Page 2 of Grant
Now here’s a man with an excellent bedside manner.Spencer followed Bronnley into the house. Maybe this wouldn’t be as embarrassing as the police interview had been. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee calmed him further, as did the murmur of conversation from somewhere nearby.
“How do you like your caffeine?”
“Black with three sugars.” Spencer grinned at the startled once-over Bronnley bestowed on him. He was too thin and knew it. “I have a hectic job.”
“Obviously.” Bronnley took his coffee black with no adornment. “If you’d like to come this way?”
In his office, Bronnley bypassed the desk and made a beeline for the walnut and cream leather sofa by the French doors.
“That’s a lovely view.”
“Seconded. I sit here for hours and dream of fishing.”
“Right.” First impressions aside, Spencer couldn’t see Bronnley sitting and daydreaming. Be up and organising, yes. Though he appreciated how neatly Bronnley had settled his unease. And the man’s choice in sofas was flawless.
Spencer sank into the soft leather and sighed. This mess with Carlo exhausted him more than a double shift in the A&E department. He took a sip of coffee and let his gaze roam the water. Bronnley waited for the caffeine to do its work, and Spencer appreciated that, too.
“Thank you for giving me the chance to collect myself.”
“No need to thank me. We’re prepared for tough conversations.”
“And used to them?”
“Certainly. Our clients come to us because they have a problem they cannot handle alone. We have the specialist skills they need, but that doesn’t mean they feel comfortable asking. Much like your work, no?”
“That’s an excellent analogy.” Spencer relaxed a touch more. He’d worried about appearing helpless, but Bronnley had nipped that idea in the bud. “Definitely not like taking my car for repair. There, at least, I have a vague idea how it’s done, even if I don’t want to do it myself.” He took another sip of coffee and squared his shoulders. “What is your intake process? Do I talk or do you ask questions?”
“Could you start by summarising the problem for me? Then I’ll ask questions to tease out details.”
Spencer clutched his mug, letting the last of the warmth seep into his hands. “I’m a trauma surgeon, working mainly at Stoke Mandeville, though I fill in elsewhere if I’m needed. And for the last… maybe eight weeks… someone’s been following me.”
Bronnley raised a hand, and Spencer paused.
“Why the qualifier? You saidmaybeeight weeks?”
“That’s when I began to notice it. Doesn’t mean that’s when it started. At first, I wasn’t sure it was real. I’d been working long shifts and thought it was just exhaustion. Then I found my letterbox vandalised. Filled with paint. Someone broke into my office at the hospital. I received… bizarre gifts. A car swerved and almost hit me as I was shopping in Aylesbury. And now I can’t shake this crawling sensation, as if someone’s watching me. Even when I’m operating.” Spencer’s hands trembled, and he set the mug down.
This is why you’re here, he told himself.Because you can’t have it affect your work.He met Bronnley’s eyes. “Individually, none of these things are significant. But one after the other, and over weeks—”
“An excess of coincidences. Has something like this happened to you before?”
“No.”
“And you think you know the culprit?”
“I thought it was my ex, but the facts don’t fit. Not all of them.” Spencer felt himself grow agitated once more.
“Nasty breakup?” Bronnley asked, reading between the lines. “How long were you in a relationship?”
“Nine months, and I should have left him sooner.” Bronnley didn’t blink at the pronoun, and Spencer’s opinion of the man’s bedside manner rose another notch.
“He was violent?”
“Not physically, not yet. Controlling, undermining, and eventually verbally abusive. Interspersed with the usual apologies, declarations of affection, and promises to mend his behaviour.”
“Which you recognised and didn’t fall for.”
“I gave him the benefit of the doubt for longer than I probably should have.”
