Chapter 43

“I can’t help thinking this isn’t doing you any good. Wouldn’t you say it was kind of counterproductive?”

“Stop nagging me,” said Don. “Just get on with it.”

Lara sighed and set about untangling the leads and wires; honestly, his fingers were trembling even as he struggled to remove the silver cuff link from his crisp white cuff. But Don was on an anxiety-generated health kick and there was no stopping him. He’d bought himself a DIY blood-pressure monitoring machine and he was determined to use it. Twice a day, every day. Even though the prospect of having his blood pressure measured caused him to hyperventilate with fear and trepidation.

He’d also bought a cholesterol-testing kit and had to hype himself up each morning in order to jab the tiny needle into his thumb and measure the levels in the resultant bead of blood.

The first three times they’d done it, he’d almost fainted.

“Right.” Don had managed to roll up his sleeve. “Put the thing round my arm.”

They were in the office behind the shop. Lara did the honors and began pumping air into the blood pressure cuff. “OK, don’t breathe so fast. Think calming thoughts. Just close your eyes and relax…”

Not that it helped. Don failed to do so and the result was the same as yesterday. As was the cholesterol test, although on the plus side at least this time he didn’t turn pale green.

“I listened to my Paul McKenna tape twice last night,” he complained. “All the way through. Why does it work for everyone else but me?”

It was a vicious circle. Having succumbed to anxiety attacks, each failed attempt to reduce the anxiety just made the situation worse. Nor did Don’s diet help. He loved butter and cream and couldn’t get to grips with salad at all. His attempts at healthy eating were pitiful; in his mind, listening to Paul McKenna’s soothing tones would counteract the diabolical eating habits.

Needless to say, it wasn’t having the desired effect.

“Did you have your bran flakes for breakfast?” said Lara.

Don looked petulant. “What are you, my nursemaid?”

Which meant he’d had bacon and eggs.

“Just trying to help.” It was tempting to remind him that if he had a cardiac arrest and keeled over in the shop, she was the one who’d have to give him mouth to mouth. But that probably wouldn’t contribute much toward his state of serenity.

“If you want to help,” Don said glumly, “you could come over to my place, break into next door, and steal their drumsticks.”

“Oh dear. Still bad?”

“Worse.”

Poor Don. Until a few months ago his neighbor had been a sweet little old lady in her eighties. Peace had reigned and he’d taken it entirely for granted. Then she’d died and the house had been sold to a family who’d moved in six weeks ago.

They were charming people, friendly people, two parents, three teenagers, and a dog. Unfortunately for Don, they were also the noisiest neighbors on the planet and blithely unaware of it. From six in the morning there was door-slamming, stair-stomping, music-playing, TV-blaring, dog-barking, and banter. The teenage son had a drum kit, the daughters dreamed of X Factor stardom and liked to sing at the top of their voices, and between them they were driving Don insane. He’d tried a few times now to reason with them and they’d been hugely apologetic, promising to keep the noise down. But within hours the level had slid back up, simply because they genuinely didn’t realize how much of a racket they made during the course of their normal daily life.

“If you really can’t stand it,” said Lara, “you’ll have to move.”

“I know.” He was mournful. “But it’s my house, it’s where I grew up. I’ve always been happy there.”

The doorbell rang while Don finished fitting the silver cuff link back into his shirt cuff. Lara went through to the shop and buzzed open the door to let the customer in.

“Morning!” The woman was middle-aged, slender, lightly tanned, and wearing a pale blue raincoat over a gray wool dress. “Brrr, it’s chilly out there! Now, where’s my ticket?” She began rummaging in the side pockets of her shoulder bag. “I’m here to pick up my ring. My name’s Betsy Barrowman… oh hello, Mr. Temple, there you are! Haven’t seen you for a while!”

Barrowman. Oh God, this was the wife of the sweating man in the too-tight suit. Mr. Cubic Zirconium Bastard-Barrowman.

“Mrs. Barrowman,” said Don. “You’re looking very well. Been away?”

“I have, I have! I took my darling mum to the west coast of Ireland… we stayed in a wonderful cottage in Galway and had the best time. Even the weather was perfect. I just got back last night,” Betsy explained. “That’s why I haven’t been in sooner to collect the ring.” She waggled her thin fingers at them. “My hand’s felt so naked without it!”

“It must have done. Lara, could you get Mrs. Barrowman’s ring out of the safe?”

“Ah, that’s better.” Betsy Barrowman actually heaved a sigh of relief as she slipped the ring back onto her finger. “I don’t feel naked anymore!”

The truth was begging to come out. But Don had already issued a stern warning. Lara visualized her mouth being sealed with electrical tape, meters of it being wrapped round and round her head. It was like being a doctor or a priest, he’d explained; you might discover unpalatable facts about a person but your job entailed keeping quiet about them.

“And it’s been cleaned up too. Lovely!” Betsy was admiring the way the ring flashed, catching the light. Ironically, if the original stone had contained flaws, flecks of carbon, she would have known this wasn’t her diamond. But the very fact that it had been close to flawless made it virtually impossible to tell.

“Thanks so much.” Betsy reached for her purse. “Now, how much do I owe you?”

Don waved the credit card away. “Nothing. Your husband paid when he brought it in.”

“Did he? Ah, that’s so thoughtful.” Betsy’s smile was fond. “He’s wonderful like that. It was Gerald who saw that the claws were getting worn and needed fixing… I wouldn’t have even noticed.”

“Zheeeeeeeessssssshhh.” The moment the door closed behind Betsy Barrowman, Lara let out a noise like the valve being released on a pressure cooker. The smell of Betsy’s light flowery perfume still hung in the air; it was exactly the kind of innocent scent worn by a wife blithely unaware that her husband was up to no good.

“I know, I know.” Evidently no longer giving Gerald the benefit of the doubt, Don sat down heavily on one of the mulberry and blue striped velvet chairs.

“I wanted to tell her!”

“But you can’t. It isn’t our place.”

“She should know the truth,” Lara wailed.

“You don’t know that she wants to. How would you feel if you told her and she was so distraught she committed suicide?” Don’s hair quivered as he shook his head. “Either way, she’s not going to be delighted.”

Which was true enough. Lara said, “Are you OK?” because he was looking pale and dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

“It’s all the stress. Take my pulse.” Don held out his hand like a dog wanting to shake a paw. “It’s all over the place, going like crazy. Look, I know you want to interfere but promise me you won’t. Otherwise I’ll have that to worry about too.”

“Oh but—”

“And if I die, you’ll be out of a job.” This time he was kind of joking, kind of not.

His pulse was horribly rapid, like an old-fashioned train rattling over tracks. Also, he had a point. Lara gave up and patted the back of his hand. “OK, I promise.”