Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,57

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Some instinct or other made Chloe rise earlier than usual, at five thirty in the morning. The sun was already bathing the fields outside the window and the day promised to be another brilliant one. Chloe checked on Jake – he was still fast asleep, sucking his thumb, a habit she was going to have to start getting him out of for the sake of his developing teeth, she reflected – and went into the kitchen to set the coffee machine going, before heading to the living room and her laptop.

An email was waiting for her. The time signature was one thirty that morning, when she’d been asleep, and the sender was Dave, her journalist friend from London. Attached was a password-protected file. The message in the email read: Have texted you the password. I pulled some serious strings to get this, so you owe me big time. Dinner at the Ritz, at the very least.

Chloe checked her phone and found the text message. She entered the password and waited as the document downloaded.

It was a scanned document, the resolution a little grainy but without affecting its legibility. Chloe read through it. Then reread it.

She sat back, closing her eyes. A smile crept across her face.

This was it. Just what she’d been hoping for, and more.

Her first impulse was to pick up her phone and call Tom. But she held herself in check. It was five thirty in the morning, for heaven’s sake. He probably wouldn’t have got much sleep that night anyway, considering all that had been happening.

Instead she composed a reply to Dave, thanking him profusely for his help and, without going into specifics, mentioning that the information he’d supplied might very well save somebody else’s career. And yes, she’d come through on that dinner, though it probably wouldn’t be the Ritz.

She closed the laptop, too excited to do any more work for the time being, and bustled about the cottage, planning the day. Tom would be her first port of call, and she’d discuss with him the options they had. After all, it would be largely up to him what they did with the information she’d obtained.

By seven she decided it would be a suitable time to call Tom - neither too early nor just as he was about to start work and might be feeling harassed. Keeping one eye on Jake, who was in the high chair at the kitchen table and doing his level best to feed himself his porridge oats without getting them all over his face and clothes, with limited success, Chloe dialled Tom’s number.

It rang twice, three times. He was probably getting Kelly ready for the run to nursery, she thought. When the voicemail kicked in, she said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice, ‘Tom, it’s me, Chloe. Hope you’re bearing up. Could you give me a ring when you’ve got a moment? I’ve got some very good –’

She was interrupted in mid-sentence by the abrupt intrusion of Tom’s voice: ‘Chloe?’

‘Tom. Hi.’ Momentarily flustered, as you tended to be when the other person picked up while you were in the middle of a voice message, she took a moment to collect herself. ‘Sorry to call so early, and I hope it’s not too inconvenient. I just wanted to –’

‘It is a bit of an awkward time, as it happens.’ There was something in his tone she’d never heard before. A testiness. Well, she didn’t blame him. He must dread the phone ringing, considering all that had been happening.

‘Look, I’m really sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘This won’t take long. Listen, I’ve been doing some digging –’

‘Yes, I know you have.’ Again, there was that edge to his voice. It wasn’t irritability, quite, she realised. Nothing as spontaneous as that. Rather, it was a disturbing coldness.

‘I... don’t know what you mean,’ she said uncertainly.

There was a pause, and although it lasted only two seconds at most, it had the quality of a gorge opening up between them.

‘I know you’ve been digging, Chloe,’ he said, his voice flat now, betraying no emotion. ‘You’ve rather shaken things up with your excavations. And I’m afraid to say it’s caused a fair amount of damage.’

The shock of his words took a moment to sink in. ‘Tom! I really don’t know what you’re referring to. What I’ve done. Please tell me.’

Was there a hint of doubt in his tone as he replied? ‘You went to interview Sabrina Jones, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said immediately. ‘Tom, that’s what