He stared at the woman standing under his nose who was almost blocking his way to the exit. He felt guilty. He’d meant to visit John before he came here, but this filming thing had distracted him in a way he hadn’t been before.
He snapped, ‘It’s when you visit someone—at home.’ He couldn’t help the way he said the words. What on earth else could a home visit be?
Kristie only looked insulted for a few seconds. ‘You actually do that here?’
Of course. She was from the US. It was a totally different healthcare system. They generally saw a specialist for everything. Doctors like him—general practitioners who occasionally visited sick patients at home—were unheard of.
‘Of course.’ He elbowed past her and moved out to his car.
‘Let’s go,’ he heard her squeak to her colleague, and within a few seconds he heard their feet thudding behind him.
He spun around and held up his hand. ‘You can’t come.’
She tilted her chin upwards obstinately. ‘We can.’ She turned her notes towards him. ‘John Henderson, he’s on the list of patients that granted permission for us to film.’
Of course. Pam had already put a system in place to keep track of all this.
He couldn’t really say no—no matter how much he wanted to. He shook his head, resigned to his fate.
‘Okay, get in the car but we need to go now.’
They piled into the back of his car and he set off towards the farm where John Henderson lived.
It was almost like she didn’t know when to stop talking. Kristie started immediately. ‘So, can you brief us on this patient before we get there?’
Rhuaridh gritted his teeth. It was late, he was tired. He didn’t want to ‘brief’ them on John Henderson, the elderly farmer with the biggest range of health problems in the world. He was trying to work out how he hadn’t managed to fit John in before the visit to the hospital. He should have. Normally, he would have. But today he’d been—distracted.
And Rhuaridh Gillespie had never been distracted before. Not even when he’d been a junior doctor juggling a hundred tasks.
He didn’t speak. He could hear her breathing just behind his ear, leaning forward expectantly and waiting for some kind of answer. Eventually he heard a little sigh of frustration and she must have sat back as the waft of orange blossom scent he’d picked up from her earlier disappeared.
The road to the farm was like every road to a farm on Arran. Winding, dark, with numerous potholes and part way up a hill. This was why he needed the four-by-four.
He pulled up outside the farmhouse and frowned. There was one light inside, in what he knew was the main room. John usually had the place lit up like the Blackpool Illuminations. They liked to joke about it.
He jumped out, not waiting for his entourage to follow, knocking loudly at the front door and only waiting a few seconds before pushing it open.
‘John, it’s Rhuaridh. Everything okay?’
There was a whimper at his feet and his heart sank as he turned. Mac, John’s old sheepdog, usually rushed to meet anyone who appeared at the farm, barking loudly, but now he was whimpering in the hall.
He bent down, rubbed the black and white dog’s head. ‘What’s up, Mac?’
Even as he said the words he had a horrible feeling that he knew what the answer would be.
He was familiar with the old farmhouse, having visited here numerous times in the last few months. Mac stayed at his heels as he walked through to the main room. It was shambolic. Had been for the last few years, ever since John’s wife had died and he’d refused any kind of help.
The sofa was old and worn, the rug a little threadbare. A few pictures hung on the walls. But his eyes fixed on the sight he didn’t want to see.
‘John!’ He rushed across the room, already knowing it would make no difference as he knelt on the floor beside the crumpled body of the old man. Mac lay down right next to John, still whimpering as he put his head on John’s back.
John’s colour was completely dusky. His lips blue. ‘Here, boy,’ said Rhuaridh gently as he pushed Mac’s head away and turned John over onto his back.
His body was still warm, probably thanks to the flickering fire. But there were absolutely no signs of life. No breathing. No heartbeat. He did all the checks he needed to, but it was clear to him that John had died a few hours before.
It didn’t matter that this had been on the cards for a number of months. With his cardiac and respiratory disease John had been living on borrowed time for a while. But the fact was Rhuaridh had loved this old crotchety guy, with his gnarled hands through years of hard work and the well-weathered, lined face.
He looked peaceful now. His face more unlined than Rhuaridh had ever seen it before. Something inside Rhuaridh ached. John had died alone. Something he’d always been afraid of. If Rhuaridh had got here earlier—if he hadn’t taken so long over the hospital ward round—he might have made it in time to hold his hand for his last few breaths.
He lifted John’s coldish hand and clasped it between both of his. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered before he moved and closed John’s eyelids with one finger. He couldn’t help the tear he had to brush away. Mac moved back and put his head on John’s chest. He hadn’t thought it possible for a dog to look quite as sad as Mac did now.
He pulled his phone from his back pocket and made the obligatory phone call. ‘Donald, yes, it’s Rhuaridh Gillespie. I’ve just found John Henderson. Yes, I think he’s been dead for a couple of hours. You will? Thank you. I’ll wait until you get here.’
He sighed and pushed his phone into his pocket then started at the sound behind him.
Gerry had his camera on his shoulder and Kristie was wide-eyed. She looked almost shocked. A wave of anger swept over him. ‘Put that away. It’s hardly appropriate.’
Gerry pulled the camera to one side. Kristie seemed frozen to the spot. She lifted one shaking hand towards the body on the floor. ‘Is...is that it? There’s...nothing you can do?’ It was the first time her voice hadn’t been assured and full of confidence.
‘Of course there’s nothing I can do,’ he snapped. ‘John’s been dead for the last few hours.’
He didn’t add the thoughts that were currently streaming through his brain. If she hadn’t delayed him at the hospital, maybe he could have been here earlier. If she hadn’t distracted him at the doctor’s surgery, maybe he would have made John’s visit before he went to the hospital.
He knew this was all irrational. But that didn’t make it go away.
Gerry’s voice broke through his thoughts. ‘Do you have to wait for the police?’
Rhuaridh nodded. ‘They’ll be here in a few minutes, and the undertaker will probably arrive at the same time.’
He turned his attention back to John and knelt down beside him again, resting his hand on John’s chest. He felt odd about all of this. They’d stopped filming but it still felt like they were...intruding. And it was he who had brought them here.
Gerry seemed to have a knack of fading into the shadows, but Kristie? She stood out like a sore thumb. Or something else entirely. He’d been around plenty of beautiful, confident women in his life. What was so different about this one? She felt like a permanent itch that had got under his skin. Probably not the nicest description in the world but certainly the most accurate.
She stood to the side with her eyes fixed on the floor at first as his police colleague arrived then Craig, the undertaker. The unfortunate part of being a GP was that for he, and his two colleagues,