Charity Page 49

  The sound of feet made Baker turn in his seat, stifling yet another yawn. A man was walking purposefully along the corridor towards him carrying a huge bunch of flowers.

  He stopped, looking at the door of the private room, then back at Baker.

  ‘May I see Miss Stratton?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Baker asked. The man was around the same age as himself, with fair hair neither fashionably long nor a decent short cut, and a worn brown leather jacket but for some reason the clipped public school voice irritated him. Maybe it wasn’t the voice so much, more that the man looked far more youthful than he felt himself.

  ‘Dr Cuthbertson. May I see her?’

  The title ‘doctor’ immediately made Baker feel intimidated, yet at the same time the bunch of flowers and the man’s leather jacket meant he wasn’t visiting in a professional capacity.

  ‘I’ve had instructions not to let anyone in but close relatives.’ Baker’s tone was a little churlish.

  Since Miss Stratton regained consciousness, Baker often went in for little chats with her. At first they had been pure duty: questions designed to get her to open up, maybe even get a confession. Detective Inspector Fleming didn’t believe she remembered nothing about the evening prior to her accident, but Baker did, now.

  As unprofessional as he knew it was, Baker saw himself as a friend, not a gaoler. Fleming and some of the other officers involved with the case might see her as a high-flying businesswoman who’d cracked and killed her uncle because of some family feud. But Baker’s gut reaction was that she was merely a lonely, disturbed woman who just happened to crash her car in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

  ‘Have any of her close relatives been?’ Robert asked, his question worded in such a way it sounded like a challenge.

  ‘Well no,’ Baker admitted reluctantly. ‘Not yet anyway. Only Rita Simpson who works for her.’

  ‘I’m quite safe,’ Robert said, picking up that this burly policeman had become protective towards his charge, just as he did with many of his troubled patients. ‘Look, if you’re doubtful about me, contact Dr Mead the registrar, I spoke to him last night. I’m not just a doctor, but an old friend of Charity’s.’

  ‘OK, go on in.’ Baker nodded his head towards the door. ‘But you’d better give me your name and address.’

  Robert gave the information.

  ‘How is she doing?’ he asked, his hand on the door.

  ‘Up and down.’ Baker shrugged his shoulders. ‘She tries to keep a brave face, but since she heard about her uncle –’ he paused, unable to admit how often he’d heard her crying when she thought no one was around.

  Robert stood for a moment just inside the door, overcome by an unexpected rush of emotion.

  He had seen countless patients with far worse injuries than he knew Charity’s to be. But she was unrecognisable. Her entire face, neck and the parts of her arms and hands not hidden by either her nightdress or plaster were covered with cuts and both her eyes were blackened and swollen. Her head was swathed in bandage and the plastered arm held still on a rest; even her shape was concealed by a frame over her legs.

  There was a basket of flowers on the windowsill, a vase of carnations on the locker and just two get-well cards beside it, a pitifully bleak collection.

  ‘Hallo Charity,’ he said, approaching the bed. ‘Remember me?’

  One swollen eye opened a little wider and he saw a flash of brilliant blue.

  ‘Is this a trick question?’ Her voice was barely recognisable. ‘Should I know you?’

  ‘No tricks.’ He held his hands wide, waving the flowers, suddenly feeling just as shy as he had at their first meeting. ‘It’s just a very long time ago.’

  Charity studied him. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she couldn’t place him. The man had a comfortably pleasant sort of face, nice brown eyes, and his voice was ringing distant bells.

  ‘Give us a clue?’ she said.

  ‘A cottage at Five Ash Down …’ Rob lifted one eyebrow questioningly.

  Her one free hand flew up to her mouth.

  ‘Rob?’

  ‘The very same.’ He smiled. ‘May I stay?’

  ‘Yes of course,’ she said hurriedly, yet at the same time she had a desire to pull the sheet over her face and hide from him. ‘How on earth did you find me?’

  Rob put the flowers in the washbasin and pulled up a chair, giving himself time to present the story as Hugh had suggested.

  ‘I saw a bit about you in the paper, and I just had to come. I thought you might need a friend.’

  He could see no more of her eyes than a chink of blue embedded in swollen flesh, but a tear glinted on her eyelashes.

  ‘You don’t need someone like me as a friend,’ she murmured. ‘But I appreciate the thought, and the flowers.’

  ‘Allow me to be the judge of whether I need you as a friend.’ Rob smiled and reached out to touch her bandaged hand.

  There had been many moments since Charity regained consciousness when she wished she’d died in that crash. Apart from the times when her dressings were being changed, or when Jim came in to talk to her, the days and nights were endless. Again and again she’d tried to focus on happy moments in her life, forcing herself to believe this was just a bad patch which she could get over. But she felt as if she was in quicksand, clutching on to a weak branch that would eventually break and she’d be swallowed up by thick slime.

  But now Rob had appeared out of nowhere, a boy she retained sweet memories of. He looked so bright and cheery, his hand on hers, warm and capable, and it felt strangely as if she was being offered a hand to help her out.

  He was so different from how she remembered. Twelve years ago he’d been small and thin, just like her. Now he was tall, and although still slender he had the kind of robust fitness of a sportsman. She didn’t remember Rob having such a square, strong jaw, or such well-shaped lips. But it was his manner that had changed the most: the young Rob had dropped his eyes from direct stares, this Rob looked into her eyes unwaveringly. She recalled how they used to talk together, how much she’d revealed to him about her childhood that she never told Hugh.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘But you’re the patient,’ he smiled. ‘I want to know how you are, how you feel?’

  ‘You sound like a doctor.’ She tried to smile but it was just a twitch of the lips.

  ‘I suppose I can’t switch it off,’ Rob said. ‘I am a doctor.’

  Again her eyes widened enough for him to see blue.

  ‘But you were going to study English literature?’

  ‘I had a change of heart,’ he explained. He gave her a brief rundown, omitting to tell her he was in fact a psychiatrist now. ‘And to be truthful I phoned the registrar here last night, so I know your spine isn’t broken, just your arm. You had a lucky escape, Charity. Most people that fly through windscreens come off much worse than you.’

  Charity studied his face as he spoke and liked what she saw. He had a lovely mobile and expressive mouth, when he smiled it lit up his whole face, and those brown speckly eyes she had liked all those years ago had a wealth of understanding in them now, almost as if he’d seen everything, as she sometimes felt she had.

  ‘I suppose you know too that I’m rumoured to be a bit of a crackpot?’ she said, guessing that Dr Mead would tell another doctor everything he knew. ‘You must know too I’m a murder suspect.’

  ‘I like to make my own diagnosis.’ Rob smiled. ‘And from what I remember of you, you aren’t capable of murder.’

  Robert hadn’t had the wonderful childhood most people credited him with. He was a very lonely boy trapped between a hard, ruthless father who was only interested in making money and a highly strung mother who fluctuated between neglecting him and smothering him. For as far back as Rob could remember there had always been fights and slanging matches and as a small boy he’d been convinced he was the reason for the strife.

  It wa
s only when his mother had had that breakdown, that Rob had begun to see the fault didn’t lie with him. And once his mother had claimed that if she’d had one good friend to talk to, she might not have ended up sedated in hospital. It was a painful memory. Perhaps his experience would help Charity – and do some good.

  ‘I’m not the girl you used to know,’ Charity said in a small voice. ‘So much has happened.’

  ‘That’s true of me too,’ Rob said. Charity’s injuries prevented him from reading her facial expressions. It was like trying to make an assessment of someone over the phone. All he had to go on was a twelve-year-old memory. ‘But I believed we were good friends that summer and I think we could be again, don’t you?’

  Charity just looked at him for a moment.

  She had learned to weigh up people over the years and even if she’d never met Rob before in her life she would instinctively trust him. He’d come not out of curiosity, but with a genuine desire to help her.

  ‘I always liked you, Rob,’ she admitted, remembering now with a prickle of guilt that he’d had a crush on her and it must have been painful for him watching Hugh and her together. ‘We were good friends, weren’t we?’

  Rob wondered why she didn’t lead on from that remark to ask about Hugh.

  ‘You know, I always imagined you being married, with a parcel of kids,’ Rob said with a smile. ‘Now I hear you’re a successful businesswoman. I’d love to know how that came about.’

  ‘A long story.’ Charity tried to smile back, suddenly feeling warmer inside. ‘But what about you? Are you married?’

  Rob shook his head. ‘I failed in that department.’

  ‘A big love that went wrong?’ Charity asked.

  ‘Sort of.’ Rob looked rueful. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Colossal failure,’ she said and for the first time in a very long time she actually wanted to laugh. ‘So we’ve got something in common.’

  ‘You know, I think we’ve got a great deal in common.’ Rob smiled. ‘But you must rest, and I’ve got to get back to my own hospital in north London and my own patients. Can I come and see you again?’

  ‘Please do.’ Charity felt sad that he was leaving.

  Rob stood up, hesitating before saying what had sprung into his mind.

  ‘Look, Charity,’ he said. ‘I know from Dr Mead that you were in a low state before the accident. I’d like to help. When I come again do you think you could bring yourself to talk to me?’

  He sensed rather than saw her pain; it was almost like a grey aura round her.

  ‘I don’t know if I can,’ she stammered.

  ‘Think it over.’ His voice was gentle. ‘I came as a friend, that’s all, but I am a doctor too and I work with people’s problems every day. I can help you if you want me to.’

  ‘Dr Mead said he was going to arrange for a psychiatrist to speak to me,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  ‘I am a psychiatrist,’ Rob said, putting one hand on hers. This was the last thing he’d intended to admit; he’d found people were wary of psychiatrists. ‘Talk to Dr Mead. If you’d rather see someone else, that’s fine. I’ll still come and visit you.’

  The feeling Charity had had earlier that Rob was offering a hand to pull her out of this pit she was in came back, and was stronger now. Her sense of isolation was suddenly lessened.

  Her eyes were closing with weariness, but now there was a glimmer of hope. ‘Please come back, Rob.’

  Robert sat in an armchair deep in thought. It was nearly midnight and he knew he ought to get to bed as he had a full schedule of patients to see tomorrow, but Charity was on his mind.

  He couldn’t see her as just a patient, and that troubled him. Neither could he view her as just a friend in trouble: it had become quite clear to him she needed professional help.

  Rob had already made several wrong moves. The first had been in allowing Hugh to manipulate him. The second had been in putting himself forward as a psychiatrist; the third, being unprofessional enough to go and see Charity’s friend and employee Rita Simpson.

  Hugh was reasonably simple to sort out: he’d just phone him tomorrow and pass on the kind of detached information he usually gave to enquiring friends or relatives. Once Hugh heard Charity hadn’t even asked about him he would probably lose interest, as the man had an ego the size of a football pitch.

  The second and third moves were now entwined, and at least Rita was wholeheartedly in agreement that Charity needed his help. Rita had given him a great deal of background information – on their flat-sharing days, the building of the business, and the brothers and sister Rob remembered Charity being so concerned about all those years ago. He learned to his dismay that none of these siblings had been to see Charity and this seemed to be a pointer to what caused her depression prior to the crash.

  Rita had said that another friend, Dorothy, was coming back from America as soon as she could arrange it. That was a good sign; there didn’t seem to be anyone else of importance in Charity’s life.

  Perhaps the thing which jarred Rob the most about today’s events was coming up with direct parallels to his own life. Although there were great gaps in his knowledge about Charity’s past, her character and personality, he’d formed a partial picture.

  Rob was content with his bachelor life. He had a job which enthralled him, a good salary and, when he needed it, a busy social life. But like Charity, he too had become engrossed in his work and the years had slipped by without him noticing, until now he was becoming a bit of a hermit.

  There had been women, lots of them. Nurses he’d dated, a couple of lady doctors and many more bright social butterflies who were attracted to him because of his profession. Charity might have been driven to succeed because of her childhood poverty. Rob was driven by a need for personal recognition.

  Right from a small boy Rob had known that people accepted him only because he was rich. If he’d been the son of a farm labourer, no one would have invited a shy kid like him to parties or asked him to play with their children. Hugh was a fine example of this attitude, though it was some years before Rob realised it. At medical school it was the same: he got asked to dinner parties, even though he was frequently tongue-tied with shyness, just so his hosts could boast they knew the heir to the Cuthbertson fortune.

  He had been twenty-three when his father lost everything. He’d always been a speculator, starting in the post-war years, but though in the late Fifties and early Sixties he couldn’t go wrong with buying and selling land, by 1970 other speculators sharper than himself emerged. It transpired that his father had been robbing Peter to pay Paul for some time and when one of his schemes crashed, it brought the others down too.

  Rob had been happily in love with Polly then, a pretty and vivacious girl he’d met at a smart party in Knightsbridge and he believed she loved him for himself. But the night he went to her for comfort when his mother committed suicide following the financial crash, her coolness and lack of sympathy made him see her for what she was.

  Rob’s mother’s death still haunted him, even though he had the experience now to know she had always been a deeply troubled soul. It hurt to see friends like Hugh drop away too, now Rob couldn’t splash his money around. Yet being cut adrift from a fortune had been the making of Rob. He found new friends, real ones who liked him for himself, and slowly the personality that had been swamped by his family’s wealth and by people who treated him as inferior, began to develop.

  Rob had only just taken up his position at Colney Hatch hospital when his grandmother died. She left her house to Rob’s father, but all her investments to Rob. To Rob this meant nothing more than the security of knowing he could choose to stay in the field of work he cared deeply about, without financial considerations. To make sure people continued to like him for himself, Rob told no one about his inheritance.

  Bridget, a middle-aged Irish woman, came in twice a week to clean up. Though she despaired of a kitchen that showed no signs of cooked meals and
a bedroom that looked like a war zone, she managed to keep on top of it. Once Rob had let friends stay in one of the two spare bedrooms, but male companions could be even more trying than female ones, and now these two rooms had the doors firmly shut, except for odd nights when he allowed someone to sleep off a drunken stupor.

  I wonder what Charity would make of it? he thought to himself?

  ‘Go to bed, you silly sod,’ he said, hauling himself out of the chair. ‘Rescue the damsel in distress if you must, but don’t look for happy ever after.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Charity woke and lay listening to the birdsong from the garden beneath. The curtains were pale blue with a white cloud design, almost like looking at a summer sky. But then there was no indication in the room that this was a nursing home. Aside from the bed, which was higher than a normal one. A television, two comfortable high-backed armchairs, even the white units of drawers, shelves and a desk implied a hotel, not an institution. This was Charity’s fourth morning in Holly Bush House, and the first since the accident, nearly three weeks ago, that she hadn’t woken out of a nightmare.

  She had tried to rationalise what exactly happened in these nightmares so she could tell Rob, but apart from a feeling of terrifying menace there was nothing to hang on to.

  Rolling over on to her side, she gripped the mattress with her one good hand and manoeuvred her legs towards the floor. The pain in her back and neck made it impossible to haul herself up to a sitting position, but yesterday she’d mastered this way of getting out of bed. Once her feet touched the hard surface it was comparatively easy to stand.

  Her legs were undamaged, but walking jarred her spine. She reached out for her stick and, wincing with the pain, slowly crept towards the en-suite bathroom.

  Charity stared dispassionately at herself in the mirror. Her facial scars were still shocking to anyone seeing her for the first time: the one on her right cheek was jagged and ugly and another across her forehead had needed four stitches. But bad as they were, it was her hair that concerned her most. It looked and felt disgusting! Stitching the bad gash on the side of her head had necessitated shaving the immediate area. Now with her hair lank and greasy, this bald patch showed up vividly.