Faith Martin - A Fatal Flaw

But as if sensing what was coming, Grace got in first. ‘Please, Trudy, can’t you just speak to him? At least ask him to call me as a witness or something? I can testify to her state of mind, at least, can’t I? Won’t the inquest want to know that Abby wasn’t feeling suicidal at all?’

‘But, Grace, how can you be so sure?’ Trudy asked helplessly. ‘None of us know, not really, how someone else is feeling.’

Slowly, Grace’s shoulders slumped. ‘So you won’t help?’ she asked flatly, her gaze so accusatory that Trudy almost winced.

‘It’s not that I won’t. It’s that I can’t,’ Trudy tried to explain. ‘I’m not even one of the officers assigned to the case,’ she pointed out. ‘And believe you me, my superiors… well, let’s just say, they won’t be in any hurry to listen to what I might have to say,’ she added, a shade bitterly. The thought of the look that would cross her DI’s face if she came to him with this tale was enough to make her shudder.

Seeing what she was up against, Grace decided that if she was in for a penny, she might as well be in for a pound, and took a deep, deep breath.

‘It’s not only this thing with Abby,’ Grace said, sounding almost defiant all of a sudden. ‘It’s other things as well. At the theatre…’ She paused, closed her eyes for a second, and then took the plunge. ‘Things have been happening.’

‘What do you mean?’ Trudy asked sharply.

Grace shrugged, her eyes suddenly darting around the room so that they wouldn’t have to meet Trudy’s. ‘Oh, just things,’ she said, rather unhelpfully. ‘Stupid things. Nasty little tricks… For instance, someone tied a string over the bottom step in the stairs that leads up to the stage, so that one of the girls took a tumble. Oh, she wasn’t hurt – but she did have to rest her ankle for a few days, so she lost rehearsal time for her dance routine. And then something must have been added to one of the girls’ jars of face cream which brought her skin out in a rash… It faded after a few days, but she pulled out of the competition anyway. Just silly little pranks like that.’

Trudy frowned. ‘But isn’t that likely to be a simple case of rivalry between the contestants? It sounds like the sort of mean tricks that some girl who wants to scare others into withdrawing from the contest might use.’

‘Yes. That’s what everyone seems to think,’ Grace admitted reluctantly. ‘But, Trudy, I’m not so sure. I have a bad feeling about it all. I think… Oh, I just wish you’d talk to your coroner friend about Abby! Perhaps you could come down to the theatre sometime, during rehearsals or something, and just take a look around? See if anything strikes you as… odd. But you mustn’t tell anyone that you know me, or that I’ve been talking to you, because then I could lose my job,’ Grace added hastily, suddenly clutching her arm and holding it in a tight grip. ‘Mr Dunbar wouldn’t like it if he thought that I’d been speaking out of turn. He’s dead scared as it is that the papers will get to know about our little problems and give us bad publicity. So you mustn’t come in uniform or anything… I know!’ She suddenly beamed brightly. ‘You could pretend to be thinking of applying to be a contestant or something. It would give you the perfect excuse for being there and having a look around. Oh, Trudy, please?’

Trudy, unable to resist the appeal in her friend’s eyes, suddenly gave in. What could it really hurt, just to put her mind at rest? DI Jennings need never know about it. Besides, she was intrigued.

‘OK. I’ll go and see Dr Ryder and tell him what you’ve said. If nothing else, he can at least give us some advice. But I’m not promising anything mind!’

‘Oh, Trudy! Thanks ever so much!’ Grace leaned across and gave her a hug. ‘Now, I’ve really got to get back to Mum,’ she said. ‘I don’t like leaving her in the house for long with just Dad to look after her,’ she admitted, and Trudy gave her a quick, fierce hug back.

‘Of course!’ she said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. ‘And I do hope your mother gets better soon,’ she said. She simply couldn’t imagine what she’d do, or how she’d feel or cope, if her own mother suddenly got so ill. The thought made Trudy feel quite sick.

She jumped up and ushered her friend downstairs. And with a quick ‘goodbye’ called out to the older Lovedays who were still in the kitchen, Grace was gone.

But as Grace Farley walked to the end of the street and caught the bus across town, she sat in her seat, swaying slightly and looking out at the darkening city with a growing sense of panic.

Had she done the right thing? What if it all backfired? What if Trudy didn’t come through for her? Or worse yet, what if she did, but didn’t get the results that she, Grace, so desperately needed her to get? And what if her old friend was really good at her job, and learned far more than was good for her?

Grace shifted on the seat, fighting back a growing sense of unease. What if she’d miscalculated, and it all went wrong?

For a long moment, Grace Farley felt chilled to the bone.

She could actually end up in prison.

Or worse yet! What would her tormentor do to her if it came out that she, Grace, had brought the police sniffing around the theatre?

And yet… And yet, the risk had to be worth it.

She simply had to get something on her persecutor, before… well, before things got totally out of control.

Trudy Loveday was the only one she knew who might be able to find such ammunition. But she’d have to watch her old friend closely.

Dr Clement Ryder watched his hand, which was lying flat on the tabletop, and scowled as it began to twitch slightly. Grimly, he used his other hand to massage the palm, and after a while, the twitching slowly abated. But he knew it would be back.

He’d self-diagnosed himself as suffering from Parkinson’s disease whilst still a surgeon in London, which had led to him resigning from his medical career and embarking on his new life as a coroner in Oxford.

Although, so far, he’d managed to keep his condition a secret from everyone – his friends, family, and work colleagues alike – he was well aware that he faced an uphill struggle in the years ahead to keep the secret safe, as the disease inevitably progressed and worsened. And the symptoms became more and more obvious.

But at least, being a widower and living alone now that both of his grown children were off living lives of their own, his domestic situation put him in a good position to keep his private demons strictly private.

Which was why he scowled somewhat ferociously as he heard the doorbell ring. Visitors were seldom welcome. He glanced outside, saw that it was nearly fully dark, and wondered who could be calling at this time in the evening.

Although he was a man of influence and power, and often socialised with Oxford’s movers and shakers, his real friends were few and far between, and all of them knew that he wasn’t the kind of man that you simply ‘dropped in on’ to have a chat and a nightcap with.

He got up somewhat reluctantly from his chair, a tall man at just over six feet in height, with a shock of thick silvery-white hair. He was a few years off his sixtieth birthday, but looked comfortably closer to 50. As he walked out into the hall, he watched his feet carefully. The stumbling uneven gait of a man in his condition was a dead giveaway to well-informed eyes, and he was glad to notice that, so far, he was walking as well as he’d ever done.

Perhaps, in the future, he might have to feign some sort of leg injury to cover up any falls or mishaps? Or a touch of fictional arthritis might fit the bill? It would certainly give him an excuse to use a walking cane. He’d have to give it some thought.