The Police Doctor's Discovery

‘You’ve changed, you know, Rachel,’ he said at last.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘that sounds ominous. Although I suppose it’s inevitable, really, after all this time, that one would look older…’

‘I wasn’t talking about looking older.’

‘Well, I’m sorry I’m no longer pretty,’ she said with a short laugh.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said softly, and suddenly she realised he was right behind her, so close that if she moved as much as an inch they would be touching. She froze.

‘Your hair,’ he went on, ‘it’s lovely. You used to wear it shorter, but I like it long like that.’

She sensed rather than saw him reach out his hand, then was aware that he was touching her hair. This wasn’t happening, she told herself; she couldn’t let this happen—it had taken her months, no, years to get over him the last time, if she ever had. She simply couldn’t let it happen again. She moved away from him on the pretext of taking the sugar bowl from the cupboard above the worktops. Stretching up, she opened the cupboard doors, and it was then that she felt his arms go round her.

POLICE SURGEONS

Love, life and medicine—on the beat!

Working side by side—and sometimes hand in hand—

dedicated medical professionals join forces

with the police service for the very best

in emotional excitement!

From domestic disturbance to emergency-room drama,

working to prove innocence or guilt,

and finding passion and emotion along the way.

The Police Doctor’s Discovery

Laura MacDonald

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

CHAPTER ONE

‘NICK!’ She stopped dead as the main doors of Westhampstead Police Headquarters closed behind her and the dark-haired man talking to the desk sergeant turned to face her.

‘Rachel...?’ There was a flash of something in his eyes along with recognition—shock? Pleasure maybe? She wasn’t sure, she only knew that her heart had turned over at the sight of him and even now was hammering uncomfortably in her chest. ‘What are you doing here?’ The eyes as dark as his hair narrowed slightly.

‘I could ask you the same question.’ She managed to speak lightly, even though her heart continued to perform gymnastics at the sudden and unexpected sight of this man who had once meant so much to her.

‘I work here,’ he said simply, ‘or didn’t you know?’

‘I knew you were a policeman certainly, but I thought you were with the Metropolitan Police.’

‘I was,’ he said, ‘but I’ve recently transferred back here to Westhampstead.’

‘So we’ve both come home.’

‘You’ve returned?’

‘For the time being, yes.’ She swallowed, still struggling to control her reactions. ‘One of the partners at the group practice is taking a year’s sabbatical—I’m filling in for him.’

‘So how can we help you?’

‘Dr Beresford.’ The voice of the duty sergeant broke in and Nick Kowalski turned slightly towards the man, whom to Rachel’s relief seemed to know exactly who she was and why she was there. He extended his hand and enclosed hers in a huge paw-like grip. ‘I’m station sergeant—Harry Mason.’

‘I thought I’d come and familiarise myself with the place before I’m called out,’ said Rachel, aware that beside her Nick had grown very still.

‘Called out?’ He frowned and just for a moment Rachel was glad that she had this slight advantage over him.

‘Yes,’ she said smoothly, ‘I’m to provide medical cover for this station.’

‘I thought that was Steve O’Malley’s job,’ said Nick and Rachel thought she detected a sudden sharp edge to his voice, almost as if greeting her and talking to her were one thing but having her work there was another thing altogether.

‘It’s Steve who’s on sabbatical,’ she replied calmly. ‘Like I said, I’m taking his place.’

‘Have you done any police work before?’ It was almost an accusation and Rachel saw a frown cross Harry Mason’s face.

‘As it happens, yes, I have.’ She spoke coolly, in control now. ‘I was Police Doctor at my last practice in Stockport.’

‘Let me show you around.’ As if he sensed some sort of tension between the two of them, Harry Mason beckoned to a young constable to take over the desk.

But Nick interjected before the constable had time to move. ‘I’ll do that, Harry,’ he said curtly. Glancing at Rachel, he added, ‘If you have no objections?’

‘Well, no.’ She hesitated slightly, aware that Harry Mason seemed put out at having his role hijacked but at the same time suspecting that Nick Kowalski was pulling rank. ‘Of course not.’ She had no idea of Nick’s rank, as he was not in uniform, but as she followed him down the corridor she found her thoughts in turmoil. She’d known he’d gone into the police force, of course she had. Hadn’t there been conjecture at the time that Westhampstead’s wild boy might turn to enforcing the law instead of ending up behind bars, as so many had predicted he would?

Her suspicions of his high rank intensified as they passed a man in the corridor, also in plain clothes, who nodded at Nick and muttered the single word, ‘Guv.’

‘You’re CID?’ she asked as he led the way past a huge control room and opened the door of an office, standing back for her to precede him.

‘Yes.’ He nodded.

‘Rank?’ she asked as he closed the door behind them.

‘DCI.’

‘I’m impressed,’ she said softly. ‘Detective Chief Inspector—who would have thought it?’

‘Who indeed?’ His gaze met hers levelly. ‘Certainly not the good folk of Westhampstead, that’s for sure.’

‘You’ve done well, Nick.’ She glanced around the office as she spoke, at the desk, the filing cabinets, the computer and phones—anywhere rather than at the dark gaze that was still levelled at her with that same, albeit slight measure of accusation, as if for all those years he’d carried the assumption that she and her family, and indeed many others in their home town, had believed he would never amount to much.

‘Yes, well.’ He shrugged, then, his eyes narrowing again, he added, ‘You haven’t done so bad yourself, Rachel—but, then, I don’t think there was ever any doubt that you would.’ He paused but his comments were loaded and for a moment, as once again her gaze was dragged back to his own, they were both transported back to their youth and the anguish of the love they had shared.

‘So.’ It was Nick who recovered first, apparently pulling himself together and turning his head away from her so that she couldn’t see the pain that had flared in his eyes. ‘Do you think you might stay in Westhampstead this time?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘Steve has only gone for a year—but if I like it here there may be an opening at the practice when Calvin Davenport, the senior partner, retires. So, who knows? I may just decide to stay.’

‘Where are you living—with your parents?’ Did his lip curl ever so slightly at mention of her parents, or had she imagined it?

‘No, at a house in Cathedral Close.’

‘Very cosy.’ He raised his eyebrows and she thought she detected a faintly mocking air about him now. It irritated her and drove her to retaliate.

‘And you?’ she said. ‘I heard you were married—I dare say by now you have a horde of children.’

‘I have one daughter,’ he said quietly, and Rachel felt a sudden sharp stab of some emotion she was unable to define. ‘And my marriage ended in divorce.’

Rachel wished she hadn’t spoken. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered.

‘It’s OK.’ He shrugged. ‘Unfortunately marriage and my career weren’t compatible.’

‘Do you see your daughter?’

‘Yes, she lives with her mother but she visits me whenever the job allows me the time.’ He paused. ‘And you, Rachel—are you married?’ The tension in the small room seemed heightened as he waited for her reply.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m in a long-term relationship...’

‘And?’

‘I felt it wasn’t going anywhere so this year is by way of a decider...’ She trailed off. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’ She gave a quick, dismissive gesture.

He grinned and for a moment the tension between them dissolved and he was once again the Nick Kowalski she had once known—the wild boy from the wrong side of town, the boy with a motorbike who had only kept out of trouble with the law by not being caught, the boy with laughter in his wicked black eyes, the boy deemed wholly unsuitable for Rachel Beresford, only daughter of Westhampstead’s highly respected GP and his wife, Diana, herself a magistrate.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let me show you around and introduce you to the rest of the crew. I’m sure you’ll find them a good bunch on the whole.’

‘I’m sure I shall,’ said Rachel as she followed him out of his office and into the control room.

Half an hour later Rachel found herself sitting in her car in the car park of police headquarters. Before switching on the ignition, she sat for a while, her hands resting on the steering-wheel as she gazed up at the building before her. It had been a shock seeing Nick again, she couldn’t deny that. Even though since her return to Westhampstead she had met up with many old friends and acquaintances, she hadn’t expected to see Nick because she hadn’t known that he, too, had returned to their home town.

For a moment it had taken her right back to that long hot summer when she had returned from her girls’ boarding school for the holidays and had taken the car her parents had given her for passing her exams into the garage where Nick had worked as a mechanic. She’d seen him before, of course, around the town when she had been at home on holiday, and had long been attracted to his dark good looks and the stories of his rather wild reputation, but it had been that visit to the garage that had been the start of their brief, passionate affair. He’d asked her out and had picked her up from home on his motorbike, roaring off into the night with her riding pillion. Her parents had been appalled and had done everything in their power to bring the romance to an end. But Rachel had fallen head over heels in love and had had no intention of giving up her new boyfriend. They had spent the whole of that long hot summer together and when at last Rachel had gone to medical school she and Nick had written to each other for weeks.

But then his letters had suddenly stopped, leaving Rachel hurt and bewildered, and shortly afterwards Rachel’s mother had told her that she had seen Nick in town with someone else. Several years later Rachel had heard that he had married another local girl, the daughter of a friend of his mother. She in turn had got on with her own life and had thought she had put the boy from the wrong side of town firmly out of her mind.

Seeing him today had shown her otherwise and had brought the past sharply into focus once more. She wondered if he, too, had felt as she had, but somehow she doubted it. After all, it had been Nick who had stopped the contact between them, Nick who had married someone else. Not that she had carried a torch for him all these years, she told herself firmly. After all, she’d had Jeremy, hadn’t she? She frowned at the thought of Jeremy and at the way their relationship had gone, then with a little sigh she started the engine and drove out of the car park.

The Beresford Medical Centre, named after its founder, Rachel’s father James, was situated in an old Victorian house in a leafy avenue in the fashionable part of Westhampstead. James Beresford had retired some years previously and together with his wife was still living in Ashton House, the family home on the far side of town where Rachel had been brought up. Rachel’s mother was in poor health, having recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, and both she and her husband had been delighted when Rachel had agreed to take up the position at the medical centre.

‘It’s what we’ve always wanted,’ her father had said as he’d hugged her.

‘I know,’ Rachel had replied, ‘but you mustn’t forget this is only a trial run—it may not turn out to be what I want permanently.’

‘Perhaps Jeremy will want to move down here,’ her father had added hopefully.

‘I shouldn’t count on it,’ Rachel had replied.

Now, as she entered the large hallway of the house, which had been turned into a spacious reception area, she made a conscious effort to put Jeremy out of her mind and concentrate on the fact that she would have a full afternoon surgery to face. But as she collected the bundle of patient records that receptionist Danielle Quilter passed to her, she found, somewhat disconcertingly, that it wasn’t Jeremy who dogged her thoughts but Nick.

‘Are you OK, Rachel?’ asked Danielle, peering up into her face.

‘Yes.’ Rachel paused and frowned. ‘Why?’

‘You look pale,’ said the girl, ‘like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

Rachel blinked. ‘Like I’ve just...?’ she said, then she gave a short laugh. ‘Ha! Well, maybe I have.’ Shaking her head, she made her way up the stairs and down a short corridor to the large first-floor room that was Steve O’Malley’s consulting room and which had been allocated to her for her time at the centre.

The room, at the rear of the house, with its huge sash windows, overlooked the garden, which was enclosed by a high, red-brick wall. Now, as September got into its stride, the leaves on the trees were turning gold and the herbaceous borders, which through the summer months had been a blaze of colour, were now looking tired and turning brown. Rachel slipped off her jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door, dumped her case behind the large pine desk then crossed the room to wash her hands in the small handbasin. Danielle had said she looked pale. Curiously she peered at herself in the mirror above the basin, critically surveying her appearance. Brown eyes stared solemnly back from beneath her fringe of honey-blonde hair. She didn’t think she looked particularly pale, although she had most certainly had a shock, seeing Nick again. Would he have found her changed after all this time? There were bound to be differences—after all, it had been a long time since they’d seen each other. She’d slimmed down a little, her features losing the roundness of her teen years, and there were a few tiny lines around her eyes, a result, no doubt of the long hours spent on duty as a hospital doctor.

And what of Nick himself—he’d changed, too, hadn’t he? She frowned slightly as she tried to recall. He seemed more powerfully built now in his thirties than he had before and his features more defined somehow, but his colouring was as dark as it had ever been and those eyes—well, there was no changing those. She gave a little shiver as she remembered how he had looked at her, the gaze every bit as challenging and uncompromising as it had ever been. But then there had been that brief moment of wicked laughter and with a thrill she’d all but forgotten she’d been reminded anew of how it had once been between them.

It had never been like that with Jeremy. Carefully she dried her hands then, crossing the room again, she sat down at her desk, switched on her computer and drew the bundle of patient records towards her, reading the name on the top one and smiling as she did so before pressing the buzzer that indicated to the reception staff that she was ready to start her afternoon surgery.

Moments later Tommy Page came into the room, accompanied by his mother Eileen. Tommy had suffered brain damage at birth that had left him with severe learning difficulties and now at twenty-eight he still lived at home with his mother, although on three days a week he attended a local day centre.

‘Hello, Tommy.’ Rachel smiled. ‘Come and sit down and tell me how I can help you today.’ This was Tommy’s third visit to the surgery in the short time that Rachel had been in Westhampstead.

‘Sore throat,’ he said. Sitting down in one of the chairs beside Rachel’s desk, he unwound the football scarf he was wearing and pointed to his throat.

‘How long have you had this sore throat, Tommy?’ asked Rachel, glancing at his mother, knowing that Tommy was given to exaggeration.

‘He says for the last couple of days,’ said Eileen. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Beresford, but he insisted on coming to see you.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Rachel reassuringly. ‘Now, Tommy, I think I’d better have a look at your throat.’ Tommy opened his mouth and allowed Rachel to insert a flat wooden stick, obediently issuing the ‘ah’ sound she requested.

‘Your throat doesn’t seem too bad,’ she said at last, after gently testing the glands on either side of his neck.

‘It really hurts,’ Tommy said, obviously fearful now that Rachel didn’t believe him.

‘I’m sure it does, Tommy,’ she said. ‘I think you may have a cold developing so what I want you to do is to drink plenty of warm fluids and suck some throat pastilles.’ She looked at Eileen. ‘If he starts to run a temperature give him soluble paracetamol every four hours.’

‘Very well, Doctor.’ Eileen stood up. ‘I hope we haven’t wasted your time.’

‘Of course you haven’t,’ Rachel replied, then, looking at Tommy, she said, ‘Have you been to the day centre today, Tommy?’

‘No, because of my sore throat,’ Tommy replied.

‘They’ve been very good to him,’ said Eileen. ‘They’ve even fixed him up with a computer so he can play games at home.’

‘Computer,’ said Tommy, pointing to Rachel’s.

‘Yes.’ Rachel smiled. ‘Just like mine. That’s wonderful, Tommy.’

‘Come on, Tommy,’ said his mother, taking his hand, ‘we mustn’t take up any more of Dr Beresford’s time.’

‘Bye, Tommy,’ said Rachel.

Just before the door closed behind them she heard Tommy say to his mother, ‘She’s ever so nice, Dr Rachel.’

‘Yes, Tommy, she is,’ his mother agreed.

‘I love her,’ said Tommy.

With a smile Rachel pressed the buzzer for the next patient.

Steadily she worked through the list. There were many people in Westhampstead who had been patients of Rachel’s father and who remembered Rachel as a child, and it seemed to her that these early surgeries of her days at the centre sometimes took far longer than they should as people reminisced or wanted to know where she had been working. Some, she suspected, even came out of curiosity, perhaps for a second opinion, or to see if Rachel was anything like her father had been as a GP.

‘So, how is he now—your father?’ One such patient came towards the end of that afternoon surgery, a woman called Peggy Reilly who had known Rachel since she’d been a baby and who indeed had been a patient of her father.

‘He’s very well, thank you, Peggy,’ Rachel replied, wondering as she did so whether she should issue a bulletin on her father, which could perhaps be posted in Reception for the benefit of all those who wished to know.

‘And what about your poor mother?’ Peggy’s voice lowered sympathetically.

‘Well, Mum’s health is not as good as it once was.’ Rachel knew there was no point in denying it—her mother’s forgetfulness and deteriorating health were well known amongst the residents of the town. ‘But Dad looks after her beautifully.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ Peggy agreed, ‘but it can’t be easy.’

‘Well...’ Rachel gave a little shrug. ‘Now, how can I help you, Peggy?’

‘It’s my arthritis playing up again, Doctor. It happens every year about this time—the temperature drops a bit, the evenings begin to draw in and my old joints give me gyp. And I have to say my usual tablets don’t seem to be helping at all.’

‘Right,’ said Rachel, ‘let’s have a look at your medication chart and see if there are any changes that we can make—there are several new anti-inflammatory drugs on the market so I’m sure we’ll be able to find one that suits you.’

At the end of surgery Rachel made her way downstairs to Reception where she found one of the receptionists, Julie Newton, leaning across the desk, talking to a man. As she approached the desk the man turned his head and she saw it was Julie’s husband Philip.

‘Ah,’ said Julie, looking round, ‘here’s Rachel—I’m sure she’ll buy a ticket.’

‘What’s this?’ Rachel smiled at Philip.

‘It’s a draw for more equipment at the day centre,’ Philip explained. ‘One of the prizes is a weekend in a luxury hotel—with me.’

‘Philip!’ Julie exclaimed, and the other receptionists laughed.

‘Only joking,’ said Philip with a grin. ‘But you still get the luxury weekend and there are plenty of other really good prizes.’

‘I’ll buy some,’ said Rachel. Rummaging through her shoulder-bag, she produced a five-pound note and took the pen Julie offered her.

‘That’s generous of you,’ said Philip as she began filling in her details.

‘I think the day centre does a fantastic job,’ Rachel replied, mindful of Tommy Page and his computer.

‘Can I just say I think it’s great that you’ve come back to Westhampstead?’ Philip added.

‘Thank you, Philip.’ Rachel glanced up. ‘How’s your mum these days?’

‘Not so bad.’ He paused, his head on one side as if reminiscing. ‘We had some fun in those days, didn’t we?’ he said at last.

‘Eh? What’s all this?’ Danielle looked from one to the other.

‘My mum was housekeeper for Dr and Mrs Beresford,’ Philip explained. ‘We lived up at Ashton House when I was a kid.’

‘Oh,’ said Danielle, ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Shall I fill in the rest of those for you, Rachel?’ asked Julie as Rachel began to fill in the second counterfoil.

‘Thanks, Julie,’ Rachel replied, pushing the counter-foils and the pen across the desk and stuffing the tickets into her bag. ‘I am in a bit of a rush—as usual.’ She pulled a face. ‘I must go. Nice to see you again, Philip. Say hello to your mum for me.’ With that she hurried out of the centre and into her car to make the two house calls she needed to do before she could go home.

Home for Rachel, as she had told Nick Kowalski, was a house in Cathedral Close, which she was renting for a year from friends of her parents who were travelling abroad. Tucked away in one corner of the close in the lee of the great cathedral, St Edmund’s was an elegant, stone-built Georgian-style house filled with antiques, and if the furnishings were a little too traditional for Rachel’s more modern tastes it was something she felt she could live with. Some of the more expensive pieces of glass and porcelain she had locked away in the glass-fronted cabinets in the dining room, terrified that she might break them, but after a while she had begun to relax and enjoy the undeniable comfort and luxury of the house. In many ways it was similar to Ashton House, her parents’ home, but it had been many years since she had lived there and she had since become used to a more modest way of life, first in student then hospital accommodation and more recently in the apartment she had shared with Jeremy.

As she thought of Jeremy she kicked off her shoes and sank down onto one of the two deep, comfortable sofas. When she had first met Jeremy, a fellow doctor in the practice where she had been working, and had brought him home to meet her parents, he had been hailed as a perfect match for her and the perfect son-in-law for them. The son of wealthy parents, educated at one of the country’s top public schools and with a career that looked set to take him to his own Harley Street practice, he must have seemed like the answer to Rachel’s parents’ prayers, but for Rachel things hadn’t quite worked out that way. She was fond of Jeremy, of course she was, but somehow their relationship had become static, with neither of them seemingly interested in marriage or starting a family, which, from Rachel’s point of view at least, was strange because she knew deep in her heart that she wanted both of those—to be married and to have children. But somehow she’d never been able to visualise either with Jeremy. They were friends, good friends, but that was all and their relationship seemed to lack the extra spark that Rachel felt sure should be there if any further commitment was to be made.