The Various Haunts of Men (35 page)

‘Yes, I knew she’d seen a therapist up there. She was my patient.’

‘Is … I like to remain optimistic.’

‘Did your people encounter a chap calling himself
a psychic surgeon?’

‘A what?’

She repeated Karin’s story.

‘He’s new to me. I can check whether our people saw him. They’ll have been to the house, they went everywhere. I haven’t had a report about Debbie Parker having been to see him though. She favoured a chap in blue robes who calls himself Dava.’

‘She told me about Dava. Listen, Si, this Dr Groatman,
or Anthony Orford, or whatever his
real name is – he’s dangerous. For all sorts of reasons, he ought to be put out of business.’

‘You were certainly right to ask Karin if she felt he’d laid himself open to any charge of assault, but it doesn’t sound as if he did.’

‘Can’t you get him for something else?’

‘Such as? He isn’t breaking any law. You know yourself anyone can set up as an alternative practitioner, no training, no qualifications,
plate on the door and Bob’s your uncle. There are no regulations. If we could prove he had actually taken an instrument and opened someone up, we could certainly arrest him. Has he?’

‘It’s all sleight of hand.’

‘Does he claim to operate on people … is that what he says in his literature?’

‘Oh, I think he’s too clever to have any of that.’

‘How does he get patients?’

‘Word of mouth. People
tell of his miracles.’

‘How long has he been in Starly?’

‘Not long. Karin is going to try and find out where he was before.’

‘And why he left. I’ll get some checks run tomorrow, but from what you’ve told me we’ve no reason even to question him. Someone would have to come to us with a formal complaint.’

‘Shit. I’m really wound up about this one. Think of the people he’s conning, think of the
money he’s raking in. Think of the serious illnesses people might be taking to him instead of coming to us.’

‘There’s one thing you might do … What is the next best thing to setting the police on to him? Possibly even better?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘The press. Get a reporter to pose as a patient and then nosy around Starly. Ten to one they’d never get an interview out of him, he’ll be too fly, but
if a good journalist gets to the bottom of him and there is any dirty linen, it’ll be hung out all over the district.’

‘Can you think of anyone who’d be interested?’

‘Oh, indeed,’ Cat heard the smile in her brother’s voice, ‘I know just the person. Got a pen?’

Rachel Carr was in the office by eight every morning. She had found out long ago that the early news reporter caught whatever worms
had been turned up overnight and she was never going to let a colleague beat her to them. There was also fun to be had in the Mazda on half-empty roads. By ten past eight, the traffic coming into town and the school-run mothers took all the joy out of her precious toy. So when Cat Deerbon rang she took the call and within a few seconds of listening the adrenaline was pumping.

By mid-morning,
Rachel had the go-ahead from her editor, put in a couple of calls to people who might come up with something about the psychic surgeon and made an appointment to see him herself. Having been told that he was fully booked for six weeks, she pleaded acute pain and distress, slipping in mention of a friend who had said the surgeon had worked a miracle on her and saying that he was her only hope.

‘Hold on one moment please.’

The receptionist was back within twenty seconds to say she could fit Rachel in at the end of the coming Friday afternoon.

‘Dr Groatman does try to keep some spaces for people who are in great pain.’

Rachel thanked her tearfully and profusely.

‘There may be a small further charge to cover the extra administration.’

‘I don’t mind, I’ll pay anything, it doesn’t matter
what it costs. Thank you so much.’

She put the phone down, went straight on to the Internet and keyed Dr+Charles+Groatman+psychic+surgeon into Google.

The website it gave her was out of date. Dr Charles Groatman, aka Brian Urchmont, advertised himself as practising at a clinic in Brighton. Beside his photograph were extracts from letters of thanks, praise and recommendation from grateful patients
and details of surgery hours. When she rang the telephone number given, a BT message told her it was unrecognised. Rachel thought for a moment, then remembered Duggie Hotten, who had been a senior reporter when she was starting out and had gone on to the
Brighton Argus
.

She was put straight through.

‘Rachel. Carr, of course I remember. What are you doing now?’

‘Chief reporter at Lafferton.’
She hoped no one was listening.

‘Great stuff.’

‘I won’t be here for ever.’

‘
Daily Mail
next stop then?’

‘Watch this space.’

‘What can I do?’

She began to tell him but he was there before her.

‘God, just start me on the subject of our psychic surgeon. We’ve a mountain of stuff on him but he’s always come out of it smelling of roses – sort of. So he’s in your neck of the woods. Good luck.’

‘I’m doing an investigative. Can you let me have any clippings?’

‘Sure. He’s a tricky one, Rache. Watch your back. He’s got a nose for a journalist and he screams “Libel” like a stuck pig. He also turns up all sorts of people to defend him, grateful patients whose lives he saved, you know the stuff. We had a mountain of letters.’

‘What happened?’

‘We dropped it. Too much flak. Besides, he isn’t
doing anything illegal. He’s very, very careful.’

‘Great stuff, Duggie, I owe you.’

‘A word in the ear at the
Daily Mail
once you’re there. That’ll do nicely.’

The only day Sandy Marsh had missed going to work had been the day Debbie had disappeared. Since then she had gone in early and stayed late, because she couldn’t bear being in the flat and because at work she could keep her mind off Debbie for a good part of the time.

Today, she walked down the long open-plan office shortly after eight, expecting there to be no one else in for another
half-hour. But Jason Webster was there, putting some daffodils into a vase at Sandy’s desk. Everyone had been brilliant to her, Jason most of all, the place had changed from an office to a home full of caring relations. People took over some of her work, brought her coffees, invited her out every lunch hour and to their homes for supper most nights so that she was not left to spend an evening
in the flat alone unless she wanted.

‘Those are beautiful, Jase. They look like the spring.’

‘Keep you smiling.’

Sandy dumped her bag and coat and gave him a hug. The daffodils shone like sovereigns in the rather sterile grey and steel office.

‘Coffee?’

Sandy turned on her computer and looked at the new file left on her desk late last night by the section manager. More people in debt, more
firms asking for time to pay, more excuses. Sandy was in the area of credit control where the desperate ended up, those who had had virtually every warning and not only failed to pay but failed to communicate or proffer explanation, reason or excuse. ‘Last Chance Saloon’ someone had printed out in scarlet and pinned over Sandy’s work station ages ago.

She enjoyed her job. She was meticulous,
she liked working with figures but figures which had people not far in the background, and she liked being able, just sometimes, to haul people in before they fell off the edge of her desk into the bankruptcy court.

‘I put sugar in it as well.’ Jason set down the tray. He had brought two cups of coffee and two ring doughnuts.

‘No, Jase …’

‘You’re wasting away, Sandy. I don’t like it.’

It was
true that she had lost almost half a stone since Debbie had gone missing. Jason sat on the edge of her desk. ‘No news then?’

Sandy shook her head. She had given up ringing the police station. Not that they weren’t always very nice to her, said of course they’d be in touch at once if … everything being done … following up a lot of leads … In other words, not a thing.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Jason
said, ‘they searched the Hill, right?’

‘Crawled all over it.’

‘But what were they looking for? I mean, they didn’t know Debbie, you did. They might have overlooked something you’d have spotted.’

‘Like what?’

‘That’s the problem.’

‘I don’t think they could have missed anything … there were so many of them, Jason. Though I suppose they were …’ she swallowed, then said quickly, ‘they were looking
for bits of her clothing – or blood or … things.’

‘It’s OK, don’t get upset.’

‘It
is
upsetting. Sorry, I don’t mean to snap, sorry.’

‘No, you’re fine, don’t be daft. But I still wonder if there might be a point in you and me going up there, having a poke around.’

‘It would make me feel I was doing something. There’s not much else I can do except go over and over everything she said, everything
she did, anything that might be a clue. But that’s just made me stay awake all night. I wouldn’t dare go up there by myself, but you’re right. I might just get some sort of feeling. Sounds stupid.’

‘No it doesn’t.’

‘I thought last night – I’ve begun to get angry with her, you know? If she’s gone off on purpose and she just isn’t letting anyone know, whatever the reason, whether she was depressed
again or what, then I’m angry. I know that’s wrong but I can’t help it. Then I think, that isn’t Debbie, it just isn’t in her nature. She’s a very considerate person, she’s really thoughtful. She’d never, ever put us all through this. She’d have rung me or her dad or texted me. I’ve been her best friend since we were five, first day at infant school, Jase. I know Debbie. I just know something’s
happened to her. But no one seems to want to do any more. They don’t talk about extending the inquiry or going nationwide with the appeal but they won’t say why. It’s really getting to me now. I’m angry
all the time. If I’m not angry with her I’m angry with them.’

‘And it ain’t doing you any good. So what about going up there?’

‘Isn’t it still cordoned off?’

‘No, all the tapes and stuff have
gone, I drove by this morning.’

‘That means they’ve given up then.’

‘Whatever. We haven’t.’

‘But what could we do?’

Jason got up. ‘I don’t know, babe, I just think you’d feel better for it.’

‘No. I couldn’t be there without thinking horrible thoughts. But thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He picked up his coffee and the remains of his doughnut and wandered off down the room to his own desk.

Sandy clicked on to the first file of the day and settled down to work. She was busy, which helped, and when three of the girls suggested a quick lunch in the bistro nearby she agreed with pleasure.

That evening, for the first since Debbie had gone, Sandy stayed home in the flat alone. She had been trying to avoid it and for a short while that had helped, but she was not a person to flinch from
difficult things and having changed her mind and resolved to go to the Hill with Jason at the weekend, she was determined to face the empty flat now.

As soon as she got in, she put on the radio, found a station playing old hits and turned up Blondie singing ‘The Tide is High’. Sandy took it through to the bathroom,
where she poured some purple liquid called Intensity into the water which brought
foam frothing over the edge and on to the mat. It smelled exotic and she wallowed in it, while the music changed to Wings with ‘Mull of Kintyre’.

Come on, it’s not so bad, you’re doing fine.

After the bath, she spent half an hour giving herself a manicure and pedicure, fiddling about with different nail polishes, put on a face mask and then some rejuvenating cream she had bought that lunchtime,
along with two new tops which were in carrier bags on the bed, to be tried on again later, after she had cooked pasta and fresh tomato and mushroom sauce with Parmesan and drunk a glass and a half of some white wine she found in the cupboard, left over from Christmas. Then there was
Coronation Street
and
The Bill
, a couple of cheques to write, and a new Penny Vincenzi novel to start. She should
have done all this long ago. Running away never did anyone any good.

She went to bed not long after ten with her book and a cup of tea. She had changed the sheets, so that it felt cool and fresh.

She had read two pages of her book when, without warning and as a response to no particular thought or reminder, Sandy started to cry. She sat up and reached for the tissue box and then she cried for
twenty minutes, tears of fear and anxiety pouring down her face, tears that released all the pent-up strain of the past week, tears that came with great gulping sounds. She missed Debbie, she dared not imagine what had happened to her or where she was but she was terrified that Debbie was not alive.

The thought had been pushed down inside her for
days; she had been optimistic and cheerful, determined
there was a logical explanation – maybe not a simple one, or one that she would like, but an explanation all the same, and that when she had heard it, from Debbie, she would be able to sort things out.

Now, she accepted that there could be no explanation other than the worst of all. She had spoken the truth when she had told Jason that Debbie was the last person to disappear without warning.
Wherever her friend had gone, if it had been to try and solve some problem she had never spoken about, she would still have been in touch, with her of all people. They had never failed to tell one another things that were important since they had been little girls in the playground. Debbie was dead. Someone had attacked her and taken her away. Someone had killed her. Someone was hiding her. She said
it over and over to herself as she wept, and in the end had to go to wash her face in cold water in an effort to calm herself down.

Then she went back to bed, and lay, still crying, not wanting to put out the light, not able to read, but for hour after hour wondering, wondering and dreading.