The Nurse(42)

Carol took the top piece of bread from the second half of her sandwich, put it to one side, and used her fingers to pick a piece of chicken from the filling. She peered at it carefully before putting it into her mouth. ‘No, she knew. He’d been diagnosed with cancer a few months before the wife died and that’s why he was in and out of the GP surgery. He was going through his second round of chemotherapy when his wife had the heart attack.’

Oonagh Wallace married a sick man. That was an interesting piece of information. ‘I suppose they expected to have a lot longer together,’ I said, trying to sound sympathetic.

Carol pushed the mangled remains of her food away and picked up her coffee. ‘I’d imagine so. He was doing okay until he got a chest infection a few weeks ago. He never recovered from it and since then, he’s had almost twenty-four-hour nursing care.’

‘Apart from those few hours when she feeds him his morning and evening meal.’

Carol looked surprised. ‘How did you know that?’

I smiled. ‘You told me, remember.’

A flicker of annoyance swept over her features in a wave. ‘I shouldn’t be discussing a patient in my care, it’s very unprofessional of me.’

As unprofessional as begging me to help her after I’d worked a twelve-hour shift? ‘Don’t worry I won’t sell it to the tabloids.’

She didn’t look remotely amused. Draining her cup, she put it down with a snap. ‘That was lovely, thank you.’

There was a finality in her voice that irked me. But I knew when to cut my losses, I wasn’t going to get any more out of her. Not that day anyway. ‘We should do it again sometime.’ I drank the last of my water. ‘You want to go and look at the plants?’

Carol checked her watch. ‘I think I’ll leave it, actually, I need to get going.’

It suited me. I’d found out all I could, I wanted to get home and digest what she’d told me about Oonagh Wallace who was becoming more interesting by the day.





29





I left Carol in the car park and headed down Prior Park Road into the city. She hadn’t offered to drive me anywhere although she could have dropped me on the London Road where I’d have been able to get my bus, or near Alice Park where I’d have been easily able to walk home. It didn’t matter. I could catch a bus in the station which would probably fly past her dented old Toyota on the bus corridor.

As I approached the station, I had a change of plan. It wasn’t a long walk to Lansdown Road for someone as used to walking as I was, and thirty minutes later I was standing outside the Wallace house.

What I had discovered in that locked room near the kitchen was interesting but putting it together with what Carol had told me made it fascinating. Reading about true crime and the devious, infamous perpetrators was one thing, seeing a crime enacted was something else. I’d seen photographs of Jeffrey Dahmer – he’d been a good-looking man. From the photographs I’d seen of Oonagh Wallace, she too was good-looking. But with her I could manoeuvre a meeting and see her in the flesh. Maybe even become part of the story.

That fascinating thought kept me lingering by the gateway, staring up at the massive house. For the first time, I regretted I didn’t have a car. If I did, I could have sat in it and watched the house till she came out. A vague idea crossed my mind. I could ring the doorbell and explain I’d lost something the day I’d been helping Carol, and since I was passing I decided to pop in on spec to see if I could find it. Even to my ears, that sounded far-fetched. Anyway, it came with an insurmountable problem. I’d have to explain why I’d been needed. Mrs Wallace might complain to the agency, and Carol would get into trouble. Might even be suspended. And they’d need a replacement. If I could have guaranteed that I’d be it, I might have been tempted, but I couldn’t. Since I wanted to know more about the Wallaces, it was better to keep Carol in situ.

It was irritating to have come all this way for nothing. I walked past the house, turned, crossed the road, and dawdled back. So frustrating to be this close. Crossing the road again, I turned to pass one last time. I could ring the doorbell, say I was collecting for something or other, couldn’t I? No, that wouldn’t work, charity workers all carried identification. She might ask to see it.

It would be simpler to ring the doorbell, and when she answered, to look surprised and say I was looking for – I sought for a good imaginary name – Sally Prior, no, Sally Park. It’d do.

I walked to the steps leading up to the front door and looked for a doorbell. It took a few seconds to find it, hidden as it was under the ivy that slithered upward from the garden. I pressed once, my ear cocked to listen for its peal. If it did sound within though, it wasn’t audible on this side of the heavy front door.

Minutes ticked by before I decided to press again, keeping my finger on it for longer. Perhaps Mrs Wallace wasn’t home, but whichever nurse was on duty should answer.

When the door opened suddenly, it startled me, my yelp an automatic response that seemed to amuse the woman who stood framed in the doorway. She waited, one hand resting on the doorframe, her head slightly tilted in an unspoken question. I noticed her nails were short, unvarnished, her hands long and slim. She had an air of elegance about her that I instantly envied. Unlike my thin shapeless physique, her slim body had curves in all the right places. These were obviously, even proudly, emphasised by a turquoise silk blouse unbuttoned a tad too far to show the lacy edge of a similar-coloured bra. The cream ankle-length chinos were a perfect match.