Shooting Pains Read online

  Shooting Pains

  Mairi Chong

  Copyright © 2020 by Mairi Chong

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  IBSN: 978-1-913463-04-5 (print edition)

  IBSN: 978-1-913463-05-2 (ebook edition)

  For W - as always

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  THANK YOU!

  Acknowledgments

  1

  ‘Anyone would think you wanted me dead!’ Fiona spat.

  Gregory paused mid-bite of his bacon sandwich. The glutenous bread soaked in oil was claggy and he had to force it over his gullet. He took a moment, knowing full well that she was waiting for a reply, or at least, a reaction. But instead, he continued to chew, glancing down at the newspaper on the kitchen table as he took another bite.

  ‘Well?’ his wife asked, apparently determined to goad him into a response.

  Gregory continued to chew. The bacon was cheap, no meat to it. All gristle and fat.

  ‘Nothing to say?’ she persisted, with her hands on her hips.

  Gregory looked up once more as if considering. He hated it when she stood like that. It made her look like some old fishwife, which was absurd since she was barely in her twenties. He smiled slightly, as if at some unsaid joke. Perhaps the whole thing had been a mistake after all. A pity, he thought sadly to himself, and it had begun with such promise. He had fallen for her hard and they had married – probably in haste – but she had changed. Changed from carefree and simple, to something quite monstrous. His family had been right all along. ‘Never marry a townie,’ his mother had warned. True enough, Fiona had not settled into country life and things had only become worse when she had started that new job.

  ‘I’m not letting my guard down, now that it’s occurred to me,’ she continued.

  Gregory knew that she was half-teasing, but he didn’t have the energy to continue. Having finished his breakfast, he slid his chair back, grunting as he got up.

  ‘I’m thinking of asking Rosemary and David for dinner …’ she began, reaching out to take his plate.

  Gregory was at the door. Of all the things she could have said, this was the one that might provoke a response. He turned to her.

  ‘Don’t expect me to be here,’ he said.

  Fiona tutted. ‘Of course I expect you here. What a preposterous thing to say.’

  Preposterous? Gregory thought to himself and shook his head in disgust. Since when did she start talking like that?

  ‘You’re not the only man capable of calving, Gregory. God knows why you think it. Adam has half a dozen equally capable farmhands hanging around the place. Ridiculous, that you think no-one can manage without you for one bloody evening.’

  ‘I’m the cattleman,’ he growled.

  ‘Farmhand, cattleman, who cares?’ Fiona waved her hand in dismissal. ‘It’s not difficult. You’re hardly irreplaceable, no matter what you seem to think.’

  She knew she’d won. She’d managed to rile him. He looked dispassionately at her and, at that moment, he did wish his wife dead. He pictured her in agony, dying on the floor in front of him.

  She was pleased with herself; he could tell. He watched her smugly tip the remains of his breakfast in the bin beneath the sink. It wouldn’t be so hard, Gregory thought as he turned from her. He dealt with it every day on the farm. After all, where there was livestock, there was deadstock.

  2

  Rosemary Holden leaned forward. Her dark eyes widened and her lips twitched. ‘Poisoned?’ she asked. ‘But I don’t understand. Why would you say that?’

  Her friend, who sat opposite on the train, glanced sideways and smirked, probably realising only too well, that an elderly woman across the aisle might be listening.

  Rosemary leaned in further. ‘Well?’ she hissed. ’What’s he done now?’

  Since she had met Fiona, the younger woman had been only too eager to regale her with tales of marital disharmony. It had been a bit of a joke between them as Rosemary herself had been going through some issues at home also. Usually, the discussions ended with the two women consoling one another. Men really were thoughtless beasts when all was said and done. Up until that day, Rosemary, who enjoyed reading up on psychology, had thought it a natural enough conversation-filler. A comradery through which all women took comfort.

  ‘I know,’ Fiona said, her cheeks glowing. ‘Slowly poisoned, and by my own husband! I’ve not even told my sister yet. Maybe I’m overreacting, but these past few weeks, I’ve wondered. He was unspeakably mean when he saw me and Kenneth having a word. You should have seen his face! Like thunder it was. And he sulked for a full two days after. You’d have thought he’d caught us in the act! All we were doing was having a chat on the doorstep.’

  ‘Kenneth?’ Rosemary asked, now confused. The name had been mentioned before but she couldn’t think in what context.

  ‘Kenny. The gamey. He was seeing to the pheasants when he passed the door,’ Fiona explained. ‘Nice guy.’

  Rosemary smiled thinly. No doubt Kenny was a nice guy. He was more than likely easy on the eye also and just the sort of person Fiona might well attract for the sole purpose of provoking a reaction in her husband. How this added up to her friend suspecting him of trying to kill her though was still unclear. But Fiona was talking once more.

  ‘I’ve already told you about my skin …’ she said.

  Rosemary nodded, recalling the monologue.

  ‘Well, that’s not all. It’s my hair too!’ Fiona pressed her immaculate brunette waves flat, and tipping her head forward, she accentuated the natural parting.

  Rosemary snorted. ‘If it’s just greys, I’m getting them too, and that’s nothing to do with my David putting cyanide in the wine.’

  The elderly woman across the aisle coughed. It was a dry, little bark. She shifted in her seat once more. Rosemary rolled her eyes.

  ‘Not greys!’ Fiona said indignantly, ignoring the elderly eavesdropper. ‘It’s coming out. Look! My hairbrush was full of it this morning. I saw it done on a crime thing a few weeks back. He was watching it with me too. That’s probably what gave him the idea. We’ve had mice. It might be the stuff he puts dow
n for them.’

  Rosemary, feeling rather cheated if this was all the evidence her friend had to go on, sighed. 'The hair and the skin could be a thousand and one different things,’ she said. ‘They say pregnancy makes your hair fall out. Come to think of it, can’t it make you blotchy and itchy too?’

  ‘I’m not pregnant,’ Fiona said with finality.

  Rosemary shrugged. ‘Is that all then?’

  'His manner too, Rosemary, it’s been so odd. Really quite unnerving at times.'

  Rosemary arched a carefully plucked eyebrow but didn’t speak.

  ‘You know how thoughtless he’s been these past few months?’ her friend asked. ‘Remember the row over Mum’s birthday? Then there was that nonsense over me taking on this job in the first place. He’s been inattentive and sulky, to say the least. Oh, I know his pride’s been dented, what with me earning more now, but I told him that it all goes into the same pot. What does it matter anyway?’

  Rosemary nodded.

  ‘It’s not as if I’ve been insensitive. I told him that I knew what he was when I married him, but he does himself no favours at all. You know how long we’ve been in that rented place. I spoke to him the other night about it. Suggested we looked out for something of our own, off that bloody farm estate. I’m sick of mud. Nearly blew up at me when I said that.’

  Rosemary didn’t speak, but inwardly she thought it unquestionably thoughtless of her friend to suggest that they move, given that she had heard that the cottage had been a long fought for perk of Gregory’s job.

  ‘So why have things escalated to the point that you think he’s poisoning you? Have you had another row?’

  Fiona shook her head. ‘Quite the opposite,’ she smirked. ‘He offered to make my tea last night!’

  Rosemary exhaled. ‘You are joking, Fiona?’

  ‘No, hear me out,’ the other woman said. ‘Let’s put this into perspective. Why the sudden change, if it’s not to put me off guard? He’s been an inconsiderate animal for near enough six months straight. Ever since I started working for Greysons he's been insecure and narky. I'm sure he's only notched up his interest in the stupid metal-detecting to spite me because he knows it irks.'

  Rosemary looked out of the window as Fiona continued to speak. Undoubtedly, work would be taxing today. Mr Greyson had already asked her to stay late several times over the last few weeks to ensure things were up to date. He didn’t need to ask of course; she would have done it anyway. She was as committed to the smooth running of things as anyone. Mr Greyson knew this. She looked across at her young friend as she continued to chatter, and smiled.

  It was all very well to natter about frivolities to Fiona on the train heading to the office, but when they arrived, it was quite different. Both women knew that Rosemary’s role as a personal assistant to the managing director came with far greater responsibility than Fiona’s as office girl. At work, they rarely spoke at all.

  The train began to slow. Unsure which stop they were now coming to, she looked out for a landmark. The fields flicked by and then an industrial estate that she recognised came into view. The embankment rose steeply as she knew it must, barring further view, and the sky was obliterated as the train entered a tunnel. The neon lighting in the carriage flickered slightly. They were minutes away from Forkieth.

  Rosemary began to gather her things. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  Fiona didn't move. ‘Don't you think it odd?’ she asked again. ‘To go from being so hostile and uncaring to suddenly changing? I’m sure that my meal last night had a bitter taste to it. I said that to him this morning. He’s sprinkled something on top without my notice, probably.’

  ‘Have you considered that he might be trying to make an effort?’ Rosemary asked as she slipped her arms into her jacket.

  ‘Why now? And what about the rash and the hair too? No, there’s something not right.’

  Rosemary took her gloves from her handbag and began to put them on.

  ‘Well,’ Fiona said, unable to hide the huffiness. ‘If I don’t turn up for work one of these days, you’ll know what’s happened, and then you’ll feel guilty.’

  Rosemary snorted.

  The two women locked eyes and giggled.

  The train slowed considerably and Rosemary stood in the aisle. She slipped her handbag over her wrist. The train swung and jolted slightly, causing her to clutch onto the table. She met the gaze of the elderly woman who had all this time been sitting close beside them. The woman blinked slowly and then spoke with a quiet assertion. ‘Take care.’

  Rosemary smiled and turned away.

  Although work was busy that day, she found her thoughts returning to the two words. As it turned out, it played on her mind for long after.

  3

  When she moved to the town of Glainkirk, having secured a coveted general practice partnership, never did Dr Cathy Moreland imagine that she might become so heavily involved in the crime of murder. The last two years in practice had undoubtedly been a strain. First, the death of one of her colleagues and then, a patient. As it turned out, she had been instrumental in uncovering the perpetrator in each case. The incidents were unrelated, but both had taken their toll on the fragile GP.

  Cathy sighed. She swept a strand of hair from her lips and glanced in the rearview mirror before signalling to turn right. It was some time since she had been up this way, although, of course, she knew the catchment area quite well having worked there for some five years now. Most of the patients she saw were in Glainkirk itself, but being a market town, some were out in the sticks. She rather enjoyed the rural home visits if time wasn’t too pressured. Admittedly, she could attend probably three patients in town, in the time it took her to do one in the country, but she always found escaping the bustle beneficial.

  Being mid-January, the hedges that lined the roads were sparse. Come springtime, it would look quite different. In the fields on either side of where she was now, the farmers might graze their cattle. Cathy found it cheering to see the young animals out with the sun on their backs. It signified a change for better things to come. She cast her eyes across the now desolate land. The empty fields seemed to go on forever. The vastness only punctuated by wooded copses and the sweeping line of tumbledown barbed-wire and hedge. It had already been a harsh winter and they were only now coming out the other side. Still, in the mornings, there was a hard frost underfoot.

  Despite the blast of hot air from her car heater, Cathy shivered. She glanced down at the printed sheet that lay on the passenger seat. By the name of the house, she expected something grand. She’d not seen this gentleman before. Usually, James, her senior partner, dealt with him, but James was off work this week. She had locums covering his shifts, but it wasn’t the same. Locums took an eternity to get to grips with the practice’s particulars. Home visits, even routine ones, seemed to take them twice as long. She would be glad when James returned the week after next.

  Although this had been a particularly strenuous one, it seemed that nowadays, every week merged into the following one. She had seen a brief chink in the monotony when she rekindled a friendship with someone she had known years ago, but things had gone a bit quiet as far as that was concerned. She couldn’t blame him. The rigours of the job meant that she rarely finished on time, and when she did, she often took the work home. Recently, she had resorted to doing paperwork at her kitchen table on her days off, but her inability to switch off mentally was more of a problem. Many a night, she lay awake worrying about her patients and wondering if she had done the right thing. It was par for the course really. The job was well known for its uncertainties. If you couldn’t cope with that, then you made a very poor doctor indeed. Cathy wondered how successful she was in this respect.

  Over the years, she had wished she was more self-assured. Her closest friend from medical school, Suzalinna, now a consultant in accident and emergency, seemed to manage the balance just fine. In reality, the stakes were far greater for her friend. When people were wheeled into her d
epartment, it often fell to the consultant in charge to make a decisive call about treatment. The junior staff looked to Suzalinna for guidance and strong leadership. Cathy knew that her friend rarely wavered. If only she had the same resilience.

  As she drove, Cathy grimaced. Of course, the imminent revalidation only made the situation worse. She knew it had to be done. These were the hoops through which she had to jump, along with all her fellow general practitioner colleagues. However, what was different in her case, was the added checking up. Her own GP, along with her psychiatrist, wrote three-monthly reports detailing occupational health of her progress. It was ridiculous really, to be so anxious about the thing every time. Cathy knew that if there was a problem, her doctor would speak to her first. Still, the threat of her fitness to practise being in question hung heavily. How simple life had been before. She wished she’d not taken her mental health for granted. Bipolar disorder in anyone might be life-altering, but for a doctor, it was unquestionably disastrous.

  So much had changed since her extended time off work. Cathy shook her head. The confusion, the fear. She wouldn’t allow herself to go through it all again. But that was what the psychiatrist had warned her of. A quiet life, he had recommended and when she had rolled his eyes, he had remained serious. No excitement. None at all, or risk heading back to hospital. Cathy knew that another relapse would undoubtedly put an end to her career. She had already tested her partner James to the limit. She felt that she had let him and her patients down. James had been hugely understanding. He had covered for her, but he had also made it clear that they couldn’t go on like that. It was unsafe for the patients; it was unhealthy for the partnership entirely.