The Police Doctor's Discovery

‘How long have you had this sore throat, Tommy?’ asked Rachel, glancing at his mother, knowing that Tommy was given to exaggeration.

‘He says for the last couple of days,’ said Eileen. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Beresford, but he insisted on coming to see you.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Rachel reassuringly. ‘Now, Tommy, I think I’d better have a look at your throat.’ Tommy opened his mouth and allowed Rachel to insert a flat wooden stick, obediently issuing the ‘ah’ sound she requested.

‘Your throat doesn’t seem too bad,’ she said at last, after gently testing the glands on either side of his neck.

‘It really hurts,’ Tommy said, obviously fearful now that Rachel didn’t believe him.

‘I’m sure it does, Tommy,’ she said. ‘I think you may have a cold developing so what I want you to do is to drink plenty of warm fluids and suck some throat pastilles.’ She looked at Eileen. ‘If he starts to run a temperature give him soluble paracetamol every four hours.’

‘Very well, Doctor.’ Eileen stood up. ‘I hope we haven’t wasted your time.’

‘Of course you haven’t,’ Rachel replied, then, looking at Tommy, she said, ‘Have you been to the day centre today, Tommy?’

‘No, because of my sore throat,’ Tommy replied.

‘They’ve been very good to him,’ said Eileen. ‘They’ve even fixed him up with a computer so he can play games at home.’

‘Computer,’ said Tommy, pointing to Rachel’s.

‘Yes.’ Rachel smiled. ‘Just like mine. That’s wonderful, Tommy.’

‘Come on, Tommy,’ said his mother, taking his hand, ‘we mustn’t take up any more of Dr Beresford’s time.’

‘Bye, Tommy,’ said Rachel.

Just before the door closed behind them she heard Tommy say to his mother, ‘She’s ever so nice, Dr Rachel.’

‘Yes, Tommy, she is,’ his mother agreed.

‘I love her,’ said Tommy.

With a smile Rachel pressed the buzzer for the next patient.

Steadily she worked through the list. There were many people in Westhampstead who had been patients of Rachel’s father and who remembered Rachel as a child, and it seemed to her that these early surgeries of her days at the centre sometimes took far longer than they should as people reminisced or wanted to know where she had been working. Some, she suspected, even came out of curiosity, perhaps for a second opinion, or to see if Rachel was anything like her father had been as a GP.

‘So, how is he now—your father?’ One such patient came towards the end of that afternoon surgery, a woman called Peggy Reilly who had known Rachel since she’d been a baby and who indeed had been a patient of her father.

‘He’s very well, thank you, Peggy,’ Rachel replied, wondering as she did so whether she should issue a bulletin on her father, which could perhaps be posted in Reception for the benefit of all those who wished to know.

‘And what about your poor mother?’ Peggy’s voice lowered sympathetically.

‘Well, Mum’s health is not as good as it once was.’ Rachel knew there was no point in denying it—her mother’s forgetfulness and deteriorating health were well known amongst the residents of the town. ‘But Dad looks after her beautifully.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ Peggy agreed, ‘but it can’t be easy.’

‘Well...’ Rachel gave a little shrug. ‘Now, how can I help you, Peggy?’

‘It’s my arthritis playing up again, Doctor. It happens every year about this time—the temperature drops a bit, the evenings begin to draw in and my old joints give me gyp. And I have to say my usual tablets don’t seem to be helping at all.’

‘Right,’ said Rachel, ‘let’s have a look at your medication chart and see if there are any changes that we can make—there are several new anti-inflammatory drugs on the market so I’m sure we’ll be able to find one that suits you.’

At the end of surgery Rachel made her way downstairs to Reception where she found one of the receptionists, Julie Newton, leaning across the desk, talking to a man. As she approached the desk the man turned his head and she saw it was Julie’s husband Philip.

‘Ah,’ said Julie, looking round, ‘here’s Rachel—I’m sure she’ll buy a ticket.’

‘What’s this?’ Rachel smiled at Philip.

‘It’s a draw for more equipment at the day centre,’ Philip explained. ‘One of the prizes is a weekend in a luxury hotel—with me.’

‘Philip!’ Julie exclaimed, and the other receptionists laughed.

‘Only joking,’ said Philip with a grin. ‘But you still get the luxury weekend and there are plenty of other really good prizes.’

‘I’ll buy some,’ said Rachel. Rummaging through her shoulder-bag, she produced a five-pound note and took the pen Julie offered her.

‘That’s generous of you,’ said Philip as she began filling in her details.

‘I think the day centre does a fantastic job,’ Rachel replied, mindful of Tommy Page and his computer.

‘Can I just say I think it’s great that you’ve come back to Westhampstead?’ Philip added.

‘Thank you, Philip.’ Rachel glanced up. ‘How’s your mum these days?’

‘Not so bad.’ He paused, his head on one side as if reminiscing. ‘We had some fun in those days, didn’t we?’ he said at last.

‘Eh? What’s all this?’ Danielle looked from one to the other.

‘My mum was housekeeper for Dr and Mrs Beresford,’ Philip explained. ‘We lived up at Ashton House when I was a kid.’

‘Oh,’ said Danielle, ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Shall I fill in the rest of those for you, Rachel?’ asked Julie as Rachel began to fill in the second counterfoil.

‘Thanks, Julie,’ Rachel replied, pushing the counter-foils and the pen across the desk and stuffing the tickets into her bag. ‘I am in a bit of a rush—as usual.’ She pulled a face. ‘I must go. Nice to see you again, Philip. Say hello to your mum for me.’ With that she hurried out of the centre and into her car to make the two house calls she needed to do before she could go home.

Home for Rachel, as she had told Nick Kowalski, was a house in Cathedral Close, which she was renting for a year from friends of her parents who were travelling abroad. Tucked away in one corner of the close in the lee of the great cathedral, St Edmund’s was an elegant, stone-built Georgian-style house filled with antiques, and if the furnishings were a little too traditional for Rachel’s more modern tastes it was something she felt she could live with. Some of the more expensive pieces of glass and porcelain she had locked away in the glass-fronted cabinets in the dining room, terrified that she might break them, but after a while she had begun to relax and enjoy the undeniable comfort and luxury of the house. In many ways it was similar to Ashton House, her parents’ home, but it had been many years since she had lived there and she had since become used to a more modest way of life, first in student then hospital accommodation and more recently in the apartment she had shared with Jeremy.

As she thought of Jeremy she kicked off her shoes and sank down onto one of the two deep, comfortable sofas. When she had first met Jeremy, a fellow doctor in the practice where she had been working, and had brought him home to meet her parents, he had been hailed as a perfect match for her and the perfect son-in-law for them. The son of wealthy parents, educated at one of the country’s top public schools and with a career that looked set to take him to his own Harley Street practice, he must have seemed like the answer to Rachel’s parents’ prayers, but for Rachel things hadn’t quite worked out that way. She was fond of Jeremy, of course she was, but somehow their relationship had become static, with neither of them seemingly interested in marriage or starting a family, which, from Rachel’s point of view at least, was strange because she knew deep in her heart that she wanted both of those—to be married and to have children. But somehow she’d never been able to visualise either with Jeremy. They were friends, good friends, but that was all and their relationship seemed to lack the extra spark that Rachel felt sure should be there if any further commitment was to be made.

The spark had been there with Nick. The thought, unbidden, came into her mind. Why should she think of that now? Only because she had seen him again that day, she told herself fiercely. Her relationship—if you could even call it that—with Nick had been years ago. They had both been very young and they had both, without a doubt, changed in the intervening years. But that spark had been there. It had been there all those years ago, it had been there every time he had as much as looked at her and even more so whenever he had touched her. And her skin, without fail, had tingled in response, and it had been there again today.

She gave an angry little gesture as the realisation hit her. It was ridiculous that she should even think such a thing. It had simply been the shock of seeing him again after all that time that had done it—nothing more at all. Nick Kowalski was bad news. He’d been bad news then with his high-speed motorbike and his wild ways and he was probably bad news now. It was surprising that he’d done so well in the police force—he was young to be a DCI but, no doubt, he had ridden roughshod over anyone who had got in his way on his passage through the ranks. Somehow she couldn’t quite think of him as an utterly reformed character. No doubt his wife had suffered—by his own admission his marriage had ended in divorce—and there was a child, a little girl. She couldn’t imagine Nick as a father but his face had softened when he’d mentioned his daughter.

But what in the world was she thinking about Nick for anyway? Hadn’t he hurt her before—dumped her unceremoniously without so much as a word of explanation, leaving her desolate? The last thing she wanted now was to have too many dealings with him. That she might have to spend time with him occasionally in her work with the police was quite enough, although with a bit of luck even that shouldn’t be too often. Rachel knew from experience that most of her work would be not with plainclothes CID officers but with the uniformed station staff and, provided that Westhampstead was still the quiet country town it had always been, she saw little reason that should change.

With that slightly reassuring thought uppermost in her mind, she stood up and made her way into the kitchen where she began preparing pasta and salad for her supper.