The Nurse(40)

Carol was working straight through to Thursday, so I knew, good girl that she was, she’d go straight home after her shift with the Wallaces that evening. I checked the time on my mobile. It was too early to ring. More relaxed now that I’d decided my next step, I left the empty container and dirty fork on the table, picked up my book and crossed to the bed. Snuggled under the duvet, I was soon back in Broadmoor.

When I finished, I shut the book with a sigh. It was my dream to visit Broadmoor, to see where Peter Sutcliff had spent over thirty-two years, where Ronnie Kray died, and where Peter Bryan, who fried his friend’s brain in butter, was still incarcerated. Sadly, it didn’t look as if I was going to be able to make my dream come true – sometimes I had doubts about my sanity, but even if I did commit a seriously deranged crime, I wouldn’t get into Broadmoor. It only accepted male patients now. Such a shame, but perhaps I was better off staying free.

Climbing from the bed with the book in my hand, I went to the bookshelf and frowned. With my living space so constricted, it was necessary to be strict about what I kept. The book in my hand was a definite keeper and I made space for it on the middle shelf, the one dedicated to institutions like Broadmoor and Wakefield.

The shelf above was given completely to the oldest psychiatric hospital in the world dating back to 1247. Bethlem Hospital, or Bedlam as it was commonly called, giving the English language a word that became synonymous with mayhem and madness. One of the top tourist attractions in London of the 1750s was doing a paid tour of the hospital to see the inmates who were generally chained to walls. It was a tour I’d have loved to have done. I’d bought every book I could find on the hospital.

Other shelves were given over to the notorious and infamous. A recent purchase was a book on Jeffrey Dahmer which indicated it had something new to say about the notorious serial killer. It would be my next read.

I put it on the table to start the following day, the bookmark on top carefully aligned with the edge of the cover. For the remainder of the evening, I’d watch some TV.

But first, I’d make that call to Carol.

The phone rang a few times before I heard her soft, hesitant, ‘Hello.’

Her tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly as if she was trying to decide why I was contacting her. We weren’t on ringing terms, our meetings arranged by message, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake, if I’d given her a reason to be suspicious. It was done, no point now in shilly-shallying. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m ringing.’ I tried to inject a note of humility into my voice. ‘I’m so sorry I was less than helpful this morning. I should have explained that I’ve been having a problem with sleeping recently and I’m so tired it’s affecting my mood.’ I pressed the mobile closer to my ear, straining to hear any reaction. When it came, a sigh that I knew meant she’d swallowed my pathetic line, I relaxed. ‘I feel so bad about it and would love to have the chance to make it up to you. So how about I take you for lunch on your next day off?’ Grovelling was a new act for me. I wondered if I’d pulled it off.

‘Lunch? That’s very kind of you, but really, it’s not necessary.’

There was little gratitude and less warmth in her voice. Either I hadn’t been very believable or more intense grovelling was in order. ‘I know how much you love your garden,’ – this was a complete shot in the dark, she had, in fact, simply mentioned having one – ‘so I was thinking of Prior Park garden centre. They do a lovely lunch and the weather being so good, we could sit outside. Go on, let me treat you to make up for my being less than helpful this morning.’

The sigh I heard this time was more reluctant acceptance than understanding. ‘I was going shopping for some pelargoniums at the weekend, so I suppose I could have a look there.’

‘Great. It’s a date. What day suits you best?’

‘Friday.’

‘Friday!’ I gushed, overcompensating for her less-than-rapturous response to getting a free lunch. ‘Brilliant, that’s perfect for me too. About twelve thirty, that suit?’

‘Yes, that’d be fine.’

‘Okay, great, I’ll see you there on Friday then.’ I hung up, tossed the mobile onto the bed and flopped down beside it. Seriously, Carol could be such hard work, and all this to satisfy my curiosity.

She wouldn’t know the secret that Mrs Wallace was hiding in that locked room; if she did, Carol wouldn’t hesitate, she’d have been on the phone as quick as you could say NMC.

But I was good at ferreting out information people didn’t realise they had, and difficult as Carol could be, as much as she continued to make me uneasy, she was no match for me.

Anyway, I was starting from a positive point; I knew Mrs Wallace was hiding a nasty little secret. I simply needed more information before deciding what I was going to do with that knowledge.





28





Two days later, I was walking along Prior Park Road towards the garden centre that had unimaginatively used the same name. It was a convenient short walk for me from Bath bus station and I arrived with time to spare. A typical modern garden centre, it had lots of indoor and outdoor plants, a well-stocked gift shop, a farm shop, a pet and aquatics section and, of course, a café. Something for everyone.

I half expected to find Carol waiting, but this time I’d beat her to the being first spot. Ignoring the plants which held little interest for me, I wandered around the gift shop. So much stuff: I wasn’t quite sure what some of it was for. The farm shop was of more interest. A loaf of artisan sourdough bread almost tempted me until I saw the price. I poked at it to see if it did anything exceptional, then laughed and moved away when I saw an assistant looking at me with raised eyebrows.