Recompense

by Caroline Goldsworthy

  ‘Graeme Jarman has given us enough to keep her calm today, if she needs it. He’s coming back again tomorrow morning. I just don’t understand and I don’t think Tony and I are best placed to help her anymore. I said I was still bathing her but a few days ago I noticed some scratches on her arms. I asked her about them and she said she’d just felt itchy. Then she accused me of changing the washing powder,’ Sandra sniffed back her tears. ‘I’ve not changed anything. Yesterday the scratches seemed worse, redder, deeper and so I’m beginning to wonder if she needs more intensive help, perhaps even to be away from home for a while.’ Sandra clutched the phone tightly and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  ‘You’re thinking of hospitalisation?’ Torrie asked.

  ‘Yes, God help me, I am,’ Sandra sniffled. Torrie heard the rustle of tissue against the handset as Sandra stopped holding back and sobbed down the phone for a few minutes. ‘I know I was against it initially but now all I know is that we’re not able to help her at all. I just feel so helpless.’

  Torrie patiently waited while the other woman regained her control. There was another sniff and Sandra carried on speaking.

  ‘Graeme said that the Brunel unit at the Abbey might be able to help her. It’s near enough that we can visit her although he said it might be best if we don’t. At least at first. I just don’t know anymore,’ Sandra lapsed into silence although Torrie could hear her breathing and sighing at the other end of the phone. ‘I think getting her professional help would be for the best.’

  ‘That may be the best idea for all of you,’ agreed Torrie. ‘I have connections at the Abbey myself, and run a group session there on Wednesday afternoons. Let me call Dr Jarman and talk it over with him. It could be that Lissa gets admitted over the weekend and you and I can meet on Monday?’

  ‘Thank you, Torrie,’ Sandra said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Torrie was so shocked that Sandra used her first name that she didn’t have time to say goodbye before the call disconnected. She cradled the handset in her hand for a moment before pulling her tablet towards her and looking up Graeme Jarman’s number.

  Friday, 6th November 2015

  Bristol, Somerset

  ‘Thanks, Graeme, yes that will be perfect.’ Torrie said. ‘I got a slightly panicky call at lunchtime, Sandra’s not coping at all well. She’s coming to see me next week but, I do think it would do Lissa good to be away from her mum and dad for a while. I don’t think mum understands the damage that can be done by secondary wounding.’

  Torrie listened whilst Dr Jarman spoke.

  ‘Oh, exactly, completely invalidates what the individual is feeling. Sometimes as bad as the trauma itself,’ Torrie said. ‘Will you call the Abbey?

  ‘Excellent, perhaps they can take her this evening or tomorrow morning. Thanks again, Graeme. Yes, yes we must catch up soon. Love to Lillian and the kids. Bye.’ She replaced the handset and sat back in her chair for a moment, before making more notes in Melissa Warren’s file. She suspected that it could have been the noises and smell of the fireworks which set off the panic attack. Her research of the bull run festival indicated that pyrotechnics formed an essential part of any Spanish festival. She pursed her lips and made notes on Lissa’s record about the fireworks and the car horn. If there were any other triggers that she was not aware of, she hoped that they would come out in the therapy sessions at the Abbey.

  Friday, 6th November 2015

  Frome, Somerset

  Graeme Jarman put the phone down and sat for a moment thinking about his patient and her parents. Sandra Warren was no fool but sometimes she was not able to guard her tongue and her true feelings. Perhaps she’d just snapped, but it did sound as if removing Melissa from the day to day care of her parents would be the best idea for all of them.

  Removing a fountain pen from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket, he too made some notes in Melissa’s file and then switched to another program and looked up the telephone number of the Abbey Hospital on the outskirts of Bristol. He spoke briefly to Anders Last, the on-call psychiatrist and arranged for Melissa to be admitted over the weekend. Anders agreed that as a voluntary patient there was no need to arrange for her to be committed under the 1983 Mental Health Act although, he reminded Graeme, that this might change after she was assessed.

  ‘Thanks Anders,’ said Dr Jarman . ‘However, from what I’ve seen, Lissa is no danger to society or to herself, but she is a severely damaged young woman and she needs much more intensive help than her parents can provide.’

  ‘Very good,’ Dr Last replied. ‘Bring her here and we will see how she is and how long a stay I would recommend for her. If she is as fragile as you say, it may take some months. The parents can afford this?’

  ‘Yes, Anders, they can,’ he said as the conversation drew to a close. ‘They just have one concern now and that’s transporting her to hospital. If she’s still experiencing panic attacks such as on the day of her first appointment with Torrie, that’s going to be a problem.’

  He sighed deeply, listening to his colleague. ‘Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Tony’s Range Rover is large enough for us all. I can travel with Melissa and her parents. Lissa will have to be heavily sedated, possibly even for a few days after admission, while she becomes used to her new surroundings’

  He listened to Dr Last’s suggestions. ‘Yes, Anders. that’s a thought,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Sandra to pack some things from home to make the room more comfortable for Lissa during her stay. Thanks again. See you later.’

  With another long sigh and the thought of a warm bath and a swig of Jura in his immediate future, Graeme Jarman picked up the phone and dialled a long-remembered number to tell his old friend what he had organised.

  Chapter Fifteen

  29th May 2018

  Gippingford Police HQ

  DS Poole followed his boss to the new office. ‘This is very swish, sir,’ he said as he sat down in the new-looking visitor’s chair.

  ‘A reward for the last case,’ said Carlson. He traced his fingers lightly over the desk, catching a nail in some of the grooves. Poole noted that, unlike the chair, it was the same battered desk that Carlson had always sat at. ‘Recognition that we might not be a bunch of complete numpties after all. Anyway, that’s not why I asked you in here.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Poole, biting back a sigh. ‘I didn’t think it was.’

  ‘Duty of care, although I know it’s a bit late,’ Carlson said. ‘That and you are my bagman, so I do need to know you’re okay. So, tell me, how are you? Are you fit for duty?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Poole smiled at the familiar sight of the single silver eyebrow raise. ‘No, honestly. I really am fine.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, and I’m glad to have you back. This case is an odd one,’ Carlson leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Odd how?’ asked Poole. ‘You do think it’s the same killer?’

  ‘Yes, but the differences don’t feel right. Are they trying too hard to cover their MO or is there something else? As I say, something doesn’t feel right.’ Carlson rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepling his fingers.

  ‘Are you expecting more?’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Poole wondered if it were a rhetorical question, but he answered anyway. ‘I think so, don’t you? I just don’t get the impression that this is finished work. That’s not a very scientific approach I know, it’s just a feeling.’

  ‘Coppers’ gut?’ asked Carlson, giving Poole an appraising look.

  ‘Just so,’ agreed Poole, thinking back to their last conversation about his gut instinct. That had been a much less positive interaction, resulting in another death and the journalist’s rape. ‘I’m going to go with Jane to see Matt Phillips’ employers. See if anything creeps out of the closet.’

  Carlson nodded as he reached forward for the telephone. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Keep me posted.’

  Ben Poole trudged down the internal stairway to the den of
the Crime Scene Investigation team. Above his head, the lantern roof window shed light on the upper stairway, but it scarcely made a difference this far down. The growing gloom felt appropriate for his mission. The lift would have been a much easier option but this gave him more thinking time. More excuse time, he chastised himself.

  He pushed the door open to the office and stood in the entrance staring across at her. She was wearing an emerald green blouse which highlighted the colour of her creamy skin and auburn hair. Goosebumps rose on his arms causing him to shiver and he was sure it was not just due to the cooler atmosphere in the room. This is not going to go well, he thought.

  She looked up as the door closed behind him. The expression on her face did not give him hope that this would be at all easy.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hi,’ she replied. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I came to say that I’m back,’ he said, resisting the urge to shuffle his feet. Was this what being called to the headmaster’s office felt like, he wondered.

  ‘I could see that in the briefing just now. Some people would have let their friends know earlier.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘So am I,’ she replied, folding her arms across her chest.

  ‘You’ve not done anything wrong,’ he said.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I had to get away,’ he said.

  She nodded but said nothing, just gazed at him, her eyes cold. The crinkles around them, the creases and laughter lines he’d missed so much were gone. Had he blown it? He didn’t know.

  ‘I went to stay with family,’ he said.

  ‘I got the postcard,’ she replied.

  He sighed but smiled slightly when he saw that it was still pinned to the partition wall by her desk.

  ‘I should have sent more,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you should have,’ she replied. She unfolded her arms and thrust her hands deep into her trouser pockets. All her attention focused on the floor and not on him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes, you said,’ she said, raising her head to glare at him.

  They stood staring at each other until Poole realised the atmosphere they were causing and that her team were starting to pay attention. Poole perused their faces, becoming acutely aware that they were all crime scene experts and he wondered if they could make evidence disappear as well as they brought it to the fore.

  As if on cue, Kirsty looked around her and said, ‘Well, as you can see, I have work to do.’

  ‘Yes, me too,’ he said. He shrugged holding his hands out. An expression of failure. He knew he had failed and he turned to leave.

  ‘Ben?’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’ he half turned to look at her.

  ‘You still owe me that dinner,’ she said, with a half-smile. Her eyes shone and the crinkly laughter lines were back. Then she flicked her hand at him, shooing him away and returned her attention to her computer.

  Ben Poole sashayed away grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Where are we off to?’ Poole said as he slipped into the passenger seat.

  ‘Abattoir,’ said Jane. ‘Classy, hey?’

  ‘That’s one word for it,’ replied Poole. ‘Seems a strange choice of job.’

  ‘You think?’ said Jane, easing the car into the post rush-hour traffic.

  ‘You don’t?’ asked Poole.

  ‘Yes, and no. Matt Phillips worked here because he had no choice. It’s a family business.’

  ‘We’re not meeting the parents here are we?’ Poole’s voice rose an octave in panic.

  ‘No,’ said Jane. ‘They’re at home, there’s an FLO with them.’

  ‘Good job, not that family liaison is something I’d fancy,’ said Poole with an empathetic shudder.

  ‘I’m sure your skills are best used elsewhere, skip,’ replied Jane.

  Poole gave her a sideways glance but her eyes were firmly fixed on the road and she gave nothing away. The town slipped away until they were on the fringes between town and proper countryside.

  Jane squinted at the satnav and took a side road which Poole had not seen until they were on top of it. The car bumped down a rough track; part hardcore, part pothole.

  Poole was grateful it wasn’t his own car.

  ‘I reckon this must be it,’ said Jane. She switched off the engine, removed her seatbelt and opened the car door. ‘Jeez,’ she said, putting her hand over her mouth and nose. ‘I bet that takes some getting used to.’

  On the passenger side, Poole was putting on wellingtons and trying not to breathe in the stench of blood, faeces and fear.

  They trekked towards a part of the building labelled “Reception”. Inside the small office area, the smell was even stronger than it had been outside, but an attempt to mask it was being made by a bowl of potpourri on the counter next to a bell. Poole pressed the button. A klaxon sounded deep inside the building. They waited and Poole pressed the bell again.

  ‘Okay. Keep your hair on. Where’s the fire?’ The door was pushed open and it crashed into the desk.

  Lacey and Poole flipped open their wallets showing their warrant cards to the red-faced man before them. His once-white coat was covered in blood and it barely closed around his stomach. He had no neck from what Poole could see; like the mountain trolls in the online game Poole enjoyed, this creature’s head simply disappeared into broad shoulders.

  ‘And what do the rozzers want here, then? The boss is off. So’s his wife. She usually does reception. Their son’s been killed or didn’t you know that?’ The response was a snarl.

  ‘We know,’ said Poole, his low tone an attempt to diffuse the tension. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘For what? He didn’t die here. He wasn’t found here. Why don’t you go and find the bastard who did kill him?’ No-neck leaned forward, resting his knuckles on the desk and glaring.

  ‘Matt worked here, didn’t he?’ said Jane brightly. She smiled at the troll. ‘We just need to talk to some of his friends. Find out what he was like. Where he used to hang out. The sorts of things he wouldn’t tell his parents. You know.’

  No-neck glowered for a moment longer, but Poole could see that Jane’s charm offensive was already working. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a break coming up. Come down to the canteen.’

  Poole and Jane exchanged glances. Poole looked around the reception area and decided that he would not sit in the canteen let alone touch any beverages but, against all his expectations, it was pristine, with a wide range of snacks and drinks.

  Unfortunately, the employees were completely unhelpful. Few knew Matt well enough to know about what he did outside of work and, if any of them did, they weren’t saying. It was a family business. Matt was the bosses’ son. He was dead and no one was going to speak ill of the dead.

  Knowing that it had been a completely wasted journey, Poole and Jane trudged back to the car.

  ‘Now what?’ said Jane as she slipped the car into reverse and manoeuvred it to face the track. ‘You’d think at least one of them would have given us some dirt on him.’

  ‘I didn’t get the impression any of them actually knew him at all,’ said Poole. ‘Or at least not the adult Matt.’

  ‘Tax dodge you mean? On the books but no pay?’ replied Jane.

  ‘No, his parents were paying him, I ran my eye over his bank statements before we left the station, but somehow I think that was more so he’d keep away from their business,’ said Poole. ‘Just a strange feeling. Probably nothing. There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on.’

  Jane laughed. ‘It’s good to have you back, skip,’ she said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday, 22nd December 2015

  Abbey Hospital, Bristol, Somerset

  Sandra Warren peeped through the window of her daughter’s hospital room door. Lissa was curled up, seemingly asleep. It was a stark contrast to the sight she had encountered in Spain. There were no machines with their interminable blee
ping. No wires and needles. Even the smell was different. None of the stench of disinfectant and bleach that permeated her clothing. The jacket she’d worn when she stayed with Lissa night after night in the Spanish hospital had gone to charity. Despite cleaning, it still stank of that other sick bay.

  Knowing that Lissa had made some improvements in the time she’d been in hospital, today the medical staff would tell Sandra if Melissa could come home for a few days over Christmas. Sandra was in two minds as to whether it was a good idea or not. Dr Jarman had suggested that it might be best to let Lissa stay in hospital and maintain the routine she’d become used to. She wanted her daughter home, but she wanted her to recover quickly too. She took a deep breath and eased the handle down, pushing the door open, wincing as the presents she’d brought with her knocked against the doorframe.

  ‘Lissa? Lissa, sweetie, are you awake?’ she whispered from the doorway.

  Lissa didn’t move, didn’t reply, and Sandra moved further into the room. There was a large armchair in the corner of the room and Sandra, put the gifts on the floor to pull the chair closer to the bed. It scraped on the lino and the squeal woke the patient.

  Lissa moved the covers off her face. It was blotched and swollen, her eyes reddened and bleary, whether from lack of sleep or the medication, it was hard to tell. ‘Hey, Mum,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Merry Christmas, darling. How are you feeling?’ Sandra tried to keep her voice light, but she struggled not to cry out loud at the sight of Lissa’s face. Her child’s eyes were dull and lifeless, neither focusing nor staring. Sandra watched her struggle to push herself up onto her elbows.

  Lissa flopped heavily onto her back but wincing with the effort, she pushed herself into a sitting position and rested her head on the pillow with one hand shielding her eyes from the overhead lights. She stared across at her mother. ‘Can you stop the room spinning?’ she asked, her eyes staring as if unable to focus on anything.