Recompense

by Caroline Goldsworthy

  ‘If you are happy for me to discuss it with them,’ Torrie began, ‘I’ll speak to your parents and will organise calling you twice a week for an hour to see how you are getting on. We can Skype or Facetime as you wish. I suggest Tuesdays and Fridays, if that works for you?’

  Lissa nodded mutely.

  ‘Good,’ Torrie continued. ‘I’d also like you to keep a mood diary. Just reflections on how you are feeling on a daily basis. It’s not something I will read, unless you want to share it with me, but it will be useful to you, in time, to see your progress. I’d also like to discuss your medication with Dr Jarman but you’ll need to let me have permission to do that. I’ll leave the permission slip with your parents and as soon as you are ready you can sign it – or not. As you choose. But it is easier if I have an understanding of the medications you are on. I will speak to you more frequently than Graeme and I might be able to suggest changes as your mood starts to improve.’

  Lissa nodded dully, her eyes seemed to be struggling to focus and Torrie was unsure if she had taken it all in, but at least she could discuss steps with the parents now.

  ‘Thank you for letting me meet with you today, Lissa,’ Torrie said as she stood up. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  She walked to the landing and down the stairs to talk with the Warrens about their very troubled daughter.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saturday, 12th May 2018

  Gippingford

  Matt stumbled across the road and down the side street towards his flat. The events of the evening were still there, pulsating in his mind but only in flashes, like snippets from a film. Some images were stronger: two to three second clips, but nothing was clear. Faces. Laughing. Flashing eyes. Then nothing more. He reached the entrance and collapsed on the steps, giggling. What was funny? He had no idea. Struggling to stand, he became aware of how damp the knees of his jeans had become, as a face drew close to his.

  ‘Keys?’

  Matt fumbled and pulled out the contents of his pockets. Coins tipped over the steps and rolled into the gutter. He held his keys aloft like a prize.

  ‘Good, let’s go.’

  Matt rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself onto hands and knees. He staggered up the flight of stairs to his first floor flat and, bolstering his body against the corridor wall, he made it to his front door. Battle with the Yale lock completed, he staggered over the threshold, still chuckling to himself.

  His visitor, now unsmiling, glared at him.

  ‘Bedroom?’ they said.

  Matt, still on hands and knees crawled to his room. He had stopped laughing. The game was clearly over, but he had no idea what had changed or why. He pushed the door open with his head, reached the bed and collapsed beside it.

  The joke, if any part of it had ever been a joke, was finished. He wasn’t sure anymore. He simply wanted the night to end.

  Slumped on the floor, he was aware of the other person moving around. ‘What are you looking for?’ he mumbled. All he could see from his prone position were their trainers, and the hem of dark jeans. Then he was being dragged onto the bed. The face loomed over his for a moment, and his nose was held firmly. Gasping so he could breathe, he opened his mouth wide, then coughed as powder was poured down his throat. He struggled and choked, trying to break free of his captor who was sitting on his chest, knees gripping tightly. Unable to swallow the powder, he coughed again, but water was poured down his throat. Desperately he tried to spit it out, but his nose was, once again, clamped in strong fingers and he had no choice but to swallow. As the drug took effect he became drowsy, his muscles relaxing as he sank into the mattress.

  It was cold when Matt woke. Why was he lying on the bed? He didn’t remember entering his flat. Underneath him the duvet was sodden. He tried to sit up, but he was secured in place. Handcuffs, not the padded sort either, secured him spread-eagled to the bed. He was still dressed, something which gave him comfort, he wasn’t sure why it should. He moved his head from side to side. It was strapped in place limiting his vision. He pulled at the cuffs, rattling them against the headboard.

  ‘You’re back with us, then?’

  Matt whimpered. He was not alone, but remembered nothing of the earlier encounter. How did this person get into his room? ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘I have money, not much but I have some in my sock drawer.’

  Sniggering was the only response. ‘I’m not here for money. Money won’t get you out of this.’

  ‘What do you want then?’ Matt pulled again at the restraints, but they held fast.

  ‘Revenge, nothing more, nothing less. You hurt a friend of mine and now I’m going to hurt you. When you’re ready of course.’

  ‘Revenge?’ Matt whispered. ‘For what? I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘You’re sure about that are you? No trips to Spain?’

  ‘Spain, no, hell no. I’ve not been for years, well apart from...’ Matt squeezed his eyes shut. Oh fuck, he thought. Not that, please God not that. He’d not forgotten. Who could, but he’d pushed it as far to the back of his mind as possible.

  His heart was pounding, but with each breath he took, it became more difficult to inhale. He thought that his heart would burst out of his chest and each beat felt like a hammer smashing against his ribs. Unconsciousness came as a relief; he didn’t remember much after that.

  He was lucky.

  15th May 2018

  Gippingford, Suffolk

  DCI Carlson saw the email from Dr Kilburn land in his inbox and opened it immediately. He read the results and read it once more to make sure he understood. Still puzzled, he picked up the phone and hit a speed dial number

  ‘Hello, Chrissie,’ he said to Dr Kilburn’s clerk and assistant. ‘Is he about? Thanks.’ Carlson waited while she located the doctor and heard the clicks as he was put through to another line.

  ‘Yes, Ronnie, what might I do for you this fine day?’ Kilburn’s cheerful voice rattled down the line.

  ‘You’re in a particularly jolly mood today,’ said Carlson, ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing much. Just woke early and got my swim at the gym done first thing.’

  Carlson groaned inwardly, leaning back in his chair and smoothing a hand over his rounded stomach. Kilburn’s enthusiasm for exercise would be the death of one of them, he thought. Bringing the conversation back to business he said. ‘Ricin? Is that really what killed him?’

  ‘Hmm, yes,’ replied the pathologist. ‘It definitely contributed. It’s not something that we’d normally test for but I had my suspicions, when I saw how swollen his skin was and the tissue breakdown.’

  ‘How would he have got hold of that?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s something he would have taken voluntarily, Ronnie, it’s nasty stuff. Comes from the beans of castor oil plants, don’t you know.’

  ‘I do,’ replied Carlson, glad to be one step ahead of the pathologist for once. ‘I did a quick search before I called you. Plants can be grown here, better in a greenhouse, of course, but harvesting the beans and feeding them to someone? That’s a first for me.’

  ‘Actually it would be a last for you,’ chuckled the doctor. ‘Not the beans so much, eating those would make you sick but not kill. It’s the powder form or what’s left over after the oil is pressed out that’s dangerous. Breathed in or injected, same effect. Ricin inhibits protein synthesis by disrupting amino acids from assembling into proteins.’

  ‘And was he injected?’ asked Carlson. ‘How easy is it to get hold of this stuff? Do you need to be a chemist or can anyone do it?’

  ‘Whoa, slow down. So, firstly, no, I didn’t find any injection sites on his body. Even so he must have been held somewhere secure for the ricin to have taken effect on him. Death can take three to five days and I can’t see the killer keeping him in that basement without someone finding them.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, so he must have been kept somewhere else before being taken to the basement. Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Carlson. ‘
It wasn’t his flat. We’ve been over that thoroughly.

  ‘Okay,’ replied Kilburn. ‘and in response to your other two questions. Obtaining it could be done via the dark web. There are rumours that stashes of ricin were found after Taliban terrorist sites were raided. As for making it. The skill required is a lot less specialist than you’d like to think.

  ‘Anyway, do you know where he’s going yet, or is he going to be a permanent feature in my freezer?’

  ‘You’re going to have to hang on to him for a while longer, Jervis. Although we have a name now, we’ve not been able to trace any family and no friends have come forward.’

  ‘That’s rather sad, isn’t it? I hope when I shuffle off this mortal coil, someone will notice that I’ve gone,’ replied Dr Kilburn. But he sat back in his chair wondering who would notice. He put the phone back to his ear. The dial tone droned back at him, telling him that if he were to be missed by anyone, it was unlikely to be a senior policeman busy on a murder investigation

  27th May 2018

  Gippingford

  The red key knocked once. A second, harder tap blasted the Yale lock from the door frame, and the wooden entry door veered away and crashed into the wall. The police officers stood back as a blast of putrid air and a horde of bloated flies swarmed past the decimated door and into the corridor.

  Over the enforcer the two stared at each other, shrugged and stepped over the threshold. The source of the stench was found in the bedroom, cuffed to the bed, legs apart. At first the blood and flies obscured the wound. As they stepped closer and the flies took off, the injury became clearer. PC Watson winced but PC Evans ran for the door where he could be heard vomiting. Watson called in the discovery, looking at the victim and around the room whilst he spoke on his radio. Before he left the room, he turned to look at the form on the bed and muttered, ‘Sorry mate.’

  He traipsed to the door and told his pasty-looking colleague to get tape, a logbook and fresh gloves from the car. He reached for the enforcer where Evans had dropped it. Normally he would have told Evans to take it back to the car. This wasn’t a normal day, however, and he decided to leave it where it was. They had disturbed the crime scene enough already. He didn’t want to make any mistakes. Pulling the door as closed as it would go, he folded his arms across his stab vest, widened his feet for an easy stance, and waited for the carnival to arrive.

  29th May 2018

  Gippingford Police HQ

  Everyone came and sat in front of the whiteboard. More photos were now pinned to the board, one of each victim and a close up of a tattoo. All the officers grouped around it, shuffling into seats, finding places for their coffees and opening notebooks.

  ‘Okay,’ said Carlson. ‘Now we have two murdered men. One found in an abandoned house on the Saturday of Easter weekend and one found two days ago in his own home. What we need to find out about them is if they are known associates and whether we’ve had dealings with them before.’

  Jane Lacey said, ‘Sir, DS Poole and I went to Gippingford Building Society and we were told about Marchant in connection to a sexual assault. The case didn’t go any further as the girl was pressurised to sign an NDA by the building society. Steve Marchant was sacked, he’d had warnings before and it made no difference, so it could appear that assaults on women is something he’s known for. However, I’ve checked the PNC, and he’s not been arrested in relation to any assaults before. But the way he was attacked, his injuries, it did make me wonder.’

  Jane’s remarks met with winces and audible squirming from some of her male uniformed colleagues.

  ‘Good, can you check on the PNC to see if there are any similar cases or MOs? Just in case our killer has moved from another area or if we have a copycat,’ said Carlson. ‘We also need to dig more into the background of Matthew Phillips.’

  ‘We’ve begun a house-to-house near Phillips’ home, sir,’ piped up DC Tim Jessop. ‘The neighbours reckon he was fairly quiet and unassuming; the occasional girl came back to the flat but no one regular that anyone knew of. He has a group of mates that he goes out with and they party at the flat at times. He’s had a couple of collars for minor drug use. Personal amounts – no indication that he’s a dealer. Checks on the PNC have just thrown up the drugs; he doesn’t get into fights and he too has no previous arrests for sexual assault.’

  Carlson nodded. ‘Okay, thanks both. Kirsty, what would you like to add?’

  ‘Thanks, Ronnie.’ She slipped off the desk and pushed a recalcitrant auburn curl behind her ear. ‘My team has gone over his flat thoroughly and the killer seems to have left very little evidence behind. The cuffs used are pretty standard and available from any sex shop. Oh, settle down,’ she said, laughing at the chuckles from some of the wider team. ‘It’s my job to know, you dirty-minded lot. The killer could have bought them in a shop or online – easy to obtain by either means. The rope used to tie up the second victim was different from the first but interestingly the knots were the same. A clove hitch around one ankle – easy to tie and tighten and it doesn’t slip and then a bowline after looping around – in Phillips’ case, the bed posts – and that holds the legs wide open for the, er, operation. Neither knots are unusual though. Common in boating and climbing for example. However, in both cases the rope was clean, so that suggests that the killer brought it with him. Especially in the case of the first victim – anything left in that place for a length of time would have been covered in dust and mould.’

  Thanks, Kirsty,’ said DCI Carlson. ‘Ben, good to have you back with us. You’ve had a chance to go through both post-mortem reports?’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ replied Poole. ‘Like Kirsty said, this is a set of similarities and differences. Both victims had been drugged and were severely dehydrated. More than likely mobile so they could have walked to their murder sites and been drugged afterwards. The drug in question is ricin which if inhaled as in our two cases, causes the lungs to fill with fluid. Death is not quick – it can take several days. However, the first victim was completely castrated and bled out fairly quickly. For those of a nervous disposition, he was probably unconscious when, when everything was cut off. Our second victim wasn’t so lucky. He died slowly of organ failure. There was a nick to the thigh near the femoral artery, but the artery was missed. Had the artery been cut then the victim would have had a fairly quick death. Clotting. That’s what I’ve got from the two reports. Did the killer mean the second victim to die quickly or not? We won’t know until we catch him.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Carlson. ‘CCTV?’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ said Tim Jessop. ‘We’ve started collecting from the car park at Phillips’ flat and some shops in a nearby street. We’re also canvassing for home security cameras as well.’

  ‘Good,’ said Carlson. ‘Jane, could you meet with the employers of our latest. Tim, keep on with the house-to-house and the CCTV. Ben, could we have a chat in my office?’

  Knowing that they were dismissed, the team left to carry on with their tasks.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Friday, 6th November 2015

  Nunney, Somerset

  ‘Ms Jericho?’ Sandra Warren’s voice shook as her call was answered. ‘It’s Sandra Warren here.’

  ‘Hello, Sandra,’ Torrie Jericho replied. She looked around her neat office, at the limited edition prints hanging opposite her and, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, pondered if taking on certain clients was really worth the hassle. ‘What may I do for you?’

  ‘I think I need to come and see you. I mean for me, about me, not for Melissa. I’m not sure I can do this anymore.’

  ‘Tell me what’s happened,’ Torrie encouraged the shaky voice to continue as she took out her notebook and swapped the call to her headset so she could write comfortably. When she’d first started as a therapist she had simply squashed the handset into her neck. Several months of physical therapy after severe neck pain had rid her of that habit.

  ‘It was bonfire night last night in the village. Lissa came to sit in
my room so we could see the fireworks, she always loved fireworks when she was a child. I opened the window to hear them and the scent of the bonfire drifted this way too. We can’t quite see the village green from here…’

  ‘I see,’ said Torrie, wondering when and if the conversation would come to a point. Not any time soon, if the sniffing and sobs at the other end of the line, were anything to go by. How many clients had she taken on who had mothers like this one? She’d lost count.

  ‘Sorry, I’m wittering, I know,’ said Sandra. ‘It was just such a shock. We watched a few fireworks and the smell of the gunpowder became quite strong, then Lissa started shaking. I shut the window and drew the curtains; it was dark in the room before I put the light on. By the time there was light again she’d started screaming. Then she slid to the floor and sat rocking herself backwards and forwards. She was sobbing and I didn’t know what to do. I told her not to be so silly, that it was just a few fireworks, but I couldn’t get her to stop crying. She’d been doing really well. She’s started coming downstairs to eat and she’s even washed herself. Mostly I’m still bathing her but some days she manages all on her own. I was up with her all last night…’

  ‘And how is she now?’ asked Torrie, keen to stop the torrent of words coming down the phone at her. ‘Is she calmer this morning?’

  ‘No,’ replied Sandra. ‘I called Dr Jarman; he came and gave her a sedative. She’s sleeping now. At last.’

  Torrie heard the tremor in Sandra’s voice and pulled her appointment diary closer. ‘I have a three pm on Monday, if that suits you? Then I’ll be speaking with Lissa as usual on Tuesday morning. I don’t have any other slots where I could speak to her beforehand.’