Guilt at the Garage

TWENTY-THREE

When Jude got back to Woodside Cottage, there was a message on the landline from Carole. Everyone else of her acquaintance would have called her mobile. Carole was worried about Gulliver’s cough and had got an appointment for him with the vet in Fedborough. She’d be back some time after five.

Then Jude rang Shannon Shefford, who once again sounded harassed.

‘I just wanted to ask how your mum is.’

‘Weaker still, I’m afraid. She had a bad night.’

‘I’m sorry. Incidentally, I met someone today who was asking after her.’ Another entirely permissible finessing of the truth.

‘Oh? Who?’

‘Red, the fisherman.’

‘Right. Used to be great mates with Bill … until Malee poisoned that relationship.’

Jude now knew that was inaccurate but it wasn’t the moment to take issue. ‘So, sorry, Shannon, you were saying Rhona had a bad night …’

‘Yes. I was up trying to settle her for hours. And her mind’s wandering. She keeps talking about things that happened a long time ago and then getting very angry and shouting about people who’ve never done her any harm.’

It wasn’t the moment to say it, but this news did actually make Jude feel better about the way, at their last meeting, Rhona had ripped into her and the whole healing profession.

‘Shannon, I was just remembering something you said to me, you know, when you first got in touch.’

‘Oh?’

‘When you asked me if I thought healing would help your mum.’

‘I knew it would. And it has done. I’ve always been a great believer in alternative therapies. I’d recommend them to anyone.’

‘Yes. I was wondering … did you ever recommend them to your father-in-law?’

‘Bill? I could’ve recommended what I liked to him, but he’d never listen.’

‘Did he ever say to you that he wasn’t feeling well?’

‘No. He wasn’t that sort. He was of the generation that kept things to themselves. He’d never have talked about his health worries to anyone – and certainly not me.’

‘Did you notice any change in his health over the last … I don’t know, the last year, say?’

‘I noticed a change in him. I don’t know that I’d say it was his health. You have to remember I wasn’t seeing much of him round then. Hadn’t seen much of him since he married that woman.’

‘No. But when you say he changed … in what way?’

‘He just seemed to get a bit gloomy and preoccupied.’

‘And when did this happen?’

‘I suppose in the autumn.’ Check, thought Jude.

‘And what did you think was wrong with him?’

‘Nothing physical. Well, he used to get indigestion a lot, but I think that was just because he ate so many meals on the go, you know, at the garage. Not stopping, just cramming a sandwich or a piece of pizza into his mouth.’

‘You don’t think he was worried about the stomach trouble? That that’s what changed his mood?’

‘No. I just think he’d finally realized what a monumental cock-up he’d made by marrying that woman.’ Like her mother, Shannon deliberately avoided the use of Malee’s name, as if speaking it out loud would give the new wife a status she did not deserve.

‘When the excitement of starting afresh wore off …’ she went on, ‘and I don’t know, but I’d also imagine the same thing was happening with the sex – which was obviously what had trapped him in the first place. Men of his age are sitting ducks for women like her. The old blokes think they’re getting a new lease of life, a new surge of potency … It never lasts. I think Bill just came to the awful realization of everything he’d given up by remarrying … Billy and me, the grandchildren, a happy life. It’d be enough to make anyone depressed.’

‘Do you think he was depressed?’

‘I don’t know much about the subject, but he fitted descriptions I’ve read of depression.’

‘And did you recommend any therapy to him?’

‘I told you – I could have recommended anything to him, but he wouldn’t have listened.’

‘Did you actually mention anyone, though, any therapist?’

‘I may have done but, like I say, I might as well have been talking to a brick wall.’

‘Hm.’ Jude was thoughtful. ‘Going back a bit, to the first time you rang me …’

‘Yes?’

‘Asking me if I’d help your mum … I remember you said that you’d tried introducing another healer to her, and it hadn’t worked out.’

‘Right.’

‘You said you thought it didn’t work because he was a man?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you thought a female therapist would work better for a woman client and a male one for a man.’

‘That’s what I still think.’

‘Did you mention that male therapist’s name to Bill?’

‘Yes, I did. But, like I say, he didn’t listen.’

‘What was the therapist’s name?’ asked Jude.

‘Jeremiah.’

Jude put through a call to Karen in Ilkley. There was no reply, so she left a message.

She had a couple of clients booked in that afternoon, one suffering a lot of pain from carpal tunnel syndrome, the other totally disoriented by the menopause. She did her best for both of them. Neither noticed any difference in their treatment, but Jude was disappointed. She hadn’t met her own high standards. She was too distracted to bring to bear the total focus she required to be effective as a healer.

It was after half past five when her second client left. Jude made some coffee and went back to her scrutiny of the diary, still convinced it had further secrets to yield. Though other thoughts were beginning to make connections in her mind, the green book remained the only physical piece of evidence she had.

Bill Shefford’s diagnosis of cancer did of course change everything. It brought back into the equation the possibility of suicide. As someone who had worked in a garage all of his adult life, he would have had the skills to booby-trap Tom Kendrick’s Triumph as a means of ending his own life. And, assuming he got the diagnosis round October the previous year, that would have explained the change of mood that Malee had noticed in him. His life had been going well, he was making a new start, he was happily remarried … and suddenly a dark shadow had spread itself over everything.

The other anomaly that the new information might explain was the death certificate. It had been legal for Dr Rawley to sign it off because he had been treating Bill Shefford. Had he been treating him for the cancer? Had he indeed diagnosed the cancer?

It was frustrating. All these tempting random thoughts which needed some overall format or template to link them together.

The telephone rang. The landline. It was Carole, saying she was back from the vet’s and would it be all right for her to come round? In her tense state, Jude found this little ritual even more annoying than usual. They were neighbours, for God’s sake! Why couldn’t Carole just knock on the door unannounced like any other normal human being?

‘Something to drink?’ asked Jude, as she ushered her visitor in.

‘Well, a cup of coffee would be—’

‘Stuff coffee! I’m going to open some wine.’

‘Isn’t it a bit early for—?’

‘No.’

While she unscrewed the Sauvignon Blanc (which had been transferred from kitchen table to fridge earlier and was now deliciously cold), Jude asked about Gulliver’s state of health.

‘Oh, he’s fine. Vet checked him over and it’s nothing.’

‘Was it the cough that got you worried?’

‘Yes. It can be a symptom of heartworms.’

Jude didn’t know what a heartworm was but didn’t bother to ask for an explanation. She was too preoccupied to care about heartworms.

Quickly, she told Carole what she’d learned from Red.

‘You’re right. That does change everything.’

But before further discussion, Jude’s mobile rang. ‘Oh, hello, Karen. Thanks for getting back to me. How are you both?’

‘In fighting form.’

‘Good. Listen, I was thinking back to that chat we had in the pub during the “Healing Is in the Head” conference …’

Unseen, Carole raised her eyes to the ceiling. A conversation about healing … huh. She picked up Bill Shefford’s diary and started to re-examine it.

‘Most enjoyable evening,’ asserted Karen.

‘I agree,’ said Jude. ‘And it’s something Chrissie said that interested me.’

‘She’s right here with me. Why don’t I put you on speakerphone?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind …’

‘Hi, Jude,’ said the third voice.

‘Hi, Chrissie.’

‘Or should that be “Hey, Jude”?’

‘If you like.’ That particular line was an occupational hazard for anyone with her name.

‘Anyway, Jude, what can I do for you?’

‘Chrissie, it was a client of yours you talked about … or rather you didn’t talk about much, because of client confidentiality.’

‘Ah. I think I know the one you’re talking about.’

‘It was in connection with this healer I’ve met called Jeremiah …’

‘Yes. And I remember I said I couldn’t discuss it because it involved someone I was treating at the time.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Karen and I talked about that afterwards and she said she thought I was being over-scrupulous.’

‘You were,’ Karen affirmed.

‘So … are you prepared to talk about it now?’

‘Yes, Jude. In the circumstances, definitely yes.’

There was a silence. Jude was aware, out of the corner of her eye, that Carole was keying in a number on her mobile phone. Unusual. But whoever she was phoning wasn’t there. She appeared to be listening to an answering message. Jude, however, was more interested in what was happening in Ilkley.

Chrissie took a deep breath before she began her narrative. ‘All right, I had only just got my reiki qualification. I was working out of this place I mentioned in Wetherby, and a mother brought her daughter along to the clinic. The girl had ME … you know, myalgic encephalomyelitis …’

‘Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,’ said Jude.

‘That’s it. Not that long ago dismissed as “yuppie flu”. The girl was, I don’t know, early twenties and her mother was at her wits’ end. Her daughter was qualified as a solicitor but hadn’t got the energy to get out of bed, let alone hold down a job. They’d tried all kinds of therapies, but nothing had worked. The mother had heard about reiki somewhere and asked me if I thought it might help. I told her that I certainly couldn’t cure the condition – I was very insistent that she took that on board – but that reiki sessions might alleviate some of the symptoms. And they did. I was pleased. After each session, the client was certainly more relaxed and had a bit more energy.

‘I was particularly pleased because, you know, as one of my first clients, I was anxious to do well with her. And so we got into a regular pattern of sessions twice a week for – I don’t know – a couple of months, I suppose.

‘Then, suddenly one day, she told me she was going to stop coming. She’d been seeing another therapist – something I didn’t know about – and he had referred her to a doctor because he thought there was something more serious wrong with her. And the doctor had diagnosed cancer.’

‘Poor kid. How did her mother react to that news?’

‘Well, this is the point,’ said Chrissie. ‘She didn’t tell her mother. She reckoned the poor woman already had enough to worry about. My client was very optimistic, I have to say, at that stage. She actually felt relieved to have a diagnosis of an identifiable disease, rather than something as vaguely defined as ME. And she thanked me for what the reiki had done for her, but said she wouldn’t be coming any more because she was about to embark on a process of treatment for the cancer.’

‘What, chemo?’ asked Jude. ‘Radiotherapy?’

‘No,’ came the reply. ‘She was going to have a course of treatment with the healer.’

‘Oh my God!’ said Jude. ‘And the healer was called Jeremiah?’

‘Yes. Whether it’s the same guy, the one who’s turned up in Fethering, I don’t know.’

‘Do you know the name of the doctor who made the cancer diagnosis?’

‘No, I never heard that.’

Chrissie now sounded quite emotional and it was with trepidation that Jude asked, ‘And what happened to the girl?’

‘It was a long time till I heard about it.’ Chrissie’s voice was unsteady. ‘You know, neither the girl nor her mother had any more connection with the clinic, and I didn’t know them in any other context. And then another client I was treating for ME … it turned out she knew the family. She told me …’ Chrissie gulped down a sob. ‘The girl took an overdose of prescription medication. Killed herself.’

‘And you don’t know whether the course of healing that she was—?’

‘I don’t know anything else, Jude. Just that she killed herself.’

‘And are you prepared to tell me her name?’

‘Jodie Flint. Jodie Flint killed herself.’ Chrissie cleared her throat. ‘That’s why Karen persuaded me I could talk about it. Client confidentiality becomes less important when the client’s dead.’

After she’d finished the call, she looked across at Carole, on whose face there was a rather smug expression. As she leant across to refill their glasses, Jude asked, ‘So which particular cream has this cat got?’

Carole tapped the diary. ‘I think, from overhearing parts of your conversation and from following my own logic, I know what the “H” that Bill Shefford kept writing down stood for.’

‘Oh?’

‘“Healer”. All those dates and times were appointments with his healer.’

‘You’re right! God, I’ve been so stupid! Why didn’t I, of all people, work that out?’

‘Well …’ said Carole, with considerable complacency.

‘And Bill spent a lot of time away from the garage, picking up cars for services, collecting parts and so on. He could have fitted the appointments in without Billy or Frankie thinking there was anything odd.’ Jude remembered something. ‘Jeremiah told me that he’d never met Bill Shefford.’

‘So? It seems that he was prepared to lie about a lot of things. Anyway, Jude, haven’t you done something similar?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Denied knowing people you’re treating as patients?’

‘Clients!’

‘Same difference. Haven’t you claimed not to know them because of your precious … client confidentiality?’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever actually …’ It wasn’t worth pursuing. Besides, Jude read a strange expression on her neighbour’s face. ‘I’ve a feeling you’ve worked out something else.’

‘Yes, I have, actually,’ came the smug response.

‘What?’ asked Jude wearily. ‘Go on, tell me.’

‘I believe I’ve solved the mystery of the timed MOT.’

‘Ooh, aren’t you the clever one?’

‘It comes from a lifetime of doing crosswords, Jude. Words and letters are not always what they appear to be.’ Carole pointed to the diary entry: ‘17 October 10.15 a.m. MOT.’

‘I’ve always been crap at crosswords, so you’ll have to explain it to me.’

‘It’s a matter, you see, of what “MOT” means.’

‘I know what it means and—’

‘There’s something else odd about this particular diary entry, which I didn’t realize yesterday.’ Carole’s finger found the relevant mark on the page. ‘On the next line, also crossed out, is a local telephone number.’

She held her mobile phone out to her neighbour. ‘It’s the last number I dialled.’

Jude keyed in the redial and was rewarded by the following message: ‘This is the Magic of Therapy Centre. There is no one here to take your call at the moment. Our office hours are …’

‘“The Magic of Therapy Centre”,’ she echoed. ‘Have you heard of it?’

‘I’ve not only heard of it,’ said Carole. ‘I’ve been there.’