The Betrayal of Trust (29 page)

THIS TIME IT
was half past nine in the evening. Jocelyn was sitting with a cup of milky coffee and a couple of buttered crackers on the side table, watching the last episode of a historical crime series set in the Victorian underworld, but the violence had become so sickening that she was relieved when the phone rang.

‘Mrs Forbes?’

Not a cold call, surely. The voice was older than
most call-centre operators and more … she couldn’t think of the word.

‘Yes.’

‘Good evening. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time to have a word with you?’

‘Who is this?’

‘And I don’t want to intrude, so perhaps you would just hear what I have to say for a moment, and if you feel that I am indeed intruding then please say so, and I promise I will ring off at once.’

‘All right,’ she said
carefully. Educated. That was probably the word. A well-spoken, educated man, and an older man, not a twenty-something insurance salesman.

‘Is this a convenient time to have a word with you?’

‘Yes … yes, this is all right. But … are you the police?’

‘Emphatically not.’

‘Or some sort of lawyer?’

‘Again, I am not. No.’

‘Because –’

‘I am a doctor.’

‘Oh God, are you from them? From the clinic?
Bene Mori?’

‘No. I am most certainly not and let me reassure you that, in my view, Bene Mori should be closed down. Their methods, the way they run their operation – those are despicable, beyond disgraceful. The whole place, the whole organisation, brings shame on the movement.’

‘The movement?’

‘The movement to make assisted suicide legal, to help those who wish to end their own lives with
dignity at a time of their choosing … those of us – and I am one – who want this to be properly and very strictly regulated, but to be legal in this country – frankly, we are all ashamed of this Swiss operation. But unfortunately, what happens in another country with different laws – well, we can bring pressure to bear on their medical authorities, even on their governments, but we can’t actually
have them closed down. If they were in this country, of course, it would be a different matter.’

‘Doctor …’

She waited but he did not reply.

‘Why exactly have you rung me?’

‘For this reason. I know what a dreadful experience you had. Believe me, I’ve met others in the same situation. You aren’t the first and, sadly, you won’t be the last. I want to advise you and give you every possible assistance
– but only if that, at some point in the future, is what you yourself want. If not, then you tell me so and you will not hear from me again. I want to help you.’

‘Help me?’

‘First of all, I’m offering my services as a fully qualified doctor, to counsel you in the aftermath of the trauma you went through at the Bene Mori clinic. I can listen to everything you have to tell me and try to put it
all out of your mind, help you recover. If you’re having stressful thoughts, panic attacks, nightmares. Anything like that. I can help you deal with it. And then we could look at your medical condition, reassess it, and if, at any point you wish to consider the route of dying with dignity at a time of your own choosing, then I can help you there too.’

‘But that isn’t possible in England. It’s
illegal.’

‘There are ways we can help, nevertheless. I am in the business of helping people, Mrs Forbes. I became a doctor to alleviate pain and suffering, it’s what I’ve spent my working life trying to do … but in these later years of my career I have decided to concentrate on this one area of therapy. It is so essential, and yet we have no proper way of handling these situations here. Travelling
to a country where it is not illegal is a stressful, miserable, lengthy, expensive and often very shocking way to proceed. As you discovered.’

‘Oh, I did. I can’t tell you … it was the most awful, horrible shock – to find out that the whole thing was … Not that I have had experience of one, but I imagine it was like backstreet abortionists used to be and probably still are in some countries.’

‘Exactly right. That is how they conduct their business, in spite of the smooth, shiny, reassuring front they present. We don’t want that here. I’m trying to ensure that people in this situation – your situation – are able to experience something very, very different.’

‘It’s so necessary … what I saw, what that place was like … I wake up shaking sometimes, to be frank, I can’t get it out of my
mind.’

‘Have you talked to your GP?’

‘I haven’t really … I wasn’t sure … well, how she’d take it. I’m not sure she approves. I did try to bring the subject up with her – when I first … when I was contemplating … you know? But perhaps I should.’

‘If you feel you can talk to her, I think you really ought to do that.’

‘She’s a very good listener, that’s not in question.’

‘No … But she has a
duty to preserve your life, to help you deal with your illness, to give you every sort of pain relief. That’s her job. Is that what you want?’

‘Well …’

‘If you find it difficult, you can come and see me and talk about this at any time, you know.’

‘The thing is … I haven’t quite gathered … well, you say you’re a doctor …’

‘I do apologise. How do you know I’m a doctor? I could be anyone. Of
course, of course. I assure you I am a fully qualified doctor, but the way to check is this – I am going to give you a phone number. Call it whenever you like. That’s my consulting-room number, and if I’m not there my secretary will answer. She will make an appointment and give you the address. If you’re not happy, please, do nothing. I want to help you.’

‘Is this …?’

‘A scam? No. Is this someone
from Bene Mori? No.’

‘I was going to ask if this would be – a professional consultation. You understand?’

‘You mean, do I charge? Not for the initial consultation, no. That is entirely free. After that, if you wish to make a full hour’s appointment, then yes, I do charge. And if I feel you are coping well, then we go no further. If in my professional opinion you would benefit from a further
counselling session, then I set out a plan – a treatment plan and, indeed, a payment plan. But once we’ve met and talked, if you’re not happy about anything, please just don’t come again, don’t even make contact with me again. I’ll respect any decision you may come to. I’m not in the business of persuading anyone to do anything, Mrs Forbes. That would be unethical and immoral.’

‘That is reassuring,
I have to admit.’

‘Good. There is one thing which I know you’ll understand as you’ve already taken some steps along this road … What we are discussing …’

‘I understand.’

‘You know that it is against the law in the country and I will ask you to sign a short statement that you are fully aware of this. It’s for your protection and mine – I hope one day it won’t be necessary but at the moment …’

‘Yes. Yes, I understand. Can I ask you …?’

‘Ask me anything at all.’

‘It seems … well, I wonder how many people come to see you. I mean – it isn’t an everyday situation, is it?’

‘Ah, this takes up only a small part of my professional time, Mrs Forbes – I see patients for quite different reasons as well. Though having said that, you might be surprised at the number
of
people in your situation
who want to discuss this – and the numbers are increasing. People aren’t prepared to put up with the present situation in this country, they want to take control of their last days and hours – they know it is possible elsewhere, so why not here?’

‘I agree. I think you’re right, Doctor …’

‘Goodnight, Mrs Forbes. Sleep well. And think about what I have said. And, if you want to see me, please
make a note of this …’

He gave her a Lafferton area telephone number before wishing her goodnight again.

She went back to the television but the programme was over. It was news time and she had made a point of not watching the news since returning from Switzerland. Everything presented a crisis or an emergency which was distressing but which she could do absolutely nothing to solve, everything
cast her into despair, every item was war and pestilence, famine and drought, floods and espionage, corruption and incompetence, sickness and death. She had always felt under some sort of social or moral obligation to watch the news and current affairs, but now her own state of health and peace of mind were paramount and she put those first.

She switched off and sat in the quiet room.

She had
liked his voice. It was courteous. It invited her to confide. It was charming but not over-familiar, educated but not over-refined. A consultant’s voice, she thought, the old style of consultant.

She would not tell Penny. That was a given. But whether she would do as the doctor had suggested and talk to Dr Deerbon she could not decide. Her gut feeling was that she would not, that her GP would
try to persuade her to put the whole euthanasia question from her mind and focus on the quality of life she still had and the possibility that she might have a remission from her symptoms.

Jocelyn knew that her end would be every bit as terrible as she feared, with every aspect of her dying and death way beyond her own control. Dr Deerbon was a wonderful GP but she could
not
work miracles. Talking
to her would lead only to a bed in the hospice.

She looked at the number she had jotted down. She would ring in the morning and make an appointment. He had emphasised that she need proceed no further if she wasn’t happy, so what had she to lose? If nothing else, she might put an end to her nightmares and daytime flashes of dreadful memory if she went through every detail with this doctor.

Penny
would tell her to be sensible and cautious, to ask questions, to query why the man had rung her, what he hoped to gain from the appointment, to try at least to discover who he was and something about his background before seeing him. Which was one reason, though by no means the only one, why she intended to tell no one about the doctor, his phone call, or any appointment she might make, and to
keep Penny, above all people, in the dark about it.

She felt happier when she went to bed, calmer and less afraid that her sleep would be jagged with nightmares about the clinic. The phone call had reassured her. She did not ask herself how he had found her name and number, how he knew about her aborted trip to Switzerland.

‘MRS FOSTER? SIMON
Serrailler.’

‘Oh.’

‘Please don’t hang up. Just listen to me.’

‘I don’t –’

‘Is your husband going to be at home this morning?’

‘He usually is Saturday mornings, though not in the afternoons, not usually Saturday evenings either. He coaches junior football and then he’s at the pub.’

‘Fine. I’m going to call round this morning, I need to talk to him.’

‘I didn’t
tell you where we live.’

Serrailler said nothing.

‘Yes, I see. Nothing’s private, is it? Nothing’s confidential from you lot.’

‘I’ll come between ten and eleven, but I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this to him.’

He could have called on the off chance and risked finding Stephen Foster out of the house but he preferred it this way. Noeline might warn her husband about his impending visit.
His behaviour then would say a lot. If he knew nothing, and certainly if he had done nothing, then he might well stay put. If he was at all anxious or felt guilty, he might decide not to be in after all, or, at the very least, work out a story and rehearse it carefully. And in Serrailler’s experience, only those who had something to
hide
went to the trouble of doing that. He had Foster in his
sights. Whether that was because at the moment he had no one else there he would have found it hard to say.

It was a small detached house in a short avenue of similar houses but smarter than most of them, freshly painted, the windows shining after a recent clean, the paved front area set about with pointed miniature conifers in a careful pattern. A silver Ford Focus was parked at the gate.

Foster was in his fifties, well spoken, neat grey hair, even good-looking, Simon thought. A well-set-up figure of a man. But he wore old, paint-splashed cords and his feet were bare.

He looked at the warrant card, before meeting Serrailler’s eye for only a second.

‘What’s this about? I was just going out actually.’

‘I hope not to hold you up too long. May I ask where you were going, Mr Foster?’

‘Just out. You’d better come in here.’

A neat sitting room, with a hideous orange and brown carpet, and amateur paintings of orange and brown landscapes on the walls.

‘Do you paint?’ Simon asked, going closer to one to look at the signature.

‘My wife. Doesn’t do it so much now.’

‘Africa?’

‘Well, yes, but she does them from postcards.’

‘Right.’

Simon turned round quickly, to catch the man’s
expression. There was no panic. The most it could be described as was wary. But who wasn’t wary when visited by a detective wanting to ask them questions? Wary was normal.

‘I’d like a word with your wife after we’ve spoken.’

‘She’s gone out.’

‘Where to?’

Foster shrugged. ‘Shops, I suppose. Don’t think she said.’

‘Is she usually out on Saturday morning?’

‘Sometimes is, sometimes not.’

‘And
you?’

‘Me?’

‘You’re usually here on Saturdays?’

‘In the morning I am, generally. Yes. Later on I do a bit of soccer coaching. Listen, what’s this about, Mr …?’

‘Detective Chief Superintendent Serrailler. Simon Serrailler. May I sit down?’

Foster hesitated, then sat on the edge of a straight chair himself. Simon took the tightly upholstered small sofa with blood-red covers.

‘Sixteen years
ago, a young girl vanished from a bus stop at which she had been waiting on Parkside Drive in Lafferton. Harriet Lowther. You telephoned the special line at Lafferton Police Station to say you had information about her disappearance. That was the next day – Harriet went missing on a Friday afternoon and you telephoned the hotline on the Saturday.’