‘You were,’ Karen affirmed.
‘So … are you prepared to talk about it now?’
‘Yes, Jude. In the circumstances, definitely yes.’
There was a silence. Jude was aware, out of the corner of her eye, that Carole was keying in a number on her mobile phone. Unusual. But whoever she was phoning wasn’t there. She appeared to be listening to an answering message. Jude, however, was more interested in what was happening in Ilkley.
Chrissie took a deep breath before she began her narrative. ‘All right, I had only just got my reiki qualification. I was working out of this place I mentioned in Wetherby, and a mother brought her daughter along to the clinic. The girl had ME … you know, myalgic encephalomyelitis …’
‘Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,’ said Jude.
‘That’s it. Not that long ago dismissed as “yuppie flu”. The girl was, I don’t know, early twenties and her mother was at her wits’ end. Her daughter was qualified as a solicitor but hadn’t got the energy to get out of bed, let alone hold down a job. They’d tried all kinds of therapies, but nothing had worked. The mother had heard about reiki somewhere and asked me if I thought it might help. I told her that I certainly couldn’t cure the condition – I was very insistent that she took that on board – but that reiki sessions might alleviate some of the symptoms. And they did. I was pleased. After each session, the client was certainly more relaxed and had a bit more energy.
‘I was particularly pleased because, you know, as one of my first clients, I was anxious to do well with her. And so we got into a regular pattern of sessions twice a week for – I don’t know – a couple of months, I suppose.
‘Then, suddenly one day, she told me she was going to stop coming. She’d been seeing another therapist – something I didn’t know about – and he had referred her to a doctor because he thought there was something more serious wrong with her. And the doctor had diagnosed cancer.’
‘Poor kid. How did her mother react to that news?’
‘Well, this is the point,’ said Chrissie. ‘She didn’t tell her mother. She reckoned the poor woman already had enough to worry about. My client was very optimistic, I have to say, at that stage. She actually felt relieved to have a diagnosis of an identifiable disease, rather than something as vaguely defined as ME. And she thanked me for what the reiki had done for her, but said she wouldn’t be coming any more because she was about to embark on a process of treatment for the cancer.’
‘What, chemo?’ asked Jude. ‘Radiotherapy?’
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘She was going to have a course of treatment with the healer.’
‘Oh my God!’ said Jude. ‘And the healer was called Jeremiah?’
‘Yes. Whether it’s the same guy, the one who’s turned up in Fethering, I don’t know.’
‘Do you know the name of the doctor who made the cancer diagnosis?’
‘No, I never heard that.’
Chrissie now sounded quite emotional and it was with trepidation that Jude asked, ‘And what happened to the girl?’
‘It was a long time till I heard about it.’ Chrissie’s voice was unsteady. ‘You know, neither the girl nor her mother had any more connection with the clinic, and I didn’t know them in any other context. And then another client I was treating for ME … it turned out she knew the family. She told me …’ Chrissie gulped down a sob. ‘The girl took an overdose of prescription medication. Killed herself.’
‘And you don’t know whether the course of healing that she was—?’
‘I don’t know anything else, Jude. Just that she killed herself.’
‘And are you prepared to tell me her name?’
‘Jodie Flint. Jodie Flint killed herself.’ Chrissie cleared her throat. ‘That’s why Karen persuaded me I could talk about it. Client confidentiality becomes less important when the client’s dead.’
After she’d finished the call, she looked across at Carole, on whose face there was a rather smug expression. As she leant across to refill their glasses, Jude asked, ‘So which particular cream has this cat got?’
Carole tapped the diary. ‘I think, from overhearing parts of your conversation and from following my own logic, I know what the “H” that Bill Shefford kept writing down stood for.’
‘Oh?’
‘“Healer”. All those dates and times were appointments with his healer.’
‘You’re right! God, I’ve been so stupid! Why didn’t I, of all people, work that out?’
‘Well …’ said Carole, with considerable complacency.
‘And Bill spent a lot of time away from the garage, picking up cars for services, collecting parts and so on. He could have fitted the appointments in without Billy or Frankie thinking there was anything odd.’ Jude remembered something. ‘Jeremiah told me that he’d never met Bill Shefford.’
‘So? It seems that he was prepared to lie about a lot of things. Anyway, Jude, haven’t you done something similar?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Denied knowing people you’re treating as patients?’
‘Clients!’
‘Same difference. Haven’t you claimed not to know them because of your precious … client confidentiality?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever actually …’ It wasn’t worth pursuing. Besides, Jude read a strange expression on her neighbour’s face. ‘I’ve a feeling you’ve worked out something else.’
‘Yes, I have, actually,’ came the smug response.
‘What?’ asked Jude wearily. ‘Go on, tell me.’
‘I believe I’ve solved the mystery of the timed MOT.’
‘Ooh, aren’t you the clever one?’
‘It comes from a lifetime of doing crosswords, Jude. Words and letters are not always what they appear to be.’ Carole pointed to the diary entry: ‘17 October 10.15 a.m. MOT.’
‘I’ve always been crap at crosswords, so you’ll have to explain it to me.’
‘It’s a matter, you see, of what “MOT” means.’
‘I know what it means and—’
‘There’s something else odd about this particular diary entry, which I didn’t realize yesterday.’ Carole’s finger found the relevant mark on the page. ‘On the next line, also crossed out, is a local telephone number.’
She held her mobile phone out to her neighbour. ‘It’s the last number I dialled.’
Jude keyed in the redial and was rewarded by the following message: ‘This is the Magic of Therapy Centre. There is no one here to take your call at the moment. Our office hours are …’
‘“The Magic of Therapy Centre”,’ she echoed. ‘Have you heard of it?’
‘I’ve not only heard of it,’ said Carole. ‘I’ve been there.’
TWENTY-FOUR
His hand was cold as he palpated Jude’s generous right breast, but there was nothing sexual in the contact. Dr Rawley knew the standards required by his profession. As it had been for Carole’s appointment, his thin body was clad in black.
‘And you say it’s not causing you pain, Mrs Nicholls?’ For the personal details at the Magic of Therapy Centre, she had reverted to one of her married surnames and registered as ‘Mrs Judith Nicholls’. At the reception desk she had also done a very convincing performance as a woman unhinged by anxiety. In one period of her varied life, Jude had made a living as an actress, and the experience was not wasted in her current situation.
‘No pain exactly. I’m just kind of aware of it all the time.’ She judged finely the tremor of ill-suppressed panic in her voice.
‘Hm.’ The doctor removed the contact from her breast and washed his hands before turning back to her. ‘Do you mind if I just check out a few details about your life and lifestyle?’
‘No.’ With a little nervous giggle, she added, ‘Well, to get one of them out of the way, I probably drink more than the recommended government guidelines.’