Barry Maitland - The Malcontenta

Dowling nodded, worried.

‘Come on, Gordon! This is exciting!’

He was a foot taller than she was, and she was standing inches away from him, glaring up into his face.

‘Yeah … yeah.’ He gave a weak smile. ‘It was just … seeing that bloke down there. It shook me up, I think. Don’t worry. I won’t mess up.’

‘I know you won’t.’ She relaxed back on to her heels and gave him a big encouraging smile.

Kathy ignored the gravel path which led round the side of the west wing and out on to the main drive, and cut across the wet grass to the front of the house. The lowest floor of the original building was half sunk into the ground as a semibasement, its windows tiny and deeply set into the heavily rusticated stone wall. Flights of steps on each side of the central portico led up to the main entrance at first-floor level. Tough on wheelchairs, she thought.

She paused at the top of the steps and shook her hair, now dripping wet. Far across the meadow the mist which had hung over the bridge and stream had been dissipated by the general drizzle. She turned and opened one of the tall glass doors, grander versions of the ones at the front of the temple.

She was enveloped by the warmth and by the smell of food — vegetable, institutional. A mixed collection of sofas and side tables filled most of the entrance hall. Beyond an archway, two bowed figures wearing dressing gowns and carrying towels shuffled away along a corridor. To her right, Kathy saw a counter through an open doorway. An elderly woman in a quilted dressing gown and fluffy pink slippers was leaning across it, speaking with suppressed intensity to the receptionist behind.

‘But you don’t understand,’ she whispered urgently, ‘I have to leave today. It’s exceedingly important … something unexpected has turned up.’

The receptionist flicked a page of the file in front of her.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cochrane, your treatment doesn’t finish until Saturday. You can’t leave till then.’

‘No, no, that’s quite impossible …’ The woman looked over her shoulder and, seeing Kathy behind her, lowered her voice and tried again. ‘The fact is, I just don’t want to stay any longer.’ She gave what she had intended to be a conspiratorial chuckle, but it came out as a whimper. ‘This is the twelfth day. I’ve really had quite, quite enough. So if you would, please, just make the necessary arrangements …’

The receptionist was unmoved. She had clearly been through this before, and she had the advantage over the other woman in that she was young, beautiful and had her clothes on. She fixed the old lady with a look that would have stalled a bulldozer and said firmly, ‘Dr Beamish-Newell would never allow it, Mrs Cochrane.’

Kathy forced herself to be patient while this exchange continued. She turned to examine the titles of the books and pamphlets on sale in racks behind her — Understanding Your Vital Organs, The Essence of Homoeopathy, Grains and Pulses.

Come on! She took a deep breath as the old lady’s fruitless appeal finally ground to a halt. The receptionist looked over the bowed white head to Kathy. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Dr Beamish-Newell, please. He’s expecting me — Kathy Kolla.’

The receptionist checked on the phone, then nodded. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

Kathy followed her, leaving Mrs Cochrane still standing, head lowered, at the counter.

On the far side of the reception hall they entered a dark, carpeted corridor, where the smell of yeasty food was very strong and they could hear the clatter of metal pots from the basement and the sound of someone whistling. Past some stairs, the woman stopped at an unmarked door, knocked and showed Kathy into the Director’s office.

The cold gripped her. Beamish-Newell was sitting at a desk in front of the open window. He raised his head slowly and again she was conscious of the eyes.

‘Please sit down, Sergeant,’ the voice soft.

His room was small, claustrophobic, barely large enough for the big desk set skew within it and the visitors’ chairs. Against the dark-green wallpaper stood several mahogany bookcases, crammed with what looked like textbooks. On the wall to the right of the window hung a long chart showing the outlines of naked male figures in front and rear views with larger details of head, hands and feet, all covered with networks of red lines, like wiring diagrams, the junctions annotated with Chinese characters.

‘So, you’ve finished your investigations.’ A statement, not a question.

‘Not quite, sir. The body is being taken to the County Mortuary. A post-mortem examination will be carried out later this morning.’

‘So quickly?’ he murmured. ‘Who’ll do it?’

‘Professor — ’ Kathy began, and he completed the words for her, nodding, ‘Gareth Pugh.’

‘Sir, I wondered — ’

Again he cut across her words. ‘What do you hope to establish from the post-mortem?’

She blinked and clenched her fists on her lap. ‘Time of death. Cause of death.’

‘Cause? That’s obvious, isn’t it?’

‘We’d like forensic confirmation. Do you have the information on Mr Petrou, sir?’

He stared at her for a long moment, his left eyebrow raised, then, without lowering his eyes, stroked his hand across a manila folder on the desk in front of him. ‘This is his file. Not a great deal, I’m afraid.’

Kathy took it from him. There were only two pieces of paper inside. A copy of what appeared to be a standard form of employment agreement between the clinic and a member of staff provided his name, date of birth and a few other basic details. Next of kin was given as his mother, Mrs Ourania Petrou, of Apartment 114, 86 Souda Avenue, Athens. The signature at the end was dated 4 April 1991. A passport-sized photograph was stapled to the top corner of the page. Dark-eyed, startlingly attractive, with a thick thatch of black wavy hair, it took an effort to associate the face giving a racy grin at the camera with that of the mottled corpse in the temple.

The other document was a photocopy of an official translation into English of a diploma certificate in physiotherapy from the Academy of Health Sciences in Athens, awarded in 1987. The translation had been certified as accurate by the British Embassy in Rome, dated 10 March 1991.

‘How did he come to be working here, Dr Beamish-Newell? Did he answer an advertisement?’

‘No. He was on holiday, as I recall, travelling in Europe. He had an interest in naturopathic medicine and had heard of us. When he reached the UK he decided to pay us a visit. It happened we were short of a trained physio.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t necessarily expect him to stay for long, but it suited us both at that moment. He seemed to settle in well enough.’

‘He made friends easily?’

Beamish-Newell hesitated, choosing his words. ‘I would say so, yes. His English was a bit limited at first, but he soon began to pick up colloquialisms. We’ve had a number of patients particularly ask for him over the months he was here, which is always a good sign.’

‘I’d like their names.’

The Director frowned, opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it.

‘What about staff? Did he have special friends?’

‘I’m not sure, really. I recall him going up to town one weekend with a group. Parsons may know — he lived next to him.’

‘What about outside the clinic? Friends, clubs he joined, interests?’

‘I really don’t know. You’ll have to ask other people about that.’

‘And you say he gave no indication of depression, as far as you know?’

‘That’s right.’ He turned his attention to a desk diary and then pointedly looked at his watch. ‘My secretary is preparing the list of staff and patients who have been here over the past couple of days, as you asked.’