Do no harm, p.6
Do No Harm, page 6
I perch on the end of his desk with a sigh. I have barely begun and already there are so many layers of deception, so many lies to keep track of, and yet the truth seems to be written all over my face.
I reach for the phone and type in Jeff’s number, dreading the next jumble of lies that are about to fall out of my mouth.
‘Hello?’
Hearing his voice makes my heart leap. I instantly want to burst into tears and tell him everything. I grip the side of the desk as hard as I can.
‘Jeff, it’s Anna.’
‘Oh hey!’ he says spritely, the sound of a man who is about to head off on holiday without a care in the world. I am so jealous I could weep.
‘Where are you calling from?’ he asks.
‘Oh, my phone is playing up. I’m using a colleague’s.’
First lie.
‘You’re at work already? I was hoping to see you when I popped over to collect Zack. Is Paula minding him?’
‘Look, Jeff, I’m afraid I have some bad news…’
The anticipation burns up my throat. I feel so awful, crushing his happiness, but there is also a wicked part of me that longs to bring him misery, just so I don’t feel so alone in mine.
‘I was up half the night with Zack,’ I say.
Second lie.
‘He has been really looking forward to going away with you, but after all of the changes recently, the thought of being parted from me made him really anxious. I think it’s best he stays at home with me.’
Third lie.
‘Oh gosh,’ he says. ‘I’m so disappointed.’
‘I feel awful, but it is such a raw time for us; our emotions are all over the place. I think he needs as much stability as possible until we settle into our new normal. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be, I would do the same for Leila. Oh God, Leila… she is going to be heartbroken.’
At least she is safe.
I swallow the resentment down.
‘Jeff, I’m so sorry to drop this on you and run, but I’ve got an operation this morning and I need to see the patient. Just know that Zack and I will make it up to you both. Perhaps we could all go away together later in the year.’
If I get him back.
‘That sounds great. Look, Anna, before you go…’
He pauses briefly. I hold my breath.
‘Are you all right?’
I’m giving it away. Dr de Silva saw it written all over my face; Jeff can hear it in my voice.
‘Yes… why?’
‘Well, you’re going through a lot at the moment what with the divorce, and work, and being a single parent. Just know I’m here if you ever need help. Even if it’s just to take Zack off your hands one morning so you can catch up on sleep. You sound exhausted.’
Tears spring to my eyes. I clear my throat.
‘Thanks, Jeff. Look, I really must dash, but have a great holiday and make sure to send us a postcard.’
‘Will do. Love you, Annie.’
I end the call quickly and close my eyes, holding my breath through gritted teeth.
I can’t fall apart. I must be strong for Zack.
When I am sure it is safe, I open my eyes again and spot fine, golden hairs littered across my lap.
I had been picking at my arm.
I brush them off urgently and focus on my breathing again, slowly tying up each of the lies I have told.
There is no fear of Adam calling Jeff directly. Jeff loathes him since the infidelity during his work trips came to light. Zack won’t be expected at school for another two weeks, and everyone believes he is in Cornwall, whereas Jeff thinks Zack has stayed home with me. I will go to the police station the first chance I get, and they can try and find Zack while I play the abductors’ game. As long as I keep up the façade, and keep each story thread from breaking, I can sort all of this out. No one has to know.
It will be my little secret.
8
Rachel
Friday, 5 April 2019, 08:36
The body is at the bottom of the well.
At least it isn’t in view of the sun, where the heat can get to it. Even the flies haven’t found her yet.
The motor of the retrieval winch is purring like a cat in the sun and, deep within the well, the chain bringing up the body is creaking with the weight. The sound makes my teeth ache.
Crime-scene personnel were suspended down at daybreak. They took photographs, collected water samples, searched the body for evidence that might have been damaged with the move. Now they lie in wait with the rest of us, ready to flock around the body as soon as it is transferred to the pop-up tent shivering in the morning breeze.
The body was found by a dog walker as the cliché goes, whose yappy terrier caught its scent and tracked it to the well, and set off barking with its front paws upon the wall. It was as the owner went to retrieve it that he caught sight of the body down below: her head cocked as if she was looking up at them, mouth open in a silent scream for help. It is fair to say he won’t be walking his dog on Littlebrook Farm ever again.
The body appears. Dark water falls from her in heavy streams, exuding a foul stench that instantly hits the back of my throat.
The victim’s skin has a sickly green hue to it. Her clothes are hanging off her from the weight of the water. She has a shoe missing, and in the centre of her forehead is the unmistakable sight of a gunshot wound. The woman must be in her sixties; not exactly someone one would associate with this sort of crime.
‘A mugging?’ Detective Sergeant Mark Ryan asks beside me.
‘That’s a lot of effort for one woman’s handbag.’
‘There’s been a rise in muggings this year.’
‘I’ll bet you fifty quid right now that none of the victims were shot clean through the head.’
Just as I say this, the winch reaches the end of the line, and the body turns slowly where it is suspended above the well, giving us a flash of the exit wound at the back of her head. The white hair beneath her crown is now dark burgundy.
‘This isn’t the work of a petty criminal,’ I say. ‘This was an execution.’
I watch the retrieval team begin lowering the body from the winch. DS Ryan can’t take his eyes off it either.
‘Still signs of rigor mortis,’ he says, eyeing the victim’s ramrod legs. ‘At least we know it happened in the last forty-eight hours.’
DS Ryan’s skin is so fair that he practically glows in the path of the sun, with a thick cluster of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His auburn hair is even brighter than my son’s. There must only be a couple of years between them. My son would have been about twenty-five now.
‘Do you think her killer was someone from around here?’ he asks.
‘No. Not in Littlebrook. There are only six or so houses in the hamlet. The culprit would be sniffed out by noon. The killer will have known that the farm was abandoned and travelled here to dump the body.’
‘The well has been out of use since the 1980s, when the farm went bust,’ he says. ‘They must have thought she wouldn’t be found down there.’
‘Inspector Conaty,’ a voice calls. It is the pathologist, Diane Reed, ushering us over to the body with a gloved hand.
I give her a nod and make my way over, lifting my feet to clear the long reeds of grass. By the time we reach her, my trouser legs are soaked through with dew.
The smell is even worse up close.
‘She wasn’t down there long,’ Reed says, lifting her mask. ‘No maggots, and still showing signs of rigor mortis. At a glance, this happened in the last twenty-four hours.’
I stare at the stumps where the end of the victim’s fingers should be.
‘So her fingertips were cut off then? They didn’t rot?’
‘Definitely cut. You can see signs of a serrated blade in the skin.’
The victim is wearing a pale-blue cardigan with buttons that imitate pearls, and smart navy trousers with an ironed crease down the front of each leg. A small shard of skull is tangled in her hair.
‘Any idea what sort of firearm was used?’
‘Looks like a handgun at close range.’
‘How can you tell?’ DS Ryan asks.
‘There are burns around the entry wound,’ Reed answers. ‘And if the perpetrator used a larger weapon, there’d be a bigger mess to clean up.’
‘How’d she get into the well?’ I ask.
‘I suspect she was dropped or pushed. There were signs of broken bones when we transferred the body; she is exhibiting damage that we would expect to see if she had jumped from a third-floor window.’
I stare at the victim’s face. She would have been pretty when she was alive. Nice bone structure, warm hazel eyes, lips that would have formed a kind smile before her teeth were removed. When I was called to attend the discovery of a body in a well, I had suspected the sad but usual sight of a rough sleeper, who perhaps climbed inside and couldn’t get back out; or maybe a junkie who paid the price of a bad drug deal. Not someone’s grandmother with a gunshot wound to the head.
‘Were the teeth knocked out or pulled?’
‘Pulled,’ Diane replies, curling back the victim’s top lip to reveal bloody craters in her gums. ‘Takes longer, but ensures there won’t be anything viable left behind.’
‘So it’s safe to assume our killer removed her teeth to prevent us from identifying her through dental records.’
‘That would be my guess.’
‘Thanks.’ I turn to DS Ryan. ‘Let’s go look at the well.’
I lead the way, squinting against the morning sun. The dew has soaked through my shoes, and makes a jarring squelch with each step. I reach the wall and peer over the lip.
‘What’s next, boss?’ DS Ryan asks behind me.
‘We need to find out who she is, and where she was killed – this is just the dumping site. We won’t have much to go on until we do.’
I glance down the shaft and a wave of vertigo shakes my brain.
‘Our first port of call is sifting through any missing person’s reports raised in the last few days. If we don’t find anything, we’ll get an artist’s rendering mocked up and share it on social media. Hopefully someone will recognise her and get in touch. I want to know her name by tomorrow morning.’
I hear the click of a camera behind my back and turn around. The white tent illuminates with each bold flash, as the team snapshot every scratch, every hair. The entrance to the tent flaps briefly with the wind, giving me a glimpse of the victim’s face. Her eyes are wide open: searching, pleading.
‘This isn’t the sort of person who gets mixed up in the wrong crowd. Let’s find out who she is, and how the hell she ended up here.’
9
Margot
Friday, 5 April 2019, 09:09
I have less than eight hours to give Nick his money.
My eyes are bone dry after spending most of the night awake trying to find a way out of my predicament, but it was a night wasted: there is no way I can pay him back by tonight. I can’t even afford milk after spending Karin’s money on phone credit and a box of chips, let alone over two hundred pounds in arrears. And then there is the rent I need to pay, bills, food. Sandy called twice this morning chasing after my rent, but I didn’t have the guts to answer.
I lay out Dr Jones’ tools for the morning operation in silence, lined up in the order she will need them: scalpel, oscillating saw, rib retractor, forceps, scissors, needle driver, sutures, ticking them off the checklist as I go. At the foot of the bed the surgical care practitioner’s aide, Beth, is lining up the tools for harvesting veins for the coronary bypass. Karin has checked the heart–lung machine twice.
Just two days ago, I had been cursing so many routine procedures. I wanted something meaty – a transplant, a valve repair from exterior trauma – something I haven’t seen every week for the last five years. But today I am relieved. With everything else so uncertain, it is a comfort to be assisting with a procedure I know well.
‘Switch the forceps and the scissors,’ Dr Jones says over my shoulder.
The theatre is so quiet that I jump at the sound of her voice.
She isn’t usually here at this point; she waits until the patient has been put under and wheeled in before gracing us with her presence. And that isn’t the only thing off about her this morning: she looks like shit.
Even behind her mask and eye shield, I can tell that she has been up half the night. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and if anyone dares to talk to her, she snaps back at them. Something has really got under her skin, and her foul mood has infected the entire room. In the corner of my eye, I can see Beth laying out each tool with the utmost care, terrified that she might make too loud a sound and get one of Dr Jones’ sharp glares.
I stifle a yawn behind my mask. When I finally did fall asleep last night, I almost wished I had kept my eyes open, for I had the same recurring nightmare rolling around my mind in a loop: I had been running through the corridors of the hospital with my teeth falling from between my lips and tinkling on the lino floor behind me. Every time I tried to call out for help, I choked on them. I kept on running until the final tooth fell, and turned back to see Nick following the trail I’d left behind me. It always ended with him grabbing me, but I’d wake just as he spun me round.
No doubt where that came from.
I can’t take out another payday loan. It was their high interest rates and late-repayment penalties that got me into this mess in the first place, that first month when I couldn’t meet my rent. My overdraft is at its limit, and my credit score is so bad that if I were to call up my bank and ask for a loan or a larger allowance on my credit card, they would howl with laughter as they disconnected the call. I am too proud to ask my family for money, and friends are pretty thin on the ground these days, which tends to happen when you take their money and fail to pay them back. I’d go to the local food bank, but I’m terrified of being recognised by a patient. Kelvin would definitely start to suspect me.
I could tell Nick I’m pregnant. Maybe he won’t hurt me then.
But deep down, I’m not sure he would care.
The prep-room doors open and the sedated patient is wheeled in. She is forty-four according to her chart, with bright auburn hair and a frozen face from expensive anti-ageing procedures: her cheekbones look unnaturally large, and her lips appear swollen, throwing the symmetry of her face off kilter. But what catches my attention most is the gigantic diamond ring on her finger, sparkling under the strip lights. All of the saliva evaporates from my mouth.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘She’s wearing a ring.’
‘What?’ Dr Jones snaps.
I point at the patient’s left hand.
‘Christ. She can’t wear that in here. The nurses know that.’
I can’t take my eyes off it.
The diamond is huge.
It must cost a fortune.
It could pay my debts to Nick, every rent payment I have missed in full, enough food to last me months.
‘Is there a next of kin in the hospital who can keep it safe for her? A partner?’
No. It’s too risky. I can’t.
‘She came alone,’ Beth says, flicking through her file.
‘I don’t want delays today, team. Someone needs to take care of it.’
‘I’ll do it,’ I hear myself say.
Everyone in the room looks at me.
‘Kelvin has a safe in his office. It will be secure there.’
‘All right,’ Dr Jones says. ‘Be quick.’
I nod and seize the ring on the patient’s finger, twisting it against the skin. It has been there for so long that it has created a groove in the flesh. It feels like I am prising jewellery from a dead woman.
‘Christ, Margot,’ Karin says. ‘You don’t have to take her finger with you.’
‘Sorry.’
I tuck the ring into the pocket of my scrubs, noticing how the white gold band is still warm.
‘I’ll be ten minutes.’
‘Make it five,’ Dr Jones replies.
I nod quickly and head out through the prep room to the hall as quickly as I can, terrified that Dr Jones might change her mind and have someone else run the errand instead. My heart is racing so fast that I feel dizzy.
I slip inside the changing rooms and check for anyone inside. The clock is ticking on the wall, counting off the seconds until I have to be back in the operating theatre. I open my locker, slip the ring from my pocket, and admire how the diamond glistens with every turn. I slide it on, but it doesn’t look as good on me: my nails are bitten to the quick, and my skin is cracking between my fingers. The woman on the operating table has probably never done a hard day’s work in her life.
This could be the answer to all of my problems, I think, as I hide it away inside the small compartment of my bag and zip it shut.
Or it could destroy everything, a voice whispers back.
I slam my locker shut and head for the door.
10
Anna
22 hours to go
Friday, 5 April 2019, 12:14
I walk into the women’s locker room and stare longingly at the bench flanking the middle of the changing bay as if it were a bed with freshly washed sheets. I would love to lie down, even for a moment. My legs are trembling and there is a persistent ache in the small of my back. But I can’t waste my break on sleep, no matter how much I need it. If I don’t go to the police now I will miss my window.
I peel off my scrubs, feeling where the fabric stuck to my sweat during the morning’s surgery, and shove them down the laundry chute in the wall.
I can’t kill a man. I won’t.
Mummy…
Mu-mu-mummy…
I clamp my eyes shut and sink down onto the bench.
Every time I think of defying the abductors’ rules, I think of Zack on the other end of the phone. Remembering the desperation in his voice sucks the life out of me. I hide my face in my hands, careful not to press down on the fake lashes, and feel myself drifting off when the door to the changing room opens with a long, high-pitched screech.
Margot.
