Chapter Twenty-Eight

A staff meeting was not the way to start the day after his worst day ever, but Patrick dutifully sat in the waiting room, the only space big enough to house the McBride Veterinary Clinic staff. Along with himself and his parents were Fergus and Kate, his fellow vets, plus Grace, Lisa and the two other RVNs. He was fairly sure the two nondescript brunettes were called Sarah and Susan, but which was which, he had no idea.

'What's going on?' Grace whispered as she sat next to him.

'Did you cancel everyone?'

She nodded. 'I bumped Manor Farm to eleven and Mrs Dawson to five. Sorry, I know, but, you'll never get away from Tom's 'til after lunch. What's happening?'

Patrick leant in, so the others couldn't hear. 'Gloria died last night. Maybe an overdose, maybe natural causes. I don't know.'

Grace stared at him, her eyes filling.

'Oh for Christ's sake, Grace. You're worse than Libby for crying.' He regretted the words the minute they came out. Grace bristled, sulking at his mention of her arch-nemesis, and he couldn't help wondering how Libby was after their fight yesterday. He'd been harsh.

'But I called her a prescription drug junkie...'

'Pull it together,' he hissed. 'She was a prescription drug junkie. Everyone knew it.'

'So is that why they've got us all here, to tell us?'

Patrick sucked in his cheek for a moment. 'Partly. And I reckon they're going to talk about reshuffling.'

'What?'

'Gracey, they need a practice manager here. You know I don't want any of these muppets working for me. Christ, I've traded Lisa for you once already, but it'd be a promotion.'

She shook her head. 'That's not why I do it. I don't want to spend my time working out rotas and payrolls. I want to look after animals.'

'Look, I don't even know if this is what they're thinking.' He crossed his fingers behind his back. 'But think of the money. You wouldn't have to work at the pub.'

'No, I'd just work stupid hours here, instead. Forget it. They can find some other idiot.'

He tried not to grin. 'That's what I said you'd say.'

She glanced around, trying not to laugh. 'How much money are they offering?'

He shrugged. 'But please, don't take it. Ever.'

As predicted, his parents stood before the staff, his mum wiping her eyes, speaking of their sad loss. Gloria had died quietly at home, after a long fight against her spinal pain. Their thoughts were with her husband, Jonathon, and their two grown-up sons. Grace caught Patrick's eye and they both struggled not to laugh.

Rather than recruit an irreplaceable Gloria, Malcolm stressed his desire for his other staff to step up to the role. He struggled not to look with hope at Grace, but she had her arms crossed, fascinated with the floor.

Good girl, Gracey. Don't sell out.

Thankfully, by ten, the majority of the staff tears, platitudes and excitement of potential promotions, calmed down. He had an hour until he had to be at Manor Farm, so wandered away to get a coffee. Lisa's was still a waste of electricity.

Gloria, dead. If he was honest, he'd never really warmed to the woman. She twittered and fussed, always worrying if the biscuit barrel was full. Who gave a damn? His job was to look after the health and welfare of animals. But still, she was dead. Oh, he knew she'd struggled with back pain and prescription drugs, his mum had told him that, but to overdose? Sad.

He stood in the queue, silently cursing the office junior ordering coffee for the entire accountants down the road, as a familiar blonde walked along the opposite pavement.

She had on her trademark mini-skirt, but in deference to winter, she wore leggings and chunky work boots. The long turquoise coat and bright purple scarf he'd not seen before. She suited the vibrant colours. He smiled. Her hair streamed behind her as she struggled with a large canvas. Was that the Broken Ballerina?

'What can I get you?' the barista asked.

He had no intention of going out there, to say hello, no intention until Libby disappeared into the Haverton Animal Rescue charity shop. What was she doing? He smiled, apologetically to the barista, but ran out of the shop. Two buses blocked his way and when he crossed the High Street, she'd gone. He scanned the street, but couldn't see the turquoise coat.

He swore, stepping into the charity shop. The canvas, still wrapped, stood propped against the checkout. Where the hell had Libby gone? The woman behind the counter, not a day less than eighty, stopped her clearly pointless struggle with a tagging gun.

'Can I help you?'

'The girl who just donated this picture,' he said. 'Where's she gone?'

'Out dear.' She pottered around the desk, going to take the paper from the canvas.

'No.' Patrick grabbed her hand. 'It's just, I know she's going to regret giving it away...'

The woman smiled. This was going to cost him.

Ten minutes later, after he'd locked the painting in his car, he headed back to the surgery. If he was really unlucky, there'd be some of Lisa's piss-poor coffee still available. Could his day get any worse?

As he approached the front door, two police officers climbed out of their car, hats on. One of them was Andy. Patrick paused, swearing at the sky.

'What?' he asked.

'We'd appreciate it if you could come with us to the station,' Andy said, genuinely sounding apologetic.

'Why?'

'It'd be better to talk there.'

Patrick refused to be riled. This was fine. Helping with enquiries. This wasn't news. He dove into the car, hoping no one had time to take a shot, and rang his dad.

'Dad?'

'Yes.'

Patrick took a breath. 'I have to go to the police station.'

'So I believe. There are another two officers questioning your mother. Grace has already been taken to the station. This better be nothing to do with you.'

Patrick rested his head against the glass window. Even his own father didn't trust him.

An hour of processing actual criminals meant he sat in an interview room for over an hour. Surely, this was unreasonable. For the eightieth time, Patrick fidgeted in his chair and wished they'd get on with it. He'd been arrested enough times to know the score. They weren't arresting him, merely questioning him.

The door opened, and Andy came in with Dave Hardy, another local lad.

'What's going on?' Patrick asked, focussing his question on Andy, his childhood friend.

Andy held up a plastic evidence bag containing a bottle of Ketamine, the same brand they used at work.

'Is that part of the batch stolen from my surgery.'

Andy nodded. 'It was found in the hand of Gloria Carr.'

Patrick stared. 'Is it a coincidence?'

'That one of the surgery staff ends up dead after shooting up, no doubt k-holing from your missing drugs?' Andy smiled. 'Yeah, a coincidence is one theory.'

'Another theory,' offered PC Hardy, 'is that your surgery wasn't actually robbed. Maybe you, or Grace, helped yourselves to the drugs. It's easy done. Money to be made.'

'Leave Grace alone. She's done nothing wrong,'

Andy held up a hand. 'She's just helping with enquiries.'

'So what do you want to know?'

Andy rested his elbows on the table. 'Mrs Carr had three of these bottles.'

'So she got them from some dealer in town?'

'Mrs Carr worked at the vets. Would she know the alarm codes, have keys?'

'No.' Stay calm.

'Who does?'

'My parents, Fergus, Grace and me. We changed the code when I took over a couple of years ago.'

Andy nodded. 'So there's no way, you can think of, for Mrs Carr to obtain a batch of your stolen drugs?'

'No.' Patrick leant forward. 'Now, get to the point.'

PC Hardy took the lead. Andy merely watched.

'Mrs Carr was found this morning by her husband, Jonathon. She was dead and probably had been for several hours. She was holding a bottle of ketamine. I'm fairly sure the autopsy will show that's what killed her.'

'And?' Patrick asked, still failing to see what the fuck it had to do with him.

'We asked Mr Carr where Mrs Carr might've obtained this ketamine. He said, she couldn't have got it from work, because she'd been off sick for almost two weeks.'

'And?' Patrick sighed, weary from the routine stupidity.

'And Mr Carr said she'd received a package from a man she was keen he didn't see.'

Patrick shrugged. 'So she had a bit on the side. Mr Carr does. It's nothing to do with me, or my surgery.'

'Where were you on the night of the burglary?'

'Having dinner with a friend until I went home about eleven. My dad called my landline just after.'

'And this friend will confirm that?' PC Brady said as he scribbled on his notepad, clearly disappointed.

'Yes.'

Andy leaned forwards. 'Mr Carr said the package was delivered on Saturday evening between nine-thirty and quarter to ten. Where were you?'

'At home. Tom from Manor Farm rang just before ten. I went round there at half-past.'

'And before you were called out, you were at home?'

'For fuck's sake, Andy. What are you getting at and what do you want to know? I didn't kill Gloria, or sell her any drugs, but I'm more than happy to help you find out who the hell did.' Patrick made his breathing slow and steady. He would not get riled.

'Everyone was at the party. Why weren't you?'

'I was on call so I was at home, sober.' How many times did he have to tell them?

Andy sighed. 'Paddy, mate, the bottom line is we need to know what the hell you were doing on that Saturday night between nine and ten. You had plenty of time to get to the Carr's house in Haverton and be back before Tom rang.'

'I was at home, watching TV.'

'Any witnesses?'

Patrick paused. 'Yes. Olivia Wilde.'

Andy frowned. 'Libby?'

'She came round. About quarter to. I reckon it's pretty difficult to get back from Haverton in fifteen minutes.'

'And what did Libby come round for?'

'She wanted to know if I was coming to the party,'

'That's all?' Andy's jaw twitched. 'She was pretty angry around that time.'

Patrick didn't drop his eye contact. 'Andy, mate, the bottom line is Libby came round and I have a witness who can confirm I wasn't in Haverton at half-nine.'

'And the name of friend you had dinner with the night of the burglary?' PC Hardy asked.

Patrick's smile grew. 'Olivia Wilde. Now, get off my case and let me get back to work.'

Andy shook his head. 'With your previous, sunshine, until your slate's crystal clear, you're not going anywhere.'

You bastard. Patrick sat back in his chair, his anger rising.

'What did Libby come round for?' Andy asked, his eyes narrowing.

Sod this. Patrick leaned forwards, goading him. 'To give me first refusal.'

*

As ever, Libby started her shift, cursing the night staff for never bothering to refill the fridges. They always claimed to have been too busy. On a Monday night, really? But bitchy staff were the least of her problems. Everywhere Libby went, people slyly pointed her out, whispering. Even the old woman in the charity shop had raised her eyebrows, clearly recognising her. People seriously believed she was a prostitute.

With her black gloom threatening to engulf her, Libby went out for a cigarette hating herself for smoking. She'd vowed to give up after the party, citing the Fell Race as the reason to Zoe. The truth was Patrick hated smoking. If she did ever get chance to kiss him, she didn't want him to be put off by her stinky fag breath.

'Libby?' Megan said, hovering in the doorway. 'The police are here. They need to ask you a few questions.'

She stared at her. 'Please tell me it's not Andy Chapman.'

'Okay, it's not Andy Chapman. Except it is.'

Oh god. 'What on earth does he want to talk to me about?

'Maybe it's about the brothel you've set up,' Megan said, as she headed back inside.

The door shut in Libby's face. How much more could she take? By the bar, Andy and another officer stood waiting. She bravely smiled at Andy, but he looked at the ground, not returning her hello.

'What's up?' she asked.

The other officer, PC Hardy, explained how a woman called Gloria had died, most likely from an overdose of the ketamine stolen from Patrick's surgery, and Libby sat on a bar stool, more confused.

Andy finally looked at her. 'We're trying to rule out a few suspects. Patrick said-'

'Patrick's a suspect?'

'We need to confirm his whereabouts on Saturday evening.' Andy took a deep breath. 'He said you went round to his.'

Libby couldn't stop her blushes. 'I... Yes. I went round, about quarter to ten, to see if he was coming to the party. He didn't want to.'

'But he was at home?'

She nodded. 'I was there for about five minutes then I went back to the party. Zoe and Clara saw me go and come back, if you need them to confirm the time.'

'And the night the surgery was burgled,' said PC Hardy, 'a witness saw someone at the back of the surgery around eight o'clock. Can you confirm Mr McBride's location?'

Libby's blushes worsened. 'Patrick was at my house. We had dinner and sat out in the garden getting drunk. He left around eleven.'

PC Hardy nodded to Andy, who shrugged. 'Thank you for your time, Miss Wilde.'

'Is that okay?' Libby asked. 'I mean, does that mean Patrick's not in trouble?'

Andy nodded. 'For now.'

'Andy?' Libby beckoned him away. 'Can I have a word?'

'I have a crime to deal with.'

Oh god, he was pissed off with her too. 'What's wrong? Is this about the paper?'

His frown deepened as he glared at her. 'No, it's about your double-fucking-standards.'

'What?'

'Patrick wasn't interested, so you thought I'd do for the night.' He shook his head. 'Did you close your eyes and think of him?'

'No, it...' But it was like that and twice she'd found herself imagining he was Patrick.

What had she become?

Andy stalked off, leaving her staring at the floor. Patrick hated her, Andy hated her and she'd brought it all on herself. She had left the door wide open for Michael Wray to embellish her life into front page scandal, but no more. What had been Patrick's advice? Don't get up to no good, and when your name's trashed, don't go getting wasted and making things ten times worse. That's exactly what she'd done. Why hadn't she listened?

Well, no more. From now on, she'd remember the values her mother had instilled in her, and to hell with anyone who thought her morals were a little too strident. There was nothing wrong with being nice.

For the rest of the afternoon, Libby threw herself into work, scrubbing shelves, rewashing seldom used glasses, welcoming the lunchtime rush that distracted her from her thoughts. But by six o'clock when she prepared to leave, there were no more distractions.

'Libby?' Simon, the campest barman in town, came skipping in, fizzing with excitement. 'You have a delivery. I'm totally green.'

On the bar sat a vast bunch of flowers. The peach roses smelled as pretty as they looked. Peach roses. Libby's fingers shook as she opened the card. Thank You. P. Patrick had bought her flowers. And not just any flowers, he'd remembered these were favourites. Oh please, let this mean he wasn't cross with her anymore.

'Who are they off?' Megan said, eyeing the flowers with blatant envy.

Libby held her head high, flashing a smile. 'One of my regulars. You know, from the brothel.'