Healers by Ann Cleeves Page B

think they were part of a convoy of travellers who’d pulled up on some common land on the edge of town. They came here to buy food, keep warm. Win took pity on them.” There was a critical edge to his voice. “When the rest of the convoy moved on they stayed. I could have done without it actually. Because Win had befriended them people thought they were something to do with us, that we’d encouraged them to stay. It caused a lot of bad feeling locally, just as we were establishing a good reputation here. The farmers in the area didn’t like having them camping and called the police. They were dos sing in a clapped out old van which wasn’t road worthy and didn’t have any tax so they couldn’t move on. Things were starting to get really ugly when Win thought of the caravan at Laverock Farm.”
    “Mr. Bowles was a friend of yours?”
    “Oh no, hardly.” He gave a brief smile at the suggestion. Snobby bastard, Hunter thought. “Cissie Bowles, his mother, was my patient. I was treating her for arthritis. She came here to the Centre first but by the end she was almost bedridden and I went to the farm. That was how we knew about the caravan.”
    “It didn’t work then, did it?” Hunter couldn’t help himself. He had behaved for long enough.
    “What do you mean?”
    “The acupuncture. It didn’t work if she ended up having to take to her bed.”
    “It slowed the progress of the disease and helped relieve the pain.” Abbot spoke slowly as if Hunter were stupid. “We don’t claim to work miracles.”
    “I’d like to ask about another patient,” Ramsay said.
    Abbot was rattled, Hunter thought. He was hiding it well but he was definitely rattled.
    “But perhaps you’ll be expecting that,” Ramsay went on. “I’m surprised that you didn’t come forward yourself
    “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.”
    But you do, Hunter thought. You know what we’re talking about all right.
    “I mean another suspicious death,” Ramsay said. “Another victim connected with the Alternative Therapy Centre.”
    Abbot said nothing. He stared at Ramsay. Perfectly controlled but terrified.
    “You must have seen the news report,” Ramsay persisted. “Val McDougal. She was murdered in Otterbridge on Monday night.”
    Then surprisingly, there was relief. Hunter was sure of that. A relaxation of tension.
    “No,” Abbot said. “I didn’t know. At least I didn’t realize it was Val. Someone told me a teacher had been killed in Otterbridge but I didn’t hear the name. We don’t have a television and not much time for reading papers.”
    “But you did know Val McDougal?”
    “Yes. She was a patient at the Centre. She came to me originally, complaining of panic attacks. I referred her on to Magda. I saw her occasionally in reception, then she came with us to our weekend retreat in Cumbria last autumn.”
    “You didn’t actually treat her?”
    “No,” Abbot said. “I did a traditional diagnosis, took the pulses, blood pressure, but decided that re birthing seemed more appropriate.”
    “She was killed on Monday night,” Ramsay said. “Strangled like Mr. Bowles.” He paused, then continued provocatively. “Could you tell me where you were on Monday evening?”
    “Why?” Abbot demanded, no longer frightened but very much on his dignity.
    “It’s a matter of routine,” Ramsay said smoothly. “Elimination. I’m sure you understand.”
    “Win and I were in Otterbridge actually. At the Further Education College. An old tutor of mine was giving a lecture.”
    “Mrs. McDougal was working at the college on Monday evening. Did you see her?”
    Abbot shook his head impatiently.
    “What time did you get home?”
    “Not till late. After midnight. A few of us took the lecturer out for a meal. Then I had to take Lily home.”
    “Lily was in Otterbridge with you?”
    “No. She was here, babysitting. I dropped Win off and drove her back to Laverock Farm.”
    “Sean wasn’t with