The Healers

Chapter Twelve

Ramsay took Hunter with him to interview Daniel Abbot and wondered if he would regret the decision. Jokes about pins and needles he could do without. Access to the Alternative Therapy Centre was by some narrow stone stairs, which must once have led to the chapel’s gallery and then there was a large, pleasant space, very light, with a polished wooden floor and comfortable chairs. The practitioners’ treatment rooms led off. Behind a desk sat a young and pretty receptionist, barely, it seemed to Ramsay, out of school.

“We’d like to see Mr. Abbot,” he said.

“Have you got an appointment?” She seemed newly scrubbed, glowing with health and enthusiasm. She made Ramsay feel old.

“No,” he said. “We’re from Northumbria police. It’s rather important.”

“I’ll just see if he’s free.” She pressed a button on the telephone and spoke into the receiver. “If you’d like to take a seat, he’ll be out in a minute.”

They sat on the comfortable seats. There was a low coffee table scattered with magazines and leaflets extolling the virtues of aroma therapy and osteopathy. Ramsay picked up a magazine and began to read an article on “Healing the Inner

Child’. One of the doors opened and Abbot came out.

He was not what Hunter had been expecting. He was big for one thing, strong and fit. He looked as if he ran five miles before breakfast and lifted weights. Hunter admired physical strength. Sticking pins into people was a funny kind of job but having seen the man he wasn’t inclined to dismiss acupuncture out of hand.

“Inspector,” Abbot said, ‘how can I help you? I’ve already given a statement to your constable.”

“There’s been a development,” Ramsay said. “Perhaps we could talk in private?”

“Of course, come into my room. It’s a bit cramped but we won’t be overheard there. Rebecca, perhaps you could make us some tea. Rebecca’s just started with us. She’s already a great asset.”

The girl blushed, gave a nervous smile and disappeared.

“I’ll ask the questions,” Ramsay had said to Hunter as they’d climbed the stone stairs to the Centre.

“Afraid I’ll put my foot in it,” Hunter had muttered, and he almost did put his foot in it. The girl came in with a tray. There was a teapot and three wide cups. No milk, no sugar and when the tea was poured from the pot it was transparent, yellowish. The colour of a urine sample, Hunter thought. And smelling of flowers and tasting of shite.

“What the hell is this?” he almost exclaimed, but stopped himself in time.

“Thank you, Rebecca,” Abbot said. Smiling. She blushed again and left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. She had been well trained.

The room was square and functional. There was a high treatment table covered in a white sheet, a sink. Abbot sat behind his desk and Hunter and Ramsay took the moulded plastic seats which could have come from any hospital waiting room.

Ramsay drank the herb tea as if he was enjoying it, and apologized for causing any inconvenience.

“I’ve already told your constable,” Daniel said again with a trace of impatience, “Lily and Sean were definitely with us on Sunday.”

“Perhaps you could go over it again.”

“This is rather tiresome, Inspector.”

“And very important.”

“They came for lunch. They often come for lunch on Sunday. They arrived at about eleven, had a shower and a coffee. We ate at one o’clock and then they left.”

“Where did they go?”

“Lily came here, to the Old Chapel. I presume Sean went straight back to Laverock Farm. He seemed even more spaced out than usual and I didn’t ask. To be honest I thought I’d done my duty by feeding them and I was glad to be rid of him.”

“Why did Lily come to the Old Chapel? To work?”

“No. She’s a member of Magda’s Insight Group. They meet here once a month.”

That must have been the group which Val had attended, Ramsay thought. Another connection.

“Magda?” he asked.

“Magda Pocock, my mother-in-law. She’s a rebirther. Rather famous actually.”

“And is Mrs. Pocock here today?”

“No. She was speaking at a conference in Nottingham yesterday. She decided to stay overnight. We’re expecting her back at lunchtime.”

“Lily and Sean,” Ramsay said quietly, ‘how did they seem on Sunday?”

“What do you mean?”

“In your work you must be skilled at picking up emotional responses. The holistic approach. Isn’t that what it’s called? I wondered what emotional state Lily and Sean were in when you saw them on Sunday lunchtime.”

Abbot seemed taken aback. “Oh,” he said, “I see…” His professionalism reasserted itself. “They were a little tense but that’s quite normal I’m afraid. I don’t see that relationship as a permanent one. It’s become rather destructive, especially for Lily.”

“You think she’ll leave him?” Hunter asked.

“Eventually, yes,” Abbot said. “At the moment she feels sorry for him. She knows he’s dependent on her and she’s reluctant to break the tie.” Hunter felt suddenly and unaccountably more cheerful. All the same he wished Ramsay would move on. Why didn’t he ask about Val McDougal? Ramsay’s trouble was that he was afraid of confrontation. Hunter always favoured the direct approach.

“Where did you first meet Lily and Sean?” “My wife met them here, in the cafe, downstairs. She brought them home for a meal. She’s given to collecting strays.” He must have realized that the words sounded bitter because he added with a forced smile, “I’m always telling her she’s too soft-hearted.”

“And they’d just turned up in Mittingford?” “Yes, I suppose they must have done. Win would be able to tell you more about them. I think they were part of a convoy of travellers who’d pulled up on some common land on the edge of town. They came here to buy food, keep warm. Win took pity on them.” There was a critical edge to his voice. “When the rest of the convoy moved on they stayed. I could have done without it actually. Because Win had befriended them people thought they were something to do with us, that we’d encouraged them to stay. It caused a lot of bad feeling locally, just as we were establishing a good reputation here. The farmers in the area didn’t like having them camping and called the police. They were dos sing in a clapped out old van which wasn’t road worthy and didn’t have any tax so they couldn’t move on. Things were starting to get really ugly when Win thought of the caravan at Laverock Farm.”

“Mr. Bowles was a friend of yours?”

“Oh no, hardly.” He gave a brief smile at the suggestion. Snobby bastard, Hunter thought. “Cissie Bowles, his mother, was my patient. I was treating her for arthritis. She came here to the Centre first but by the end she was almost bedridden and I went to the farm. That was how we knew about the caravan.”

“It didn’t work then, did it?” Hunter couldn’t help himself. He had behaved for long enough.

“What do you mean?”

“The acupuncture. It didn’t work if she ended up having to take to her bed.”

“It slowed the progress of the disease and helped relieve the pain.” Abbot spoke slowly as if Hunter were stupid. “We don’t claim to work miracles.”

“I’d like to ask about another patient,” Ramsay said.

Abbot was rattled, Hunter thought. He was hiding it well but he was definitely rattled.

“But perhaps you’ll be expecting that,” Ramsay went on. “I’m surprised that you didn’t come forward yourself

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.”

But you do, Hunter thought. You know what we’re talking about all right.

“I mean another suspicious death,” Ramsay said. “Another victim connected with the Alternative Therapy Centre.”

Abbot said nothing. He stared at Ramsay. Perfectly controlled but terrified.

“You must have seen the news report,” Ramsay persisted. “Val McDougal. She was murdered in Otterbridge on Monday night.”

Then surprisingly, there was relief. Hunter was sure of that. A relaxation of tension.

“No,” Abbot said. “I didn’t know. At least I didn’t realize it was Val. Someone told me a teacher had been killed in Otterbridge but I didn’t hear the name. We don’t have a television and not much time for reading papers.”

“But you did know Val McDougal?”

“Yes. She was a patient at the Centre. She came to me originally, complaining of panic attacks. I referred her on to Magda. I saw her occasionally in reception, then she came with us to our weekend retreat in Cumbria last autumn.”

“You didn’t actually treat her?”

“No,” Abbot said. “I did a traditional diagnosis, took the pulses, blood pressure, but decided that re birthing seemed more appropriate.”

“She was killed on Monday night,” Ramsay said. “Strangled like Mr. Bowles.” He paused, then continued provocatively. “Could you tell me where you were on Monday evening?”

“Why?” Abbot demanded, no longer frightened but very much on his dignity.

“It’s a matter of routine,” Ramsay said smoothly. “Elimination. I’m sure you understand.”

“Win and I were in Otterbridge actually. At the Further Education College. An old tutor of mine was giving a lecture.”

“Mrs. McDougal was working at the college on Monday evening. Did you see her?”

Abbot shook his head impatiently.

“What time did you get home?”

“Not till late. After midnight. A few of us took the lecturer out for a meal. Then I had to take Lily home.”

“Lily was in Otterbridge with you?”

“No. She was here, babysitting. I dropped Win off and drove her back to Laverock Farm.”

“Sean wasn’t with her?”

“No.”

There was a pause while Ramsay considered the information.

“Would Mrs. McDougal have known Lily and Sean?”

“Lily certainly. They both went to Magda’s group.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Ramsay said. “The Insight Group. And Mr. Bowles? Would she have known him?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. Unless she went to Laverock Farm to see Lily.”

“So the Old Chapel is the only link between the murders,” Ramsay said. “I think that puts you in a rather uncomfortable position…”

“What are you implying, Inspector?” It was an expression of injured surprise.

“I’m not implying anything,” Ramsay said calmy. “It’s not as if you benefit from either of the deaths.”

“No,” Abbot said, a little uncertainly. “At least not personally.”

“What do you mean?” For the first time Ramsay’s voice was sharp. “We’re not playing games, Mr. Abbot.”

The man leant forward across the desk in a conciliatory gesture. “Look, I’ll have to explain about Cissie Bowles or you’ll not understand. She came to us after a row with her GP. To pay him back, I suspect, for not giving her enough attention and not being sufficiently polite. You can hardly blame the doctor. She was a demanding and cantankerous old thing. Certainly not polite herself. Given to strange oaths of a vaguely biblical nature. I think she’d been through three GPs already before she decided to try me. I’m sure she only stuck with me because it amused her to be treated by what’s known generally in the town as “that group of hippies”. She’d never been properly accepted here, although she was brought up in Laverock Farm and went to school with most of the old crows who disapproved of her.”

He paused for breath. Ramsay said nothing. He was prepared to wait to see where this was leading.

“Ernie was her only relative,” Abbot went on. “Her parents were middle-aged when she was born and she was an only child. I know all this because I took a personal history when she first consulted me. Her parents died when she was in her early twenties and she took on the farm. Ran it, apparently, almost single-handed until Ernie was old enough to help. There was a hired help. He was an outsider, too, I imagine. Not immediately local anyway because he had to live in.”

Ramsay raised his eyebrows. “Ernie’s father?”

“Yes,” Abbot said. “Ernie’s father. She fired him as soon as she discovered she was pregnant and made do after that with casual labour from the town…”

This is very interesting,” Ramsay interrupted, ‘but I don’t see how you come to benefit from Mr. Bowles’s death.” He suspected that Daniel Abbot was stringing him along.

“I’m coming to that,” Abbot said. “Cissie left the farm to Ernie for his lifetime and in the event of his marrying and having children to his offspring after his death.” He stopped, took a shallow breath and completed the explanation in a rush. “If he was to die before having children the farm would come to the Alternative Therapy Centre.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Ramsay demanded. “You didn’t say anything to the officer who came earlier in the week to take a statement.”

“Shock, I suppose. Embarrassment. And at that time I only had Cissie’s word as to what was in the will. She might have been leading me on. It would have been quite in character. But I had a phone call from her solicitor this morning.”

“What do you mean Laverock Farm goes to the Alternative Therapy Centre?” Hunter asked belligerently. He saw the chance of a ruck. “You mean you sell it and split the profit between you? I don’t know how many of you work in this place but it’d be a tidy windfall. I’d call that a personal gain.”

“No,” Abbot said, interrupting forcefully. “It wasn’t like that. The terms of Cissie’s will were very exact. Occasionally we run weekend retreats like the one Val McDougal attended last autumn. It provides a chance for our patients to get away from the stress of everyday life which often lies at the root of their problems; charge, if you like, their spiritual batteries… We have discussion groups, teach relaxation techniques, yoga, meditations. Look, as you said yourself, at the whole person.”

“This is most instructive but I don’t understand what it has to do with Laverock Farm.”

“In the past we’ve always gone to a place in Cumbria for the retreat. Juniper Hall. It’s pleasant enough but expensive and inconvenient for people to get to. Cissie had a vision of Laverock Farm being turned into a centre where we could run retreats ourselves, weekend workshops, experiment with all kinds of different therapies in a residential setting. A place like that would attract visitors from all over the country.”

“I bet the locals will love that,” Hunter muttered.

“I’m sure they’ll get used to it, Sergeant,” Abbot said piously. “Besides, Cissie was hardly one for worrying about what her neighbours thought.”

“Are you sure?” Ramsay asked. “Isn’t that what this is really about? We know there was ill feeling between her and the Richardsons at Long Edge Farm. I suspect the will was her way of paying back her neighbours for what she saw as their spite. It was her final piece of mischief. Her revenge. Leaving them with what they’d consider a commune in their midst.”

“Her motives hardly matter now, Inspector. You can be sure we’ll put the place to good use.”

“You seem to have given the venture a lot of thought,” Ramsay said.

“I suppose I have. It was a dream, you know, that’s all. An exciting dream. I never thought anything would come of it. Ernie Bowles was fifty-five. He could have lived for thirty years.”

He could have lived for thirty years, Ramsay thought. But he didn’t, did he?