The Malcontenta

14

Brock met Rose the following morning, although the circumstances were such that her problems were not uppermost in his mind. She was acting as assistant to Stephen Beamish-Newell for Brock’s first acupuncture session, the thought of which had been making him feel unreasonably apprehensive.

‘Any side-effects from the fasting, David?’

Beamish-Newell had sat Brock on the edge of the couch, really a kind of trolley, waist high, and was now taking his blood pressure before beginning the treatment. The room was one of a series of small, sparsely furnished rooms which ran down one side of the corridor in the basement and were linked by connecting doors with frosted-glass panels.

‘No, I seem to have coped with it all right, after the first shock.’ Brock suddenly thought about Ben Bromley’s meat pie, and his stomach gave a small gurgle. He looked up at Rose, standing waiting in the corner, and she shot him an automatic smile of encouragement. There was a stainless-steel trolley beside her, and on it were rubber gloves, some folded hand-towels and a block of sponge into which a number of acupuncture needles had been stuck. Whether it was the thought of the meat pie or the sight of the needles or the combination of the two, Brock felt suddenly nauseous. He took a deep breath and tried to think of something else while Beamish-Newell took his pulse.

‘All right, good. Lie face down on the couch now, David, and we’ll get you started.’ The doctor went over to a small basin and washed his hands.

The large cast-iron radiator beneath the tiny window was oversized for the small room, and with the doors closed it was even more oppressively hot than elsewhere in the house. Brock lay on his front, folded his arms under his head and tried not to think about pierced eyeballs.

He felt something soft dab at a spot on his upper left hip, then a pause, and then a slight tingling sensation in his flesh.

‘You’ll be finishing your fast tonight, David.’ Another soft dab, this time on the right side. ‘The grosser poisons should pretty well have drained from your system. Takes time for them to leach out completely, but you’ll soon notice the difference. Hope you’ve been drinking plenty of water?’

No reply.

‘David?’

Silence.

‘Haven’t fallen asleep on us, have you?’

Beamish-Newell moved to Brock’s head and touched his cheek, then pulled his eyelid back. ‘Passed out.’

The doctor swore quietly under his breath and checked Brock’s pulse. Rose wet a cloth under the cold tap and offered it to him. He nodded but didn’t take it, and she came forward and wiped Brock’s face. He didn’t stir.

‘Come on!’ Beamish-Newell slapped the back of Brock’s hand and waited. Nothing.

After five minutes the doctor withdrew the two needles he had inserted. After ten he shook his head impatiently and told Rose to keep a close eye on the totally unresponsive figure on the couch while he got started on the other patients in the adjoining rooms. While she waited Rose turned down the valve on the radiator, and then stood up on a chair and with difficulty tugged open the little window under the vault. She chatted to Brock reassuringly as she did so. ‘Sure it’s awful hot in here. Isn’t it just? It’s no wonder you passed out. I had someone pass out in the sauna just last week. Heat can take you that way. No warning, especially if you’re short of fluids. Could that be the way of it, do you think?’

But no sound came from Brock until over half an hour had passed since the first needle had gone in. Then he suddenly gave a snuffling grunt and scratched his beard.

‘Well, thank the Lord!’ Rose helped him sit up and offered him a glass of water.

‘All done?’ Brock asked, disoriented.

‘All done, indeed! We never even began. Do you feel all right? I’ll fetch the doctor.’

Beamish-Newell came bustling in and gave Brock a quick check-over.

‘You seem to be all right. Maybe you’ll do better after you’ve taken in some nutrition. You have another session scheduled for tomorrow morning, don’t you? Well, we’ll try again then. You’d better go and lie down in your room now for an hour or so. What’s your second session this morning?’

‘I think it’s the exercise bicycle or something.’ Brock found it hard to focus his thoughts. ‘Better give it a miss.’

‘I’ll see Mr Brock to his room,’ Rose said, helping him on with his dressing gown.

Walking seemed to revive him, and by the time they reached the lift he felt considerably better. He shook his head as they waited. ‘Stupid,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what brought that on.’

‘You’ll feel just fine after a wee lie-down.’

‘I met your fiance yesterday, Rose, while I was walking outside with Grace Carrington.’

‘Is that right?’ The professional solicitude faded from Rose’s voice. ‘Are you a one for the ladies, then, Mr Brock? I hear you tried to take on Martha Price, no less. And then there’s your friend Kathy Kolla.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing, Rose.’

The lift arrived, a tiny box squeezed into the width of a cupboard in the old masonry structure, barely big enough to take the two of them.

‘You wouldn’t be in the same line of work as Kathy, would you, Mr Brock? A policeman?’

Brock smiled. ‘Do I look like a policeman? Anyway, would it matter if I was?’

The lift wheezed to a halt and they stepped out.

‘I don’t know,’ she said as they walked down the deserted corridor. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said, about you taking her a message. I’m not sure. I’m in an awkward sort of position, you see. And it may do no good anyway. After all, the poor man’s dead, isn’t he? Nothing can alter that.’

‘Depends how you feel about that. Sometimes it’s harder to live with than it should be. When something hasn’t really been sorted out, for example, or when a cloud hangs over a person’s memory that shouldn’t be there.’

They were at Brock’s door. Rose didn’t reply, and to keep the conversation going Brock added, ‘Martha Price seems to guard his memory quite jealously.’

‘What does she know about him!’ Rose’s voice was low but suddenly fierce, and Brock saw that her eyes were glittering with tears. ‘She doesn’t know a damn thing about him, interfering old bitch!’

Brock nodded. ‘My sentiments entirely.’ He waited for Rose to go on, and for a moment it seemed she would, but then she turned abruptly on her heel and walked quickly away.

Brock stayed in his room through the rest of the morning, listening to the sounds of activity come and go from below as the patients gathered for the mid-morning break, and then disappeared for their second therapy sessions. The sun was back again and warmer this time, as if encouraged by its success on the previous day. A wood pigeon up on the parapet nearby began cooing complacently in the background as Brock lay on his bed, tapping at his laptop.

At twelve-fifteen he got up and dressed himself in the outdoor clothes he had arrived in three days before. They felt unfamiliar and looser than they should. He took the fire escape at the end of the west wing down to the basement level and left by way of the door where the boots and coats were kept. The snow had been melting fast and he had to detour and jump puddles to avoid getting his shoes full of water as he made his way to his car. Along the edge of the drive, bluebells which had been caught by the late snow were beginning to poke their heads out again into the brilliant sunlight.

The car splashed along the wet lanes to Edenham, and when he reached the High Street he turned through the archway of the Hart Revived to park in the yard at the rear. He found Kathy at a small corner table in the deserted snug bar. She gave him a big grin, and he sank into the seat beside her and sighed deeply. It took him a moment to speak.

‘Kathy, you have no idea how wonderful it is to see you again.’ He sighed once more. The log fire crackled in the big stone fireplace and an electronic games machine in the far corner bleeped plaintively for attention. ‘Normality, the real world. I never thought I’d be so pleased to get back to it.’

Kathy laughed, ‘Oh dear, is it as bad as that?’

He nodded. ‘Worse. Much worse.’

‘But you’ve only been there a couple of days.’

‘Time means nothing. It feels like an age.’

‘Well, you’ll appreciate that.’ Kathy indicated the pint of bitter she had ready for him. He looked at it apprehensively and said, ‘No, no. I’d better not.’

‘Oh, come on. You can relax in here, can’t you? I mean, it’s not as if you’re really there for your health.’

‘Kathy, you have no idea. They take you over, body and soul. I swear, if I drank that he’d know about it. He’d just look at me and see the poisons oozing out of the pores of my skin and the guilt written all over my face.’

Kathy thought this was hilarious. ‘“He” being Dr Fiendish-Cruel? So you agree he’s scary.’

‘Oh yes, I agree. This morning I passed out while he was sticking his damned acupuncture needles into me.’ ‘Yuck! What’s the food like?’

‘What food? I haven’t had a thing apart from water and lemon juice since I arrived. They put me straight on a seventy-two-hour fast to purify my system. When I come off it tonight, I might be allowed a glass of carrot juice.’

‘Well, since you’ve already been wicked and gone over the wall, you might as well make it worthwhile and give yourself a treat. The steak-and-kidney pie looks pretty good. It’s home-made.’

Pleased as he was to see her, Brock was finding Kathy’s response to his tale of suffering a little flippant. He was reminded of Grace Carrington’s remark about the difficulty of adjusting to the outside world again. The thought of Grace and her problems made him suddenly ashamed. It was almost as if the processes of the clinic had reduced him to childishness.

He shook his head, ‘No, no,’ he muttered. ‘You go ahead.’

‘OK. I’m ravenous, I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.’

She caught the look on Brock’s face and added, ‘Sorry. Really I am. You must be wishing I’d never got you into this. Let me ask them if they’ve got something mild for you, break you in gently from your fast.’

‘It’s all right, Kathy,’ he smiled at her. ‘Get me a glass of mineral water if you like.’

‘With ice and lemon?’

‘Yes, why not. The works.’

He settled back into his seat, slightly dizzy from the cigarette smoke and the smell of frying that hung heavy in the air.

After a moment Kathy returned, holding a ticket for her meal in one hand and Brock’s drink in the other. She waited while he removed the straw and lifted his drink and sipped at it, letting him begin his story in his own way.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I’m not sure I’ve really marshalled my thoughts, but I’ll give you what I have. Yes, Beamish-Newell is quite a formidable character. But not necessarily the dominant force he once was. He had to get outside finance to keep the clinic going five or six years ago, and the financier, Sir Peter Maples, has clipped his wings somewhat. Ben Bromley, the Business Manager, is Maples’s man, he’s there to keep the Director under control.

‘Beamish-Newell has been married before, by the way. The name of his first wife was Gabriele. She was Italian, from a wealthy family, and gave him his start at Stanhope. I haven’t really formed much of an impression of Laura Beamish-Newell, the second wife. She seems distant, efficient, not a very endearing bedside manner, but the regulars like her, think she’s good at her job and cares for them.’ He shrugged.

Kathy nodded. ‘Yes, my impression was much the same.’ She had her notebook out and was writing as Brock spoke.

‘Number eighteen?’ a voice called from the bar, and Kathy held up her ticket. ‘Yes, over here, please.’ The barmaid approached them with a large plate heaped with battered plaice and chips.

‘Oh my God,’ Brock groaned.

‘Ketchup, dear? Tartar sauce?’ The woman gave Kathy some cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin and sauntered back to the bar.

‘Anyway …’ Brock made a superhuman effort to recall where he’d got to. ‘Rose. Yes, she certainly knows something. She almost came out with it this morning. Her boyfriend, Parsons, is worried about her. He’s a nondescript sort of character, isn’t he? I caught him creeping around; he followed us twice when I was out walking in the grounds with Grace Carrington. She’s one of your regulars, you remember? Along with Martha Price and Sidney Blumendale. I really don’t think they know anything about what happened to Petrou. They seem baffled, disoriented by it; and they won’t hear a word said against Beamish-Newell or the clinic. Now, the interesting bit. Norman de Loynes. Ever heard the name?’

Kathy shook her head. ‘I’m never going to finish all this. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of it? The fish is good. So are the chips, actually.’

‘Forget your stomach, Kathy, and just concentrate on what I’m telling you.’ Brock reached over for her notebook and printed de Loynes’s name.

‘Lower case “d”. You sure he wasn’t there when your storm-troopers took the place apart?’

‘Certain. I’d have remembered a name like that.’

‘Well, he says he was. And Grace Carrington remembers him being there too.’ Brock watched the startled look on Kathy’s face with satisfaction. Keeping his eyes on her, watching the surprise turn to perplexity, he reached forward for his glass and had taken a big swallow before he realized he was holding the pint of beer.

‘Oh hell!’ He licked his lips. ‘Nice, though.’

‘How could he have been there?’ Kathy said.

‘There’s a class of patrons of Stanhope Clinic called “Friends”. They pay a large sub every year and have the place as a sort of private health and social club. They enjoy privileged terms and can make use of the therapeutic facilities. I get the impression that their diet is somewhat more interesting than the one the ordinary patients endure. I suspect, although I don’t know for sure, that they were invented by Ben Bromley as an entrepreneurial initiative to raise funds for the clinic. They have their own private lounge somewhere in the house, which no one else uses, and half the time you wouldn’t know they were there.’

Brock took another mouthful of beer. ‘Bliss,’ he murmured.

‘You mean he might actually have been in the building all the time we were carrying out our investigation?’

‘It’s conceivable. Or maybe he was tipped off to leave as soon as there was a hint of trouble or scandal.’

Kathy shook her head. ‘The office staff, Beamish-Newell — they would all have had to lie to us, cover up. They provided the lists.’

‘Yes. And if there was one of them there at the time Petrou died, there could have been others.’

‘Hell!’ Kathy pursed her lips with annoyance. Brock admired her mouth — a strong mouth, he thought, determined.

‘That would completely undermine the whole of my investigation, Brock. Are you sure?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t hurt to have a look at their files, look at their bookings, find out the names of the Friends.’

Talking had restored Brock somewhat, and he was beginning to feel almost normal again.

‘You mean, break into the office? Could you do that?’

‘I’d rather not,’ Brock said. ‘I thought you might be able to have a go. Their records will all be on the computer. Ben Bromley’s keen on that sort of thing, I should imagine. The office has two new machines, and he has another on his desk. Couldn’t your systems analyst hack into them?’

‘Belle Mansfield? I’ve no idea.’

‘Why don’t you give her a ring and find out?’

‘Now?’

‘Finish your lunch first, Kathy, before it gets cold.’

While she ate, Brock pulled the sheaf of Stanhope brochures that Bromley had given him out of his pocket and began thumbing through them. One of them, an annual report, had photographs of some of the principal figures: Beamish-Newell, Bromley and, above them at the top of the page, the Chairman of the Stanhope Foundation and its associated companies, Sir Peter Maples.

Kathy pointed with her fork. ‘That’s the one who was in Bernard Long’s office with Beamish-Newell and Tanner that time when Gordon Dowling and I were pulled off the case. I knew I recognized him from somewhere.’

‘Really? So he’s not just a figurehead. Bromley certainly implied that he took it all very seriously.’

‘Should I know about him?’

‘If you read the business section of your paper. He’s what the Express likes to call a “Eurotycoon”. Interests in lots of areas, seriously rich.’

Kathy put down her knife and fork. ‘That’s as much as I can manage,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of Belle.’

When she came back she saw that Brock was clutching a ticket. She smiled to herself but made no comment.

‘Any luck?’ he asked.

‘I got her. She isn’t sure if she can help. The computers would have to be connected to a phone line, you know, to receive electronic mail or fax messages. Then any computer outside with a modem could communicate with them. And then it would depend on how the system had been set up, how security-conscious our comedian was.’

‘Comedian?’

‘Mr Bromley. Didn’t he try to tell you any of his awful jokes?’

‘He began to. So, is she going to have a go?’

‘Apparently, it’s possible the Stanhope computer would record the number of anyone calling in. She doesn’t think it would be a good idea to use one of the police computers or phone lines.’

‘Ah.’

‘Number forty-two?’

Brock glanced up at the call from the bar and signalled. The barmaid came over and placed in front of him a plate of steak-and-kidney pie, chips and mushy peas. ‘Brown sauce, dear?’

‘Please.’ He looked at Kathy. ‘Might as well be hung for a goat as a sheep.’

‘Sheep as a lamb, isn’t it?’ Kathy grinned.

‘Whatever. So what’s the answer?’

‘Belle says her marriage is in need of a boost. She suggests she gets her mother-in-law to come and look after the baby at home while she takes her husband away to have a night of wild sex at some hotel, in the name of Mr and Mrs Smith of course. She’ll take her laptop, which has a modem, and which she can plug into the hotel’s phone line.’

‘That sounds good. Tell her it’ll be my treat.’

‘She can’t go tonight, but maybe tomorrow if her husband and mother-in-law are free. But anyway, she says access to the files will probably be protected by a password. She wondered if you could find out before she tries to break in.’

‘How?’

‘Each operator probably has their own password, maybe their initials or something like that. She wonders if you could watch them when they open up the computer first thing in the morning.’

Brock nodded, munching away.

‘Good?’

‘Wonderful. It restores your perspective on life. I think Beamish-Newell uses starvation to exercise personality control over his patients. One other thing, Kathy. Did you ever find out about Petrou’s financial situation? If he was doing rich people favours, presumably he was doing it for money.’

Kathy shook her head. ‘We never got that far.’

‘His estate may have been wound up by now. Maybe something could be found out about it discreetly.’

Brock drained the pint glass, wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and got to his feet. ‘I’d better be going,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow morning. What have they got you working on this week?’

‘There’s a tyre-slasher on the loose in Crowbridge. It makes a great start to the day to have to interview another dozen or so angry people who’ve had their cars done during the night. Best if you ring me at lunchtime, say between one and two. I’ll make sure I’m in the office.’

The cold air outside was like a sharp slap in the face. Brock took a deep breath and hurried across the street, ducking into the bookshop he’d noticed opposite the Hart Revived. At least no one from the clinic had seen him coming out of the pub. The doorbell tinkled behind him and he looked around. The shop was newly painted and some of the shelves were bare. A woman at a small counter was talking energetically on the phone at the same time as she was wrapping a book for a customer. A man wandered through from the back of the shop and languidly said as he passed her, ‘The van’s arrived, dear.’ She covered the mouthpiece and urged, flustered, ‘Couldn’t you deal with them, darling?’ but he ignored her and moved to the shop window, where he shuffled one or two of the books on display.

Having found it impossible to find any words of his own in response to Grace Carrington’s tragedy, Brock had hoped to find someone else’s words to say to her instead, but as he looked along the shelves his heart sank. He recognized one or two titles which dealt with the subject of death, but doubted whether he would have got much comfort from Waugh’s The Loved One or a collection of the metaphysical poets, were he in her situation.

‘Can I help you?’ The man at the window had come over to him, presumably to avoid having to deal with the van. His wife finished with her phone conversation and customer, and hurried out to the back.

‘I’m having difficulty finding a present for someone. She’s not going to be around long.’

‘Going overseas? How about something on scenic Britain?’

‘No, she’s going to die.’

The man blinked and looked appalled, as if Brock had said something in very poor taste. ‘I … I’m not sure I can be of much help. Our religious section is over there.’ He waved a hand and hurried off to the counter, where he busied himself with a publisher’s catalogue.

Brock was about to abandon his search when he saw a long-forgotten title. He pulled it down from the shelf and turned to the opening words.

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders …

Kenneth Grahame’s evocation of his particular Arcadian dream brought a smile of recognition to Brock’s face. He read some more, then went over to the man at the counter.

‘Found something?’ He looked doubtfully at the cover of The Wind in the Willows.

Brock shrugged. ‘I’d like you to wrap it in some decent paper if you would. And I’d like to write a message on a card.’

‘Well, here’s a card. But my wife does the wrapping. I’m useless, all thumbs. She’ll be back in a minute.’ He returned to the catalogue.

Brock wrote: ‘From a fellow-inmate in Arcady. Best wishes and good luck. David Brock.’

He tucked it inside the book and they waited for the woman to return. She did the job briskly and smiled at him as she took his money, wiping her hair back from her forehead.

‘Family business?’ he asked.

‘Yes, we’re just starting. It’s difficult getting established, especially in a small place like this. But we’re really keen. We’ll make a go of it.’

‘All the best,’ he said.

She smiled her thanks. Her husband ignored him.

The road out of Edenham was so winding that Brock was forced to concentrate on the way ahead and didn’t notice the white car behind until its blue lights started flashing. He slowed down, but it took him a while to find a place where he could safely pull over in the narrow lane.

The uniformed man asked him if he was the owner of the car, demanded to see his licence and took a slow and careful walk around the vehicle, looking at tyres and lights.

‘Have you had a drink recently, sir?’

Brock nodded. ‘I’ve just had a pint in the Hart Revived. One pint.’

‘I’d like you to blow into this, please. Don’t touch it with your hands.’ The policeman produced a breathalyser and inserted the mouthpiece.

Brock said nothing and did as he was told.

The officer seemed to take an age examining the result, and as he did so Brock was suddenly overtaken by a wave of nausea. The interior of the car seemed suffocatingly hot and short of oxygen. He pushed the door open, ignoring the look from the policeman, and ran through the slush of the verge towards the hedge behind his car and abruptly brought up his lunch into the ditch.

He stood for a while, leaning his weight against the car, waiting to see if there was more to come. In the background he could hear a large truck slowly manoeuvring round their parked cars.

‘You all right, sir?’

He didn’t reply.

‘Do you want some help?’

There didn’t seem to be any more. His stomach, empty again, seemed quite settled. He shook his head and stepped back through the mud to his door. He looked at the policeman as he took hold of the handle. ‘That was a daft place to pull me over. Narrow road like this.’

The man held his eyes. ‘You were driving erratically, sir. Just go carefully now. You got far to go?’ Brock shook his head again and got into the car.

That evening at dinner-time he slipped the book on to Grace Carrington’s tray and then went searching for his own, when he heard Sidney Blumendale cough unobtrusively at his shoulder. ‘Over here, old chap.’

Brock followed him to his table, where Martha was waiting.

‘Since this is your night to celebrate finishing your fast, David, we thought we should all try to be friends together again. I told cook to do something special for you.’

From her tightly pursed lips it was clear that Martha was still very much in two minds as to whether she was doing the right thing in giving Brock a chance to redeem himself. He decided to play it with a very straight bat.

‘Martha, how very thoughtful of you. I’ve been very unhappy about the way we left things the other day. I think it’s extremely gracious of you to make this gesture.’

She looked closely at him, searching for any hint of sarcasm, but, detecting none, she smiled generously and tilted her head forward intimately. ‘Look what you’ve got for being a good boy.’

He lifted the lid on the tray which they had waiting at his place.

‘What is it?’

‘Stanhope lentil souffle. It’s cook’s speciality. Normally she wouldn’t do it, but I persuaded her. Red lentils, onion and garlic cooked gently in stock until tender, than add some cheese and beaten egg yolks. Whisk up the whites and blend into the lentil mixture, then bake in a moderate oven for half an hour. She does it with such flair. We were worried you might not come down straight away and it would be ruined.’

‘Well, it looks splendid. And carrot juice, too.’

Brock was worried as to how his stomach would react, but in the event it behaved as well as he did. Sidney Blumendale seemed particularly relieved.