Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

'Because there's more chance that he'll listen to you.'

'About what?'

I glanced at the gardener, but he'd moved away, engrossed in his work.

'The police have arrested someone. I think they could be making a mistake because of something Carl Brenner told them.'

'This "mistake" wouldn't involve Ben Anders, by any chance?' My expression must have been answer enough. Scarsdale looked pleased with himself. 'I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's hardly news. He was seen being taken away. You can hardly keep something like that quiet.'

'It doesn't matter who it is, I still think Brenner gave the police false information.'

'May I ask why?'

'He's got a grudge against Ben. It's a chance to get his own back.'

'But you don't know for certain, do you?' Scarsdale's mouth pursed censoriously. 'And Anders is a friend of yours, I believe.'

'If he's guilty he deserves everything he gets. But if not the police are wasting time on a dead end.'

'That's for them to decide, not the village doctor.'

I tried to stay calm. 'Please.'

'I'm sorry, Dr Hunter, but I don't think you appreciate what you're asking. You're talking about interfering in a police investigation.'

'I'm talking about saving someone's life!' I almost shouted. 'Please,' I repeated, more quietly. 'I'm not asking for me. A few days ago Jenny Hammond sat in your church while you spoke about the need to do something. She might still be alive, but she won't be for much longer. There isn't… I can't…'

My voice broke. Scarsdale was watching me. Unable to speak any more, I shook my head, started to walk away.

'What makes you think Carl Brenner will listen to me?'

I took a moment to recover before I turned back to him. 'You started the patrols. He's more likely to take notice of you than he is me.'

'This third victim,' he said, carefully. 'You know her?'

I just nodded. He considered me for a while. There was something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. It took me a moment to recognize it as compassion. Then it was gone, replaced by his habitual hauteur.

'Very well,' he said.

I hadn't been to the Brenner house before, but it was the sort of local landmark that was hard to miss. It was a mile or so outside the village, set down a dirt track that was potholed all summer and reduced to dirty puddles and mud the rest of the year. The fields around it had once been drained farmland but were now steadily returning to the wild again. At their epicentre, surrounded by junk and debris, sat the house. It was a tall, dilapidated building that didn't seem to have a straight line or a right angle about it. Extensions had been added over the years, ramshackle constructions that clung to the walls like leeches. The roof had been repaired with a corrugated metal sheet. Next to it, incongruously modern, was a huge satellite dish.

Scarsdale hadn't said a word during the brief journey. In the confined space of the car his musty, faintly sour odour was more noticeable. The Land Rover bumped over the rutted track towards the house. A dog came running up to us, barking furiously, but it kept its distance when we got out of the car. I banged on the front door, dislodging flakes of old paint. It was opened almost immediately by a worn-looking woman I recognized as Carl Brenner's mother.

She was painfully thin, with lank grey hair and pale skin, as if the life had been sucked out of her. She was a widow, and given the nature of the family she'd had to bring up alone, it probably had. Despite the heat she was wearing a hand-knitted cardigan over a faded dress. She plucked at it as she blinked at us, saying nothing.

'I'm Dr Hunter,' I told her. Scarsdale needed no introduction. 'Is Carl in?'

The question seemed to provoke no response. Just when I was about to repeat it she folded her arms across her chest.

'He's in bed.' She spoke quickly, her manner aggressive and nervous at the same time.

'We need to talk to him. It's important.'

'He doesn't like being woken up.'

Scarsdale stepped forward. 'It shouldn't take long, Mrs Brenner. But it is important we speak to him.'

I felt a touch of irritation at the way he'd asserted control, but it was short-lived. All that mattered was getting into the house.

Reluctantly, she moved back so we could enter. 'Wait in the kitchen. I'll get him.'

Scarsdale went into the house first. I followed him into the untidy hallway. It smelled of old furniture and fried food. The smell of grease intensified as we went into the kitchen. A small TV was playing in one corner. A teenage boy and girl bickered at the table in front of empty breakfast plates. Scott Brenner sat nearby, one foot bandaged and propped up on a low stool, watching the TV while he nursed a half-drunk cup of tea.

They fell silent and stared at us as we walked in. 'Morning, Scott,' I said awkwardly. I couldn't remember the names of his teenage brother and sister. For the first time I began to have second thoughts about what I was doing, conscious that I was coming into someone's home to accuse him of lying. But I closed my mind to any doubts. Right or wrong, this was something I had to do.

Silence descended. Scarsdale stood in the centre of the room, as unperturbed as a statue. The teenage boy and girl continued to stare at us. Scott looked down at his lap.

'How's the foot?' I asked, to break the moment.

'All right.' He looked down at it, shrugged. 'Bit sore.'

I could see that the bandage was filthy. 'When was the last time the dressing was changed?'

He was growing red. 'Dunno.'

'It has been changed, hasn't it?' He didn't answer. 'It was a bad wound, you shouldn't just leave it.'

'I can't get anywhere like this, can I?' he said, upset.

'We could have arranged for a nurse to visit. Or Carl could bring you to the surgery.'

A shutter came down in his face. 'He's too busy.'

Yes, I thought, I bet he is. But I'd nothing to be self-righteous about myself. This was another reminder of how out of touch I'd become with the practice. There was the sound of someone coming downstairs, then his mother came into the kitchen.

'Melissa, Sean, you two get on out,' she told the teenagers.

'Why?' the girl demanded.

'Because I said so! Go on!'

They slouched out, sulking. Their mother went to the sink and began running water into it.

'Is he coming down?' I asked.

'He will when he's ready.'

That seemed to be as far as she was prepared to go. The only sound was the slosh of water and clatter of cutlery and plates as she bad-temperedly began to wash a pile of dishes. I listened for any movement from upstairs, but there was nothing.

'So what do I do, then?' Scott asked, staring worriedly at his foot.

It was an effort to drag my mind back. I was conscious of Scarsdale watching me. Impatience warred for a moment with obligation, then I gave in.

'Let me have a look at it.'

The wound wasn't as bad as it could have been, for all the filth of the bandage. It was healing, and there was a good chance he'd regain full use of his foot. The stitches looked as though they'd been put in by a clumsy student nurse, but the edges of the wound were starting to knit cleanly together. I fetched my kit from the car and set about cleaning and redressing it. I was almost done when the heavy thump of footsteps announced Brenner's arrival.

I finished off and stood up as he slouched into the room. He was wearing a pair of dirty jeans and a tight T-shirt. His upper body was pallid but powerful, corded with wiry muscle. He fixed me with a venomous look, then nodded at Scarsdale with something approaching grudging respect. He reminded me of a sullen schoolboy confronted by a stern headmaster.

'Good morning, Carl,' Scarsdale said, taking over. 'We're sorry to disturb you.'

His voice held an element of disapproval. Hearing it, Brenner seemed to become conscious of his appearance.