The Malcontenta (8 page)

Kathy nodded, studying the list. ‘There are a few here I’d like to see.’ She marked a cross against some of the names and wrote a note at the bottom of the page. ‘We might as well make a start, if we can get hold of them.’

Dr Beamish-Newell didn’t get any easier. He accepted Kathy’s apology for the morning’s disruption with a dismissive gesture of his hand and leaned back in his chair, studying her down the length of his nose, silently inviting her, or so it seemed to Kathy, to fall flat on her face again.

‘We’re asking everyone to trace their movements yesterday, doctor.’

‘So I understand. I should have thought there were much easier ways of doing this. We could have simply got everyone together, for example, and explained what had happened, and then invited anyone who saw Mr Petrou yesterday to remain behind and make a statement to you. I should have thought that would have got to the point much quicker, avoided a lot of rumours and inconvenience to us, and saved a lot of police time.’

Kathy took a deep breath. No doubt he had already given the Deputy Chief Constable the benefit of this advice. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the creases of concern on Gordon’s forehead as he waited, ball-point poised to take notes.

‘Mr Petrou now, not ‘Alex’. Distancing himself.

‘What were your movements yesterday, Dr Beamish-Newell?’ she said evenly. He raised his eyebrows a little and continued to stare at her, unblinking.

His silent gaze went on for so long that Kathy began to wonder if he was going to refuse to say anything further. Then he suddenly spoke. ‘Did the autopsy tell you anything?’

Several replies went through Kathy’s head. She settled for ‘Not yet; there are a number of forensic tests to complete,’ and stared right back at him.

He finally shook his head in studied exasperation and, ¿o looking down at his finger-nails, began to speak rapidly in a low monotone. ‘Sunday, 28 October. I rose at about seven-thirty Read the papers over a leisurely breakfast with my wife Laura until perhaps ten. I came over to the house to see a number of new patients who arrived between ten-thirty and twelve-thirty.’

He broke off to refer to his diary and read out the names of half a dozen patients, then took a sip of water from the glass on his desk. ‘I returned to my house between twelve-thirty and one, had lunch with Laura, sat with her for an hour in our living room, reading a book. At around three the sun came out and we decided to have a walk. I can trace our route if you wish - we saw a number of patients walking in the grounds. We returned to our cottage.’ He drew breath. ‘At around four I returned here to my office, to prepare schedules and do other paperwork for this week. I also did some work on an article I’m writing for the
Journal of Naturopathic Medicine.
Soon after six I joined Laura in the dining room for a light evening meal with patients and one or two visitors, after which we all retired to the drawing room for a recital she had organized, from seven till sometime after eight. She runs a programme of Sunday evening recitals for patients and friends. Last night it was a string quartet -students from the Conservatoire. She can give you details. There must have been thirty or more people there.’

‘But not Mr Petrou?’

‘No. At no time yesterday did I see him, and I have absolutely no knowledge of his movements.’ ‘Go on.’

He pursed his lips with irritation. ‘We returned to the cottage together at around nine. Laura had a bath, retired around ten. I followed shortly after.’

‘You share a bedroom?’ Kathy was aware of Gordon’s head bobbing up at her question. For a moment she thought she wasn’t going to get a reply, then, ‘No, as a matter of fact. And if you’re suggesting I got up in the middle of the night and went out…’

‘I just like to be clear. You didn’t, then … go out during the night?’

‘No, Sergeant, I did not. Now,’ he looked at his watch, ‘if you don’t mind, this morning’s events have put me way behind.’

‘That’s fine,’ Kathy said brightly, getting to her feet. ‘I’d like to speak to your wife if she’s available.’

Beamish-Newell lifted his phone and dialled.

‘She’s in her office. She’ll come up and collect you.’

‘Thanks. One thing. Why the temple, do you think? It seems a bizarre place for Petrou to choose, especially at night.’

‘Yes.’ Beamish-Newell hesitated, stared down at his blotter. ‘It is … odd. I have no explanation. I must say I find it a rather chilling place. We have no real use for it.’

‘Was it built by a Nazi sympathizer?’

‘What? Oh, I see - the swastika grating. No, that was put there before the Nazis took the symbol over. It has an ancient history - the word itself is derived from Sanskrit. When the temple was built the broken cross would have signified something quite different - the wholeness of creation.’

Laura Beamish-Newell came into the room at this point. She took in Kathy and Gordon with quick, unsmiling glances and shook hands briefly.

‘I’ll take you back to my room so that Stephen can get on with his work,’ she said. Kathy noticed a crease form momentarily between her eyebrows, and followed her gaze to her husband, who was seated again, staring fixedly at his blotter.

‘Have you had lunch, darling?’

It took him a moment to reply. ‘No … no, I didn’t have time with all the disruptions this morning.’

‘I’ll have something sent up from the kitchen.’ Then she turned to Kathy, ‘Come along,’ she said, and led them out of the room.

Her office was in the basement. From the foot of the spiral staircase Kathy and Gordon followed her down a corridor with a vaulted stone ceiling, past cubicles, offices and treatment rooms inserted between the massive piers supporting the main floors above. They came to a door with a rippled-glass vision panel and she showed them inside to tubular metal-framed seats in front of her metal desk, on which stood a telephone and a VDU. An examination couch took up one side of the room and filing cabinets the other. Above her chair a semicircular window had been set in the thick wall, like an eye peering out at the dark sky above. A fluorescent fitting mounted to the underside of the stone vault cast a cold and functional light over the room.

At first, after Stephen Beamish-Newell, Kathy found Laura’s curt, business-like manner refreshing.

‘My husband works too hard,’ she said. She had fine features, a long neck, good posture, blonde hair tied up neatly at the back of her head. Younger than her husband by at least ten years, Kathy guessed, her light-hazel eyes held no warmth and seemed dull with fatigue. ‘He doesn’t need this.’

‘Has this happened at a particularly bad time, then?’ Kathy tried to sound sympathetic, although the woman’s apparent indifference to Petrou’s fate was startling.

‘There’s never a good time, is there?’

‘I just wondered if he’d been under particular pressure lately.’

Laura’s eyes narrowed. ‘By the end of the summer we’re always a bit drained. We haven’t been able to get a break this year.’

‘What’s your role in the clinic, Mrs Beamish-Newell?’

‘I organize the treatment schedules. Stephen identifies the therapy regime for each patient, and I organize them into timetables and so on. I also keep a general eye on what goes on down here. I’ve been a nurse for fifteen years.’

‘So you knew Alex Petrou well.’

‘Of course.’

‘What was your assessment of him?’

‘Not all that high. He was inclined to be a bit showy, lacked substance. Tended to lose interest when it came to the difficult bits. Left it to somebody else. But he was quite popular with a number of the patients.’

‘Men and women?’

She shrugged. ‘Yes, both.’

‘Anyone special?’

‘Special? I’m talking about some of the patients liking his … . his manner, that’s all. He was quite amusing, personable. Nothing more special than that, as far as I’m aware.’

‘And staff? Any close friends, people he saw socially?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. I was never aware of any particular friendships there.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Not yesterday. It would have been Saturday afternoon. He was exercising in the gym down the corridor there. I came in here to work. Some of the patients were coming and going.’

‘Did you actually speak to him then?’

‘Briefly.’

‘Do you know what he did on Saturday evening?’ She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘Were you aware of him being in any way depressed, down?’

‘No, I didn’t notice anything.’

Mrs Beamish-Newell described her movements on the Sunday, as her husband had done, confirming his account. Some time after he had left their house to go to his office in the afternoon she had also come over, at around five or five-fifteen she thought, to prepare the drawing room for the recital. Although she had come in through the basement entrance and passed the door to the gym where Long had earlier been with Petrou, she had seen no sign of either of them.

Kathy asked to see the gym, and she led them back down the vaulted corridor to a doorway set in a recess. It was locked, and she took a master key from a pocket in her white coat to open the heavy door. The place smelt of damp mixed with the aroma of leather, talcum powder and sweat.

‘Alex made this room his own,’ Laura Beamish-Newell said, switching on the light. The room had the same low, vaulted ceiling as the corridor, and contained an assortment of weights, mats and exercise machines scattered around the floor. The grille of an extractor fan was visible high up in one corner, but there were no windows.

‘Is it the lack of a note that’s bothering you?’ Mrs Beamish-Newell said suddenly. ‘Only, you know they don’t always leave one.’

For the first time Kathy felt that the other woman was trying to communicate with her rather than just fend her off. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘But we haven’t found anyone who even thought he was depressed.’

‘Then again, it could have been an accident.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh come on, Sergeant.’ Laura looked hard at her. ‘In our work we’ve both seen stranger things. It happens, accidental hanging. Maybe he was doing it for kicks.’

From the corridor they could hear the muffled sound of patients returning to the basement for the afternoon treatment session.

‘Would that seem likely to you, knowing him?’

‘Yes,’ she turned away. ‘Yes, I think it would.’

She was reaching for the door when it abruptly swung open in front of her. Geoffrey Parsons was there, face flushed. He saw her and began gabbling rapidly. ‘Laura! What are you doing? I thought we -’ Then he noticed Kathy and Gordon standing in the background, staring at him. ‘Oh … I’m sorry.’ He blinked several times. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I’ll catch up with you later.’ He turned on his heel and hurried away. Laura Beamish-Newell glanced at Kathy with a bleak little smile, almost apologetic. ‘We’re all under pressure,’ she said. ‘It’s all very upsetting.’

Ben Bromley came round his desk to shake Kathy’s hand. He looked at her keenly.

‘When they told me it was a woman in charge, I realized I’d never actually seen a woman detective in the flesh, so to speak. I mean, apart from on telly.’

‘I hope I’m not a disappointment,’ Kathy replied drily.

‘Oh no, I’m sure you won’t be. From what I hear you’ve made quite an impact with our senior management already, not to mention the punters.’ He grinned at her, eyes twinkling.

‘Is that right?’

‘Enough said. I promised myself I wouldn’t speak out of turn. Come on in and sit down. I think we can find room. It’s a bit cramped in here, as you can see.’

It was true that the room looked no bigger than the storeroom it had indeed previously been, and all available surfaces, including the chairs, were covered with piles of computer print-outs, brochures and other papers.

‘Yorkshire, is it?’ Kathy asked.

‘Lancashire - Bolton,’ he replied.

She nodded. ‘I was partly brought up in Sheffield, but I still have trouble telling the difference.’

‘I saw the light six years ago. Company I’d been with for the previous fifteen years making window frames finally went the way of half the rest of the north of England, down the tubes. Taken over actually, by southerners. Asset-stripped and closed down. I decided if we couldn’t beat ’em I’d better join ’em. Actually I was bloody lucky. Sir Peter Maples, chairman of the conglomerate that took us over, had just acquired a hobby -’ he rolled his eyes around the room ‘this place. He’d just rescued it from a fate worse than liquidation and was looking for a business manager to put in. I am he.’

He had managed to clear a couple of seats for Kathy and Gordon during this, and they all sat down. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ he asked. Kathy hesitated.

‘No, no.’ He waved a hand. ‘None of that molasses muck or whatever it is they drink here.’ He reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a tin of ground coffee with a triumphant flourish. ‘Italian, smashing, what do you say?’

‘Actually,’ Kathy said with a deep breath, ‘that’s the best thing anyone’s said to me all day.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Dowling muttered under his breath.

Ben Bromley had a kettle, jug and mugs tucked beneath a hatstand in the corner, and while he squatted to make the coffee, Kathy continued. ‘I didn’t realize the clinic didn’t belong to Dr Beamish-Newell. I just assumed …’

‘It did once. He bought this place in the seventies. It was a bit of a wreck, you know, needed a lot doing to it to return it to the glory you see today.’ He gestured at the squalor around them.

‘He must have had a bit of money.’

Bromley looked up at her and winked. ‘Not him, luv, his wife. Behind every great man is a rich wife with an open cheque book.’

‘Oh, I see. And then the cheque book ran out, did it?’

‘Well, the great doctor is a brilliant man, of course. Learnt his acupuncture in Tibet or Timbuctoo or some such, and had this vision for a centre for holistic whatsit, but within these four walls he wasn’t too good at keeping an eye on his cash-flow. So -’ he straightened and placed the jug on the desk, spooning coffee into the filter ‘- when things got tricky he managed to interest some of his more influential patients in the idea of setting up a charitable trust to take over the financial liabilities of the clinic and run it as a non-profit organization. They got Sir Peter interested, and he took charge. Should I be telling you all this?’ He looked quizzically at Kathy. ‘Why not? It’s common knowledge. Not much help with what you’re here for. What are you here for, anyway? I heard about poor old Adonis the Greek, but it’s hardly a case for
Crimewatch,
is it? Or is there something I haven’t heard yet?’