Alex had never heard of Potiphar’s wife, but she wished she had so she could discuss the painting. Her father’s passion was art, but she had taken little notice of the large and expensive books he borrowed from the library.
‘She seems so sad. Her lover is leaving her, isn’t he?’
Maggie, as Alex was now calling her, winked and gave a sly smile. ‘Read up on it, Alex. It will educate you.’
She poured them both more wine, and for the first time in ages Alex enjoyed the pleasure of sipping instead of guzzling, not needing the quick fix of alcohol to settle her nerves. She was wonderfully relaxed and no longer wished to discuss her troubles, but Maggie was expecting her to; this was why she was here, to talk to this woman, still a relative stranger, about stuff she could share with no one else. Alex would rather they just got to know each other more and forget for a while about the man who attacked her and who was still terrorising her.
‘Can I ask something personal?’
Maggie’s dark eyebrows rose in amusement. Her chocolate-coloured hair was down and nearly touched her waist. She was dressed in a cream sleeveless polo neck made of fine wool, and brown tailored trousers. She was attractive, and that combined with her mind and confidence would make her a very desirable companion for someone.
‘Are you married?’
Maggie burst out laughing. ‘Honestly, Alex, for a minute there I thought you were going to ask if I was gay. And no I’m not, to both. I was nearly engaged .?.?.’ Her eyes dimmed briefly and her voice lowered. ‘Nearly. But he had a bit of a problem with commitment. I think in the end he only liked being here so he could use my parents’ recording studio. Loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Still,’ she said more briskly, ‘better to learn sooner than later.’
‘What do your parents do?’
Maggie’s eyes showed sadness. ‘Did. My mother was a concert pianist and my father played cello. They were both killed on tour in a coach crash. We weren’t very close, I’m afraid. I think they were disappointed that I didn’t follow in their footsteps and instead chose medicine. My mother thought it an inelegant choice of career.’ She flexed her slim hands and studied them. ‘Having said that,’ she continued, ‘I like what I do, and in the end I suppose that’s what matters.
‘And now,’ Maggie raised her wine glass, ‘I have an occasional lover, boyfriend, but not a permanent fixture.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘This is my first consultant’s post. It will be my first Christmas back in the city since I left home to go to medical school. I have this big beautiful house waiting to be filled with a family, but I just haven’t got the time. I turned thirty-two last week and being what I am, and doing what I do for a living, I did briefly think about my biological clock, and then I thought, hey .?.?. I haven’t got time for a husband, let alone a child.’ She sipped her wine. ‘And you? Or did you think I was going to let you get away without asking?’
‘No boyfriend, no lover and no suitors standing by.’
‘What about the one I met? He looked very beddable.’
It was Alex’s turn to laugh. ‘He was! Is! It’s just a shame he’s such a prick. He still loves me; in fact he wants to marry me. The only tiny hitch is that we have a slight difference of opinion – he thinks I’ve lost my mind.’
When Maggie didn’t answer straight away Alex felt embarrassed. From the heat in her face she knew she had turned a fiery red.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go soon. I’m on an early tomorrow and I need to do a few things tonight. It’s been really nice chatting to you, though, I appreciate it.’
‘Alex, there’s no need to be embarrassed. I don’t think for one minute that you’ve lost your mind. I’ll be honest, I’m more inclined to think you suffered some sort of post-traumatic episode. Something that manifested itself as real, maybe something in your past or something to do with the type of work you do.’ She paused, and a wry smile curved her lips. ‘I wondered why you let me to carry out the examination on you that night. I thought perhaps it might have been because I was still quite new to the hospital – a relative stranger, so to speak. But you didn’t like me, so I still thought it odd. You could have refused.’
Alex felt her face grow warmer. ‘Why would I? You were the best. I was lucky you were there to deal with that wretched policewoman. But it is true .?.?. I didn’t like you. Every time I met you, you were so dismissive.’
Maggie sighed. ‘It’s true, but I can’t help it, Alex. When I’m focused on a job everything else becomes irrelevant, including my manners.’
Alex raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘You’re not so bad, I suppose, when you’re not in work.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Maggie said, equally mocking. She chewed her lip for a second, her eyes considering Alex. ‘I think you owe it to yourself to explore this further, and if you think it would help, I can put you in touch with someone I know. He’s very good. He’s a psychoanalyst and has a lot of experience dealing with post-traumatic stress. He also practises hypnosis, retrieves memories, that kind of thing.’ She gazed at Alex expectantly. ‘You’ve gone quiet. Have I said too much?’
Alex shook her head. And strangely, instead of feeling disappointed by what Maggie had said, she felt some relief. Maybe, just maybe, she should explore the possibility of this being in her mind. Not the message left on her Mini; that was real enough, but perhaps it had been carried out, as suggested by Laura Best, by a joker.
Maybe she should undergo hypnosis, even though she was highly sceptical. For all she knew, this expert might uncover stuff she had blocked. It was a chance worth taking to know one way or another, if only to stop her looking at every dying woman as a victim of her attacker.
‘Will you put me in touch with him?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ Maggie Fielding said. ‘I’ll ring him soon. Now, forget all about rushing off home. You’re staying to dinner and that’s final.’
Chapter nineteen
Greg crouched down, staring at the ground around the parking space where Lillian Armstrong was found. Her spilled blood was still on the floor. It had spurted onto the wall by her head and now looked like dry brown paint. Dr Taylor’s footprints showed where she was led away, gradually petering out until eventually they became invisible to the naked eye.
His immediate thought, when Dr Taylor told him about the tyre mark across the woman’s chest, was that she had been moved. And now of course it was obvious. The cars either side of her had been parked there all day. She had lain with her head facing into the wall, and yet the tyre mark indicated that a car had driven across her chest. So unless she positioned herself this way, someone else had.