Guilt at the Garage Read online

  ‘No. To be fair to her, she didn’t.’

  ‘And did she persuade you that you could do something for him?’

  ‘I did say I’d go and meet up with him again, see if I could get anywhere.’

  ‘But, if you couldn’t the first time …’

  ‘He kind of intrigues me. An unusual case. I think it’s worth having another go.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I was just interested in why you saw him again … and whether it had anything to do with what I told you about his relationship with the late Bill Shefford.’

  Another of those occasions when there was no point in Jude telling anything but the truth. ‘Yes, that was why I saw him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Do you mean: “And did he immediately confess to having sabotaged the Triumph Tr6 with a view to killing the boss he’d fallen out with?”’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting quite as much as that. I am interested in what he said, though.’

  ‘But, Jeremiah, you still wondered whether he might have pointed the finger of suspicion towards anyone else? Am I on the right track?’

  He sighed. ‘Not far off. I’m afraid I’m just as caught up in murderous speculation as the rest of Fethering.’

  ‘OK. I’ll tell you what I found out from Tom but, in return, there’s something I want you to tell me.’

  ‘Sounds fine. If slightly mysterious.’ A thoughtful silence. Then, ‘All right. You said there was something you wanted to ask me …?’

  ‘Yes. The first time you talked about your plans for the therapy centre, you mentioned a doctor friend of yours called “Bob Rawley” …’

  ‘I may well have done. I’ve had a lot of dealings with him over the years. An NHS doctor who really believes in complementary medicine. He’s a great advocate of acupuncture.’

  ‘And his full name’s “Robert Rawley”?’

  ‘Yes.’ A chuckle. ‘Fortunately, he can pronounce his Rs. Why are you asking me about him?’

  ‘Because Robert Rawley is the name of the doctor who signed Bill Shefford’s death certificate.’

  ‘Oh.’ The news did not seem to be particularly unexpected to Jeremiah. ‘Well, he’s a qualified doctor, living in the area. Is that so surprising?’

  ‘He’s not one of the doctors in the Fethering Surgery. Most people locally are registered there.’

  ‘So? Bill Shefford was registered somewhere else.’ Again, he made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal.

  ‘Jeremiah …’ – Jude pieced her thoughts together slowly – ‘the fact that Dr Rawley signed the death certificate suggests he had been treating Bill Shefford …’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Well, he must’ve seen Bill within a fortnight of his death. Otherwise, surely there would have had to be a post mortem?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘In fact, I’m quite surprised there doesn’t seem to have been a post mortem.’

  ‘Do we know there hasn’t been?’

  ‘Frankie at the garage said there hadn’t been. But I’d have thought, in the case of an accidental death like that …’

  ‘Pretty straightforward. There’s not much doubt about what killed him.’

  ‘No.’ Jude was about to tell Jeremiah about the speed with which Billy Shefford had completed the Triumph Tr6’s service and had the vehicle valeted. But something stopped her. ‘Your friend Dr Rawley didn’t mention to you whether he’d been treating Bill Shefford, did he?’

  ‘No, of course he didn’t. Come on, Jude, you know the code of confidentiality that medical practitioners have about their patients.’

  Oh yes, she knew all about that.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘So,’ asked Carole, ‘are you suggesting that Billy Shefford was involved with this Dr Rawley in some kind of cover-up?’

  ‘I don’t really know what I’m suggesting,’ said Jude. ‘It just seems odd to me. How did Bill Shefford get in touch with Dr Rawley? Because, do you remember, when we were with Frankie in the Crown and Anchor, she said Bill had been seeing the doctor who signed the death certificate? She didn’t mention the name, though.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘I mean, you, with your Home Office background, do you know what happens after an accidental death? Does there have to be a police investigation or an inquest?’

  ‘I don’t think there has to be,’ said Carole judiciously. She wanted to maintain her professional image, but in fact this wasn’t an area in which she had any specialized knowledge. ‘There might be an investigation from the Health and Safety Executive … though Frankie said they’d recently had an inspection from them.’ Finally, she confessed, ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Hm. Well, if there’s anything you can find out while I’m away …’

  ‘Away?’ Carole echoed, puzzled.

  ‘I told you, I’m going to Leeds in the morning.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Carole. ‘To your lesbian conference.’

  When Carole came downstairs the following morning, the Friday, there was a piece of paper on the High Tor doormat. The message read: ‘DON’T THINK YOU’RE SAFE, YOU BITCH!’

  Her first instinct was to ring Jude. Then she remembered her neighbour had already left on her trip up North. It wasn’t worth calling her on the mobile. Carole didn’t want to sound needy.

  But she did want to find out who was responsible for this campaign of harassment against her. Though, perhaps surprisingly, her stronger imperative was to find out the truth about Bill Shefford’s death.

  So, with her neighbour away, she thought she might do a little investigation on her own. The idea of presenting Jude with new information – or even, dare she hope, a solution – on her return was rather appealing.

  Somehow, Jude’s absence increased Carole’s confidence. She started her research online, at the laptop in the spare room, seeking out alternative therapists in the local area. The number of listings surprised her. All kinds of services were offered in Fethering and Fedborough, extending to Worthing and Brighton to the east, Chichester and Portsmouth to the west. She went through them meticulously. Some were individual practitioners, others attached to therapy centres. It took a long time to find the name she was looking for.

  Having found it, she was faced by a dilemma. Jude, of course, had a strict code of ethics in medical matters, but Carole was not restricted by such considerations. And, in spite of the level of success she’d seen her neighbour achieve with various clients, her own level of scepticism about the whole healing business remained high. Though she would never have dreamt of lying to anyone in the NHS, she thought alternative therapists were fair game.

  So, she rang through to the Magic of Therapy Centre in Smalting and made an appointment that afternoon to see Dr Robert Rawley.

  ‘So, it’s the right knee, is it, Mrs Seddon?’ he asked.

  The Magic of Therapy Centre operated from a converted – and presumably deconsecrated – church. Smalting was a small seaside village to the west of Fethering. Its residents thought they were socially superior to Fethering’s. Mind you, Fethering’s thought they were socially superior to Smalting’s. But Smalting didn’t have a cultural excrescence like the former ‘council housing’ of the Downside Estate within its boundaries, so its residents reckoned that settled the argument.

  Dr Rawley was a long thin man, dressed in a black shirt and black jeans. Carole preferred her doctors in sports jackets like the ones at Fethering Surgery. But then what could you expect from practitioners who embraced alternative as well as traditional medicine?

  Carole had not yet taken her knee to the proper doctors. She knew what would have happened if she’d gone to Fethering Surgery. She almost definitely wouldn’t have secured an appointment with the one doctor she trusted there – and whom she used to think of as ‘her doctor’. She would instead have been fobbed off with some eleven-year-old trainee, who would have looked at her knee and referred her to St Giles’s Hospital in Clincham for an X-ray. Whose inconclusi
ve results would take weeks to arrive back at the surgery. And when they did arrive, the surgery would forget to tell her and she’d have to ring them.

  She wasn’t expecting anything very different going private at the Magic of Therapy Centre, but she reckoned the expense was justified as part of her investigation in Bill Shefford’s death.

  With a view to having her knee examined, she had worn a skirt rather than trousers and, in spite of the cold weather, no tights. Just socks under her sensible shoes. She didn’t relish the indignity of having to take any clothes off.

  Once she had confirmed that the right knee was the one causing her problems, Dr Rawley asked her to stand and move her foot in various directions, first with shoes on, then without. She had to tell him which positions caused pain, and he noted the result on an iPad.

  Next, as requested, she lay down on the treatment couch while he felt and manipulated the offending limb, once again noting the movements which made her wince.

  He asked her to get off the couch and take a chair. Then he announced, ‘I would say it is definitely arthritis.’

  This was far from good news for Carole. The word ‘arthritis’ carried such heavy connotations of age and decrepitude. She didn’t think she was old enough to be even distantly associated with the condition.

  ‘Presumably,’ she said, ‘your diagnosis could be confirmed by an X-ray?’

  ‘It could be,’ Dr Rawley agreed, ‘though it would be a waste of effort to take one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, as you observed, it would only confirm what I’ve just told you. What is causing the pain in your knee is arthritis.’

  ‘I’m sure, if I’d gone to my usual doctor, he would have recommended having an X-ray taken.’ She didn’t mention the unlikelihood of her actually getting an appointment with her usual doctor.

  Dr Rawley shrugged. ‘That would have been his decision, and I am not about to question the decision of a fellow practitioner. It is my view, however, that an X-ray is unnecessary and a waste of expensive resources.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And, incidentally, I think I would be justified in asking, if you so favour the methods of your usual doctor, why aren’t you at their surgery consulting them? Why have you come to see me?’

  This was too direct a question, and one for which Carole had not really prepared an answer. She replied evasively, ‘I’ve had your services recommended to me.’

  ‘That’s good. From a satisfied customer?’

  To say ‘No’ would sound stupid. She wished she hadn’t started off down this particular track. So, she said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask who?’

  She was stuck with it now. ‘Bill Shefford.’

  There was a momentary silence before Dr Rawley said, ‘Well, I’m glad he was a satisfied customer. Before … what happened to him.’

  ‘Very sad.’

  ‘Yes.’ The doctor seemed to feel that enough had been said on that subject. ‘So, the question I’m sure you want to ask is: What do we do about it?’

  ‘What do we do about what?’ asked Carole, whose mind had been developing other scenarios.

  ‘Your knee.’

  ‘Ah. My knee. Yes.’

  ‘That is, after all, why you came to see me.’ Again, a small silence. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Carole moved into realist mode. ‘Well, there’s no cure for arthritis, is there?’

  ‘There are many treatments that can alleviate the symptoms.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. But there’s no cure.’

  ‘Never say never.’ Dr Rawley grinned thinly. ‘There’s a lot of research going on at the moment, so a cure might be possible at some point.’

  ‘When you say “research”, do you mean research into new drugs? Or alternative therapies?’

  ‘I was referring to alternative therapies. Drugs have their place in medicine, but doctors rely too much on them. I only prescribe drugs when I have exhausted all other possibilities.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Carole. ‘And in my case, for arthritis, what other possibilities are there?’

  ‘Acupuncture can be very effective.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Carole, unconvinced. ‘For pain relief?’

  ‘And general well-being.’

  That got one of Carole’s ‘Huh’s. ‘Any other suggestions?’

  ‘Your manner suggests to me that you don’t believe in “healing”.’

  ‘That’s very observant of you.’

  ‘You mean I’m right?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘It’s not my place to comment on your opinions. I will simply say that I have seen spectacular results achieved by the work of healers.’

  Carole was about to say that she lived next to one but curbed the instinct. This was her bit of the investigation. Leave Jude out of it for the time being. Instead, she observed, ‘It seems to me that healing is an area that attracts a lot of charlatans.’

  ‘That is sadly true,’ said Dr Rawley.

  ‘So, how do you know how to get a good healer? One who’s interested in your welfare rather than your cash?’

  ‘It’s a difficult area, as you say. You can go online and find websites for thousands of them. All with glowing testimonials. But it’s very easy to forge testimonials online. About the only way you can guarantee to find a good healer is by word of mouth. Recommendation from someone who’s benefited from their treatment.’

  ‘Hm.’ Carole took a risk. ‘I’ve heard, through a friend, of one practising round Fethering … called Jeremiah. Do you know him?’

  ‘We have met. I hear very good reports of his work. I’m sure, if you don’t warm to the idea of acupuncture …’

  ‘Which I don’t. The idea that you can cure one part of the body by sticking needles into another part of it is—’

  ‘Yes, thank you, I’ve heard all of the popular arguments against acupuncture. Many times. All I’m saying is that someone like Jeremiah could give you effective treatment for your knee. Certainly relieve the pain. Would you like me to give you his contact details?’

  ‘No, thanks. I can get them through my friend … if I were to decide to go down the route of consulting a healer …’

  ‘Which, your tone of voice suggests, is very unlikely.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Dr Rawley stood up. ‘Well, I think that probably concludes our consultation, Mrs Seddon. I have given you a diagnosis of what is wrong with your knee. I have given you a couple of suggested treatments … which do not seem to fill you with enthusiasm. If you could settle up with the receptionist on the way out, that would be fine. I would normally say also sort it out with her if you want to book further appointments, but in your case, I don’t think that is going to happen. Is it?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘No.’ He suddenly looked at her very intently. ‘Mrs Seddon, why did you really come to see me?’

  Oh dear. She hadn’t planned for this. Was he really about to call her out as a fraud, whose not-very-painful knee was being used simply to further a criminal investigation? Carole floundered.

  But, before she could give herself away, Dr Rawley revealed that his thoughts weren’t going in the direction she’d feared. ‘It’s a common syndrome that we doctors recognize well.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A patient makes an appointment to consult about some minor condition … like, say, your knee … and then shows no interest in the treatments we recommend for it. And the reason for that is that … it wasn’t really the knee they had come about.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Frequently, there’s another, much deeper, anxiety that brings them to the surgery. Some life-threatening illness that they believe they may have contracted. Something so terrible to their mind that they daren’t talk to their closest family or friends about it. They make an appointment with a doctor either to get the all-clear or to have their worst imaginings confirmed.’

  ‘What, you’re saying they imagine they’
re ill. You mean they’re hypochondriacs?’

  ‘Not necessarily. There might be a genuine cause for concern. And their worry about the secrecy of their condition might well lead them to make an appointment with a doctor who is not the one they see regularly … just as you have done.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  He overrode her. ‘Quite often, it’s cancer they’re really worried about. I just wondered whether that might be the case with you, Mrs Seddon …?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ said Carole.

  The bill she paid to the receptionist was, to Carole’s mind, pretty steep. She was glad she wasn’t about to book further appointments. But she thought she might possibly have got value for money in terms of information gained.

  SIXTEEN

  Jude was always surprised what a relief it was to be out of Fethering. The needs of her clients, the concerns of the village, trapped her in an opaque bubble, out of which she could not see the wider world. But being away from the place was like breathing newly minted air. Her life until she settled on the South Coast had been fairly nomadic. Fethering was the place she’d stayed longest. And when she wasn’t there, she wondered whether it had been for too long.

  The ‘Healing Is in the Head’ conference in Leeds was fun, and it was a pleasure to be amongst people to whom she did not have to explain what she did. Also, amongst people who did not raise their eyebrows and draw in their breath after she’d said what she did. It was an opportunity for Jude to mix with old friends and be introduced to new people. The programme of talks, panels and seminars had been well thought through, and she was stimulated by the influx of new ideas, which often encouraged her that she was doing something right, but sometimes made her healthily question the way she did things. Such events had often stimulated her to experiment in different areas of healing.

  Above all, the conference was an opportunity to spend time with Karen and Chrissie.

  The beginnings of Jude’s relationship with Karen had been as healer and client. Karen Thomlinson had had everything that in Fethering counted as success – an accountant husband wealthy enough for her not to go out to work, three healthy children at private boarding school and a house on the Shorelands Estate. The only detail that apparently distinguished her from other well-heeled Fethering housewives was that she believed in the powers of healing. Karen Thomlinson had it all.