Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,50

door was already open and a woman stood there. In her late thirties, she looked less haggard than she had in her photo in the News. She was in a dressing gown, despite the hour, and wore thick makeup. A cigarette dangled from her lip.

Unsmiling, she ushered Chloe in. The flat was large, untidy, and dominated by an enormous television screen the size of a small tank. Sabrina Jones settled herself in an armchair while Chloe perched on a dining room chair. She brought a notebook along for added authenticity and she flipped it open, hoping the woman wouldn’t ask for official identification.

Sabrina Jones lit up her cigarette and squinted at Chloe. Over the curling smoke, her eyes were appraising, shrewd.

‘The man from the Gazette said on the phone he was coming tomorrow,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Chloe without a pause. ‘He’s a staff reporter, you see. I’m an occasional freelancer for the paper. I write features.’ It was perfectly true, and perfectly meaningless in the context. But it seemed to satisfy Ms Jones. She nodded.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’

The story she gave was so obviously a virtual word-for-word rehash of the one she’d given the interviewer from the Pember Valley News that Chloe marvelled at the woman’s nerve. She even used the same term for what Tom had allegedly done: he touched me intimately. As she said this, Ms Jones dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a tissue. Her eye shadow and mascara remained intact, though, Chloe couldn’t help but notice.

Throughout the account Chloe said nothing, nodding encouragement from time to time and pretending to take notes. At the end she frowned as if deep in thought, and said, ‘Ms Jones, might I ask a few questions? There are one or two things I need to clarify.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ The woman lit another cigarette. Her eyes were wary and she shifted in the armchair, drawing her arms across herself defensively.

‘Do you work, Ms Jones?’

The question seemed to catch her off guard. ‘What? Yes, I’m in reception at Markham’s, the car repair shop on Wiltshire Road. Been there a month, ever since I moved here. I’m on sick leave now, though, because of all this. Why?’

‘Human interest side of things,’ Chloe said smoothly. Again Ms Jones seemed to appreciate this, and she relaxed visibly. Chloe went on: ‘And where were you living before you moved to Pemberham? Readers like a bit of background detail.’

This time the defensiveness was more pronounced. Ms Jones’s eyes flared and she stiffened in her chair. ‘London,’ she said curtly. ‘Hounslow. Doesn’t really matter, does it? That doctor’s hurt me now. It could have happened to anyone. It’s not important where I’m from.’

Chloe nodded. ‘Of course.’

She asked a few more banal questions to put the woman back at her ease, then stood. ‘Ms Jones, thank you. I’ve learned a lot. May I take a picture?’

She used her phone to photograph Ms Jones’s face. If the woman thought it was odd that a reporter was using a mobile phone to take a picture of an interviewee rather than a proper camera, she didn’t comment on it.

As Ms Jones let her out she said, ‘So when will your interview be in the paper?’

‘Oh, that depends on the editor,’ said Chloe breezily, and left with the sense of the woman’s eyes boring into her back.

Instead of returning to her car, Chloe walked past it down the street to an estate agent’s she’d seen when she’d parked. She made some enquiries of a very helpful young man inside, then left and took a drive to Wiltshire Road. Markham’s Mechanics was open and she went in.

To the woman behind the reception desk Chloe said, ‘I’m looking for a temporary job.’

‘As a mechanic, love?’ The woman barked laughter, but in a good-natured way.

Chloe grinned back. ‘No, as a receptionist. I understand your regular girl’s off sick.’

The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Where’d you hear that? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Yes, we’re short. I’m just filling in for the moment. What sort of credentials have you got?’

‘I’ve worked a bit, here and there. I can bring you some references if you like.’

The woman considered. ‘Okay.’

‘What sort of salary would we be talking?’

‘What’re you earning now?’

Chloe named a random figure. The woman cackled again.

‘Not sure we’re what you’re looking for, love. We can offer you half that, at most.’

Chloe thanked her and made her exit. Back in her car, she sat behind the wheel, allowing herself