drug junkie. Everyone knew it.’

‘So is that why they’ve got us all here, to tell us?’

Patrick sucked in his cheek for a moment. ‘Partly. And I reckon they’re going to talk about reshuffling.’

‘What?’

‘Gracey, they need a practice manager here. You know I don’t want any of these muppets working for me. Christ, I’ve traded Hannah for you once already, but it’d be a promotion.’

She shook her head. ‘That’s not why I do it. I don’t want to spend my time working out rotas and payrolls. I want to look after animals.’

‘Look, I don’t even know if this is what they’re thinking.’ He crossed his fingers behind his back. ‘But think of the money. You wouldn’t have to work at the pub.’

‘No, I’d just work stupid hours here, instead. Forget it. They can find some other idiot.’

He tried not to grin. ‘That’s what I said you’d say.’

She glanced around, trying not to laugh. ‘How much money are they offering?’

He shrugged. ‘But please don’t take it. Ever.’

As predicted, his parents stood before the staff, his mum wiping her eyes, speaking of their sad loss. Fee had died quietly at home, after a long battle against her spinal pain. Their thoughts were with her husband, Jonathan, and their two grown-up sons. Grace caught Patrick’s eye and they both struggled not to laugh.

Rather than recruit an irreplaceable Fee, Malcolm stressed his desire for his other staff to step up to the role. He struggled not to look with hope at Grace, but she had her arms crossed, fascinated with the floor.

Good girl, Gracey. Don’t sell out.

By ten o’clock, the majority of the staff tears, platitudes and excitement about potential promotions had calmed down. He had an hour until he had to be at Manor Farm, so he wandered down to the local coffee shop for a decent caffeine hit.

Fee, dead. If he were honest, he’d never really warmed to the woman. She twittered and fussed, always worrying if the biscuit barrel was full. Who the hell cared? His job was to look after the health and welfare of animals. But still, she was dead. Oh, he knew she’d struggled with back pain and prescription drugs, his mum had told him that, but an overdose? Sad.

He was standing in the queue, silently cursing the office junior ordering coffee for the entire team of accountants down the road, when a familiar ex-ballerina walked along the opposite pavement.

She had on her trademark mini-skirt, but in deference to the bitterly cold weather, she wore leggings and chunky work boots. The long turquoise coat and bright purple scarf he’d not seen before. She suited the vibrant colours. He smiled. Her pink hair streamed behind her as she struggled with a large canvas. Was that
the Broken Ballerina
?

‘What can I get you?’ the barista asked.

He had no intention of going out there, no intention until Libby ducked into the Haverton Animal Rescue charity shop. What was she doing? He smiled apologetically to the barista then ran out of the shop. Two buses blocked his way and when he crossed the High Street, she’d gone. He scanned the street, but couldn’t see the turquoise coat.

He swore, stepping into the charity shop. The canvas, still wrapped, stood propped against the checkout. Where the hell had Libby gone? The woman behind the counter, not a day less than eighty, stopped her clearly pointless struggle with a tagging gun.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘The girl who donated this picture,’ he said. ‘Where’s she gone?’

‘Out dear.’ She pottered around the desk, reaching down to take the paper from the canvas.

‘No.’ Patrick grabbed her hand. ‘It’s just... I know she’s going to regret giving it away.’

The woman tore the paper and her smile grew. This was going to cost him.

Ten minutes and fifteen hundred pounds later, after he’d locked the painting in his car, he headed back to the surgery. If he was really unlucky, there’d be some of Hannah’s piss-poor coffee still available. Could his day get any worse?

He got his answer as he approached the front door. Two police officers climbed out of their car and pulled their hats on. One of them was PC Andy. Patrick paused, swearing at the sky.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘We’d appreciate it if you could come with us to the station,’ Andy said, sounding genuinely apologetic.

‘Why?’

‘It’d be better to talk there.’

Patrick refused to be riled. This was fine. Helping with enquiries. This wasn’t news. He got into the police car as quickly as he could, hoping no one had time to take a photo, and rang his dad.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes.’

Patrick took a breath. ‘I have to go to the police station.’

‘So I believe. There are another two officers questioning your mother. Grace has already been taken to the station. This better be nothing to do with you.’

Patrick rested his head against the glass window. Even his own father didn’t trust him.

The police processing actual criminals meant Patrick was kept waiting in an interview room for over an hour. Surely this was unreasonable. For the eightieth time, Patrick fidgeted in his chair and wished they’d get on with it. He’d been arrested enough times to know the score. They weren’t arresting him, merely questioning him.

The door opened, and Andy came in with Dave Hardy, another local lad.

‘What’s going on?’ Patrick asked, focussing his question on Andy, his childhood friend.

Andy held up a plastic evidence bag containing a bottle of Ketamine, the same brand they used at work.

‘Is that part of the batch stolen from my surgery,’ Patrick asked.

Andy nodded. ‘It was found in Fiona Carr’s hand.’

Patrick stared. ‘Is it a coincidence?’

‘That one of the surgery staff ends up dead after shooting up, no doubt k-holing from your missing drugs?’ Andy smiled. ‘Yeah, a coincidence is one theory.’

‘Another theory,’ offered PC Hardy, ‘is that your surgery wasn’t actually robbed. Maybe you, or Grace, helped yourselves to the drugs. It’s easy done. Money to be made.’

‘Leave Grace alone. She’s done nothing wrong,’

Andy held up a hand. ‘She’s just helping with enquiries.’

‘So what do you want to know?’

Andy rested his elbows on the table. ‘Mrs Carr had three of these bottles.’

‘So she got them from some dealer in town?’

‘Mrs Carr worked at the vets. Would she know the alarm codes, have keys?’

‘No.’ Stay calm.

‘Who does?’

‘My parents, Fergus, Grace and me. We changed the code when I took over a couple of years ago.’

Andy nodded. ‘So there’s no way, none that you can think of, for Mrs Carr to obtain a batch of your stolen drugs?’

‘No.’ Patrick leant forward. ‘Now, get to the point.’

PC Hardy took the lead. Andy merely watched.

‘Mrs Carr was found this morning by her husband, Jonathan. She was dead and probably had been for several hours. She was holding a bottle of ketamine. I’m fairly sure the autopsy will show that’s what killed her.’

‘And?’ Patrick asked, still failing to see what the fuck it had to do with him.

‘We asked Mr Carr where Mrs Carr might’ve obtained this ketamine. He said she couldn’t have got it from work because she’d been off sick for almost two weeks.’

‘And?’ Patrick sighed, weary from the routine stupidity.

‘And Mr Carr said she’d received a package from a courier.’

Patrick shrugged. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, or my surgery.’

‘Where were you on the night of the burglary?’

‘Having dinner with a friend until I went home about eleven. My dad called my landline just after.’

‘And this friend will confirm that?’ PC Brady said as he scribbled on his notepad, clearly disappointed.

‘Yes.’

Andy leaned forwards. ‘Mr Carr said the package was delivered on Halloween between nine-thirty and quarter to ten. Where were you?’

‘At home. Tom from Manor Farm rang just before ten. I went round there at half-past.’

‘And before you were called out, you were at home?’

‘For fuck’s sake, Andy. What are you getting at and what do you want to know? I didn’t kill Fee, or sell her any drugs, but I’m more than happy to help you find out who the hell did.’ Patrick kept his breathing slow and steady. He would not get riled.

‘Half the village was at that party. Why weren’t you?’

‘I was on call, so I was at home, sober.’ How many times did he have to tell them?

Andy sighed. ‘Paddy, mate, the bottom line is we need to know what the hell you were doing on that Saturday night between nine and ten. You had plenty of time to get to the Carr’s house in Haverton and be back before Tom rang.’

‘I was at home, watching TV.’

‘Any witnesses?’

Patrick paused. ‘Yes. Olivia Wilde.’

Andy frowned. ‘Libby?’

‘She came round. About quarter to. I reckon it’s pretty difficult to get back from Haverton in fifteen minutes.’

‘And what did Libby come round for?’

‘She wanted to know if I was coming to the party.’ Patrick didn’t drop his eye contact. ‘Andy, mate, the bottom line is Libby came round and I have a witness who can confirm I wasn’t in Haverton at half-nine.’

‘And the name of friend you had dinner with the night of the burglary?’ PC Hardy asked.

Patrick’s smile grew. ‘Olivia Wilde. Now, get off my case and let me get back to work.’

Andy shook his head. ‘With your previous, sunshine, until your slate’s crystal clear, you’re not going anywhere.’

You bastard.
Patrick sat back in his chair, his anger rising.

* * *

As ever, Libby started her shift, cursing the night staff for never bothering to refill the fridges. They always claimed to have been too busy. On a Monday night, really? But bitchy staff were the least of her problems. Everywhere Libby went, people slyly pointed her out, whispering. Even the old woman in the charity shop had raised her eyebrows, clearly recognising her. People seriously believed she was a prostitute.

With her black gloom threatening to engulf her, Libby went out for a cigarette, hating herself for smoking. She’d vowed to give up after the party, citing the fell race as the reason when Zoë asked. The truth was Patrick hated smoking. If she did ever get the chance to kiss him, she didn’t want him to be put off by her fag breath.

‘Libby?’ Megan said, hovering in the doorway. ‘The police are here. They need to ask you a few questions.’

‘What on earth do they want to talk to me about?

‘Maybe it’s about the brothel you’ve set up,’ Megan said, as she headed back inside.

The door shut in Libby’s face. How much more could she take? By the bar, Sheila’s eldest son, PC Andy and another officer stood waiting.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

The other officer, PC Hardy, explained how a woman called Fee had died, most likely from an overdose of the ketamine stolen from Patrick’s surgery, and Libby sat on a bar stool, more confused.

Andy finally looked at her. ‘We’re trying to rule out a few suspects. Patrick said–’

‘Patrick’s a suspect?’

‘We need to confirm his whereabouts on Saturday evening.’ Andy took a deep breath. ‘He said you went round to his.’

Libby couldn’t stop her blushes. ‘I… Yes. I went round, about quarter to ten, to see if he was coming to the party. He didn’t want to.’

‘But he was at home?’

She nodded. ‘I was there for about five minutes then I went back to the party. Zoë and Clara saw me go and come back, if you need them to confirm the time.’