Chapter Eight

Jenna paused in front of the main door into the surgery. Something wasn’t right. The place was too dark, though across the car park, David’s blue four-wheel drive stood in its usual parking space.

After pulling her cell phone from her bag, she punched in his number. It rang until voicemail kicked in, and she ended the call without leaving a message.

She gnawed on her lower lip. Should she just turn around and go home? Perhaps talking to him had been a huge mistake, and this was her chance to back out before she involved him any further.

But with enough medicine for only one more day, her father’s warnings niggled at the back of her mind.

In the past she’d hated his constant nagging, but now she would do anything to have him back. How could he be dead? Over a week, and the pain was still raw.

Jenna turned the knob, half hoping the door would be locked, but it swung open easily. Groping inside, she found the light switch and pressed it on. Unease roiled in her stomach, as though something bad and unknown hovered on the edge of her consciousness.

“David?” she called out, wondering again why he’d not left the front lights on.

As she stepped into the reception area, the door clicked shut behind her, the noise loud in the silence. The scent of a doctor’s surgery filled her nostrils, a mingling of people and antiseptic—familiar and unwelcome. The room appeared normal, nothing out of place, and she glanced across at David’s office.

The door was closed. That wasn’t unusual, yet a shiver prickled across her skin. She crossed the room, each step heavier than the last, until she stood in front of the door.

The wood was cool against her fingertips. She pushed gently.

The door opened at her touch. The office was in darkness, but the light from the reception area seeped into the room, revealing the shadow of a seated figure.

For an endless moment, she stood frozen in the doorway. She swallowed, licking her dry lips, forcing the word out of her locked throat.

“David?”

The figure remained motionless, and Jenna took a slow step forward. As she entered the room, her nostrils filled with a sweet, sickly stench, and she swallowed again. Her hand flew to her face, pressed over her mouth and nose.

When she knew she wouldn’t be sick, she drew in a deep breath and switched on the light.

The phone fell from her hand, hitting the tiled floor with a crack.

Jenna swayed as shock clamped her body in a viselike grip. The room blurred, and she reached out for the wall to steady herself. She forced herself to look, to make sense of the scene in front of her.

David was dead.

There was no doubt. He was tied to one of the solid wooden chairs, held upright by the rope around his chest. His head had fallen back, exposing the line of his throat, but the white wall behind him was splattered with a grisly medley of black and crimson.

She edged closer, needing to see his face, to confirm what she already knew. His eyes were wide open, and a neat black hole pierced the center of his forehead. Reaching out with a shaking finger, she touched his cheek. The skin was warm, and she jumped back.

Could the killer still be here? A man had been leaving the car park as she’d driven in.

Crouching on the floor, she fumbled for her phone without taking her eyes from the body. Her fingers trembled too much to press the numbers, but finally she managed, and after endless minutes, the police emergency line picked up.

“There’s been a murder.”

She gave the address and listened while they told her an officer would be with her within minutes.

Why? Why would anyone kill David?

Glancing around the room, she saw nothing was out of place. Only David.

She made herself look at the body again, take in the details. His wrists had been fastened to the arms of the chair with steel cuffs. The fingers of his right hand were splayed open and turned into a bloody, swollen mass. Dizziness washed through her, and nausea rose up in her throat.

He’d been tortured.

Swallowing, she turned away, unable to look any longer.

She stumbled from the office, back into the reception area, and sank into one of the hard chairs lining the room. The door stood open, and she wished she’d closed it as her gaze was drawn to the slumped figure. But she couldn’t make herself get up and go anywhere near David’s body again.

Her eyes burned, and she rubbed the tears away.

What could anyone possibly want worth torturing a man like David for?

His last moments must have been horrific. Had he known he was about to die? Tears welled up again. This time she allowed them to slide down her cheek.

The police would be here soon.

While she hated to be caught up in the middle of this, she had to do whatever she could to help. Her mind went again to the man she had seen leaving the car park as she’d driven in. Had he been David’s killer? Her eyes closed; she visualized him, but he’d looked so ordinary.

Her thoughts were broken as a car pulled into the lot. She forced herself to her feet, crossed to the door, opened it, and watched two uniformed officers approach the surgery.

“Ma’am, are you the woman who called in the emergency?”

“Yes. Jenna Young.”

“You said there’d been a murder.”

She turned and gestured to David’s office without allowing herself to look inside.

“Jesus.”

One of them pulled out a radio and turned away as he made a murmured call. He came back to Jenna. “I’ve called in homicide. They’ll be here in an hour. In a case like this, we bring in the specialists from London.”

Jenna sat on one of the chairs as far away as she could get and tried not to think, but by the time she heard the sound of tires scrunching over gravel outside, she was going crazy.

Thank God. At least there might be an end to the night.

“Ms. Young?”

A man stood before her, tall, in black jeans and a black V-necked sweater under a leather jacket. His hair was dark and messy, his face lean and handsome. He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth.

“I’m Detective Inspector Mitchell.” He nodded toward the woman beside him. “And this is Detective Jameson.”

Jenna offered a small smile in reply but couldn’t bring herself to speak.

“How are you doing?” he asked, taking the seat beside her.

She gave him a blank expression and a shrug. What was there to say?

“I’m sorry. It must have been a shock for you to find him. Did you know him?”

“His name was Dr. David Griffith. I’d arranged to meet him here tonight.”

“A doctor? Were you a patient?”

“No. My father was his business partner.”

“Was?”

“My father died just over a week ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t answer; the comment didn’t seem to require one. “Detective Mitchell, there was a man leaving as I arrived here.”

“Was he someone you knew?”

“No. That’s why I noticed him. This is a small place, and strangers are rare. He came out of the surgery as I was parking the car. It had to be him.”

“Sarah.” Mitchell called the other officer over. “Go see if there’s a CCTV camera in the car park, and if there is, get hold of the tapes.”

He pulled a small handheld recorder out of his pocket and turned back to Jenna. “Can you describe him?”

Jenna attempted to picture the man, but his face remained vague, shadowy. “My mind was on other things. I noticed him, but he didn’t really register.”

“Try.”

“He was average. I think that’s why he’s so hard to remember. Average height, probably about the same as me.”

“And that is?”

“Five eight, five nine maybe.”

“Go on.”

“His hair looked medium brown, but it was dark. He was dressed in jeans and a black jacket of some sort.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry I’m not being much help.”

“You’re doing fine.”

Detective Jameson came back at that moment, stopping in front of them, hands on her hips. “You’re not going to like this. There are CCTV cameras.”

“Good so far. So what aren’t I going to like?”

“They’ve both been taken out. Smashed.”

“Damn.”

A white van pulled up outside. Mitchell stood and stretched. “That will be the crime scene team,” he said to Jenna. “I need to speak to them, but I’ll be back in a little while, and we can finish up.”

“Will I be able to go?” she asked.

“I think so, though we’ll need you to come in to Scotland Yard first thing tomorrow.”

“Fine. I’m staying at my father’s house tonight, but I work in London. I’ll come in on my way.”

“Okay.” He frowned as the door opened, then gave her a brief nod. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

He left her, and she watched as he spoke to the new arrivals. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing; soon flashes were going off and people wandered around with clipboards, taking notes, measuring things.

Someone handed her a coffee, and she sipped it, craving the heat. Her insides felt frozen despite the warmth of the night. Her life had never been normal, always overshadowed by her illness, but now everything seemed to be falling apart.

She dug into her bag and pulled out the letter. She smoothed the paper open with trembling fingers and reread her father’s words. He’d told her not to speak to anyone about her illness.

But she had spoken to someone.

She’d spoken to David, shown him the letter.

And now he was dead.