Close My Eyes (20 page)

We’ve checked every house on the green to see if the occupants know Dr Rodriguez. So far, we’ve drawn a blank, but then half the houses appear to be empty – I’m guessing
they’re weekend homes that lie unoccupied Monday to Friday.

We spun our cover story to the customers in the pub opposite the church but, again, nobody knew Dr Rodriguez. Lorcan insisted on ordering a sandwich each for us, but mine stuck in my throat. I
can’t shake this terrible feeling of anxiety – it’s partly fear that, after all this effort, we still won’t track down Rodriguez. But I’m also scared because the more
I look, the more I hope. And suppose Beth isn’t alive? Worse, what if whoever took her still has her, and realizes I’m on their tail; what if they take steps to make sure I never find
her?

We set off again, each taking a street that leads off from the green. More residents are at home in these houses, but no one knows the doctor. I wish I had a picture of him – my
description of him as tall and dark-haired with even features and a long, sloping nose sounds ridiculously Mills & Boon. We meet up again at the green to swap notes.

‘Nothing,’ Lorcan says with a sigh.

‘You’d think the fact that he has a Spanish name would make him stand out,’ I grumble.

‘Only if you’ve heard of him in the first place.’ Lorcan sighs again.

I hug my knees. The sky above us is bright blue, the sun fierce on our faces. The day is growing crisper and colder. ‘I’m sorry.’

Lorcan pats me on the back. ‘Don’t apologize. It’s fine. I’m just having a moan.’

I’m suddenly conscious of how close we’re sitting, and get to my feet. ‘I’ll carry on. Why don’t you sit here for a bit?’

‘No.’ Lorcan pushes himself up. ‘I’ll come with you. Let’s try down there.’ He points to a leafy street leading away from the church at the end of the
green.

We walk over to the first house on the street. I look around the front garden of the cottage we’re standing in – neatly trimmed bushes around a square patch of pebbles – as he
leans forward to press the bell.

I turn back and face the door. It creaks, starting to open, and I imagine whoever is on the other side, wondering who we are. It’s a youngish mum with a couple of toddlers playing around
her legs. Lorcan launches into our story. He’s a good actor. Each time he tells our fake tale he makes it sound fresh and genuine.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you.’ He flashes her that big smile that spreads across his whole face. ‘We’re looking for a Doctor Martin Rodriguez. About sixty;
olive-skinned, dark hair, dark eyes . . . an old family friend we lost touch with . . . moved to Mendelbury last year . . . we’ve stupidly lost his address and phone number . . .’

The young mum shakes her head and retreats. ‘Sorry, no.’

Lorcan and I silently turn and walk to the next house. And the next. Neither of us suggests splitting up again to cover more houses. And then, five doors down, we get our first break.

A middle-aged woman answers. She blinks as soon as Lorcan mentions Rodriguez’s name.

Lorcan stops. I know he’s seen the recognition in her eyes too.

‘D’you know him?’ I say. ‘Doctor Rodriguez?’

The woman stares at me.

‘Please.’ I meet her gaze. ‘When we said he was an old friend, well, the truth is I was his patient a few years ago. I lost my baby and . . . and he always said that if I
needed to speak to him he’d make the time. I
know
he’d want me to find him. It broke his heart too when I lost her . . . he was so kind to me and we’ve come all this way
and I can’t believe we’ve lost all the contact details and . . .
please
. . .’ I run out of breath, my voice cracking with emotion.

Lorcan puts his arm around my shoulders. His fingers absently stroke the top of my arm. My shoulder breaks out in goose bumps.

‘Any help you can give us would be very gratefully received.’ Lorcan hugs me to him. ‘My wife and I have been through a lot, as I’m sure you can imagine. We’re
hoping to get some closure, that’s all.’

My face reddens at the lie. I can’t meet the woman’s gaze any more, so I stare at the ground, watching her out of the corner of my eye.

The woman gazes thoughtfully at Lorcan. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’m not sure, but I think I’ve seen him in the pub.’

I glance over my shoulder, towards the pub across the green, where our enquiries drew a total blank.

‘Not that pub,’ the woman says. ‘The Star. It’s a couple of minutes away.’

She points up the long road that leads away from the green in the opposite direction to the streets we’ve already searched. ‘The Star’s up the road. Other end of the
village.’

‘Thank you,’ I say gratefully.

The woman nods and, as she shuts her front door, Lorcan slowly takes his arm from around my shoulders.

I button up my jacket and adjust my beanie hat. The anxiety that’s been circling inside my stomach for the past few hours tightens into a knot. This, at last, is a proper lead.

I sip, slowly, at my second mineral water. It’s well past 6 p.m. and Lorcan and I are sitting alone in a corner of The Star, looking out over the rest of the pub. Right
now there’s only one person tending bar – a grumpy old guy who shook his head when we asked if he’d seen Dr Rodriguez recently. A few people have trickled in and out but no one,
so far, who has heard of the doctor.

Art rang earlier. I didn’t answer. He left a message saying he was going to try and get home early tonight. I felt guilty doing it, but I sent a text saying not to worry, that I was
meeting up with ‘the girls’ in town and that I’d see him later. I carefully didn’t specify which ‘girls’, in case one of my friends randomly decides to phone the
house later.

In the pub, the clock above the fireplace ticks slowly on. Another thirty minutes pass and the light fades from the day outside. Lorcan and I read the newspapers left out on the bar in
companionable silence. An older woman turns up and, from the way they speak to each other, I’m certain she’s married to Mr Grumpy who served us earlier. The woman serves a pint then
bends over the sink, rinsing glasses. Mr Grumpy grunts something at her and disappears out the back. I catch Lorcan’s eye and we stroll over.

‘Quiet night?’ Lorcan says.

The woman looks up. She’s got short, dyed brown hair with an inch of grey roots showing. There’s a fixed smile on her face but I can see the sadness of a stale marriage behind her
eyes.

‘This is a great place,’ Lorcan says, leaning against the bar. ‘I’d expect it to be busier.’

The woman raises her eyebrows. ‘It’s always quiet first half of the week,’ she says, then glances across at me. ‘Would you two like some food? I’ve done chilli pots
tonight.’ She smiles, a warmer, more genuine smile than before. ‘That’s what brings in the punters, to be honest. We don’t offer choice but we do offer quality.’

‘Maybe later,’ I say.

Beside me Lorcan nods. ‘I’ll take one.’

‘We were hoping we might bump into Martin Rodriguez,’ I said. ‘We drove up from London to see him but I stupidly left all his contact details at home and he’s
ex-directory, so . . .’

‘Oh, Martin’ll be in later all right,’ the woman says with another smile.

My heart skips a beat, but I just smile back.

‘Yes?’ I say enquiringly,

‘Oh, yes,’ the woman says. ‘He eats here most nights. I reckon he gets lonely rattling around that big house of his. Told me once I saved him a fortune on housekeepers. I
thought he was joking, but you never know with Martin.’ She lets out a throaty giggle, which transforms her face, softening her features and taking at least ten years off her age. I have a
flashback to my first meeting with Dr Rodriguez – and how impressed I was by the charismatic authority he exuded.

‘So how do you know Martin?’ the woman asks.

The question is innocent enough, but I can hear the hint of ownership at its edges.

‘He used to be my doctor,’ I say. ‘A long time ago. We knew he lived around here and . . .’ I dry up, unsure which fibs about Rodriguez, if any, I’ve already told
in this particular pub.

‘I think he’s mentioned you actually.’ Lorcan comes to my rescue. ‘Don’t you remember? Martin told us about the excellent food here once.’

I find myself nodding in acquiescence. The woman behind the bar looks pleased and I supposed I should be pleased too. Lorcan’s help is making this very easy for me. And yet the lies
he’s told trip off his tongue astoundingly easily and, at the back of my mind, I’m aware that this is not exactly a reassuring personality trait.

‘So is Martin’s house near here?’ I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘I’ve got absolutely no sense of direction.’

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Just a few minutes up the hill.’ She smiles. ‘I guess you heard about the fuss the local council made about those lion statues of his. Personally
they’re not my kind of thing, but it’s his land so we backed his bid to keep them.’

I nod, wondering what on earth she’s talking about.

‘I’ll order a chilli pot for you, sir.’

We watch her disappear into the back room then Lorcan places his hand on my arm.

‘She’s totally assumed that we’re married,’ he says in a low voice. ‘Play along with it.’

I can feel myself blushing, but before I can respond the door behind us bangs open and a familiar voice drifts towards us on the sliver of cold air from outside.

‘Cold tonight, no?’ It’s Dr Rodriguez.

I freeze. After all this time, all this effort, to track him down, he’s finally here.

The sound of Dr Rodriguez’s voice brings it all back – the excitement of my initial appointment . . . the tension as I got ready for the emergency C-section . . .
the clock on the wall that was the first thing I saw when I came round, all woozy still from the general anaesthetic, then Art’s sad eyes as he spoke to me:
I’m so sorry, we lost
her
.

I feel Lorcan tense up beside me. I turn slowly. Rodriguez is greeting someone in the corner of the pub. Taking off his coat.

I walk over in a daze. Lorcan and I rehearsed what we were going to say in the car, but I suddenly can’t remember a word. My heart is pounding as I reach the doctor. He’s still
chatting to some old guy in a pork-pie hat. The old guy’s seen us, but Rodriguez is folding up his coat and laying it carefully on a seat. His fingers are long and brown and manicured.

I’m standing inches away from him. He straightens up. Senses me. Turns.

He’s as tall and lean as I remember, but that handsome, angular face is less tired-looking. His eyes register shock, then concerned recognition. Is that concern coming from guilt? Shame?
Or just bewilderment?

‘Mrs Loxley, isn’t it?’ His voice is carefully light as he offers his hand for me to shake. ‘What . . . what are you doing here?’ His eyes drift to Lorcan, standing
to my right.

I keep my own gaze locked on Rodriguez’s face. He has a moustache now – a thin pencil line – and a tiny goatee. They make him look even more dashing and authoritative than he
did whenI first met him.

‘I was hoping I’d find you,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking. ‘I . . . I’d like to talk to you about Beth.’

Rodriguez nods slowly. His mouth trembles – just a fraction, but it gives away how shocked he is to see me. He moves his coat off the seat and indicates I should sit down. Lorcan is
already sitting on the chair on the other side of the table. The old guy in the pork-pie hat has vanished.

Rodriguez is still staring at me. ‘Is Mr Loxley . . .?’ He clears his throat. ‘Does Mr Loxley know you’re here?’

I shake my head. Rodriguez looks at Lorcan: a long, full look. Then he turns back to me. This time the question is only in his eyes:
who the hell is he?

I choose to ignore it. My throat is dry. I swallow and take a deep breath.

‘I wonder if you would tell me what happened that day . . .’

Rodriguez looks down and runs his hand along the table between us.

‘Mrs Loxley, you know how terribly sorry I was . . . I
am
. . . for your loss, but this is not the time or the place to . . .’

‘Please, I just want to hear what happened. The sequence of events.’

‘There’s not much to say that we haven’t said . . .’

‘Please,’ I insist.

Rodriguez shifts in his seat. He looks uncomfortable.

‘Okay,’ he sighs. ‘You came in for a routine check. I did the scan myself because we had to wait for a machine and by the time one came free the radiographer had gone. I saw
straightaway that the baby had died
in utero
so we decided to perform an emergency C-section. We acted immediately, which was at your and your husband’s insistence. I know how much
you suffered but I can assure you the whole experience was also horrible for me and for the theatre staff involved.’

‘But most of them left,’ I interrupt. ‘Most of them came down with food poisoning while they were inside the operating theatre.’

Rodriguez looks momentarily taken aback. Then he nods. ‘Three people out of the entire team were taken ill, that’s true, but there was only a short gap before substitute medical
staff replaced them. My memory on the exact timing of that is hazy, but it was only a few minutes and I definitely had assistance when I worked on you after the C-section. You were in no danger at
any time. And there was nothing that could have been done for your baby anyway.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us that staff were missing when you delivered my baby? Did you even tell the hospital directors?’

Rodriguez clears his throat. ‘As I said, nothing untoward happened as a result of their absence. After the C-section was complete I went outside and spoke to your husband. He insisted on
seeing your baby though I advised against it. Afterwards, we both agreed you should not see her yourself. Then we waited for you to come round in the recovery room.’ Rodriguez wipes his hand
across his forehead. He is sweating despite the fact that we are on the other side of the room from the open fire. ‘That’s it. There is simply nothing else to say other than how sorry I
am for your loss.’

I glance at Lorcan. His gaze is fixed on Rodriguez.