Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,39

this, and she remembered also how annoyed she’d been that the ladies of the town had been coming up with fanciful ideas about her and Tom. So she forced herself to put the cryptic email out of her thoughts and concentrate on the morning’s work.

By half past twelve in the afternoon, nearly four hours later, she had the first draft of her article finished. And a pretty decent draft it was, too, she thought proudly. It was a little rough around the edges, and she wasn’t convinced she’d quite got the balance right yet between straight reportage and editorialising; but on the whole it was a fine piece of work. She decided to take a break to prepare some lunch for herself and Jake, then have another read through her manuscript with a fresh eye. Perhaps she might even have the final draft ready for Mike by late afternoon, even though he needed it only on Wednesday.

At a little after three o’clock, when Chloe was deeply into a critical rereading of her article, her phone rang. It was Mike Sellers.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

Chloe had already thought up a few questions for him, some points of clarification about the article. He answered them readily, and sounded on the point of saying his goodbyes when Chloe said: ‘Have you got anything else lined up for me? Any story after this one?’

‘Yes, a couple, actually,’ said Mike. ‘Plus, there will probably be follow-ons from this one. Have things changed on the estate, three months on, et cetera.’

‘Anything or anyone for me to investigate?’ she said, in as casual a manner as she could manage.

There was a pause at the other end. Mike said: ‘What are you referring to, Chloe?’

‘Oh, nothing in particular. I just wondered if there were any juicy new stories brewing?’

Another silence. Then he sighed audibly. ‘So you’ve read the email, too.’

‘Email? Which one?’ But her pulse had quickened.

‘The one Simon sent to me, and copied to all and sundry by mistake. The one with the mysterious reference at the end.’

‘Dr Carlyle.’ She felt bold enough to come out and say it. She might be a journalist and therefore nosy by nature, but Mike was an even more seasoned pressman and had detected right away that she’d caught the scent of the story from the tone and nature of her questions.

‘Yes.’ He seemed to be deliberating at the other end, before he said, ‘Chloe, I know you’re a freelancer and not on my paper’s staff, so strictly speaking this isn’t any of your concern. But I’ve come to respect your discretion and your integrity enough to believe you need to be let in on a few details. Especially because you’ll hear about it sooner or later.’

‘Hear about what, Mike?’

‘I don’t want to say anything over the phone. And I certainly don’t want to put anything I writing, either. Look, I’m too busy to meet you today, but could you come in tomorrow morning, say around nine thirty? I’ll explain then.’

‘Is he in some sort of trouble?’

‘I can’t tell you any more, Chloe. Tomorrow at half past nine?’

‘Yes. I’ll be there.’

‘And Chloe?’

‘Yes?’

‘Keep this under your hat, will you?’

Her instinct, after Mike had rung off, was to phone Tom immediately. Even if not to pry into what was going on, she thought she could at least sound him out, gauge his state of mind, offer her support in some undefined way. But Mike was now a source of information, and one of the primary rules of a good journalist was that you protected your sources. So Chloe held off, and tried to turn her attention back to her work.

She knew as she did so that there’d be little more she’d accomplish that day; nor would her sleep be especially peaceful.

***

For Tom, it all began on Tuesday morning.

He was finishing the second of two cups of coffee while Kelly dawdled over her muesli at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. The doorbell rang and he glanced at the clock on the wall, a novelty timepiece based on Salvador Dali’s melting clock. Seven ten.

Nobody rang the doorbell at this hour.

Padding to the front door in his socks, he saw a human silhouette looming through the frosted glass in the small panel set at head height. Cautiously he opened the door and peered out.

A woman of about forty whom he didn’t recognise stood on the top step, dressed in a denim jacket and wielding a microphone the size of a small club. Slightly behind her a