‘You make it sound like a Frankenstein monster.’
Beamish-Newell gave a thin smile. ‘Buildings aren’t people. You can do things to them — hack them to bits, reconstruct them, bring them back to life — that wouldn’t be acceptable, on the whole, with people.’
There was a tap at the door. The Director called ‘Yes’, and a young woman in a white coat and white shoes came in. Beamish-Newell introduced Brock to Rose, who impressed him as being bright and alert, eager to please her boss. She shook his hand, gave him a big smile and led him off for a tour of the basement treatment areas.
By the time they reached the gym, Brock was feeling a bit more comfortable about what lay in store for him. Most of the rooms they looked into were occupied by small groups of patients and staff, all of whom seemed absorbed and content. Rose had a knack of making the oddest-sounding procedures sound quite appealing, and even the empty room with the acupuncture couch seemed almost commonplace by the time she had explained it.
‘There’s more space down here than you’d think,’ he said, as he watched her trying to unlock the heavy door in front of them.
‘Mmm, it’s a bit of a rabbit warren, really,’ she agreed, in her strong Ulster accent. ‘But you’ll soon know your way around, David. Is it all right if I call you David? Most of the patients prefer first names, you know.’
‘Of course. Which part of Ireland are you from, Rose?’
‘Belfast. Sandy Row, if you know the place.’
‘I do,’ Brock smiled, then immediately regretted it as the inevitable question followed.
‘How come?’
He recalled his short visit several years before, during the course of a murder investigation of an Irish girl in London.
‘I visited some friends in Belfast once. They showed me round the area.’
Then you’ll know why I left.’
He smiled vaguely and decided to change the subject, conscious again that he was going to have to work harder at telling lies or avoid having to tell them at all.
‘What’s this chamber of horrors, then?’
The door swung open at last, and he saw the exercise machines and recognized Kathy’s description of the gym which Petrou had been in charge of.
T don’t know if you’ll be needing this place. Patients have to use it under instruction because it’s just too easy to pull a muscle or do yourself some other injury, and we don’t want your family to see you hobbling home in worse shape than when you came.’ She had a full, warm laugh. ‘Do you have any muscular problems?’
‘A bit of a sore shoulder. Dr Beamish-Newell said I’d be needing physiotherapy and acupuncture.’
‘Oh well, we’ll see whether he wants you to exercise in here, then.’
‘Do you look after the gym, Rose?’
‘No, Mrs Beamish-Newell has overall charge, of course, but one of the men, Tony, usually supervises.’
Brock surveyed the room. It seemed constricted by the low brick vaults supporting the house above, and the air smelled musty with old sweat as if it was rarely aired.
‘I should have mentioned it before, Rose, but I think we may have a friend in common.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, her name’s Kathy. I met her unexpectedly in London not long ago, and when I told her I was coming here she said to say hello to you.’
‘Kathy, you say?’ Rose frowned, puzzled.
‘Kathy Kolla. She’s in the police.’
Brock saw Rose’s expression freeze.
‘She mentioned that you had written to her a while ago and she felt guilty that she had never replied. Something about her having been taken off the case and not able to do much to help. She did say, though, that, off the record, she shared your concerns, and if there was any new information she’d like to hear about it. You could either contact her direct, or you could tell me about it and I’ll pass it on. That’s what she said.’
I see.’ Brock caught the reserve in her eyes and voice. Outside in the corridor he could hear the sound of people leaving the afternoon therapy sessions. ‘It was to do with the young man who died suddenly here, wasn’t it? I read about it in the papers, I remember.’
Rose hesitated, the vivacity gone from her face. Brock scratched his beard and pressed on, trying to get some response before they were interrupted. ‘That must have been a terrible thing. Did you know him well?’
‘Quite well,’ she said after a pause, then added, ‘This was his gym — he was in charge of it before Tony.’
‘Ah. What was his name?’
‘Alex … Alex Petrou,’ she said, and at that moment the heavy door swung open and Brock met the eyes of another woman in a white coat standing staring at them.
‘Rose?’ she said sternly.
‘This is a new patient, Mrs Beamish-Newell. Mr David Brock.’
The Director’s wife nodded and offered her hand to Brock. She had the same cold look of detached appraisal as her husband, but was taking less trouble to put a friendly front on it. ‘Come to my office, Mr Brock.’ She turned on her heel. Brock gave Rose a little smile as he followed. She made an effort to respond, but her face was troubled, her dark eyebrows lowered in a frown.
Laura Beamish-Newell closed her office door behind Brock, went round the desk and picked up a file. They both stood while she read from it in silence. Through the small semicircular window above her head the afternoon light was dying. When she finally looked up at him, he almost felt disposed to make a full confession. She had intelligent eyes and he noticed they were lightly made up to cover some premature creases. She considered him steadily for a moment as if weighing up whether he was a fraud. ‘Take off your dressing gown, Mr Brock, and your slippers. Get on the scales, please.’
She noted his weight, fourteen stone six, and his height, six foot two, then told him to sit down on the metal office chair facing her desk. Remaining standing, she wrapped a strap around his upper left arm and took his blood pressure. Then she took the file back round to the other side of the desk and sat down.
‘Are you interested in exercising in the gym?’
‘Well, I thought it might be a good idea.’
‘It should be all right. But only under Tony’s instruction. I’ll have a word with him.’ Her accent was difficult to pin down, Home Counties probably, but with a trace of something underneath, from the north perhaps. She continued writing, filling in boxes on what looked like a timetable and making notes on a page in the file.
Eventually she made a number of copies on the small photocopier in the corner of the room, put them into a plastic folder and handed them over to Brock. ‘This is the information you need for your first week here. We’ll review your progress at the end of that time. That is the schedule of your therapy sessions.’ She leaned across the desk and indicated with her pen on the timetable. ‘There are three sessions each day, at nine, eleven and three; in between you have the morning break, lunch and rest hour, and afternoon free time. A notice of evening talks and other events is posted in the entrance hall outside the dining room. All sessions start promptly, Mr Brock. Please bear that in mind.
‘This is information on your dietary programme for the first week,’ she continued, indicating another sheet in the folder. Brock stared at it for a moment, trying to make sense of it. It didn’t look much like a menu, more like a chemical analysis. The numbers of grams listed in the right-hand column didn’t seem very large.
‘The first week is crucial. At each meal-time you will find a tray with your name on it waiting for you on the long table in the dining room. Please don’t supplement your diet in any way, apart from water and lemon juice. Is that understood?’
There was none of Dr Beamish-Newell’s invitation to set out on a great dietary adventure. These were orders, not requests. This was going to be serious.
11
Brock realized just how serious when he collected his tray for dinner that evening and opened the lid. There was a woman in a white coat standing at one end of the long table, a cook perhaps, and he took his tray to her.