Blood Loss

by Kerena Swan

  ‘Two are local to the crime scene. Here are their addresses.’ Mitchell tore a page from his notebook and gave it to Paton. ‘Do you want me to e-mail them to you as well?’

  ‘Just put them in your daily report and put it in the incident room to be logged on HOLMES. I’ll get the report from there. I want you to check the ANPR cameras to see where the other two left the motorway. What’s the location of the fourth owner?’

  ‘Manchester.’

  Paton’s stomach flipped with excitement. Was this the one? ‘I’ll take that address now too.’

  Mitchell scribbled it down then rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Take a half-hour break,’ Paton said. ‘Give your eyes a rest.’

  On his way back across the office he stopped at Cheryl’s desk and gave her the first piece of paper. ‘I’d like you to visit these two people and check where they were going and why, on the day of the murder. Ask for any evidence and alibis.’

  Cheryl nodded.

  ‘Take another DC with you,’ Paton said. ‘I doubt these people have anything to do with the murder but we can’t be sure and I don’t want you walking into a risky situation on your own.’

  Next, Paton knocked on the SIO’s door and entered at the barked command. He updated his boss, praying silently that he saw this news as progress. The case wasn’t proving to be as easy as Paton had hoped but he was confident that the Fiesta they needed to trace was either the deceased man’s car or the one with an owner based in Manchester. Who would use a vehicle in a dead man’s name unless they were hiding something or running away? And was it just a coincidence that Nash had links with Manchester?

  ‘I need to go to Manchester, sir. I’ve been told Nash was conducting business there for what seemed to be an unnecessarily long time and I suspect he was having an affair. I’d like to question the businesses he was dealing with and ask if he was seen with a woman. Can you approve my expenses for a couple of nights?’

  ‘Don’t stay in the Marriott. A Travelodge will do.’ He gave Paton a half-smile. ‘And make sure you don’t spend too much on food. My budgets are being squeezed again.’ He sat back in his chair and tapped his lips with his pen. ‘I’ll contact a colleague in the Manchester police. If you find any witnesses, you can take them into one of the local stations there to produce an E-Fit photograph.’

  Paton thanked Metcalfe then left the office. Wendy wouldn’t be pleased that he was going away for a couple of nights but it couldn’t be avoided. They’d have to ask his sister to mind Tommy in the evenings while Wendy was at work. He’d also ask his sister to keep an eye on Wendy’s mental health. He just hoped he could find a connection in Manchester or another sighting of the silver Fiesta, otherwise he’d be disrupting his family for nothing.

  Chapter 32

  March | Sarah

  As soon as I’ve finished tidying the seating areas at the library and re-stacking the shelves, I sit at one of the computers to research DNA test results and whether they can be wrong. Nothing else makes sense now I know Mum gave birth to me. I start with the lab I used and check reviews and ratings but it seems as though they only have happy customers. I make a note of the telephone number of the clinic so I can call to ask if I could have been given a false reading.

  Next I research how saliva samples can be contaminated. It says to avoid putting anything in your mouth for at least an hour prior to collecting cheek-cell samples. Apparently, foreign particles from food, liquids and toothpaste don’t alter the DNA but they can mask it. The website describes how they degrade the sample and make it unusable. I think about the mouthwash I used after I’d visited Derek. No. That sample can’t have been compromised. I waited at least an hour before I took it and Mum had been asleep for ages when I stole her saliva sample.

  The lab assures its customers on its website that this mistake doesn’t adversely affect the results because the lab always catches this problem and suspends testing immediately. I’d have simply been asked to do a re-collection at no extra charge. I switch to another website that says in rare circumstances human errors can be made with the data so if in serious doubt they recommend a second test from a different lab. Maybe I’ll do that. I’m sure Mum will agree to a re-test and if hers is wrong, which it must be, then I’ll go back to John and re-do his. Thank goodness I get paid tomorrow so I can order another kit.

  When I arrive home, Mum’s waiting for me and she’s more sober than I’ve seen her in a long time.

  ‘I’ve been looking through your old memory box. Do you remember this?’ She holds a small, pink plastic band in her hand with a popper type fastening that’s still done up. The bracelet has been cut to remove it from the baby’s wrist but the hand-written information in red biro is clear. Sarah Butcher 26.09.1995 0281. ‘It’s your identity bracelet from the hospital. More proof that you’re my daughter.’

  I sit next to her and she places it reverently in the palm of my hand, a wide smile on her face. I circle it to join the ends. It’s tiny. I pull the old box of photos towards me from the corner of the room and pick up a few snaps from the top until I find the pictures we looked at earlier. Mum takes a handful and strokes the faces gently with her fingertip, cooing over snaps of me growing up.

  I find the picture of Mum holding me shortly after the birth and another taken a few days later. She looked so different back then with her dark hair and golden skin. She had joy and hope for the future etched on her face. Nowadays she mostly looks worn out and beaten into acceptance of a life with little happiness to lighten her long dark days.

  I gaze at the images of the new me in her arms. I have puffy eyes and round cheeks and a dusting of light-coloured hair. I have no distinguishable features and look like many other new-born babies. The earlier one shows an ID bracelet like the one Mum just put into my hand. I peer more closely but the words are not visible. The second one is taken from a different angle so the wrist is obscured and I can’t see the bracelet.

  ‘Are there any more photos of us in the hospital?’ I ask, and I pick the box up to tip the entire contents on the floor then scatter them with the palms of my hands. I’ve glanced at these pictures years ago but now they are fascinating.

  ‘Careful, Sarah, you’ll bend them. I think there were a couple more taken of you before we left.’ Mum gets on her hands and knees then picks a photo up. ‘Look. This was your dad on our third date. Doesn’t he look handsome?’

  I murmur non-committal answers as Mum ambles along Memory Lane, smiling and sighing as her past unfurls around her. I shuffle pictures of animals, school plays and grandparents holding onto giant prams until I see another picture of a tiny baby and snatch it up to stare at it. This time the baby is lying on a bed kicking its legs up and waving tiny fists in the air. I’m about to ask Mum if the baby is me when I notice the embroidered row of ducks across the little nightdress. It must be me, but as I stare at the picture I gasp in shock.

  ‘What?’ Mum leans over and snatches the photo from my fingers.

  ‘Why haven’t I got my ID bracelet on? Didn’t you notice it was missing?’ My voice rises with disbelief and I feel hollow and nauseous as a horrible realisation settles on me.

  ‘’Course I did.’ Mum stands up and hobbles to the sofa. ‘Ooh, my feet have gone dead. I told the matron your band was missing and she made you another one straight away. Later I heard her telling the student midwife off for cutting the first one off when she put you in the incubator. It was quite funny really.’ Mum chuckles to herself. ‘The student was so jumpy around Matron she never listened properly to instructions. She took the ID band and your nappy off because she thought all your skin had to be exposed. You peed on the sheet and the baby next to you.’

  ‘Why were there two babies in one incubator?’

  ‘They were short of equipment, I suppose. Or maybe the other incubator wasn’t working. Even in those days the NHS was short of money.’

  ‘Mum, who else was on the ward with you? Did you make friends with anyone?’ She has no idea where I’m go
ing with this line of questioning but my agitation has got her full attention.

  ‘There was a young girl who kept crying. I remember her clearly because she got on my nerves in the end. I think she had post-natal depression or something and they were keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘Was her baby jaundiced?’

  ‘No. He was always very red-faced. Screamed constantly.’

  ‘What about mothers of female babies?’

  Mum frowns. ‘There was a posh lady. Even after giving birth she didn’t have a hair out of place. She had a fancy name and I remember thinking, I bet she doesn’t have to work in a factory for a living like I do. I wondered why she hadn’t gone private. Her baby was jaundiced like you, which is why we got talking.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘I can’t remember! It was years ago.’ Mum sounds indignant.

  I want to shake her but I try to curb my frustration. There has to be a link here somewhere. ‘What was her baby called? Surely you can remember what names people chose.’

  ‘I do remember that. Such a lovely name. I was almost tempted to use it for you too, but then I’d promised to call you after your dad’s mum. The posh mum got quite cross when the scatty student midwife called the baby Jemma. Said she’d told her several times her baby was called Jenna.’

  Chapter 33

  The Following August | Jenna

  ‘I’m making you some asparagus soup, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘Nisha gave me the recipe.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, love, but I’m really not hungry.’ Mum touches me lightly on the shoulder and sniffs the soup as I stir in a little seasoning. ‘It smells good, though. Maybe I’ll have some later.’

  ‘The doctor said you need a high calorie diet and I’ve added some butter and cream to yours. It’s delicious.’ I’ve only tried it without the dairy stuff as I can’t let go of my vegan morals, but it looks and smells divine. I pour a ladleful into a small bowl. ‘Please just try a little bit. You haven’t eaten anything today.’

  Mum takes it from me and sits at the table. I watch her spoon some into her mouth before I go upstairs to strip the beds. When I return a few minutes later with an overflowing wash basket she’s standing at the sink and rinsing her bowl.

  ‘That was lovely soup. Thanks, Jenna.’

  I narrow my eyes. Has she just washed it down the plughole? She can’t have eaten it that quickly. It was too hot. Mum excuses herself and hurries from the kitchen. She’s probably going back up to her room where she seems to spend a lot of her time staring at the wall or watching television without really seeing it. I asked her the other day what was happening in a film and she didn’t have a clue. She doesn’t do any work these days either. A colleague from her office collected the last batch of marked assignments and Mum said she needed a break from them. Now she has nothing to fill her time. Maybe I should challenge her to a game of Scrabble. She’d like that. It’s not something I offer very often because she always beats me.

  I push the bedding into the machine then pile the dishes into the sink. I’m getting more organised but I’m out of my depth with Mum’s illness. At times she’s in a lot of pain and I don’t know how to help her. I walk around the kitchen and notice the crumbs on the dining table so fetch the cloth and cleaning spray. As I wipe the table the emotion I felt sitting here with Mum and Lucy after the diagnosis is as raw as it was five weeks ago and I’m re-living the scene yet again.

  ‘What’s the treatment for pancreatic cancer, Mum?’ I‘’d asked. ‘Will they give you chemotherapy or radiotherapy? Or can they do surgery?’ Every time I looked at her my stomach twisted with fear at the thought of life without her.

  ‘Surgery isn’t possible in my case and I don’t want any other treatment. It won’t benefit me now.’

  I glanced at Lucy who bit her lip and looked away.

  ‘Of course it will,’ I said. ‘People get treated for cancer all the time. There’s a much higher survival rate these days.’ I got up and walked restlessly around the room.

  Lucy and Grace watched me silently.

  ‘It’s reached my other organs, Jenna. It is what it is, and I have to face it. I don’t want you getting too upset.’

  Mum tried to reassure me with a weak smile but it was as though my body had lost any substance and I had to grip the worktop to keep myself upright. My brain was struggling to comprehend what I was hearing. I couldn’t believe Mum was so ill. Only sixty. Far too young to have a terminal illness.

  A car horn sounds in the distance and I’m jolted out of my memories and back to the present day. For a crazy moment I want to run upstairs and wrap my arms around Mum and beg her not to leave me. I sink onto a chair and rest my forehead on my arms, breathing deeply to calm myself. I need to be strong. I need to focus on Mum, not me.

  A movement nearby makes my heart contract and I swivel around.

  ‘Grace! I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Sorry. Are you all right?’ Grace peers at me with a worried frown.

  I straighten up and force a smile. ‘Of course.’

  I stand and go over to the sink, plunging my hands into the soapy water to scrub a saucepan.

  ‘It must be really hard for you, Jenna, looking after your mum and the house.’

  My eyes blur and, before I can control my emotions, a tear runs down my cheek and drips off my chin.

  ‘It’s so difficult. I’m trying to do everything and Lucy isn’t helping at all. She’s always got something more important to do. “I can’t come round this evening. I’ve got a late meeting,” or “Ellis and I have got an appointment with the solicitor to sign the house purchase contracts.” She doesn’t give a shit about Mum.’

  ‘You know that’s not true. Lucy finds the situation difficult too.’

  I turn to face her. ‘So what’s the answer then? Do you think Social Services will provide home care?’

  ‘Maybe. Willen Hospice might help as well.’

  It doesn’t bear thinking about. ‘Mum’s always been fiercely independent. She won’t like being looked after by strangers.’

  ‘They might send regular carers.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee, though. I’ve been looking at a website about Doulahs,’ I say.

  ‘What are Doulahs?’

  ‘Nisha was telling me that they usually help mothers with their pregnancy and birth but now there are End-of-Life Doulahs too.’

  Grace waits patiently for me to explain.

  ‘They help those who are dying, and their families, to feel safe and supported. I’ve been researching it and there are short courses people can do to become Doulahs. There’s a link to help you find a trained one. I’m not sure if there’ll be any in this area though.’

  Grace’s expression is full of compassion and an idea hits me. Why didn’t I think of this before?

  ‘I know you’re not trained, Grace, but would you be our unofficial Doulah? You could help with practical things like sorting out prescriptions, paying bills, organising a gardener and so on as well as tasks around the house. I can’t cope alone and you’d be perfect. Mum trusts you.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure. I mean I’ve never even…’ Grace’s considers the idea for a moment then her face splits into a wide smile. ‘I’m touched and flattered you’re asking me. I’d love to be more involved in caring for your mum but I’d like to be sure I’d make a good job of it. Is there a course I could do?’

  I pull my laptop towards me and open up the page about training to become a Doulah. ‘Here you go.’

  She reads with interest then sits back. ‘It looks good,’ she says, ‘but I couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘I’m sure most of being a Doulah is common sense and we could look at online advice without doing a course. Please, Grace. It says on the website that seventy percent of people want to die in their own beds but only seventeen percent do. Mum’s told me she wants to be at home at the end, and if you and I work as a team we might make it possible. She’s always taken good care of me and I’
m going to take care of her. If she wants to stay at home then I’ll do what I can, but I’d really welcome your help.’

  ‘I don’t know, Jenna. It isn’t that I don’t want to help. I do. But I’ve got my other jobs to consider and—’ She breaks off suddenly, perhaps because she can see my face falling. ‘Why don’t we talk to your mum and Lucy?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll agree,’ I say. And they might have a suggestion for how we can ensure Grace isn’t left out of pocket. I’m about to say so when I see Grace’s expression has changed as though she’s remembering something. Or someone. ‘Are you thinking about your mum?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. I looked after her for quite a while. As you already know she choked to death suddenly but she was ill leading up to that and she couldn’t do much for herself.’

  The weight on my shoulders begins to ease. Grace’s experience as a carer will be invaluable, especially as Lucy is hardly helping out at all. I can’t even have a conversation with her without it deteriorating into a row. She never praises me for what I do – just criticises me for what I don’t do. I dread her coming around and usually try to make myself scarce but tonight I’ll make the effort to talk things through with her.

  ‘Can you come back this evening?’ I ask Grace. ‘Lucy and Ellis are visiting. I’ll ask the bar manager if I can go to work later so we can all talk about it.’

  ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea.’ Mum’s smile is wide with enthusiasm. ‘It will take some of the pressure off you girls and enable us to spend more quality time together.’

  ‘I agree.’ Lucy says. ‘It’s clear that Jenna can’t cope.’