A Fatal Obsession: A gripping mystery perfect for all crime fiction readers

So far, the shaking palsy that had begun to stalk him a little over five years ago hadn’t become a major issue in his new life. Even though it had, obviously, put paid to his old one.

Born to middle-class parents in a suburb of Cheltenham, Clement had earned a scholarship to Oxford, where he’d studied medicine. From there he’d gone on to a residency at a major London hospital, culminating, after years of hard graft and more study, in a surgical position at the same hospital.

He’d then gone on to specialise in heart surgery, and by the age of forty had smugly assumed his life would continue in the same vein.

Of course, it hadn’t. His children had grown rapidly and, with a thirst for independence, had left home at the first opportunity. Which, as it turned out, was just as well since Angela, his wife, had died before she could reach her fiftieth birthday.

And, as if that hadn’t been enough of a blow, two years later, while preparing for surgery, he’d noticed a slight tremble in his left hand when he’d been scrubbing up.

Naturally, he’d dismissed it as probably nothing. The surgery had gone well, but two weeks later, he’d felt a slight weakness in his arm when he’d been lifting a half pint of beer at a retirement party for one of his colleagues.

Again, he’d dismissed it – but perhaps not quite so quickly, and with an added sense of unease and foreboding.

Over the next year, he monitored himself closely, noting down every little incident, every little unexplained tremble or weakness of limb. And, of course, he’d done his research.

He found that, way back in the mists of time, ‘paralysis agitans’ had been known to physicians. But it was only in 1817 that James Parkinson had published ‘An Essay in the Shaking Palsy’, which best described the familiar characteristics of people suffering from this condition, detailing the resting tremor, abnormal posture and gait, paralysis and diminished muscle strength, and the way the disease progressed over time.

At first, Clement had not accepted it. There were other possible causes of his symptoms, after all. But one thing became immediately clear – he could not continue operating on people until he knew for sure.

And so he’d taken a few weeks of leave and, under a false name, booked himself into a little clinic he knew of in the south of France, where he’d ordered and overseen a series of tests he’d had run on himself. And when the results came in, he knew they effectively meant the end of his world.

Clement sighed heavily now as he took a large gulp of the claret. He was vaguely aware that, since he’d ceased operating, he had slowly grown used to becoming a social drinker – in a minor way. Fastidious about not touching alcohol for so many years, it made a nice change to be able to indulge now and then.

But, he thought now, with a snort of amusement, if people did begin to detect the odd whiff of alcohol on his breath, getting a reputation for being a bit of a lush could be a positive bonus. It would help explain the odd stumble or two, or a bout of clumsy shaking.

Now how was that for irony? A man who’d always been careful not to imbibe too much being taken for a lush? Still, it was better than being thrown on the scrap heap.

Outside, the hail passed, but he continued to stare into the fire, his mind drifting back over the years.

The loss of so much in such a short space of time might have broken a lesser man. But Clement Ryder had never been the sort of man to let life kick him when he was down. So, after tendering his immediate resignation, he had looked around for something to fill his time.

He’d returned to Oxford, but had no desire to teach. Instead, he’d simply sat down one day and asked himself what he did – and didn’t – want from life.

He certainly didn’t want to leave the world of medicine altogether, but he was wise enough – and knew himself well enough – to know that becoming a GP or consultant at some hospital would soon drive him insane. Surgeons were lofty individuals with very healthy egos, and heart and brain surgeons, especially, were used, quite literally, to holding the balance of life and death in their hands.

As ugly and appalling as it sounded, he knew he couldn’t bear to become something less than he’d once been. He also felt he needed a complete change of direction – the challenge of something new, something that could grab his interest, and which would prevent him from slipping into self-pity or bitterness. In short, he needed another major and rewarding goal to aim for.

So, after some thought and investigation, he’d studied law, and retrained to become a coroner.

And it was the coroner’s court that had now been his home, and his world, for the last few years. There, his sharp mind, medical knowledge, newly acquired legal training and natural, dogged determination to find out the truth had become vital assets.

He prided himself – with some justification – on just how quickly he’d come to grips with his new role. After barely a year, he was confident he could tell when witnesses were lying or fudging. He had quickly developed a sixth sense for what the police were thinking and wanted from him – and formed his own opinion as to whether or not to give it to them. And while this latter trait might not have endeared him overmuch to the local constabulary, no one had any doubt that, when Dr Clement Ryder was presiding, a case wouldn’t be allowed to get out of hand.

He was both thorough and competent, and didn’t need to be told his name was both feared and respected by those that mattered – he simply took it for granted!

Which was why the thought of their pity, or glee, should his medical condition became known, was anathema to him. And why he was so determined to keep it a secret for as long as humanly possible. Besides, they’d be bound to try and oust him from his office, and he was damned if he was going to restart his life a third time. No, they’d have to drag him from the coroner’s court by the scruff of his neck, kicking and screaming.

And it would take someone with far more guts than any of his clerks, or those namby-pambies at the Town Hall to do that!

With a grunt of amusement, Clement drank the last of his claret. He had court tomorrow and would be glad of a good night’s sleep. He’d be damned if he’d let his illness affect his professionalism.

He got slowly to his feet – and at six-feet-one he had some way to rise from the chair. In the window he caught a glimpse of his reflection as he passed – his hair now fully silver/white, without even a hint of the dark brown it had once been. Rather watery grey eyes matched the rainwater running down the glass.

With some satisfaction, he noticed that his hand had stopped trembling. For now, anyway. With a sense of relief, he gave a mild, self-satisfied grunt.

Just as he suspected, there were still many good years left in him yet. Which was just as well. Only last year he’d had to steer a jury which had obviously been intent on bringing in an accidental verdict towards an open verdict instead, leaving the way clear for the police to pursue the case further and eventually arrest the guilty party for negligent manslaughter.

As a surgeon who had once had the power of life and death over people, Clement Ryder had no qualms about sitting in judgement over witnesses he knew to be guilty. And making sure they got their just deserts. On his watch, nobody got away with anything!

Naturally, such an attitude hadn’t earned him many friends, but then Clement had never been a man who’d needed the approbation of others. Which was probably just as well, since his friends – real, true friends – were few.

The grandfather clock in the small hallway struck eleven as he tramped past it on his way to the stairs. Tomorrow the inquest on a schoolgirl who’d died after being struck by a car in St Giles would open.

Her grieving family would all be in attendance. It was going to be grim.

CHAPTER FOUR (#u7ca1326b-9b93-50de-baf4-e39f2c8c47ac)

Trudy’s black eye had paled into a mere smudge of yellow when, five days after catching the bag-snatcher (and losing the collar to the golden-haired, blue-eyed boy, Rodney Broadstairs), she returned from the Records Office and saw that something had caused a stir in the main office.

Sidling over to Rodney, who was sitting at a desk, painstakingly typing out a report with his two forefingers, she whispered, ‘What’s up?’

She nodded at the portly, prosperous-looking man with a neat moustache who was being ushered very civilly into Jennings’s private office by Sergeant O’Grady.

‘Dunno,’ Rodney said vaguely. ‘Some bigwig not happy about some poison-pen letters or something.’

Trudy sighed.

Knowing that pumping him for further information would be useless, since Rodney tended to be able to deal with only one thing at a time, Trudy sauntered casually towards the DI’s slightly open door, a file in hand for camouflage.

Much to her chagrin, after her recent stint of roughhousing with the purse-snatcher, DI Jennings had promptly assigned her to Records and filing work. Now, opening the filing-cabinet drawer nearest to Jennings’s office (and pretending to search diligently for the right spot to deposit the file), she let her ears flap unashamedly.

Inside the office, Sir Marcus Deering, slightly red-faced and breathing a touch heavily, slapped a piece of paper down onto the desk and snapped, ‘There!’ He took a long, shaky breath. ‘Just you read that and then tell me I’m overreacting,’ he challenged.

Jennings, at not quite forty years of age, made vaguely appeasing sounds. A slender man with thinning fair hair and a nose just big enough to make him feel self-conscious about it, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

When Sir Marcus Deering had first telephoned to say he would be calling in and expected to see someone senior, he’d known he’d have to be careful. Naturally, his superiors would expect him to treat the man with kid gloves. The businessman’s charitable donations to many local good causes (including the police widows and orphans fund) were very well known. As was the fact that he sat on several boards where his influence spread further than just the Town Hall.

Also, Jennings had no doubt at all that he was a fellow Mason.

Mindful of all this, he cleared his throat carefully and read the green-inked missive in front of him.

YOU HAVE FAILED TO DO THE RIGHT THING. YOU WERE WARNED THAT YOU ONLY HAD ONE MORE CHANCE. NOW YOUR SON WILL DIE. HE WILL DIE AT EXACTLY TWELVE NOON TOMORROW. PERHAPS THEN YOU WILL DO THE RIGHT THING.

Over his right shoulder, Sergeant O’Grady gave a slight sigh. A slightly chubby man with a sandy quiff that tended to flop over his forehead, the Sergeant, at forty-one, had long since given up on any hopes of gaining further promotion. Not that it worried him much. He’d been at the station for years and had it running just as he liked it.

Now he pursed his lips. When the Inspector had told him a local dignitary had been receiving poison-pen letters he hadn’t been expecting this. The usual run-of-the-mill stuff tended to accuse the recipients of sexual misbehaviour. More rarely, they included death threats – but nothing this precise. In fact, to Mike O’Grady’s mind, there was something uncannily odd about the specific threat. What kind of madman actually told you when he intended to strike?

‘I can see that you would find this very distressing, sir,’ DI Jennings began diplomatically. ‘But first, let me assure you that nearly all anonymous letters are the work of cranks, and any threats made in them are very seldom carried out. What’s more, they’re usually written by women (rather than men) who either have delusions of grandeur or whopping great inferiority complexes. On the whole, they tend to be a rather sorry, pathetic bunch.’