Disclaimer: Doc Martin is the property of Buffalo Pictures. I own nothing.

Chapter Twenty-One

Martin was in the middle of examining a mole on Bert Large's left buttock, when the door opened and one of the teenage girls barged in,

'Doc…'

'Get out!'

'But it's Constable Penhale on the phone, he says it's an emergency. Hello, Mr Large.'

'Hello, Tracy, how are you?'

'Fine, thanks.'

'Quiet! You, Tracy, put the phone through to here.'

'How?'

'Press hash and then 1.'

'All right. That mole looks quite normal to me, Mr Large.'

'Get out, you imbecile!'

'Tosser!'

Tracy flounced out and Martin grimaced, he would no doubt have to go out to the waiting room to take Penhale's call with half the village listening in. However, a few seconds later, his phone buzzed and picking up the receiver he heard Penhale's voice, saying,

'Doc? Is that you?'

'Yes, what's the emergency?'

'It's Mrs Tishell, she's not responding to me.'

'What do you mean, not responding? Is she conscious?'

'Yes, but she's ignoring me.'

'And that's unusual?'

'Yes, she's very polite usually', said Penhale in an aggrieved tone of voice, 'She's looking right through me and she's pale and shivering. I think she's in shock.'

'Why would Mrs Tishell be in shock? Has something happened?'

Behind Martin, Bert lifted his head off the couch so that he could hear more clearly.

'Well, I had to give her some bad news and she didn't take it very well, I'm afraid.'

'What sort of bad news?'

'About her husband, he's dead, I'm afraid.'

'Clive Tishell's dead?'

'Yes and I was just asking her if Mr Tishell had any enemies when she was sick and now, well, I don't like the look of her and that's the truth.'

'I'll be right there. Are you at the pharmacy?'

'Yes.'

Martin hung up and turned to Bert, saying,

'Emergency, I've got to go. The mole's fine. Lose some weight.'

Martin grabbed his medical bag and rushed out. As he crossed the waiting room, he realised that with Pauline still off sick, the surgery would be chaos by the time he got back. Looking round, he spotted the teenage girl who'd answered the phone,

'You, Tracy, do you want to earn some money?'

'Yes.'

'Can you read?'

'What?'

'Can you read? It's a simple enough question!'

'Of course I can read. What sort of moron d'you think I am?'

'Are you infectious?'

'What?'

'Why were you coming to see me? Was it for a repeat prescription or are you ill?'

'Repeat prescription.'

'Good. Take charge here. No one goes into the consulting room except Doctor Milligan.'

'How much?'

'What?'

'How much are you going to pay me?'

'Six pound an hour.'

'Ten pounds an hour.'

'Eight.'

'Deal.'

'Ring my mobile if there's another emergency.'

'Right. What's your…'

Tracy realised that she was talking to a closed door and swore,

'Tosser! How am I supposed to ring him when I haven't got his number?'

'Not to worry, love. I've got it,' said Bert, emerging ponderously from the consulting room and going over to Tracy, saying,

'I expect the Doc was a bit preoccupied, what with being worried about poor Sally Tishell.'

'Why? What's happened to her?'

'Gone into shock.'

'Why?'

'Her husband's dead.'

'No! How?'

'I don't know but he was fit as a fiddle last night.'

'Pissed as a newt too. John had to throw him out of the pub in the end.'

'Well, he was upset, wasn't he.'

'And now he's dead. Terrible.'

As Bert and Tracy carried on gossiping, people all over the waiting room reached for their phones to spread the news.

When Martin reached the pharmacy, Joe was waiting to let him in,

'I did what it says in the Police Training Manual but she won't drink it.'

'What?'

'The Police Training Manual, it says to wrap sufferers from shock in a blanket and get them to drink hot, sweet tea, but she won't drink it.'

'Where is she?'

'In the kitchen.'

Martin went upstairs and found Sally Tishell sat on one of the kitchen chairs, gazing vacantly into space, a blanket draped lopsidedly over her shoulders. There was vomit on the table and floor and when Penhale followed him up, Martin said,

'Clean that up.'

'But I don't know where she keeps her cleaning materials.'

'Try under the sink.'

Penhale started rummaging under the sink and Martin turned back to Sally, carrying out a brief visual examination before taking her pulse. She was cold, pale and sweating and her pulse was rapid. She was also shaking from head to toe. Looking directly into her eyes, Martin said clearly,

'Mrs Tishell, it's Doctor Ellingham. Can you hear me?'

Sally's expression didn't alter so Martin placed his hands on her shoulders and said loudly,

'Mrs Tishell! Can you hear me?'

Mrs Tishell still didn't react at all. Martin tried a few more times but Mrs Tishell was completely unresponsive. Sighing, Martin pulled out his phone and called an ambulance. Once assured that the ambulance was on its way, he hung up. Turning to Penhale, who had finally finished mopping up, Martin said,

'How did Clive Tishell die?'

'Pushed over the cliff.'

'Where's the body?'

'Washed out to sea, most likely.'

'You haven't got the body?'

'Not yet,' said Penhale defensively.

'So how do you know he was pushed?'

'Information gleaned during the course of my enquiries leads me to believe that there was foul play.'

'What information?'

'I'm not at liberty to discuss that, I'm afraid.'

Martin glared at Penhale and after squirming for a bit, Penhale said,

'There was blood on his shirt and jacket.'

'How much?'

'Um…'

'A teaspoon? A pint?'

'I don't know.'

'Were his clothes saturated or just spattered?'

'There was blood all down the front of the shirt but just a few splotches on his jacket.'

'Hmm, any cuts or tears in the shirt?'

'Not that I saw.'

'Probably from an external injury. Head or face, most likely.'

'I'm assuming the perp stunned him, removed his clothes and then threw him off the cliff.'

'Removed his clothes? Why?'

'So that the body couldn't be identified.'

'You don't need his clothes to identify him.'

'You know that, Doc, but your average lay person wouldn't.'

Martin looked at Penhale in disbelief. Every time he thought that he had plumbed the depths of his intelligence, Penhale said something even more moronic than before. With every third show on television being a crime or police show, everyone knew that the police would use fingerprints, dental records or DNA for identification. Shaking his head, he turned back to Mrs Tishell, to check for any changes in her condition.

Paul Milligan discreetly checked his watch, it was time to bring his session with Danny Steel to an end,

'I want you to think about what we've discussed today, particularly how important it is not to let your feelings for Louisa stop you from moving forward in other areas of your life.'

'Right.'

'Good. I'll see you at the same time on Thursday, if that's still convenient for you.'

'Yes, thank you.'

Paul stood up and led Danny downstairs. As he stepped into the waiting room it went completely silent. After a moment, Bert asked,

'Is Mrs Tishell all right, Doc?'

Baffled, Paul said,

'Why wouldn't she be?'

'Ah, you haven't heard then?'

'Heard what?'

'Doc Martin rushed off to look after her. She came over all peculiar when Penhale told her that Clive had been murdered.'

Paul tried to process what Bert was saying but one simple fact reverberated around his mind; Sally was ill. He had to go and look after her. Without a word, Paul turned and ran out of the surgery.

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