Читать книгу The Forgotten Room: a gripping, chilling thriller that will have you hooked - Ann Troup, Ann Troup - Страница 14

Chapter Six

Little heaps of pills stood like small cairns on the kitchen table; Maura had been trying to make sense of Gordon’s medication. He was asleep again and, apart from the one peeing incident shortly after she’d arrived, was proving to be the model patient. Too model. So model she was beginning to question why she had been engaged at all. Gordon didn’t appear to need a nurse, just someone who could prepare his food to his exacting standards and who could also dish out his pills in the order he preferred. And what a variety of pills there were. So far she had identified two major tranquilisers, an old-fashioned antipsychotic, two different benzodiazepines, a statin, a low-dose aspirin, what appeared to be a proton pump inhibitor, three possible sleeping tablets and a load of herbal nonsense she couldn’t identify at all. There were no packets or bottles to help, and neither was there any prescription or list – just a blue box with different compartments for various times of day, all of which were stuffed to the gunnels with pills. There wasn’t even a sticker on the box to tell her which pharmacy had dispensed the medication. All she did know was that the man she was caring for was being doped to buggery and beyond. He was barely able to maintain a simple conversation and it struck her that this had less to do with his mental state than it did with the fact that he was perpetually drug-addled.

After Cheryl had gone off to the supermarket that afternoon, Maura had rung and asked to speak to Dr Moss, only to be unhelpfully told he’d gone on leave. Her call to the local GP and request to speak to an NHS doctor had been met with a casual and patronising “I’ll see what I can do”. It had angered her, not only because she wanted to discuss Gordon’s medication, but also because she knew the receptionist hadn’t taken her seriously. No one did any longer, or so it felt. She was known at the surgery, previously as a professional, but more recently as a patient. Her rather spectacular “breakdown” had set the grapevine on fire. Now, rather than indulging in the usual banter, the staff at the surgery tended to frown at her sympathetically, speak quietly and pat her on the head (in a metaphorical sense) until she went away and stopped bothering them. It seemed to Maura that, if the mental-health nurse went mental, a point of no return had been reached. She doubted, even if a court of law had declared her sane and issued an edict, that Barb and co., guardians of the reception desk, keepers of notes and makers of appointments, would have believed it. In their eyes Maura was irreversibly flawed and permanently delicate – not to be trusted and to be treated with kid gloves for evermore.

With a sigh she piled the pills back into their little plastic reservoirs and closed the box. Without the say-so of a doctor, she could take no decisions regarding which ones she should cut out. It was an ethical dilemma she had no choice but to tolerate for the time being. Just as she’d had to tolerate Poole that day. What kind of twisted bastard was fate to put him in her path again, for crying out loud? The same kind of twisted bastard that allowed human remains to be uncovered at her place of work, she supposed. Her grandmother had often been known to use the phrase “there’s no peace for the wicked”; though Maura knew it to be prophetic in meaning, she often wondered if it was also retrospective. She felt she must have been abominably wicked in some former life to be experiencing so little peace now. Perhaps this was purgatory after all.

Now she’d had time to absorb the fact, knowledge of an unexplained death and the presence of the bones weighed heavy. Someone had lost their life near the Grange and had been buried on its land, and in the not-too-distant past. The thought brushed her spine with icy fingers and fluffed the hairs on the back of her neck, making her shudder. A movement that engaged the attention of the drooling Buster, who nudged at her elbow and whined for her to get up and follow. His pawing at the back door made her realise he needed to go out.

Not entirely confident that Buster wouldn’t go haring off into the back of beyond, and that she would have to face Bob and explain the loss of his dog, she quickly checked that Gordon was still asleep and that no one had left the gas on before following the dog outside.

The air was crisp and quiet, the low hum of the building site no longer intruding on the peace. Even the birds seemed to have sensed that something had shifted in the fabric of the landscape, and though she could see them flitting through the trees, she couldn’t hear their chatter. All she could hear was Buster, sniffing and snuffling in clumps of weeds and occasionally raising his leg to pee on them. She guessed at foxes, that they had left their scent in the yard and that Buster was establishing his territory in a vain attempt to obliterate their smell. She hoped to God he didn’t find any fox poo; her last experience of dog-sitting had involved a shit-covered dog, an extensive, all-pervading stench, and scrubbing the house for an hour while a soggy, freshly shampooed dog ran riot around her. She definitely didn’t “do” dogs.

Bored of the yard, Buster began clawing at the gate. Not having explored the outside, Maura was curious as to what lay beyond it too. Once through the gate, Buster bounded down the path, ears bouncing and flapping as he cantered ahead. It was obvious to Maura that he knew exactly where he was going and she followed dutifully, wondering if their roles hadn’t been reversed. Wasn’t she supposed to lead the way?

It didn’t take long for her to realise that Buster was going home. They were in the orchard, a scrubby, neglected place full of gnarled fruit trees with more canker than leaves. Bob’s bungalow wasn’t difficult to spot, though the word bungalow suggested far more glamour than the ramshackle structure she was confronted with. The building was essentially a badly rendered cinder-block box with a pent roof and some mismatched windows. In fact, it looked more like a large garage than a home.

Outside the door, Buster began to sniff the ground, showing that somewhere in his mongrel mix there might be a bit of ancient bloodhound. It took him a moment or two to find the scent of his quarry, but once he had he was locked on and running. Maura quickened her pace and followed, fervently hoping that he hadn’t scented rats or rabbits or something else likely to lead them both an un-merry dance. Fortunately, the object of his focus was Bob, who was leaning on a fence post, puffing on a shoddily rolled cigarette and obscuring the view with pungent clouds of smoke.

‘I think he wanted to come home,’ Maura said as Bob turned.

‘Did he now?’ Bob said as he bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, his face pinched as he squinted against the smoke leaching from the drooping cigarette that clung to his lip. ‘I been watching the goings on down there,’ he added, pointing at the building site where Maura could see that a large area had been cordoned off. ‘Not much going on at the moment. They’ve put a tent up over the bones by the look and there’s a load of bods in white overalls milling about.’

‘SOCOs I expect,’ Maura said.

‘Eh, whatto’s?’

Maura laughed. ‘You need to watch more telly, Bob. Scene of Crime Officers. They make sure any evidence is handled properly and that the scene is preserved while investigations take place.’

‘Ah, right. I don’t watch much telly – bit of snooker when it’s on. Don’t mind a bit of that Attenborough feller sometimes, though. Mind you, they’re going to be dealing with another body soon by the looks of him.’ He pointed to a heavy-set man in a long coat. Maura could see by his stance that he was riddled with tension, and his face was red with barely contained frustration. He looked like a football manager who’d just seen his team relegated by a series of own goals in the last match of the season.

‘Who is he?’

‘Perlman, the landowner. Not happy that proceedings have come to a halt by the look of him, not happy at all.’

Maura had to concede that the man looked like he might explode at any moment. ‘Definitely not happy. It looks like the press have started to turn up,’ she said, as an inappropriately dressed woman, followed by a cameraman, picked her way across the mud towards the cordon. ‘We’ll be famous in a few hours.’

Bob chuckled. ‘Hope she don’t try to interview Perlman. By the look on his face, they’ll have three bodies to deal with, not one!’

Maura smiled, but felt a pang of guilt at the gesture. Someone was dead and she and Bob were observing the scene with amusement, not even having the grace to show detached curiosity. ‘I suppose we ought to be a bit more dignified about this. Perhaps we should go before that reporter spots us and thinks a bit of local colour might enhance the story.’

Bob nodded. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Don’t feel real, though – to think I’ve been living in spitting distance from that body all this time and never had a clue.’

‘Why would you?’ Maura was puzzled. There was a strain in Bob’s voice that didn’t fit his casual and detached words.

Bob shrugged, ‘Dunno. But I must have walked across the top of it a million times. When the land belonged to the Grange, that is. I’d be trespassing now. I’m surprised old Buster never caught a sniff of it – he likes a bone. Poor sod’s got a lousy sense of smell, though; just goes through the motions these days, bit like me.’ He laughed, but the humour was thin and taut, like an elastic band at the point before it snaps.

They had reached the “bungalow” by then and Maura had to suppress a shudder at the thought of Buster dragging a muddy femur up the path with drooling relish.

‘Coming in for a cuppa?’ Bob asked.

‘Better not. Cheryl will be back soon and she’ll have a ten-ton hissy fit if I’m not there too. Besides, his lordship will be awake soon, demanding his fish-paste sandwiches for tea. I think it’s fish paste today anyway.’

Bob rolled his eyes and gave her a weak grin. ‘A woman’s work is never done, love.’ He reached inside a small lean-to that seemed to serve as a porch and produced a lead, which had a sobering effect on Buster, who hung his head as if in defeat. ‘He don’t like the lead but it’s the only way you’ll get him back with you. Best have him there tonight. I’ve fixed the window but the putty’s still wet, so it isn’t secure. Not that it stopped that rock before.’

He bent and clipped the lead to Buster’s collar and handed it to Maura, who thanked him and towed the reluctant dog back towards the house. All the way back her mind was on Bob. He seemed haunted and she couldn’t help but feel for the man.

If it hadn’t been for the dog suddenly perking up and showing interest, she might have missed it. A sudden flash of movement in the trees near the gate that induced a low, menacing growl from the dog and caused him to strain on the lead. The vegetation was dense near the house. The remains of a garden had sprawled in the absence of tender, loving care, creating an abundance of leggy shrubs and greenery that anything could lurk in unseen. After the previous night’s fright, Maura was wary and called out ‘Who’s there?’ but there was no reply, despite Buster’s continued growling insistence that something of interest was in the bushes. Maura rationally decided to assume it was a squirrel or a cat that he’d sensed, though her instinct told her it had been much bigger. She could hardly claim to have seen anything as such – but the flash of perception had settled in her brain as more than just a stray cat on the prowl. Eager as Buster seemed, she dared not let him off the lead. There wasn’t time to go haring after him again, and whatever it was seemed to have gone. She could sense no further movement and doubted anything other than an animal could have remained so still. With some effort she dragged Buster through the gate and bolted it behind her, on principal more than anything else. One bolted gate could not secure an area that was open to the world on the other side.

Buster seemed to settle once beyond the gate, but she didn’t let him go until they were inside the kitchen and were being greeted by a surprisingly benign and cheerful Cheryl.

‘Hello there, been for a walk, have you? I’ve checked on Mr Henderson; he’s still dozing but I expect he’ll be awake soon. He seems quite taken with you, Maura. Well, I say that – he hasn’t tried to bite you yet!’ Cheryl followed this with a tinkling laugh that Maura supposed was meant to denote some level of camaraderie, but which was in fact somewhat startling. She could have joined in and said Gordon had tried and been given short shrift, but Cheryl’s quixotic temperament was becoming profoundly unnerving.

Instead she began to unload some of the carrier bags that littered the table in a bid to be helpful. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll do it. I got you some nice ready meals to keep you going, by the way. Can’t expect you to survive on fish paste and soup too, can we?’ There was that laugh again, edging Cheryl’s words with a tinge of something hard to pin down but which gave Maura the sense of a pill being sugared.

The reason for Cheryl’s unnatural buoyancy was soon revealed: she had a date, with a man (not that Maura would have assumed differently, but it was said pointedly, as if to imply that the said date was a living, breathing, gender-specific being), and she needed a favour. Up until this point Cheryl had been coy about the proposed assignation, cupping her frizzy curls as though they were perfectly coiffed coils of gold, rather than the mousy results of a failed home perm. But business was business and Cheryl, even under the influence of perceived flattery, couldn’t sustain the bonhomie for long. ‘The thing is, it’s mother. She doesn’t like being on her own at night – so I was wondering if I could bring her here for the evening. I mean, she’s no trouble. She’ll sit and chat for hours, so it might be company for you too, only she’ll show off rotten if I leave her on her own to go out. I could drop her off and pick her up later?’

Maura looked at the plaintive expression on Cheryl’s face and at the pale grey eyes that twinkled with hope. Judgemental though it was, Maura doubted the housekeeper of Essen Grange received many offers of romance. She wasn’t an easy woman to like and her changeable moods seemed to drain any vestiges of attractiveness from her being. They had left wrinkles and furrows on her skin and a perceived spikiness in her manner that was hardly compelling. It would be cruel to turn down her request and ruin this opportunity. ‘Of course, no problem.’

It seemed as though Cheryl had already prepared an appeal in anticipation of being turned down. She looked as if she was about to argue her case further until Maura’s words registered. Maura almost smirked when the woman’s face didn’t know what to do with itself and went through a range of expressions before settling on one Cheryl clearly believed was gratitude, but which, to Maura, looked more like an unconfident look of surprise. ‘Oh, OK. Thank you.’ The words fell from Cheryl’s tongue as if she was wholly unfamiliar with them, and as if they consisted of the amalgam in a loose filling that she’d felt compelled to discreetly spit out.

Maura stifled a smile of amusement. ‘You’re welcome.’ With anyone else she would have probed, found out about the man who had asked her out on a date, discussed appropriate dress for the occasion and generally had a girl-to-girl chat. Where Cheryl was concerned, however, it felt as though it might be a form of mild torture to indulge in such a thing. Besides, the topic had changed to fish-paste sandwiches and the importance of cutting the crusts off and making the triangles equal to appease Gordon’s sense of order.

‘I wanted to ask you about his medication. He seems to be on a hell of a lot and unfortunately the doctor isn’t available to ask,’ Maura said after the sandwich lecture had dwindled and all subjects of the heart had been carefully skirted.

Cheryl was arranging the dainty triangles of bread on a plate. ‘I don’t know much about it, I just give him what’s in the pill box at the right times. Her ladyship always deals with all that.’

‘Do you know which pharmacy she uses?’ With Dr Moss away, at least she might be able to discuss the doses with the pharmacist.

Cheryl shrugged. ‘No idea. There isn’t one nearby so it would have to be one in town. Boots maybe, though to be honest I always had the impression the doctor brought them with him when he came.’

Maura raised her eyebrows – if that was the case it was extremely unusual. ‘Oh, OK. Perhaps it’s because they’re private patients.’

‘Probably’ Cheryl mumbled, distracted by the tray she was laying for Gordon’s tea. ‘But I wouldn’t go prying too much if I was you. Dr Moss doesn’t like questions from the likes of us. He’ll be wanting this in a minute. You going to take it?’

‘Sure.’ It felt like the most useful thing she’d done all day. Gordon was indeed waiting, staring pensively at the clock as if timing her. He seemed happy enough that his meagre tea had arrived a few minutes before time, but didn’t start to eat until the clock struck the hour. Despite his quirks and desire for routine, there didn’t seem to be that much wrong with him. The peeing thing had clearly been done to test her mettle, and now she’d proved herself he seemed quite content with her presence and in little need of nursing. Basic assistance was all he required. Maura had to wonder why Dr Moss had suggested her when an unqualified carer would have been much cheaper and just as capable. Perhaps he’d felt sorry for her and recommended her out of pity. The thought was of no comfort. Instead, it made her feel pathetic.

Back in the kitchen, Cheryl was making moves to go. ‘Right, I’ll see you tomorrow – make sure you lock everything up tight tonight, won’t you? Mind you, I don’t think you’ll have much trouble – there’s still police crawling all over.’

It was a fair point. The police presence was a distinct comfort now she’d decided to stay, but Maura locked the door behind her anyway, and drew the bolts just in case. Then she went to every downstairs room in the house, except Gordon’s, and locked the internal doors with the heavy black keys that nestled in their locks. Before she went to bed she would lock the kitchen-passage door too; at least that way no one would be able to get far into the house before she, or Buster, could raise the alarm. It was nice to know the police were still around, but they were a quarter of a mile away, through the orchard and guarding bones, not looking for intruders.

With Gordon settled, medicated and in his pyjamas watching TV, she was at a loss what to do with herself. Locking all the doors had given her a sense of claustrophobia, as if the house was closing in around her like an unpleasant old lady enfolding her into an unwanted embrace. In the cold quiet of the hall she felt as though the house was holding its breath in anticipation. Of what she didn’t know, but there was an unpleasantness about the feeling she didn’t want to dwell on.

It was fanciful thinking, born of feeling purposeless and the bad habit of mental filtering. She didn’t know why she’d come other than to escape an equal loneliness at home. At least here there were no reminders of Richard or Sarah – until Poole had shown his face, of course. God knew what she’d done to piss karma off to the extent that it had put him in her path again. It was as if all the fates wanted her tied to the past whatever her own choices were. Life wasn’t fair, and didn’t she know it.

There she is, making herself at home, getting to know people – making friends. Bloody dog lapping at her heels. Pathetic. There are no friends here, no one trustworthy, no one she can rely on. I should know. She’s in the middle of a nest of vipers and that fucking dog is nothing but a liability.

As if locking the doors will keep me out. I know this place better than any of them. I know all its secrets. I know all of theirs too.

I wonder if she knows that all the evil is inside with her? All she’s done is lock out the good.