The Yeare's Midnight (14 page)

Frayne
fingered
the
petals
in
his
jacket
pocket
and
hurriedly
noted
down
the
class
mark.
The
simplicity
of
the
process
had
dazzled
him.
He
walked
to
the
health-care
section
of
the
library
and
quickly
located
The Weight of Expectation: Obesity and Self Image.
It
was
a
thick,
well-thumbed
hardback
with
a
picture
on
the
front
cover
of
a
young
woman
wearing
a
leotard
and
holding
a
mirror.
Frayne
wondered
if
there
were
chocolate
fingerprints
on
the
inside
pages.
The
photo
and
accompanying
paragraph
of
author’s
details
were
helpful:
‘
Dr
Elizabeth
Drury
was
educated
at
University
College,
Oxford
and
Guys
Medical
School.
She
is
a
leading
international
dietician
and
runs
the
Drury
Clinic,
a
private
medical
practice
in
London.
She
has
published
a
number
of
articles
on
the
psychological
aspects
of
obesity.
The Weight of Expectation
is
her
first
book.
’
However,
it
was
the
last
piece
of
information
that
excited
Frayne
the
most.
‘Dr
Drury
has
lived
in
Cambridgeshire
for
ten
years.
’
Frayne
never
understood
why
authors
included
such
pointless
personal
detail:
perhaps
Dr
Drury
felt
that
announcing
she
lived
in
Cambridgeshire
some
how
enhanced
her
intellectual
credibility.
In
any
case,
he
now
had
all
the
information
he
needed
to
find
her:
a
drop
of
blood
had
plopped
into
the
water.
He
noticed
that
the
book
also
contained
an
extensive
bibliography:
that
might
prove
useful.

Directory
Inquiries
gave
him
the
phone
number
of
the
Drury
Clinic.
He
called
immediately
and
asked
the
receptionist
for
the
clinic’s
mailing
address.

‘
17
Mayfair
Crescent,
SW1.’
She
had
an
Australian
accent.
He
liked
that.
He
didn’t
know
why.

‘Very
helpful
–
thank
you.
Is
Dr
Drury’s
husband
available?’
asked
Frayne.

‘Husband?
There
must
be
some
mistake.
Dr
Drury
isn’t
married.’

‘I
do
apologize.
I’m
confusing
doctors
with
dentists,’
said
Frayne
flatly.

‘No
problem.
You
have
a
nice
day
now.’
But
Frayne
had
already
gone.

The
following
day
he
took
the
train
from
New
Bolden
to
London
and
then
the
Underground
to
Leicester
Square.
After
a
brisk
ten
minutes’
walk
he
was
in
May
fair
Crescent.
It
was
a
busy
road,
cluttered
with
traffic
and
expensively
suited
profes
sionals.
There
were
double
yellow
lines
on
both
sides
of
the
street.
He
guessed
that
Drury
came
in
by
train.
If
she
lived
in
Cambridgeshire
that
meant
she
probably
came
into
Liverpool
Street
and
then
across
town
on
the
Central
Line.
She
was
wealthy,
though,
Frayne
mused.
Maybe
she
took
a
cab.
That
would
be
problematic.
The
entrance
to
the
Drury
Clinic
was
impressive.
White
Doric
columns
topped
with
an
ornately
carved
lintel:
smoked-glass
doors
with
golden
handles.
They
might
have
self-image
problems
but
Drury’s
clients
were
clearly
rich.

The
clinic
closed
at
six
p.m.
A
dozen
or
so
staff,
secretaries
mostly,
filed
out
shortly
after.
Frayne
didn’t
see
Drury
until
six-
thirty.
She
left
the
building
with
another
woman
and
they
parted
company
with
a
reassuring
hug:
‘Client,’
Frayne
thought
to
himself.
Drury
walked
to
the
edge
of
the
road
and
looked
intently
in
both
directions
for
a
cab.
It
was
a
cold
night
in
London
and
the
wind
whipped
up
bitterly
from
the
Thames:
piercing
and
hard.

Drury
lost
patience
and
started
to
walk.
Frayne
followed
at
a
distance.
Drury
was
tall,
blonde
and
elegant.
She
wore
a
dark
red
full-length
coat
that
was
easy
to
spot
despite
the
bustle
of
early
Christmas
shoppers.
She
walked
up
Haymarket
to
Picca
dilly
and
descended
into
the
Underground
station
at
Piccadilly
Circus.
Frayne
got
closer:
the
crowd
was
thick
now
and
he
felt
anonymous.
He
caught
a
glimpse
of
himself
on
a
security
monitor
at
the
top
of
an
escalator:
coat
collar
up,
baseball
hat
tightly
pulled
down.
He
managed
to
suppress
a
smile.
Drury
took
the
northbound
Piccadilly
line
to
Holborn,
as
he
suspected
she
would,
and
switched
to
the
Central
Line.
Frayne
smiled
to
himself:
Liverpool
Street.

The
concourse
at
Liverpool
Street
was
a
sweaty,
bumping
chaos.
Dozens
of
tired
eyes
gazed
up
at
the
departure-announce
ments
board:
many
squinting
to
read
its
impossibly
small
text.
Drury
paused
below
the
board
next
to
a
group
of
foreign
students
who
were
sitting
on
rucksacks
and
eating
baguettes.
She
saw
her
train
on
the
board
and
quickly
turned
towards
Platform
5.
Frayne
saw
that
it
was
a
Cambridge
train.
Drury
hurried
ahead
of
him
and
stepped
carefully
into
a
first
class
carriage:
she
had
broken
heels
on
the
footplate
several
times
in
the
past.
Frayne
walked
past
the
carriage
without
looking
inside
and
boarded
the
packed
adjacent
standard
class
section.
It
smelled
of
beefburgers
and
the
warm
fug
of
commuters.
Through
dirty
glass
panes
he
could
see
into
first
class.

The
train
shuddered
out
of
London,
moving
slowly
through
graffiti-sprayed
cuttings
and
the
rapist’s
paradise
of
Hackney
Marshes.
Soon
the
city
receded
and
the
black
sky
seemed
to
drop
to
the
ground
like
a
falling
curtain.
The
train
emptied
gradually.
The
extra
comfort
this
afforded
was
outweighed
in
Frayne’s
mind
by
his
own
increased
visibility.
Harlow
came
and
went
and
soon
the
flat
blacklands
of
Cambridgeshire
yawned
enormously
in
both
directions.
They
had
to
be
close
now.
Drury
had
put
down
her
newspaper
and
seemed
to
be
assessing
her
profile
in
the
dark
window.
She
tugged
gently
at
the
skin
that
hung
from
the
angle
of
her
jaw.
After
an
hour
the
train
began
to
drop
off
the
last
handfuls
of
commuters
at
each
of
the
small
village
stations
that
nestled
against
the
last
stretch
of
line
before
Cam
bridge.
As
the
train
groaned
into
Afton,
Drury
stood
up
and
walked
to
the
door.