Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,18
column’s great, and I hope you’ll continue to provide it for a long time,’ Mike told her. ‘But you’re too good a writer to be confined to a fortnightly it of amusement. I’d like you to do some real journalism, if you’re interested.’
The story was a relatively minor one, certainly by London standards, but it was significant for a town like Pemberham. Residents of the Stratwell estate on the south side of town were becoming increasingly vocal about the hooliganism plaguing their area. Night after night brought a fresh crop of graffiti on the walls, drunken noise well into the early hours, smashed car and flat windows. The residents had notified the police who’d investigated, but had advised that the town council were ultimately best placed to tackle the problem. The chairman of the residents’ association had written to the council and made numerous telephone calls, with little response. Finally, in desperation, the residents had taken their concerns to the Pemberham Gazette.
Mike Sellers gave the story to Chloe, lock, stock and barrel. She was to interview the residents, then attempt to gain an audience with a senior member of the town council to find out what was being done about the problem on the estate. The Gazette wasn’t party political, but regarded holding the town’s elected representatives to account as part of its civic duty.
Chloe parked in an unmarked bay just inside the estate and glanced around after locking the doors, a little nervous about leaving her car. Jake was with Mrs McFarland for the afternoon. Working from home was all very well, but Chloe knew that if she began to do more field work like this, she’d need to look for a regular paid sitter for her son.
She found the flat with difficulty, peering through the rain at the numbers on the doors before coming across the right one. Inside were six members of the residents’ association, including their chairman, a burly man with a friendly air. They greeted her with enthusiasm, as though she’d arrived as a saviour. Chloe was touched to see the spread they’d laid out for her: tea, sandwiches, home-baked cakes and biscuits.
For a full two hours she perched on the edge of an armchair and took notes, recording statements from time to time, asking the occasional question for clarification but generally just listening. Gradually a heartbreaking picture was built up of a community in terror, at the mercy of a small number of out-of-control youths who themselves sounded as if they had limited options for advancement. The residents admitted they had given up on asking the council for assistance, and had taken to painting over the graffiti each morning themselves, trying to set up with limited success more youth activities on the estate, and generally making do themselves.
‘But there’s a limit, Miz Edwards,’ said one woman. ‘We’re not rich people here. We go out to work ourselves. The council get paid to sort places like this out, so why are they leaving us to do their job for them? It’s not right.’
When she’d gleaned all she could from the residents – and when she realised she’d better be getting back to relieve Mrs McFarland, Chloe stood and thanked them.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said. ‘At the very least, your story will be on the front page of the Gazette.’
She was aware of the atmosphere of hope, even triumph, she left behind her, and she felt the burden of their expectations as she returned to her car. Chloe hoped fervently she wouldn’t let them down.
Her Astra was intact and unmarked, she noted thankfully. She set off for home. The return journey was easier, not least because the rain had eased off. Deciding to take a shortcut and avoid the centre of town, Chloe turned towards the moderately well-to-do streets of the western district.
The main road took her past Dr Carlisle’s house. She knew where it was because she’d once been giving Mrs McFarland a lift and her friend had pointed it out to her. Expecting Mrs McFarland to pass another comment, oblique or otherwise, suggesting that Chloe get closer to the doctor, Chloe hadn’t said anything but had driven on, quickly diverting the conversation in another direction. She’d noticed the house, however: a modest, attractive two-storey structure with a thatched roof and a generous front garden.
She glanced in the direction of the house now as she approached. Tom Carlisle’s car was in the driveway, she noted; it must be one of his split days