As she turns she spots the toy pony on the kitchen chair, still in its clear plastic box. She sighs, then goes upstairs for a shower.
Ribbons of steam curl round the gap in the shower door. Stepping over her discarded tracksuit, Ruth stands before the mirror. She smears her finger over it, creating a little spyglass. Runnels of condensation trickle downwards, mirroring the salty tears reaching her lips. She fumbles in her make-up bag. Prises her razor out of its plastic compartment. Slides open the shower door.
A daddy long-legs scurries up the tiles, trying to make its escape in the sultry heat. Ruth unclips the shower head and points it towards the insect, sluicing it downwards.
‘Itsy bitsy spider,
Climbed up the water spout
Down came the rain
And washed the spider out.’
The words stream out of her mouth as the dismembered interloper swirls down the plughole.
She’s in control now. She knows what to do, and lifts the blade.
And as the water flows, like liquid cochineal, the relief is instant.
48
Ruth
‘Flexor carpi radialis, palmaris longis, flexor carpi ulnaris,’ Ruth traces a line over the lumpy gauze which covers her forearm, mapping out her musculature. As she lies on her bed she remembers her Anatomy lessons as a student. Carefully dissected nerves that looked like tapeworms. Exsanguinated pearly blood vessels like small-bore cables. Embalmed tissues. She would smell the formaldehyde on her clothes when she went home in the evenings, could feel the gristle under her fingernails the next day. She stares up at the ceiling. Ironic, when all these years later she uses her expert knowledge to self-harm with meticulous precision. Maybe the old cliché is true. Ignorance really is bliss. She slides under the duvet, welcoming its embrace.
An invasive sound makes her jump. Peeling back the cover she strains to hear. It goes again. A tinny noise from downstairs. The doorbell.
She shrinks back inside her fleecy cocoon but the harsh noise is penetrating and repetitive.
Bloody reporters. How dare they? Whoever it is, their persistence emboldens her. She flings back her bedcovers, grabs a dressing gown and stalks over the landing to a vantage point behind the curtains.
Apart from her car, her driveway is empty. She scans the street for activity but, other than a young woman pushing a pram weighted with carrier bags, there’s no-one else to be seen.
A sudden movement at the corner of her vision startles her, and she shrinks back against the wall as the familiar sight of Paul Franklin’s head comes into view. He walks away from the house, down her drive and she flattens herself against the wall and waits until the crunch of shoes on gravel diminishes.
Dragging herself back over the landing and into the bathroom, she flops onto the toilet seat. A sideways glance into the mirror reveals a hollow-eyed, gaunt frame she hardly recognises. It’s an effort to complete her ablutions, but she empties her bladder, then hauls herself up by holding on to the washbasin. Her brush snags through her hair, making her wince. Fastening the cord of her dressing gown tightly round her waist she goes downstairs. A scrap of paper lies on the doormat.
As she bends down to pick it up a dark shadow looms through the frosted glass. A slit of light appears through the letterbox and, as she looks up, her eyes partner those of Paul Franklin’s.
‘I don’t make a habit of peering through people’s letterboxes,’ he says, ‘so I wonder if, on this occasion, I can come in?’
Paul Franklin leans back, his hands curled round his coffee mug. ‘There’s no doubt the Professional Standards Committee reached the right decision. It’s just unfortunate that official channels take such a damn long time to reach their conclusions.’ He looks directly at Ruth and his features soften. ‘Conclusions that are all too obvious to people like you and me.’
Ruth shakes her head, unable to find the words. Her hand rests down the side of the chair and alights on Tilly’s back. Her cat has remarkable intuition and she loves her for it. She lifts the animal onto her knee and strokes her. ‘You realise I’ve had to be referred back to the GMB again, now that I’m involved in legal proceedings with Bella’s case, don’t you?’
Paul nods. ‘Poor little Bella.’ His eyes skirt the perimeter of the room before resting on Ruth. ‘Are you going to fight for her?’
As the words soak in she can feel the heat spreading over her cheeks. ‘So you believe I’m innocent?’
‘Of course I do.’
Ruth chews her bottom lip. ‘I don’t know what to do, Paul. I guess my priority is to prove my innocence. Then who knows. It’s so hard trying to compute what has happened to me in the last five months. I was only just getting to know Bella when all this happened.’
He fixes her with his powder-blue eyes. ‘Alan Tremayne came to see me yesterday.’
‘Alan Tremayne?’
‘Yeah, Margaret’s son. Booked a double appointment. Came in with a thick sheaf of notes he’d downloaded from the internet.’ Paul rubs his chin. ‘It was a bit of a heart-sink moment, to be honest.’ He puts down his mug and leans forward. ‘But it transpires that all he wanted to do was ask how he could help you.’
‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’ She feels herself bristling with contempt.
‘He’s very grateful that you saved his son’s life. Took me through the events of the day you admitted the baby to hospital and said how he’d always remember your kindness and sheer professionalism.’
Ruth studies the carpet. She remembers that day all too well. She had felt the surge of adrenaline coursing through her own veins, as she took control of a life-threatening situation. It was a perfect reminder that anxiety can be channelled in a positive way, if you put your mind to it. ‘I was just doing my job. And glad I could help.’ With her foot she smooths the pile on the carpet. ‘How’s Elliott doing now?’
‘Very well. Been discharged from hospital. The Plastics team are pleased with his skin grafts. And he passed his audiology test, so it’s all good news.’
‘Good. I’m pleased.’
‘But, that wasn’t the main purpose of his visit. He wanted to drop the complaint he made against you for your treatment of his mother.’
‘Pah! Too late. And now irrelevant.’
‘Ruth, please hear me out.’ A myriad of fine lines fan out from his eyes. ‘I thanked him, but had to explain that the complaint was already being processed through official channels. That it was impossible to reverse. I think he felt genuinely sorry when he heard that. So he offered to write a testimonial in support of you. Think about it. It could be worth having on file.’
He pauses and Ruth follows his eye-line which rests on her arm. She flinches and stretches her sleeve over her wrist. When she looks up again he’s watching her.
‘My turn to be grateful, then,’ she says, with a weak smile. ‘Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I scraped my arm on a door at the police station. An accident.’
‘None of my business.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘You know, something, Ruth,’ he says, after an age, ‘I’ve been practising for nearly forty years and I still have nights when I lie awake, unable to sleep.’ He shifts in his seat and looks directly at her. ‘Many’s the time I’ve worried that I’ve missed a diagnosis. In fact, on occasions, I have. But often our patients have empathy, in the same way that we do. We’re only human.’
The words burrow into Ruth’s insecurities. She lifts her coffee mug and can’t bring herself to look at him. The phone rings in the hall. She glances at Paul, feeling embarrassed at the untimely interruption. The phone continues to ring.
‘Go ahead. Answer it,’ he urges. He stands up to leave.
‘It’s fine. It’s on voicemail. And it’s probably just another reporter wanting to nose.’ But as Ruth sits down she can hear the voice of Varsha Dhasmana talking in the hall.
Paul’s words sound m
uted and distant, as he bids her goodbye, as if she is listening underwater, but a calmness returns, along with a deep sense of sadness.
49
Ruth
August 2005
Standing by the public entrance to the Coroner’s Court, DS Bailey is instantly recognisable by her stance, the streaked coppery hair and the black suit. She scans the car park, checking every angle.
‘Well done. You decided to come after all,’ she says, as Ruth approaches, flanked by Val and Mike. ‘I’m sure it’s the best thing in the circumstances.’
Ruth hopes she’s right. The events of the past week have drained every ounce of energy from her limbs, but for the third day in succession she’d dragged herself out of bed, pulled on her smart trouser suit and brushed her hair into a semblance of respectability. She could understand why Viviane Zuckerman had elected not to come. Far too upsetting. Instead she’d decided to stay on the ward with her grand-daughter.
PC Collins’s statement yesterday had shaken Ruth. He’d described how he’d been first on the scene, followed by the paramedics and fire service crew who had extricated Bella. In her grief she was transported back to that night when she’d been unable to contact Dominic, and had been buffeted by the wind and needled by the rain as she went about her visits. The hardest part was listening to him describe how Dominic had suffered a massive head injury, as the car chassis crumpled round the tree and how, as the policeman reached over the twisted metal to switch off the ignition, he’d had to ignore the sound of a mobile phone ringing in the deceased’s pocket. She’s returned many times to this scenario over the last twenty four hours. This was a new hypothesis to her. There were no witnesses to the accident. Had she contributed to it by trying to contact Dom while he was driving? But then there were other factors that were being taken into consideration. Tyres reaching their limit on tread. A worn brake pad. Dominic’s hand contracture that may have affected his grip. She’s not consoled by these facts.
Their small group huddles into the building. At least there’s expectation of a conclusion this afternoon. She digs her hands into her pockets. As soon as it’s finished she can go home to bed.
DS Bailey guides the group past the court usher and into the Family Room. Ruth knows the routine now. She takes a seat next to the water dispenser, and adjusts the creases in her trousers. Mike hovers in the corner of the room, runs his fingers through his hair and smiles every time she catches his eye.
‘Coffee anyone?’ asks Val, placing a plastic cup under the drinks machine.
‘No thanks,’ Ruth replies. ‘Think I’ll avoid the caffeine. Maybe just a glass of water.’ Her mouth feels dry and she grips the side of the chair to stop her hands from shaking.
The door opens a fraction and the usher mouths something to the detective.
‘Should be ready in about ten minutes,’ says DS Bailey. She takes a tissue from her pocket, lifts it to her mouth, and extracts a piece of chewing gum. ‘Coroner’s just summing up, then our case is next.’ The lid of the pedal bin snaps shut.
Ruth takes a sip of water, trying not to spill any. The air in the room smells stale, heavy with the recycled breaths of many tense conversations. The Coroner’s words from yesterday run in a continuous loop in her head, ‘the purpose of this inquest is to ascertain facts, not apportion blame …ascertain facts, not apportion blame.’
No witnesses. Slippery road surface. Increased stopping distance. Strong crosswinds. Poor visibility. Worn tyres. Shoddy brake pads. Deficient steering. She holds onto these facts from yesterday with a determined tenacity. Hopefully today will provide answers.
After several minutes there’s the sound of muffled footsteps and muted voices from the corridor outside. Their assembled group in the Family Room fidgets, and prepares to move, and for the third and final time Ruth checks that her phone is switched off.
Ruth studies the diamond edging on the crimson carpet, which leads the way to her seat. She’d spotted the press earlier, given away by their scruffy jackets and customised lanyards. The same crew as yesterday, and the day before. They’re probably looking at her now, as they sit in a gaggle, powering up their laptops, but she denies them the satisfaction of an acknowledgement.
‘All rise for the Court,’ booms the clerk and the sound of chair springs resonate round Ruth, as seats flip up.
The Coroner, neat shoulder-length hair, crisp dark suit, slash of damson lipstick, acknowledges her with a seemingly benign smile. Ruth sits back down, nudging knees with Val.
As the formal preambles are read out and the Coroner reminds the assembled gathering of the questions she is required to ask: ‘Who, where, when, why?’ Ruth allows her attention to drift. She glances over at the wall clock beneath the Royal Coat of Arms. One minute past two. It’s only when Ruth registers the words ‘post-mortem’ and ‘medical reports’ that her thoughts are jerked back into focus.
The Coroner passes a thick ring-bound file over to the Coroner’s Officer. He casts his eyes downward, through the spectacles perched on the end of his nose, clears his throat and begins to read.
‘Post mortem findings: cranial blunt force and penetrating trauma, depressed fracture of right parietal bone.’
Ruth tries to compute the words. The impassive neutrality of the Coroner’s Officer’s voice disconcerts her. To the uninitiated he sounds as if he could be reading the shipping forecast.
‘Intimal and medial tear of thoracic aorta, secondary to fracture of the sternum.’
Poor, wretched Dominic. He didn’t stand a chance.
‘Pulmonary contusion and haemothorax.’
She feels the bony edge of Val’s knee pressing into hers and she reciprocates by taking Val’s hand and squeezing it.
‘Toxicology results,’ the Officer continues, ‘showed a plasma codeine level of zero point three four milligrams per litre, consistent with therapeutic amounts, a gabapentin level of four point four milligrams per litre, and no evidence of recreational drugs, such as cocaine or heroin.’
Ruth loosens the buttons on her jacket and shifts in her seat. Codeine and gabapentin. No surprises there. Chronic pain from his old injuries.
‘Plasma ethanol concentration was seventy five milligrams per decilitre.’
There’s a pause and Ruth looks up. Dominic didn’t drink alcohol.
‘Thank you,’ says the Coroner. The gold nib of her pen glints in the natural light filtering through the domed roof. ‘A report from Mr. Peterson’s GP was requested, to provide details of medical history. This is of particular relevance given the toxicology results, which show evidence of borderline ethanol intoxication and the presence of an opioid and gabapentin.’ She nods at the Officer. ‘Thank you. Please continue.’
Ruth casts a sideways glance at the press corps. A middle-aged man with straw-coloured hair is studying her, as he chews the end of his pencil. Her eyes run over the beige gilet, then back to his face. His eyes haven’t moved, and she’s not sure if she can detect the flicker of a smile. Sweat pools under her arms. The Tadwick Gazette. Of course. She darts a look back at the Coroner’s Officer, who is opening another file.
‘Report from Dr. Crofton, GP at Mulberry Lane Practice. “I knew Mr. Peterson for approximately four years. During that time his repeat medication consisted of ibuprofen and sumatriptan for migraine, prophylactic penicillin, salbutamol inhalers for asthma and emulsifying ointments for eczema. Nil else.’”
Ruth’s head jerks a fraction. Nil else? What about the codeine? The gabapentin?
‘“In January two thousand and five,”’ the Officer continues, “‘Mr. Peterson’s wife died, after a long illness. In the weeks after her death he became a frequent attender at the surgery. Bereavement counselling was suggested to him. He exhibited signs of anxiety regarding the health of his four-year-old daughter. His daughter was admitted to hospital on a number of occasions and on twenty fifth April two thousand and five she was re
ferred to Social Services regarding safeguarding concerns. Three weeks before his death Mr. Peterson consulted me with stress-related symptoms. He expressed worry about his daughter. He also described financial concerns. He was not prescribed any medication at that time but instead was referred for Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. When he attended for review one week later he disclosed acute anxiety due to losing a significant amount of money in a business deal. He was referred to the Crisis Team. Two days before he died he was referred back to me by the psychiatrist as he was deemed to be at low risk of self-harm, with no evidence of suicidal ideation.”’
Val’s grip on her hand gets tighter. Ruth shuffles her feet and sits up straight. She tries to unknot the significance of these emerging facts. No mention of codeine or gabapentin from the GP. Where the hell did he get these from? Madeleine’s drugs? The forged prescriptions?
The air in the courtroom feels very stale and warm. She leans down and extracts a notepad from her handbag and fans herself with it. Where does this leave her? She can’t speak to Varsha till later. Anyway Varsha will want to read the court papers first.
Val leans in. ‘Are you okay?’ she whispers and her hand seeks hers for a second time. Ruth nods and sits in stunned silence, the Coroner’s mantra of ‘fact finding and not apportioning blame’ lapping over her.
A member of the press, who was yawning just a minute ago, has now straightened his back. The usher has moved to within a few feet of where Ruth sits. The atmosphere in the courtroom changes as the Coroner begins her summing up. Her calm, clear voice percolates through the still air.
‘Having considered all the facts presented to me over the past three days I am now in a position to answer the questions I am required to ask. I conclude a verdict of accidental death. I offer my condolences to the family and friends of the deceased.’
Love Until It Hurts Page 22
