‘It has. Although this needs to go,’ he said patting his stomach. ‘Too many of Netty’s fishcakes. But how about you? How have you been?’
‘Bearing up,’ she said. ‘I have been thinking about taking my sergeant’s exam. I’ve not mentioned it to the guvnor yet, but I’ve been giving it some thought.’
‘It’s a lot of work,’ Poole said. ‘I don’t say that meaning to put you off, just being realistic. How long have you been a DC?’
‘Five years,’ she replied, pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. ‘Is it too soon to think about it?’
‘No,’ said Poole. ‘Perfect timing, but chat it over with the boss. I think you’ll find he’ll be very supportive.’
Chapter Ten
8th October 2015
Nunney, Somerset
‘Torrie Jericho,’ the rich deep voice flooded down the line to Tony Warren.
‘Hello, Ms Jericho,’ he said. ‘My name is Tony Warren. I wonder if you can help me? My GP, Graeme Jarman, recommended you. He thought you might be able to be of assistance with our daughter. She’s the victim of,’ Tony paused to catch his breath. Then in a rush, the hated words fell out of his mouth, as if he could not control them, ‘She’s a rape victim,’ he finished, biting back a sob.
‘Let me just stop you there, Mr Warren, or may I call you Tony?’
He nodded and then, realising she couldn’t see him, he mumbled, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Tony, the first thing to remember is that your daughter is a survivor, not a victim. Second, thing, well more of a question really, is there a reason your daughter isn’t calling me?’ Torrie Jericho asked.
Tony started to explain and on the other end of the phone, could hear the scratching of her pen as she made notes. ‘Why don’t you start off by telling me her name?’ she said.
‘Melissa, although she’s always preferred Lissa. It happened in July, in Spain. She was in a coma for a while, induced, and then we brought her home about two months ago. Since then she’s hardly left her room. She won’t come out and now she says she can’t. She’s not washing herself. She’s worn the same pyjamas for weeks. The room is disgusting. My wife and I don’t know what to do anymore.’ He heard scratching down the line.
‘Has Graeme put her on any medication?’
Tony reeled off names and dosages.
‘Antidepressants and sleeping tablets, just as I would expect,’ Torrie said. ‘What differences have you noticed?’
‘Since she came home?’
‘Well, yes but also since she started taking the medication.’
Tony ran his hand over the top of his head, and tried to remember. ‘Graeme said we’d notice a difference in four to six weeks and it’s only been two. She has started eating some soup. Before she wouldn’t eat anything other than chocolate or crisps.’
‘And has she come out of her room to eat?’
Tony could hear that the pen scratching had stopped. ‘No, like I said, she says she can’t. She’s too scared. Her room is the only place she feels safe.’
‘How is she sleeping?’
‘Better since the sleeping tablets, but she has such terrible dreams. Nightmares. Screams. Like something out of a horror film.’ Tony shuddered as he relived the terrified sounds made by his only child.
‘Does she feel safe enough to sleep in the bed? Or is she trying to hide herself away?’
Tony heard the scratching stop and a tapping sound down the phone. He concluded that Torrie was tapping her pen against her teeth.
‘She rolls herself up in the duvet, and she’s pulled the bed into a corner. Sometimes she puts a chair under the door handle.’ He slumped into the armchair beside the phone. ‘Is there anything you can do to help us, Ms Jericho?’
‘Oh please call me Torrie,’ she said. ‘Tony, to be able to treat your daughter, I will need to assess her. See her and talk through what she’s going through. Only then would I be able to suggest any treatments or possibly even another therapist. You must understand that I am not a specialist in rape crisis counselling, although I do specialise with trauma recovery. I would also need Melissa’s, sorry Lissa’s, permission to discuss her medication with Dr Jarman. Do you think that you would be able to bring her to my consultation rooms?’
‘I honestly, don’t know Ms Jer… Torrie. We can but try. My wife and I are at our wits’ end. If we arrange an appointment now then we can try to get her to you.’
Tony shuffled to the kitchen and the calendar on the fridge and they agreed a day and a time. He put the phone down and sat at the kitchen table, placed his head in his hands, and cried.
12th October 2015
Sandra Warren tapped on Lissa’s bedroom door. ‘Liss, are you awake?’ The snoring grew louder, and then so did the giggles. It was an old game from Lissa’s childhood and Sandra felt the tears prick her eyes as she stumbled across the room, tripping on the contents of the floor-drobe as she walked to the bed.
‘Come on you,’ she said, ‘we’ve got an appointment today and you need to get ready.’
Lissa started the pretend snoring again and her mother pulled back the covers as she had done when Lissa was twelve and refused to go to school. She gagged at the smell and stepped back.
‘Lissa, you need to get washed. I’ve run you a bath although you might want to have a shower first. Wash your hair and then you can soak in the bath. I’ll change your sheets whilst you’re in the bathroom.’ Sandra heard the false joviality in her voice. She looked at the sheets. They would have to be thrown out. Maybe the mattress too. Sandra cursed herself for letting the situation get so bad.
Tony came upstairs and stood in the doorway. ‘You take her to the bathroom, love,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the sheets off the bed and put them in the wash.’
Sandra gave Tony one look and he nodded. Together they half carried, half dragged Lissa to the bathroom and Sandra locked the door once her daughter was safely ensconced there. She could hear Tony stripping the bed and turning the mattress over. The airing cupboard door opened and she heard him take a parcel of bed covers out. The sound of the door clicking shut and bed clothes dumped at the top of the stairs prompted her into action even though a wave of helplessness washed over her like a tsunami.
She turned to her daughter who lay in a heap on the bathroom floor. ‘Lissa, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Let me help you.’ She removed the soiled and stained night clothes and turned on the walk-in shower head. Warm water flowed and Lissa ambled in as if in a trance. She stood, head bowed under the stream of water, unmoving. Sandra removed her own jade jeans and blouse and walked in behind her. She poured shampoo into her hand and began to lather it into her daughter’s hair. Once and rinse, twice and rinse. By the third shampoo the grease in Lissa’s hair was allowing the shampoo to lather and she gave it a final rinse. After popping on a conditioning masque, she walked Lissa to the bath. In the same trance, Lissa stepped into the cooling water. She shivered but still sat down.
Sandra let out some of the water and replaced it with hot. Lissa remained sitting. Her knees were bent, pressing her upper legs against her chest. Sandra took a sponge, covered it in a lemon-scented bath foam and began to scrub her daughter’s back. Dead skin sloughed away and Sandra reached for a fresh flannel to rinse the skin.
‘I think you might need another go in the shower,’ she said.
Lissa grunted. It was the most she had said since they had walked into the room, but Sandra was still clinging to the sound of the giggles and the fake snoring from the old Lissa of almost twenty years before.
Lissa allowed herself to be rinsed off in the shower and dried. Sandra rubbed herself dry with a towel and slipped her own clothes back on. She led Lissa back to her room where she sat on the bed, whilst her mother opened the wardrobe door looking for something suitable for her daughter to wear.
‘What do you wear to visit a therapist?’ She spoke aloud but wondered if she was simply speaking to herself. She picked out some dark heavyweight trousers and a turtl
eneck sweater in cerise. Dark boots and jacket completed the look.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ Sandra asked. The falsetto voice was back. ‘Dad was going to make some after he changed your sheets.’
Lissa looked at her as if she were a stranger. Sandra swallowed and pulled her daughter into a standing position, held her elbow and guided her downstairs. When they entered the kitchen, Tony winked to congratulate her on the success so far. Sandra sat Lissa at the breakfast bar and Tony placed a mug of coffee in front of her.
Lissa stared around the room as if she had not seen it before. Tony edged the mug closer to her and placed her right hand around it. Lissa slipped her left hand around the mug and lifted it to her lips. Over her head her parents gave a collective sigh of relief at the progress made. The antidepressants had made Lissa calmer, she was clean, she had left her bedroom and, for the first time in weeks, the bedsheets were clean.
At 9:35 Tony picked up his keys, put a warm coat on, and went to the garage. Five minutes later there was a gentle hoot and he was ready to leave. Although they were half an hour away and the appointment was not until 10:30 Tony constantly worried that the first car park planned, and maybe even the second, would let them down and they would have some distance to walk.
‘Time to go, lovely,’ Sandra said to Lissa who obediently stood and waited for her mother to bring the coats.
While her mother was in the hallway, Lissa’s breathing sped up and, by the time Sandra had returned, she was panting.
‘Sit down, sweetie,’ Sandra said. Outside Tony began hooting the horn. ‘Breathe slowly, it’ll all be okay. Just breathe slowly.’ With each hoot of the horn Sandra’s own pulse rate increased and her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. ‘Let’s go now, shall we?’
She led Lissa to the door and opened it wide. Along with a blast of cold air came the cacophony of the horn and Lissa screamed, a long drawn out gut wrenching scream. She collapsed to the floor and the carpet around her darkened as her bladder voided itself. Tony left the car and rushed back inside.
‘You idiot,’ Sandra hissed.
‘I’m sorry. I just didn’t think,’ Tony replied. ‘What happened?’
‘I have no idea. I opened the door; you were hooting like a lunatic, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor. I don’t think we’re going anywhere today. I’ll call Ms Jericho. You get Lissa back to her room. Get her in some clean clothes.’
When Tony wandered back into the sitting room, Sandra was putting the phone down.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘She says it sounds like an agoraphobic attack, not unusual from what she said. I should have realised. On the plane, when we came back, you know how Melissa usually can’t wait to get off and is elbowing everyone out the way; hitting people with that huge camera bag of hers?’ Sandra smiled as she recalled the memories. ‘This time it was different. She stayed in her seat until everyone had left. Even when I was collecting the cases she hung back. She’s afraid someone will touch her. Afraid to let anyone close to her.’
‘Hardly surprising though, is it?’ said Tony. ‘Not after what she’s been through.’
‘No, but I think I should have spotted it earlier,’ replied Sandra. She picked at a piece of fluff on her jeans and let it float to the floor, watching it drift onto the carpet. ‘Anyway, Ms Jericho, sorry Torrie, she told me to call her Torrie, said it might have been better if we’d brought her in as soon as she was physically fit enough. Even without seeing Lissa, she says she suspects post-traumatic stress disorder.’
‘PTSD? Really I thought that was what soldiers got?’ Tony burst out.
‘Apparently it’s a perfectly normal reaction to something that is abnormal. Some therapists call it post-traumatic rape syndrome. She said that PTSD is even more prevalent in rape survivors than in combat survivors.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like a therapist.’
‘I’m quoting,’ said Sandra, releasing a long sigh as she sat back against the cushions and stared at the ceiling.
‘What’s the next step?’ Tony asked.
‘She can do telephone consultations until Lissa is up to leaving the house. She’ll come here to meet Lissa and build up a rapport and see if they can work together, but that will be expensive. She wants travel expenses and also to cover lost appointments by coming out here. Oh, and she also suggested that we should try and get Lissa in the garden. No cars. No hooting. Nothing like that. She did wonder if the hooting triggered a memory of the attack.’
Tony put his head in his hands. ‘So it is my fault?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be silly. You did what you always do. You just need to change the habit.’ Sandra looked at him. ‘Tony, we’re in this together, all three of us. Don’t make it all about you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just feel so helpless and like I’m doing the wrong thing all the time. Talking of which, I’ve put those sheets straight in a black bag and in the bin.’
‘Perfect,’ Sandra replied. ‘Now you go and get a nice smelling plant to pot up from the garden and I’m going to go up there, open the window and sit with her for a while.’
Tony nodded and trudged out into the garden. He parked his Range Rover back in the garage, wandered over to the flower beds and looked around for something to put in a pot. The garden was settled and ready for autumn, only the dahlias were still in flower. He collected a pair of secateurs and plucked some of the brightly coloured heads from the nearest bed. He plodded back to the kitchen and placed the deep red flowers in a vase. He admired his handiwork, but removed a stem from the vase, and snipped it, separating the two dahlia heads onto their own stems. With symmetry restored and a deep sigh, he braced himself for the long journey up the stairs.
Chapter Eleven
4th May 2018
Gippingford Police HQ
Ronnie Carlson felt well prepared for the second case review. Although he had only just discovered the name for his victim, he was convinced that there was nothing he and his small team had missed or left undone in the investigation. It appeared that Superintendent Tasker had listened to Carlson’s concerns about the review being carried out by an officer of junior rank and a DCI from another team had been called in. Everything was looking to be in his favour.
As Carlson opened the meeting room door he smelt an unpleasant odour waft past him. Hopefully, it’ll be a short meeting, he thought. He pushed the door open wider and walked in to discover the source of the stench. DCI Kevin McAvoy. Stood next to Tasker, McAvoy looked like the larger man’s mini-me. Their identical hair colouring did nothing to detract from the image, that and the fact that McAvoy topped out just short of Tasker’s shoulders.
Carlson laid his folder and policy book on the table and walked over to shake hands, wondering where he’d be able to wipe them afterwards. McAvoy was well known for his lack of personal hygiene. McWalker he’d been known as at the station where they had first encountered each other, due to his habit of visiting the urinal and walking away without washing his hands. Carlson wondered if the name had stuck as the man rose through the ranks. He looked down into McAvoy’s eyes and quickly looked away. The yellowy-green colour, the same shade as a particularly nasty sputum sample, had always disturbed him. The view, however, did not improve. McAvoy’s shirt collar, although clean was shabby, covered in tiny bobbles where the cloth caught on his ginger neckbeard.
‘Good to see you, Ronnie,’ McAvoy said, smoothing his tie. ‘I’m sure we’ll have you moving on this case of yours in no time.’
Carlson’s eyes drifted down to the man’s tie. This too was well worn, but it was covered in the stains from his last meal or, perhaps, meals. It was difficult to tell. ‘I appreciate the help, Kevin,’ replied Carlson, surprised to find that he meant what he said.
They all took seats around the table; McAvoy removed his jacket, and the questioning began. It was clear from the outset that this review was not intended as assistance and support, it was a Tasker-sponsored hatchet job.
&n
bsp; ‘Now, Ronnie, as you know,’ began McAvoy, ‘this review is here to assist you in finding investigative opportunities.’ He raised his hands to imitate rabbit ears and emphasise the quotation marks around his last two words. McAvoy was already warm, but the dark sweat marks had not yet reached the yellow tideline of previous warm days.
Carlson groaned inwardly and bit the inside of his cheek.
‘Let’s first consider the actions that have and have not been taken. For example,’ said McAvoy. ‘I notice that house-to-house enquires were not undertaken in the street where the victim was discovered?’
‘That’s correct, Kevin,’ Carlson replied. ‘All the properties are abandoned and there are no homeowners to interview. It’s all in my decision log.’
‘Ronnie,’ interjected Tasker. ‘I understand that the houses are used on occasions by tramps and the like. Isn’t that how your victim was found in the first place?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s quite correct, although I don’t really have the resources to hang around the area on the off chance that someone might be squatting overnight and might stay long enough to talk to a police officer. Two of my DCs were in the area on the twenty-four-hour and seven day anniversaries, however. Further, I’ve had uniformed officers drive past the house two or three times each shift. The CAD system has been updated to show no contact. Appeal posters have been plastered on doors and lampposts and left with charity shops, the night shelter and the Salvation Army soup kitchen.’
‘I see,’ said Tasker. ‘Yes, resources. We’ll come back to that later.’
‘I can’t wait,’ muttered Carlson under his breath.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said McAvoy, with a saccharine smile. ‘A most welcome observation. So, Ronnie, you felt seeking out potential witnesses in the area was a waste of time and effort. Duly noted. Now, what actions did you take to identify the victim? Media for example.’
Recompense Page 6
