Bella skews her head towards her shoulder, as she giggles. ‘Do another one, do another one,’ she urges.
‘Okay, let’s see,’ says Ruth, picking up a pink felt pen and scratching a cartoon face on the cast.
Brenda spreads some papers over the bed. ‘Bella and I have been doing some drawings.’ She points to one of them on a large piece of lining paper, which curls at the edges. ‘This one is a tree.’ Ruth can see that it has several names on it, encircled by green and brown squiggles.
A nurse enters the room. ‘Time for tea, Bella,’ she says.
Ruth clenches her jaw. Another annoying interruption.
‘Great’ says Brenda, rolling up the sheet. ‘Whilst you have your macaroni cheese, Bella, I’m going out with Ruth for a little while, to see if she can add any more branches to this tree. See you soon, sweet pea.’ She stands up and ushers Ruth out of the room.
The visitors’ room is small and plainly furnished, with a high window. There’s a couch and water dispenser against one wall, and a Formica table and four chairs opposite. Brenda indicates towards the table and they both pull up a chair.
‘I thought this would be a good opportunity to update you on the local authority procedures,’ she says. She unravels the paper. ‘There is, of course, a more meaningful narrative behind this picture.’
‘Of course,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s a genogram.’ She wants to say, ‘I’m not stupid, you don’t have to patronise me, I know a family tree when I see one,’ but resists. She needs the social worker to be on her side. Instead she folds her hands between her knees. Brenda’s wearing different earrings today, but she still has the same hand-crafted look about her, and this extends to her squiggly drawings. ‘I’m afraid this genogram is going to look like a tree in winter,’ Ruth adds, deliberating on her words. ‘Sparse with a few twigs.’
Brenda smiles, but has her pen poised over the sheet. ‘I’ve spoken to Mrs. Zuckerman, and I understand that she’s the sole surviving relative on Mr. Peterson’s side. But there’s an uncle in Australia?
‘Yes. Madeleine’s brother David. He lives near Brisbane. As far as I’m aware there’s no-one else.’ Ruth pauses. ‘I should add that Dominic – Mr. Peterson- and I had talked about guardianship for Bella before. I know it was his firm wish, that if anything happened to him…’ She hesitates. ‘Not that he had a premonition of anything, you understand, he was just very thoughtful… yes, that if anything happened to him, he wanted me to be Bella’s guardian.’
Their conversation is interrupted by a knock on the door. It opens a fraction and a nurse squints round the side. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Madingley. I wonder if I could have a word with you, please.’
Brenda frowns. ‘Only if it’s urgent.’
The nurse gives a silent nod.
‘Would you excuse me for a moment,’ says Brenda, rising to her feet.
With the room to herself Ruth picks up a magazine. It’s full of celebrities she doesn’t recognise and, as she looks at their designer kitchens, and designer babies, she feels nothing but contempt and disappointment. She sits chewing her nails and flicking pages for a few minutes, and is about to get up and go back to Bella’s room, when the door opens again.
It’s Mac. He’s accompanied, not by Brenda, but by a man in a navy suit. His face remains impassive in response to her look of surprise. Her throat constricts. This can only be bad news. Before she has time to stand up, he speaks.
‘Ruth, I want you to meet Detective Inspector Peter Miller.’
Ruth stumbles to her feet and shakes hands with the man. His grip is firm, but clammy. She hopes he doesn’t notice when she wipes her hand down her skirt afterwards. He has a heavy monobrow, which brings his eyes too close together. He’s wearing what appears to be a regimental tie, and his suit looks grubby at the edges. ‘Please, do take a seat, Dr. Cooper,’ he says.
The sound of distant sirens serves only to heighten Ruth’s anxiety, as DI Miller opens his leather-bound file and sifts through some papers. Ruth has an expectancy now that there’s been some progress made. But on what? Dominic’s accident? Bella’s Care Order? Her heart thumps more forcibly and her breath quickens. She looks at Mac but he’s avoiding eye contact. The air in the room is oppressive and she can feel her collar sticking to the back of her neck. There’s another knock at the door, and it opens before a reply is given. A staff nurse enters, nods in acknowledgement to both men, then walks over to the water dispenser. She fills a paper cup with cold water and places it in front of Ruth, before smiling at her and taking a seat on the sofa. No explanation is given for her presence but to Ruth, it’s obvious. It’s a non-verbal cue to prepare for bad news.
Potential explanations jumble in her mind. Maybe they’ve found something on Bella’s scan? But a detective wouldn’t be tasked to deliver that news. Maybe an unusual discovery at the scene of the accident, or a fault found with the car? Perhaps the coroner needs to clarify some information about Dominic?
Ruth looks down in her lap. Long, slow, deep breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth, 1 and 2 and 3… Whatever’s coming next, she can handle it.
The sound of a chair scraping makes her look sideways. Mac has stood up and moves away, so that he is behind her. She twists around, but he’s standing at an angle that obscures his face. Detective Inspector Miller clears his throat, and Ruth turns back. His eyes have a cold neutrality.
‘Dr. Ruth Cooper, I am arresting you on suspicion of the attempted grievous bodily harm of Bella Peterson, due to events leading up to her hospital admission on the twenty first of May two thousand and five.’
Ruth takes a sharp intake of breath. A cold wave of fear passes through her. She brings her fist down on the table, surprising herself at her vehemence.
‘No, no, this is wrong.’ Her voice is a trembling crescendo. ‘You’ve made a terrible mistake.’
DI Miller holds up his hand and continues, as Ruth feels the prickling onset of hyperventilation. ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence. You will now accompany us to the police station, where you will be provided with a full explanation of the grounds for your arrest.’
He nods at his colleague and, as Mac moves forward, Ruth catches the glint of handcuffs in his right hand. His face is denuded of expression.
‘This isn’t true, Mac, you’ve got to believe me,’ she protests, clutching at his arm. ‘I need to see Bella.’ She tightens her grip, forcing him to look at her. ‘I trusted you.’ She holds his gaze for several seconds, determined to imprint her innocence on his vision.
He studies her face and swallows several times, as if drowning his words. She digs her nails into his arm.
‘DS Macmillan?’ prompts DI Miller.
If there was any glimmer of doubt in Mac’s face a few seconds ago, his expression reverts to one of professional impartiality, as he lifts Ruth’s wrist.
‘Please, Mac, no handcuffs,’ implores Ruth, ‘at least not until we’re outside the hospital.’
44
Ruth
The custody suite is airless. The smell of Jeyes Fluid wrestles with the whiff of dried urine. Ruth follows Varsha Dhasmana, duty solicitor, into a windowless room, where DI Miller sits at a table with a female colleague. He points at two chairs with stained upholstery and indicates for them to sit down. In the harsh fluorescent light Ruth squints at the woman who sits diagonally opposite.
‘Detective Sergeant Sandra Bailey,’ says the woman with streaked coppery hair. ‘I’m your Family Liaison Officer now.’ She fixes her with a narrow gaze. ‘DS Macmillan is no longer assigned to your case.’ Folds of skin at the corners of her mouth appear to have dragged the smile from her eyes.
Ruth stings with regret at hearing this news. She had felt she could trust Mac, that he believed in her innoc
ence. Was he conflicted in his professional duty? How will she ever know? And how the hell can she prove this miscarriage of justice? Despair constricts her like a leaden weight on her chest.
The last she saw of Mac was the back of his head as they drove to the police station. Thankfully they’d agreed to her request for no handcuffs in the hospital. In the back of the car, they were redundant. She was locked in, and looking towards the windscreen she’d spotted the camera above the driver’s mirror. Not that she would try anything stupid. Once he’d handed her over to the custody sergeant he disappeared, without even making eye contact for a final time. Her cheeks smarted with humiliation when the sergeant explained her right to free and independent legal advice, and the opportunity to inform someone of her whereabouts. How can she convince them of their incredible mistake?
She gnaws at her thumb. Little blebs of blood prick the base of her nail. Hopefully it won’t take long for Val to arrive.
‘You need to be aware that, henceforth, all our conversations are subject to audio and video recording. Do you understand?’ DI Miller’s cough causes Ruth to look up. A metallic taste in her mouth and the strip lighting, which casts a sallow mask over the detectives’ faces, bring her surroundings back into focus.
‘I understand.’
‘Good.’ He presses the button on a black device on his desk. ‘DI Miller. Interview with Dr. Ruth Cooper. Thursday twenty first of July, two thousand and five. Commenced nineteen ten hours. Dr. Cooper, could you please confirm for me how long you have known Dominic Peterson?’
‘Since March.’
‘This year?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you be more specific? When exactly in March?’
‘We met at the Sycamore Hospice Ball on March the twenty fifth.’
‘And I understand Isabella Peterson’s illness started around that time. Is that correct?’
Ruth feels light-headed. A confusing collage of dates and images jumbles in her mind. ‘I’m afraid I have no knowledge of Bella’s previous medical history.’
‘Very well. When did you first meet Isabella Peterson?’
‘It was the day after the Ball. So that would be March the twenty sixth.’
‘And did you discuss her health with her father at that time?’
Ruth thinks back to that afternoon in the Cardamom Café. She remembers it with the clarity of an autoclaved optical instrument. Dominic wore an olive green polo shirt and brown tweed jacket. Bella was pre-occupied with her drawing. He asked her if multiple sclerosis was hereditary and if urinary tract infections in children were common. They brushed hands under the table when she knocked over the water jug. She felt sorry for him. He was grieving.
‘Dr. Cooper?’
‘I’m sorry, please could you repeat the question?’
‘Did Dominic Peterson discuss his daughter Isabella’s health with you in March?
‘Possibly. I can’t recall exactly.’
‘Very well.’ DI Miller turns over a sheet of paper. ‘Tell me, is the name Brenda Madingley familiar to you?’
‘Yes. Of course. Brenda. The social worker. She was on the ward today when you…she was on the ward today.’
‘Is it correct that you met her at Dominic Peterson’s house on Wednesday the eleventh of May?’
Ruth thinks back to the time they first met. It was the day of her appraisal so that date must be correct. ‘Yes.’
‘And would it be correct to say that you persuaded her to close a safeguarding case on Isabella Peterson?’
‘I wasn’t-’
‘Objection,’ interjects Varsha Dhasmana, placing her hand on the table, in front of DI Miller. ‘My client doesn’t have to answer that question.’ She turns to Ruth and gives her a tight-lipped smile.
DI Miller lifts up a transparent plastic envelope and a smaller clear packet. ‘I have here Exhibits A and B,’ says DI Miller, leaning towards the microphone. ‘Exhibit A: Eight sheets of A4 paper on the aetiology and presentation of Sys- Systemic Lupus Ery-thema-tosus from Dr Ruth Cooper’s computer. Exhibit B: a solid gold stud earring. Dr. Cooper could you tell me why both these items were found in a carton of drugs at Dominic Peterson’s house?’
Ruth looks away. Her earring. She’d forgotten about it. But surely that doesn’t prove anything? She gives a half-hearted shrug. ‘You’d have to ask…’ She stops when she realises what she is about to say is both ridiculous and redundant. She looks at Varsha, who is scribbling notes. She wills her to make eye contact, but the solicitor has her head down and seems focused on documentation. This is ridiculous. Ruth wonders at what stage, if at all, she can halt the conversation and demand to speak to Varsha in private. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Does the earring belong to you?’
‘It’s similar to one I lost some time ago.’
DI Miller is handed another packet by DS Bailey. The black leather looks familiar.
‘I have here Mr. Peterson’s wallet,’ says DI Miller. ‘I want to ask you about some of the contents.’ He hands over a folded piece of green paper. ‘Could you have a look at this, please, Dr. Cooper, and tell me what it is.’
From the print, Ruth can see that it’s a prescription. She unfolds it carefully and scrutinises it. It’s a prescription for one hundred codeine tablets, made out to Dominic Peterson. The handwriting and signature are hers. She turns it over in her right hand. This is completely at odds with anything she remembers. Her elbow rests on the arm of the chair, her head buried in her left hand. This can’t be possible. When did she write it? She looks at the date but the numbers become blurry and she looks away. ‘May I have a glass of water, please?’ she says, her voice wobbling.
Varsha puts down her pen and looks up. ‘I’d like to request a break for my client,’ she says, gathering her things.
The detectives exchange glances. DI Miller sits back in his chair and emits a low whistle of exasperation. ‘Very well. Interview terminated nineteen twenty three hours, July twenty first two thousand and five.’ Miller and Bailey stand up. ‘Come with us, please. We’ll resume our questioning later.’
45
Ruth
Val’s face is the epitome of anxiety, as she scans the cell.
‘D’you think we’re being recorded here?’
‘Who gives a fig?’ says Ruth, squinting at her friend. ‘This is a complete travesty of justice.’ She paces up and down. ‘D’you know, Val, I feel sick all the time. The slightest movement of my head sends shooting pains over my scalp.’
Val lightly touches her shoulder. Guiding her to the bench they sit, side by side. ‘We’re going to get through this, promise you,’ she says, taking Ruth’s hand in hers and squeezing it.
Ruth twists her feet and studies the scuff marks on her shoes. ‘I’m so tired,’ she says, her voice disappearing between her knees. ‘They showed me a prescription they’d found in Dominic’s wallet. It’s in my handwriting but I don’t remember writing it. And why would I write it for Dominic anyway? Varsha tells me it’s one of many. It must be forged.’ She thinks back to the times she couldn’t locate her prescription pad amongst her equipment. When Varsha asked her whether Dominic could have stolen it from her bag Ruth hadn’t been able to countenance it at first, but hadn’t this prompted her to remember the stashed alcohol and other drugs she’d found in Dominic’s house? ‘They say Bella’s illnesses started when I first got to know Dominic. That, as a doctor, I’ve been pulling the wool over their eyes. That I was fabricating the symptoms. That I knew exactly what I was doing, trying to pretend it was an obscure disease.’ She pulls her hand away from Val’s to grip the underside of the bench, as her chest heaves and the sound of retching percolates the cell. Acid burns her throat. Her brow pricks with moisture. Her head feels as heavy as a wrecking ball as she raises it towards Val. ‘He was an addict, Val. And I just didn’t see it. How could I be so bloody stupid? He suffere
d years of chronic pain, and one disastrous life event after another. Is it any wonder that he tried to find an escape?’
Val jerks back against the wall and groans. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘What do you mean?’ She focuses on Val’s face hoping to find answers in the knotted countenance.
‘He was a liar, Ruth, for Christ’s sake. This hurts, I know, but be realistic. You’ve been wrongfully arrested and yet still you’re trying to defend him. You need to wake up to the fact that things were going on, undetected, before your eyes. Unless…’ Her eyes widen as she scrutinises Ruth’s face.
‘Unless, what?’
‘Unless, you’re not telling the whole truth. Unless you’ve got something to hide.’
Ruth rests her elbows on her knees and lowers her head. ‘I’m innocent. I promise you.’ Words bubble in her throat and she doesn’t know whether to suppress them or free them. ‘Val, I’m worried sick. You don’t know the whole story.’
‘Go on.’
Ruth’s fingers thread through her matted hair. She’s navigating unchartered territory now and needs to iron out her thoughts. She blots her brow with her sleeve and looks up. ‘I promise you, I’m innocent,’ she says, her voice taking faltering steps. ‘You’ve got to believe me.’
Val nods, studying Ruth’s face. ‘I do believe you.’
‘But I’m petrified.’ Ruth clears her throat. ‘You and I understand mental illness, as doctors, but I’m worried they’re going to take one look at my psychiatric history and think they’re dealing with a mad woman, and that’s going to totally prejudice the case against me. I still feel the stigma and shame, even though it’s unjustified.’
They sit with their heads bowed, the silence punctuated by the sound of shouts in the corridor.
‘What do you mean?’ Val’s voice sounds hesitant.
The scuffle of feet. The sound of profanities. The clash of a door in the corridor.
Love Until It Hurts Page 20
