Helen Maitland.
I might have been warned off talking to Sarah Blackstone’s former patients. But Alexis hadn’t said anything about her former lover.
Chapter 20
I’d gone into my first interview with the real Dr Helen Maitland without enough background information. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. After a late lunch in a Bradford curry cafe that cost less than a trip to McDonald’s, I parked up in a street of back-to-back terraced houses that spilled down a hill on the fringe of the city centre. Half a dozen Asian lads and a couple of white ones were playing cricket on a scrap of waste ground where one of the houses had been demolished. When I didn’t get out of the car at once, they stopped playing and stared curiously at me. I wasn’t interesting enough to hold their attention for long, and they soon returned to their game.
I sat staring at a house halfway down the street. It looked well kempt, its garden free of weeds and its paintwork intact. It was a door I hadn’t knocked on for a few years, and I had no idea what kind of welcome I’d get. Even so, it still felt like a more appealing prospect than quizzing Sarah Blackstone’s medical colleagues. I’d first come here in search of a missing person. Not long after I’d found her, she ended up murdered, with her girlfriend the prime suspect. My inquiries had cleared the girlfriend, but in the process, I’d opened a lot of wounds. I hadn’t spoken to Maggie Rossiter, the girlfriend, since the trial. But she was still on the office Christmas card list. Not because I ever expected her to put work our way, but because I’d liked her and hadn’t been able to come up with a better way of saying so.
Maggie was a social worker and a volunteer worker at a local drug rehab unit, though you wouldn’t suspect either role on first encounter. She could be prickly, sharp tongued and fierce. But I’d seen the other side. I’d seen her tenderness and her grief. Not everyone can forgive that sort of knowledge. I hoped Maggie was one who could.
I sat for the best part of an hour, listening to the rolling news programme on Radio Five Live to fight the boredom. Then an elderly blue Ford Escort with a red offside front wing drew up outside Maggie’s house. As the car door opened, a small calico cat leapt from the garden to the wall to the pavement and wove itself round the legs of the woman who emerged. Maggie had had her curly salt-and-pepper hair cropped short at the back and sides, but otherwise she looked pretty much the same as when I’d seen her last, right down to the extra few pounds round the middle. She bent to scoop up the cat, draped it over her shoulder and took a briefcase and an armful of files out of the car. I watched her struggle into the house and gave it five more minutes.
One of my rules of private investigation is, always try to leave an interviewee happy enough that they’ll talk to you a second time. I was about to find out how well I’d practised what I preached. When the door opened, hostility replaced interested curiosity so fast on Maggie’s face that I wondered whether I’d imagined the first expression. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said. ‘If it isn’t Kate Brannigan, girl detective. And whose life are you buggering up this week?’
‘Hello, Maggie,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I was just passing?’
‘Correct,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’d also tell you that next time you’re passing, just pass.’
‘I know you blame me for Moira’s death…’
‘Correct again. You going for three in a row?’
‘If I hadn’t brought her back, he’d just have hired somebody else. Probably somebody with even fewer scruples.’
‘It’s hard to believe people with fewer scruples than you exist,’ Maggie said.
‘Don’t you ever listen to
In spite of herself, Maggie couldn’t help cracking a smile. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t close the door,’ she said.
‘Lesbians will suffer?’ I tried, a half-grin quirking my mouth.
‘I don’t think so,’ she sighed. The door started to close.
‘I’m not joking, Maggie,’ I said desperately. ‘My client’s a lesbian who could be facing worse than a murder charge if I don’t get to the bottom of the case.’
The door stopped moving. I’d hooked her, but she wasn’t letting me reel her in too easily. ‘Worse than a murder charge?’ she asked, her face suspicious.
‘I’m talking about losing her child. And not for any of the conventional reasons.’
Maggie shook her head and swung the door open. ‘This had better be good,’ she warned me.
I followed her indoors and aimed for a rocking chair that hadn’t been there the last time I’d visited. The shelves of books, records and tapes looked the same. But she’d replaced the big Klimt with a blue-and-white print from Matisse’s
‘Ain’t too proud to beg, huh?’ Maggie said sardonically.
‘I’m hoping you won’t make me. But I am going to have to ask you to promise me one thing.’
‘Which is?’ she asked, sitting on the arm of the sofa, one foot on the seat, the other still on the floor.
‘That you’ll treat what I have to tell you with the same degree of confidence you’d offer to one of your own clients.’
‘If you want confidentiality, you can afford to pay a therapist for it. My clients don’t have that option. But if that’s the price for hearing this tale of yours, consider it paid. Nothing you tell me goes beyond these four walls, unless I think people are going to come to harm if I keep silence. Is that fair enough?’
‘That’ll do me. Did you know a doctor called Sarah Blackstone?’
The way her face closed down gave me the answer. ‘Tell me your tale. Then we’ll see about questions,’ Maggie said, her voice harsh.
Time to rearrange the truth into a well-known phrase or saying. ‘My client and her partner were patients of Dr Blackstone. She was using them as human guinea pigs in an experiment to see if it’s possible to make babies from two women. It is. And my client’s partner is currently a couple of months pregnant.’ Maggie’s attitude had melted like snow on a ceramic hob. She was staring at me with the amazement of a child who’s just had Christmas explained to her. Then she remembered.
‘But Sarah Blackstone’s just been murdered,’ she breathed. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Exactly. Publicly, the police are saying she was killed by a burglar she disturbed. It’s only a matter of time before the words “drug-crazed” start showing up in their press briefings. My client is concerned that they have uncovered what Dr Blackstone was really doing, but they’re keeping quiet about it while they carry out their investigations.’
‘So why are you here?’
Good question. This time, I’d had plenty of time to think about the interview so I had my lies ready. ‘I’m trying to get as much background on Sarah Blackstone as I possibly can. If there was more to her killing than meets the eye, I want to find out who was behind it. That way, I can hand the information to the police on a plate, which might stop any kind of investigation into what Sarah was really up to.’
‘Sounds plausible. But then, you always did,’ Maggie commented. She didn’t appear to be overwhelmed with the desire to help me out.
‘I don’t have any contacts on the lesbian scene this side of the Pennines except you,’ I said. ‘Believe me, if there had been any other way of getting into this, I’d have gone for it. Being here under these circumstances probably thrills me about as much as it does you. But I need help, Maggie. If what Sarah Blackstone was doing gets into the public domain, there’s going to be more than just an outcry. There’s going to be a witch-hunt.’
Maggie wasn’t meeting my eyes. She looked like she was giving the matter serious thought and she didn’t want to be distracted by any more passion from me. Eventually, she glanced across at me and said, ‘I might be able to help you with some aspects of your inquiry.’
