‘Then, suddenly one day, she told me she was going to stop coming. She’d been seeing another therapist – something I didn’t know about – and he had referred her to a doctor because he thought there was something more serious wrong with her. And the doctor had diagnosed cancer.’

‘Poor kid. How did her mother react to that news?’

‘Well, this is the point,’ said Chrissie. ‘She didn’t tell her mother. She reckoned the poor woman already had enough to worry about. My client was very optimistic, I have to say, at that stage. She actually felt relieved to have a diagnosis of an identifiable disease, rather than something as vaguely defined as ME. And she thanked me for what the reiki had done for her, but said she wouldn’t be coming any more because she was about to embark on a process of treatment for the cancer.’

‘What, chemo?’ asked Jude. ‘Radiotherapy?’

‘No,’ came the reply. ‘She was going to have a course of treatment with the healer.’

‘Oh my God!’ said Jude. ‘And the healer was called Jeremiah?’

‘Yes. Whether it’s the same guy, the one who’s turned up in Fethering, I don’t know.’

‘Do you know the name of the doctor who made the cancer diagnosis?’

‘No, I never heard that.’

Chrissie now sounded quite emotional and it was with trepidation that Jude asked, ‘And what happened to the girl?’

‘It was a long time till I heard about it.’ Chrissie’s voice was unsteady. ‘You know, neither the girl nor her mother had any more connection with the clinic, and I didn’t know them in any other context. And then another client I was treating for ME … it turned out she knew the family. She told me …’ Chrissie gulped down a sob. ‘The girl took an overdose of prescription medication. Killed herself.’

‘And you don’t know whether the course of healing that she was—?’

‘I don’t know anything else, Jude. Just that she killed herself.’

‘And are you prepared to tell me her name?’

‘Jodie Flint. Jodie Flint killed herself.’ Chrissie cleared her throat. ‘That’s why Karen persuaded me I could talk about it. Client confidentiality becomes less important when the client’s dead.’

After she’d finished the call, she looked across at Carole, on whose face there was a rather smug expression. As she leant across to refill their glasses, Jude asked, ‘So which particular cream has this cat got?’

Carole tapped the diary. ‘I think, from overhearing parts of your conversation and from following my own logic, I know what the “H” that Bill Shefford kept writing down stood for.’

‘Oh?’

‘“Healer”. All those dates and times were appointments with his healer.’

‘You’re right! God, I’ve been so stupid! Why didn’t I, of all people, work that out?’

‘Well …’ said Carole, with considerable complacency.