Questions Of Trust: A Medical Romance (17 page)

‘I’m here to visit Sabrina,’ she said.

‘Wrong flat, love,’ the man said. ‘You want number six.’

So Chloe thumbed the buzzer for flat number six, and waited.

It was Wednesday afternoon. The story had broken that morning in the
Pember Valley News
and as expected the paper had milked it for all it was worth, making it the lead on the front page under the screaming headline SHOCK OF DOC OCTOPUS. The subheading read:
His Hands Were All Over Me, Claims Tearful Local Beauty
. And the accompanying photo showed a woman in her thirties with crudely dyed blonde hair, her face red and puffy from crying, gazing pitifully out at the camera.

The article was spread over three pages and relayed Ms Jones’s account in lurid detail. According to her, she’d been a registered patient at the practice for just a month, having recently moved to Pemberham. One evening three weeks ago – tellingly, she claimed she couldn’t remember exactly when – she’d received a visit from Dr Carlyle, who said he was following up on a visit she’d made to the practice a few days earlier with a bad back. She had seen the other doctor, Dr Ben Okoro, at that visit, so she was surprised that Dr Carlisle came round. After assuring him that her back was better, Ms Jones began to feel uneasy about Dr Carlisle, since he showed no signs of intending to leave. He’d sat next to her on the sofa and put his arm round her, and when she’d tried to get away and told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted him to go away at once, he had groped her intimately. Only when she screamed and threatened to call the police did he back off and depart.

Since then, said Ms Jones, her life had been a nightmare of fear, shame and guilt. She couldn’t sleep, was overeating, was sinking into depression and could barely concentrate at work. Too scared at first of the repercussions of accusing a well-known and powerful man like the local doctor, she’d decided now to come forward so that other women wouldn’t have to suffer the same treatment.

Ms Jones had approached the newspapers rather than going to the police, she said, because she didn’t want any legal fuss, didn’t want Dr Carlisle to be prosecuted. All she wanted was for his conduct to be exposed so that he was forced to apologise, which would allow Sabrina to move on and try to pick up the pieces of her life once more.

Chloe read and reread the interview with growing incredulity and disgust. The woman’s story was so blatantly flimsy it beggared belief. No dates or times were provided, not even approximate ones. Sabrina Jones didn’t reveal why she hadn’t complained in confidence to the manager of the GP practice. Predictably, the paper’s interviewer didn’t press her on any of the details she gave. And there was no attempt in the article to suggest that Dr Carlyle might have anything to say on the matter.

Chloe knew she had to work quickly. The
Pemberham Gazette
was published on a Monday and so there were five days to go, enough time for Simon, the paper’s staff reporter, to take a more measured approach and interview both Ms Jones and Tom about the matter. Ms Jones would be expecting somebody from the
Gazette
to visit her, and while Chloe wasn’t representing the paper herself and had no intention of lying outright, she had no qualms about Ms Jones jumping to the wrong conclusion and assuming she was there on official
Gazette
business.

A voice crackled over the intercom: ‘Yes?’

‘Ms Sabrina Jones? My name’s Chloe Edwards. I’m a journalist. You might have read my column in the
Pemberham Gazette
?’

‘Oh yeah. Right. Come on up.’

As easy as that
, Chloe thought with a grim smile. She waited for the door release to sound and then pushed her way in.

Flat number six was one floor up. The door was already open and a woman stood there. In her late thirties, she looked less haggard than she had in her photo in the
News
. She was in a dressing gown, despite the hour, and wore thick makeup. A cigarette dangled from her lip.

Unsmiling, she ushered Chloe in. The flat was large, untidy, and dominated by an enormous television screen the size of a small tank. Sabrina Jones settled herself in an armchair while Chloe perched on a dining room chair. She brought a notebook along for added authenticity and she flipped it open, hoping the woman wouldn’t ask for official identification.

Sabrina Jones lit up her cigarette and squinted at Chloe. Over the curling smoke, her eyes were appraising, shrewd.

‘The man from the
Gazette
said on the phone he was coming tomorrow,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Chloe without a pause. ‘He’s a staff reporter, you see. I’m an occasional freelancer for the paper. I write features.’ It was perfectly true, and perfectly meaningless in the context. But it seemed to satisfy Ms Jones. She nodded.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’

The story she gave was so obviously a virtual word-for-word rehash of the one she’d given the interviewer from the
Pember Valley News
that Chloe marvelled at the woman’s nerve. She even used the same term for what Tom had allegedly done:
he touched me intimately
. As she said this, Ms Jones dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a tissue. Her eye shadow and mascara remained intact, though, Chloe couldn’t help but notice.

Throughout the account Chloe said nothing, nodding encouragement from time to time and pretending to take notes. At the end she frowned as if deep in thought, and said, ‘Ms Jones, might I ask a few questions? There are one or two things I need to clarify.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ The woman lit another cigarette. Her eyes were wary and she shifted in the armchair, drawing her arms across herself defensively.

‘Do you work, Ms Jones?’

The question seemed to catch her off guard. ‘What? Yes, I’m in reception at Markham’s, the car repair shop on Wiltshire Road. Been there a month, ever since I moved here. I’m on sick leave now, though, because of all this. Why?’

‘Human interest side of things,’ Chloe said smoothly. Again Ms Jones seemed to appreciate this, and she relaxed visibly. Chloe went on: ‘And where were you living before you moved to Pemberham? Readers like a bit of background detail.’

This time the defensiveness was more pronounced. Ms Jones’s eyes flared and she stiffened in her chair. ‘London,’ she said curtly. ‘Hounslow. Doesn’t really matter, does it? That doctor’s hurt me now. It could have happened to anyone. It’s not important where I’m from.’

Chloe nodded. ‘Of course.’

She asked a few more banal questions to put the woman back at her ease, then stood. ‘Ms Jones, thank you. I’ve learned a lot. May I take a picture?’

She used her phone to photograph Ms Jones’s face. If the woman thought it was odd that a reporter was using a mobile phone to take a picture of an interviewee rather than a proper camera, she didn’t comment on it.

As Ms Jones let her out she said, ‘So when will your interview be in the paper?’

‘Oh, that depends on the editor,’ said Chloe breezily, and left with the sense of the woman’s eyes boring into her back.

Instead of returning to her car, Chloe walked past it down the street to an estate agent’s she’d seen when she’d parked. She made some enquiries of a very helpful young man inside, then left and took a drive to Wiltshire Road. Markham’s Mechanics was open and she went in.

To the woman behind the reception desk Chloe said, ‘I’m looking for a temporary job.’

‘As a mechanic, love?’ The woman barked laughter, but in a good-natured way. 

Chloe grinned back. ‘No, as a receptionist. I understand your regular girl’s off sick.’

The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Where’d you hear that? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Yes, we’re short. I’m just filling in for the moment. What sort of credentials have you got?’

‘I’ve worked a bit, here and there. I can bring you some references if you like.’

The woman considered. ‘Okay.’

‘What sort of salary would we be talking?’

‘What’re you earning now?’

Chloe named a random figure. The woman cackled again.

‘Not sure we’re what you’re looking for, love. We can offer you half that, at most.’

Chloe thanked her and made her exit. Back in her car, she sat behind the wheel, allowing herself a smile.

It had been a useful hour’s work. She’d discovered three things. The first was that Sabrina Jones rented her flat. The estate agent had confirmed that all the flats in that block were rentals. The second was that the rent was exorbitant, more than Chloe was paying on her own cottage’s mortgage.

The third was that Ms Jones’s salary couldn’t even begin to cover her monthly rent.

All of which suggested she had some other source of income. And Chloe intended to find out what that was.

***

The easiest thing, Tom knew, would have been to take the day off. Call in sick on some pretext, ask Ben to see as many of his patients as possible and cancel the rest of the appointments – it would be inconvenient but not disastrous – and hide indoors to escape the storm.

Except he wouldn’t escape it. It wasn’t going to blow over. It would still be there tomorrow, and the next day, and next week. And if he retreated to a hermit-like existence, it would make people think he had something to hide.

So, after he’d read the article with a hollow, sick feeling in his gut, Tom threw the paper in the bin and went to work.

Everybody had either read or heard the story by the time he got there, Tom thought. From Tracey behind the front desk, to the practice nurse, to his patients, old and young and in between – everyone looked at him with wonder, or pity, or suspicion.

And four patients cancelled their appointments with him that morning, all of them female.

Tom ploughed through the workload as best he could, keeping up a front as if nothing was amiss. He thought he was going to make it to the end of the morning without anything being said when one of his patients, a burly farm hand named Jason, hobbled into the consulting room – he’d injured his foot in a piece of machinery and was attending for a check up – and threw down a copy of the
Pember Valley News
on to Tom’s desk.

‘Absolute rubbish,’ he growled. ‘The cowardly swine. If I had just half an hour alone with them…’ He left the thought, and the threat, unfinished. Gazing directly at Tom, he said, ‘Doc, you have to understand that nobody believes a word of this.’

‘Thanks, Jason,’ said Tom. ‘I appreciate it.’

But he knew the man’s assertion wasn’t quite accurate.

During a lull in the morning’s activity Ben Okoro put his head round the door. ‘Tom, do you have a moment?’

He came in and perched on the corner of Tom’s desk. Tom felt suddenly weary, and swept his hands across his face.

‘Read the morning paper yet, Ben?’

‘This woman,’ said Ben. ‘This Sabrina Jones. I checked the records. She’s never consulted you. And she only attended the practice once, with her back. That was when I saw her. What’s she up to? What’s this all about?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tom, though he did.

‘We’ll fight this, Tom,’ the older man said. ‘These accusations will be proved groundless, and this will blow over.’

‘Ben,’ said Tom heavily. ‘I was going to tell you this later, at a quieter moment, but I might as well do so now. I’m out. I’m leaving the practice. I’ll give my notice in due course.’

‘What? No! You’re not going anywhere, my boy.’ Ben was on his feet, glaring down at Tom. His older colleague’s manner was normally famously avuncular, but this was the first time Tom had seen him angry. ‘I can’t afford to lose you. You’re going to be the senior partner here in a few years, when I retire. I haven’t got the energy to build somebody else up to take your place.’

‘Ben –’

‘Shut up. Besides,’ he waved an arm at the door, ‘there’s a whole community out there that won’t let you go. That depends on you. So let’s have no more talk of running away.’

He stalked out. Despite himself, Tom couldn’t help feeling amused at how chastised he felt, like a schoolboy who’d just tried to tell his football coach he was quitting the team.

Ben, you don’t know the half of it, my friend
, he thought.

The call came around noon. It was a staff reporter, Simon Greenwood, from the
Pemberham Gazette
. Yes, said Tom, he’d be willing to be interviewed. This evening at eight would be fine.

He’d decided to tell Kelly at the weekend. That they’d no longer be living in Pemberham, and that she’d be living with her mummy in future. He needed to be able to spend time with his daughter, before and after he told her. For her sake, but also for his.

Before that, he needed to speak to Rebecca. His finger had hovered over the key on his phone that would put him through to her on speed-dial, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to press it yet. But he’d have to do it sooner or later.

***

The first call Chloe made after she got home from her visit to Sabrina Jones was to the
Pemberham Gazette
’s solicitor, the one she’d consulted before her interview with the town councillor and who’d given her advice on custody matters. He was in his office when she phoned, and she could picture him, dapper in his bow tie.