The Philosophy of Disgrace

by Ann Troup

  Back at her house, Ratcliffe was laid full length on the sofa, a bottle of beer in his hand, howling along to some eighties rock ballad that was belting out of her stereo. He didn’t even hear her come in. It seemed the writing was on the wall in her house too.

  As Angela had been a bit gritty with him since last night, Ratcliffe decided to send her off on a mission for the morning. Besides, he had to go and break the news to Frances Haines about her sisters. One dead, one as near as damn it. Not that he expected her to react much, so far she hadn’t shown much family loyalty, and if the others were to be believed, she wouldn’t start now. Still it had to be done. Besides, he wanted to do it before she was moved to the prison, where she would be on remand until her trial. Because, despite his theories, if she didn’t talk, and he didn’t find another suspect, she would go to trial and it would be for murder. He’d run his theory past Benton that morning first thing, but she wasn’t buying it unless he came up with solid evidence. Until then, Stella’s murder was a separate issue, not linked until he could prove it otherwise.

  Frances was waiting for him in an interview room, in the company of a young female officer, who looked to Ratcliffe like she had just fallen out of the gates of junior school and into a uniform. Were they getting younger, or was he getting too old? After the past few days, he concluded it must be the latter.

  He offered Frances a cup of tea, but she refused. Then he explained about the fire, about Stella’s death and about Rachel’s critical condition. She didn’t say anything but he saw a range of emotion flicker across her face, shock at Stella’s death, then a knowing frown when he mentioned the fire, possibly a glimmer of concern for Rachel, but too brief to be sure. Then calculation, she was weighing something up in her mind. Her eyes flicked around as she measured out the information he had given her and synthesised it into something meaningful.

  ‘Do you have any questions, or is there anybody you think we should contact?’ He asked.

  She shook her head, as if his words were an irritating distraction to her thoughts.

  ‘Right, Officer Kelly will escort you back to the custody suite.’ He stood up to go, reminded PC Kelly what time the prison transport was due to arrive, and opened the door to leave.

  ‘Wait. There is something, is Rachel safe?’

  Ratcliffe turned to her, ‘as I’ve explained, she’s seriously ill; hopefully she will respond and make a recovery. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that, I mean is she safe, are people with her?’

  ‘I don’t really understand what you mean.’ He said.

  She let out an impatient sigh, ‘You have just told me that my stepsister was murdered, I am simply asking you if you have considered that there might also be a risk to Rachel from the same source?’

  Given the current physical condition of Rachel Porter, he doubted that a murderer would have much of a job to do. ‘She is in the ICU, receiving constant care. I think she’s safe, only close family are allowed to visit.’

  ‘Then she is not safe.’ She said simply.

  Ratcliffe sat back down, ‘do you have something you would like to tell me Mrs Haines?’

  ‘Possibly, but only if you will give me a guarantee that you will post an officer, in the ICU to maintain Rachel’s safety.’

  ‘I don’t really think you are in a position to make demands. Rachel is quite safe, at least from any external threat. Perhaps if you tell me who you think might pose a threat, I can help.’

  ‘Post an officer first, then I’ll tell you everything.’

  Ratcliffe shook his head, ‘Uh uh. No deal.’

  Anger flashed across her face, ‘You fail to understand me, there is no time. For you to understand the nature of the threat you will need to hear a long story, by the time I tell it and convince you to protect my sister, it may be too late. I will tell you, but only if you place an officer in the ICU, with Rachel at all times, until you make an arrest.’

  Ratcliffe mulled it over for a moment, he wasn’t in the habit of giving in to such outright manipulation by a prisoner, but he did want whatever information she could give.

  ‘OK, I’ll send someone down there. But whatever you’ve got better be good.’ He stepped out into the hallway and rang Angela, told her to get her ass to the ICU and stay with Rachel until she heard different from him. She asked him why, and he told her he didn’t have time to explain. She called him something both unmentionable and deeply unprofessional, said she had information he might find interesting. ‘tell me later, Haines is about to spill and I don’t want the window to close while I’m out here arsing about!’ he said, losing patience and ending the call by pressing the button on his phone with more pressure than was absolutely necessary, which resulted in him inadvertently switching it off.

  Back in the interview room he told Frances that DC Watson would be with Rachel in ten minutes, and would stay by her bedside for as long as was necessary.

  Frances closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply, ‘then you had better assemble the cabal.’

  Angela was deeply pissed off, Ratcliffe was complete asshole. She had just spent half the morning running round piecing together some decent evidence, and now he wanted her to sit in a hospital and babysit an unconscious woman. She’d had enough of that crap when she had worn a uniform. Still, looking on the bright side it would give her a chance to mull over what information she had and form it into something coherent. She was going to crack this case if it killed her. Even if death did come in the form of abject boredom by the bedside of a woman she despised.

  On the ward, she showed her warrant card, explained her mission and was shown into the waiting room, where she found Charlie Jones, looking ten years older than he had the day before, and in dire need of a good wash and a shave.

  ‘Rough night?’ She said, hoping that it sounded like sympathy rather than an indictment.

  ‘You could say that, anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Not really, I’m here to sit with Rachel, orders from above, just thought I would let you know. Is anybody with her now?’

  ‘Diana and Amy, only two at a time. Why do you need to sit with her?’

  She shrugged, turned out her palms. ‘Ours is not to reason why, etcetera. My guess is that as Stella was murdered, there might be some concern from the powers that be that Rachel is at risk too.’

  Charlie snorted in disbelief, ‘What, in the ICU, surrounded by nurses and with her family?’

  ‘Like I said...’ Angela offered, as if it explained everything. ‘Perhaps you could take it as an opportunity to go home and get some rest, and, um, whatever.’ She said, waving her hand at him.

  He looked down at himself, ran a hand over his stubble, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Fair point, maybe you’re right. They say she’s stable now. But you’re not going to stop us coming back.’ He asserted warily.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, shall I send the others out?’

  ‘Whatever’ Charlie said, his voice blurred by exhaustion.

  Once they had gone, once she had dealt with the protestations of the daughter and the friend, once she had explained to the staff the reason she was here cluttering up the ward, she was finally able to pull up a chair next to Rachel’s bed and gather her thoughts. It had been an interesting morning, at least up until Ratcliffe had phoned. She had been asked to get background on the family, find out if there was anyone in their circle who might have been missed. William Porter’s family were all dead, but no one had mentioned whether Valerie Porter still had people. Angela had made it her business to find out. Valerie’s maiden name had been Mint, and she had grown up in the rough end of town, a wartime child. Despite the intervening years, and the impact of urban regeneration, it was still the rough end of town, and a familiar stamping ground for anyone in the local police force. Angela had been on more call outs there than she’d had a clean change of knickers when she’d been in uniform. Given that she changed her underwear daily, it had been an average of two incidents a day. She still had
clean habits, but didn’t visit quite so often, this was a place for petty crime and domestics. Serious incidents were rare.

  A bit of research had told her that there were still three families living in the street where Valerie had grown up who might have known her as a child or young woman. No relatives had come to light, but these places were close-knit communities where people knew each other’s business intimately and had long memories, and often strenuous loyalties. That could be a good or a bad thing depending on the information being sought. Given that even her own children had given Valerie a bad rap, Angela was hoping she hadn’t been popular as a kid, that way it was more likely someone would choose to dish the dirt.

  Her first port of call was number 23, the home of Mrs Bolan and her daughter. Having rung the bell she waited patiently by the door, her warrant card ready in her hand. It took a few minutes, but eventually a small, grey haired woman, who peered out past a security chain, opened the door. Angela held up her warrant card and introduced herself, she was about to explain why she was there when a high pitched, querulous voice cut across her words,

  ‘Who’s there? Who’s that at the door Edie?’

  The woman, Edie, gave Angela an apologetic look, then turned and called down the passage, ‘It’s a lady from the police mother.’

  ‘What does she want? Is it about those thugs who broke the back fence? Bit late aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know what she wants Mother, I can’t hear her over your shouting.’ She called, clearly exasperated, she turned back to the door, ‘Is it about the fence?’

  Angela smiled, ‘No, not the fence I’m afraid. I wanted to talk to you and your mother about Valerie Mint, she used to live a few doors away?’

  ‘Valerie Mint’ Edie repeated, rolling the name over her tongue as if it might taste the way it sounded. ‘Now there’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time.’ She turned back into the hallway, ‘She wants to know about the Mints.’

  ‘Mince? What Mince?’ The inner voice demanded in a pitch that made Angela want to wince.

  ‘Not Mince, the Mints, the family that used to be down the road.’

  There was silence from the back of the house.

  ‘Do you think I might come in?’ Angela asked, he neck getting stiff from angling her head to peer through the gap in the door.

  Edie shut the door and let off the chain, then ushered Angela through the door with a surreptitious glance down the street to see if anyone was watching.

  ‘Mother’s in the back room’. She said. Leading Angela down a dingy passageway to the back of the house. It was a typical Victorian terraced house, stairs straight ahead, front room, back room, kitchen, bathroom. Most had been modernised, the rooms knocked through, the kitchens extended, the bathrooms put upstairs. However, this one retained its original layout and looked like it hadn’t been decorated since the seventies.

  Edie’s mother sat regally in a wing-backed chair, a rug over her knees that was made from hundreds of different coloured, bobble textured crochet squares. Her parchment coloured brown speckled hands rested nervously on the arms of her chair, and her thin lips were set in a defiant line.

  Angela introduced herself, showed her card again and asked if she might sit down. The old woman nodded and indicated an uncomfortable looking cottage style settee. Angela sat, the ancient springs groaning with every movement. ‘I was wondering if you might be able to recall anything about the Mint family, they lived here some years ago. We’re currently investigating a case connected to Valerie Mint, or Valerie Porter as she was after she married. I was hoping to find someone who could tell me a bit about the family. It often helps us if we have some background.’ She explained.

  The old woman nodded. ‘Does it now?’ she said.

  It was hardly a conversation opener.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea Officer?’ Edie offered, hovering by the kitchen door.

  ‘It’s Detective, and thank you, that would be lovely.’

  While Edie bustled about in the tiny kitchen, the old woman just stared at Angela, who glanced around the room and gave her the occasional smile, hoping to appear undemanding. Finally, Edie came in, with a fully laden tea tray. A pot, cups, saucers, milk jug, sugar bowl and biscuits. Custard creams. Angela hated custard creams.

  Edie fussed around pouring the tea, she was nervous The cups rattled in their saucers as she handed first one to Angela, then one to her mother. The old lady made a great show of stirring it and tapping the spoon on the rim of the cup, as if she were about to make a great announcement of some sort.

  ‘So you want to know about the Mints.’ She said, pursing her lips and taking a noisy sip from her cup.

  Angela glanced down and saw there was a chip in her cup. The china was stained yellow where the glaze was missing. ‘If you can remember anything about them.’

  ‘Huh’ the old woman uttered ‘I remember them alright. Who could forget?’

  Then she launched into her story, just as Angela had known she would.

  ‘I take it you want to know about Lena Mint, although it all seems to be a bit too long ago to be worrying about what she got up to. She’s been dead thirty years.’ The woman chuckled wheezily. ‘She weren’t Val’s mother, she were an aunt. Took Valerie on when her real mother died, mind you rumour has it that were down to Lena.’ She said with a slow, precise nod of her head.

  ‘What was down to Lena?’

  ‘Valerie’s mother’s death. Died in childbirth didn’t she.’ The old woman said impatiently, with a shake of her head that implied Angela might be a bit stupid. ‘Lena was the local woman.’

  Now Angela was completely lost, she looked at Edie, afraid of the old woman’s censure should she ask for clarity.

  ‘Lena was the woman people called on if they were in trouble, she did the laying out and stuff.’ Edie offered, adding about as much clarity as a dollop of mud in a glass of water.

  ‘Stuff?’ Angela queried.

  The old woman flapped her hand impatiently. ‘Laying out dead people, tending em if they was sick, looking after women in trouble, and she was the local midwife. Not official like, but the one most people round here preferred. Cheaper than the doctor see.’ She took another noisy slurp of tea. ‘Back before the war, before the ‘ealth service and that, you had to pay, she was cheaper. Course after the NHS, she had to keep up with the times, not a lot of money in just laying out.’

  ‘What did she do then?’ Angela asked, sipping her own tea, tentatively from the opposite side to the chip.

  ‘Sorted girls out that had got themselves in trouble. Do it for three guineas. That how she killed off her own sister, dirty habits, infection. Nasty business.’ The woman said with a sniff fuelled by morality.

  ‘You mean she was an abortionist?’

  The old woman nodded, Edie looked away, as if she were ashamed to be associated with such things.

  ‘Messed a lot of women up she did, surprised your lot never caught her for it. Nasty business. Edie, wasn’t she in the picture for Elsie Brent too?’

  ‘I don’t know mother, I can’t remember.’ Edie said quietly, unable to look either her mother or Angela in the eye.

  ‘Of course you do, you, Val and Del Brent were thick as thieves.’

  ‘It was a long time ago mother, we were children.’

  ‘Hardly! You was teenagers when Elsie copped it, everyone knew she’d fallen again, at her age too. Lena did her in, her with her gin and knitting needles and her dirty hands.’

  ‘She didn’t use knitting needles, it was a tube thing!’ Edie shouted, then realised what she had said, clapped a hand over her mouth and burst into tears.

  For once, the old woman seemed to be stunned into silence. Edie leapt up and ran into the kitchen, slamming the door.

  Angela found her locked in the toilet. She tapped on the door. ‘Edie, come out, it’s all right, no ones in trouble. I’m not here for that. Did something happen, with Lena Mint? Did she do something to you?’ All she could here was quiet s
obbing from behind the door. So she waited. After a minute or two, Edie undid the door and came out.

  ‘We were just kids.’ She said huskily, her voice still loaded with emotion.

  Whatever had happened she must have been carrying it around with her for an awful long time, Angela thought. The woman had to be in her late sixties if she was a day. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Maybe it would help her if she did. Maybe it would help Angela if she did.

  Edie glanced towards the window. Her mother’s wizened face was peering out from underneath the net curtain, which was draped over her head like a veil. ‘She’ll never let up on me til I tell her.’

  Angela gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Best get it over with then.’ She said, offering Edie a clean but crumpled tissue.

  It turned out that it wasn’t anything to do with Lena Mint, well not directly anyway. Del Brent had been in trouble, not her mother. The mother had died of natural causes, ovarian cancer that had swollen her belly so much that everyone thought she was pregnant. Del hadn’t told her family of her own predicament because of her mother’s illness, but had sought the help of Lena. Lena wouldn’t perform the abortion because Del was too far into the pregnancy, but Val had wanted a new pair of shoes, so took Del’s money and performed the abortion herself, using the equipment her auntie used, ‘She told us it was alright, that she knew what to do, that Lena had showed her how it worked. But she didn’t, it was awful, blood everywhere. I was only there to help out, look after Del. The baby was supposed to come away of its own accord, but it didn’t, there was just blood. We panicked, and I got Lena, then she panicked, Del was out of it then. Lena and Val, they dumped her in the street and made me phone an ambulance. Told me I would go to prison as an accomplice if I ever said anything. I was terrified.’