by Andy Maslen
The trip was over in less than ten minutes. The van’s noisy diesel engine coughed and clattered to a standstill before dying altogether, and a few moments after that, the rear door swung back. Stella blinked in the bright light that flooded the passenger compartment. Akuminde stood there, smiling. Behind him Stella could see the double doors of the hospital’s main reception area. He held his arm wide.
“Shall we go?”
She climbed down to see that he was flanked by the driver and a hospital orderly, a tall black man with a mass of dreadlocks held back with a leather thong.
At the reception desk, Akuminde leaned forwards to speak to an overweight woman in a maroon tunic who was juggling phones, clipboards and a seemingly uninterrupted flow of patients’ relatives, minicab drivers and clinical staff, all without breaking sweat or even letting her toothy grin fade.
“My name is Dr Akuminde. I’m the Pathologist at Paddington Green police station. I rang earlier about an urgent, emergency psychiatric assessment. This young lady is under a Section Two.”
The receptionist looked up at Stella, not unkindly, but with an open, curious expression as if she were a new species of animal. Though round here, being sectioned would hardly make you exotic, Stella thought.
“Having a bad day, dear?” she asked Stella. “Well, don’t worry. We’ll get a nice doctor to come and have a chat to you.” She turned back to Akuminde. “Hold on please, Doctor. I’ll page someone for you.”
A few minutes later, a man in his midthirties wearing jeans and a dark-grey jacket over a white shirt strode across the reception area in an odd, half-limping walk towards the ragtag group of uniformed PC, orderly, pathologist and female prisoner. He had an NHS identity badge clipped to his jacket lapel and was carrying a blue clipboard with a sheaf of papers attached. Lengthening her stride to keep up with him was a younger woman, maybe late twenties, in a dark-blue cardigan and black corduroy skirt over thick, black tights. She also had the familiar blue-and-white NHS badge.
The pair stopped in front of the desk, and the receptionist pointed at Akuminde.
“This is the pathologist who called from Paddington Green, Dr Akuminde. This is Mr Hockley.”
Akuminde shook hands with the newcomer, introduced his charge, and then spoke in a low voice though Stella caught every word.
“She tried to kill her superior officer with a firearm. Boasted of having murdered several other people, too, though we’ve not heard a word of any of the people she’s talking about having so much as a cold, let alone a one-way ticket to the other side. Clearly insane.”
“Yes, well, I’ll be the judge of that,” Hockley said, briskly. He pointed at the handcuffs. “Please remove those.”
The PC released Stella from the cuffs, and she massaged her wrists to get some feeling back into them, grateful for the young doctor’s ability to take charge.
“Is that better?” the young woman asked while Hockley completed some paperwork and Akuminde and the uniform disappeared back towards the main entrance. “I’m Becky. I’m a psychiatric nurse. I’ll be helping Mr Hockley look after you today.”
Something in her tone made Stella want to cry. She cleared her throat instead.
“Mister? Bit young for a consultant isn’t he?”
Becky’s cheeks dimpled as she smiled conspiratorially.
“He has got a bit of a baby face, hasn’t he? But he’s very good.”
“Yes, I am,” Hockley said, as he handed back the clipboard to the receptionist. “So let’s get you to our little den and we can find out a bit more about you, OK?”
Stella let herself be escorted out of the reception area and down a long corridor, marked with the usual strips of coloured tape and multi-layered signposts for hospital departments ranging from genitourinary medicine to women’s cancer, paediatric renal, and general surgical. Hockley stopped outside a door bearing a simple nameplate of aluminium in a slider at head height. Neat black capitals picked out the words 136 SUITE. He unlocked the door with a key on a ring he pulled from his pocket and pushed the door open.
A sofa and two armchairs in matching royal-blue material awaited them. Marking the geometric centre of the seating group, a circular coffee table supported a box of tissues. Stella took it all in. The peaceful watercolour landscapes to calm the agitated, the lack of hard corners to disarm the violent, the absence of windows to protect the suicidal.
“Let’s get comfortable, shall we?” Hockley said. “Stella, where would you like to sit?”
She took one of the armchairs. Hockley took the other and pulled it around until he was facing Stella. Becky, the nurse, sat on the sofa. Other Stella sat next to her, throwing an arm nonchalantly around the young woman’s shoulders. She winked at Stella.
“This should be fun,” she mouthed.
Hockley cleared his throat. It was about to begin.
Stella realised that her answers here were crucial to her being able to go after Collier. But what was the right course of action? Collier thought he’d been clever by getting her sectioned. But he hadn’t known the truth. Stella met all the conditions for her incarceration. She was a danger to herself and to others. She was suffering from a full-blown personality disorder. And she had murderous intentions towards Collier and now, Akuminde.
“Better play it careful then, Stel,” Other Stella said from her place beside Becky. “Or you’ll end up in a padded guest room.”
Hockley smiled and spoke. He had a pleasant voice with a hint of a Yorkshire accent.
“First of all, please call me Dan. Only people who work at the hospital have to call me ‘Mr Hockley.’ So, Stella, isn’t it?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Let’s start with a simple question. Do you know why you’re here?”
“Because I’ve been sectioned.”
“Well, yes. But do you know why you’ve been sectioned?”
“I pointed a gun at my boss.” Who richly deserved it by the way.
“According to Dr Akuminde, you also boasted of having murdered several people. Is that true?”
“That I boasted or that I murdered people?”
He smiled and made a note on his clipboard. “That you boasted.”
“Yes. I can’t deny that when there were two witnesses.”
“And how about the murders?”
Debra Fieldsend lying in a stinking pool of her own blood in her kitchen. Charlie Howarth’s skull smashing open on the York stone slabs at his chambers’ party with a crack like a snapping plank. Hester Ragib electrocuted in a shallow bath, her eyes and tongue popping out of her face.
Other Stella was sitting up straight, her right arm held aloft like an eager schoolgirl.
“Miss! Miss! Ask me. How come there’s been no press coverage? You don’t suppose PPM have been clearing up after you, do you? After all, they’ve got as much to lose as you if the murders come out.”
She has a point, Stella thought.
“Black humour. Cop humour. You medics are just as bad. If I’d really murdered people, don’t you think there’d have been a bit of media coverage? You know, a smidge?”
Another note on the clipboard.
She watched Dan’s face. Searching for a sign that he believed her story. Nice eyes, she thought. Same colour as Richard’s. He looked up when he’d finished writing.
“I’m not a policeman. I’ll leave the detection of murders to those who are paid to do it. But I am a consultant psychiatrist. Detecting mental health problems is my job. Tell me, is it also cop humour to threaten to kill a superior officer with a loaded handgun?”
His voice wasn’t sharp, but the question had a wicked edge to it. She glanced at Other Stella, who was admiring her fingernails.
“Don’t ask me, babe. That’s a pretty good question.”
Stella frowned.
“I’ve been having grief issues. Maybe I misjudged how the joke would be received.”
Instead of making another note, Dan leaned forward and looked into Stella’s eyes.
4
Sectioned
Stella’s pulse spiked and she felt a hot flush of sweat break out inside her blouse. She could almost smell it. The fear.
“What do you mean? Becky?”
He shook his head.
“No, not Becky. You keep looking to her left. Is there somebody else here with us?”
“No!” Even to Stella, her response came off too urgent, too quick, too desperate. Yet she felt compelled to glance once more in Other Stella’s direction.
“Oh, well that’s charming!” Other Stella said, crossing her legs at the knee. “You’re quite happy to acknowledge me when I’m helping you put shotgun rounds into Albanian gangsters, or dismember the odd dead lawyer, but now, when all I’m doing is sitting sweetly next to nurse Becky here,” she poked Becky in the left breast, “you’re denying I even exist.”
Dan was speaking again.
“Stella, I’m going to get Becky to run what we call an SBAR.” He pronounced it Ess-Bar. “It stands for situation, background, assessment and recommendation. Please answer all her questions truthfully. I’ll just have a think while you two are talking, OK?”
Becky produced a clipboard of her own. Stella hadn’t noticed her carrying it. She smiled.
“Let’s start with your situation now. How old are you, Stella?”
Stella trotted out short, simple answers to the first batch of questions. They established that she was a thirty-three-year-old police officer, living in London. Had she been able to see Becky’s notes, Stella would have learned that she was presenting as calm, rational and with no outward signs of mania, anxiety or depression, although she did appear distracted.
Nodding to Dan and then looking down at her notes to write something, Becky looked up at Stella.
“Now. Let’s get some background. Married?”
“Widowed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. You weren’t to know.”
“Any children?”
“One. She’s dead, too.” Though I believed she was living with me for over a year after she was burnt to death in her daddy’s car. “I have to warn you, it would probably be a mistake to ask me how I’m feeling about that.”
Becky gave another of what Stella had quickly decided were her professional smiles. Everything happening at the mouth, nothing around the eyes.
“Of course. Have you ever had any mental health issues in the past?”
“No. Like I said, I had some severe grief reactions after my family died, but I worked through them with a therapist. I’m back on the job, on light duties admittedly, so basically signed fit to resume work.”
“How about when you were younger? At school. Any anorexia, bulimia, self-harming, substance abuse?”
“Christ! You don’t mince your words, do you? No, to answer your questions, I was a healthy, sporty, well-balanced girl. Parents separated, and I lived with my mum. And to save you the trouble, I had my first boyfriend at fifteen. He was a lovely Jewish boy called Ira. I lost my virginity at seventeen, not to Ira, sadly for him, as he was madly in love with me although his mother wanted him to find a nice Jewish girl. I did super-well in my GCSE and A levels – all A-stars. Then off to university, hate the way they call it uni now, don’t you? Did psychology at Bath and took a first. Oh, yes, by the way? I did have a try at being a lesbian while I was at Bath, but it wasn’t a massive success, to be honest. Taught straight after graduating, then joined the Met. I was on the graduate fast-track and got promoted to detective inspector in 2009.”
Suddenly aware she was gabbling, Stella clamped her lips together. Her pulse was racing and she took a few deep breaths through her nose as she tried to slow her racing thoughts down.
“Wow, that was quite a speech!” Becky said. “Very comprehensive. You said you studied psychology at university?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too. What was your dissertation on?”
“Abnormal psychology.”
Becky made a note.
“Let’s move on, shall we? As Dan said, we need to conduct an assessment of your mental state. Now I don’t really need to ask you any questions because this is based on observation, but shall I tell you what I’m thinking?”
“Yes, please.” Keep it together, Stel, she told herself. I sense we’re getting down to the wire on this one. They could let you go or lock you in a buckle-sleeved Versace nightie somewhere nice and soft.
“You’re presenting, sorry, I mean you appear to be calm, but it looks forced to me. I think you are under a lot of stress. You’re keeping your voice level but every now and again it sounds as though you’re about to explode. And, like Dan said, you do seem distracted. I noticed the sidelong glances, too. Are you willing to speak with me about how you’re really feeling, Stella?”
Stella locked her gaze onto Becky’s round, pale-blue eyes. Willed herself not to flick a look at Other Stella.
“Sure. Why not?”
Becky smiled.
“Good.” She put her clipboard beside her. “So how are you feeling? Really?”
Stella drew in a deep breath and sighed it out.
“Honestly? Not so good. Not mad like Dr Akuminde seems to think, but just, I don’t know, very tired. Maybe I came back to work too soon.”
She hoped it would be enough to convince Becky and Dan to rescind the section and let her out. The room smelled unpleasantly of air freshener and Stella was feeling nauseous.
“Of course, that could explain your behaviour. But you said you worked through your grief with a counsellor.”
“I know. I did. Maybe I was wrong.” She felt her pulse racing and her anger mounting and couldn’t stop it. “He did kill them, you know,” she snapped.
Becky picked up her clipboard and made a note.
“Who killed them, Stella? Your boss?” She consulted her notes. “Detective Chief Superintendent Collier? Is that why you took a gun to his office?”
Stella realised she’d made a mistake. A huge mistake. What now? Explain how she’d discovered it was Leonard Ramage who’d murdered Richard and Lola and not a low-life petty criminal named Edwin Deacon, who’d been paid to take the fall? Where would that lead? Agree it was Collier? Might as well try on a few straitjackets now.
“No. They were run down by a man called Edwin Deacon. He killed them. Like I just said.”
Becky nodded. Made another note. Each hidden scribble felt like a needle under a fingernail to Stella.
“I understand,” Becky said with a smile. “But you see, Stella, what I am hearing, what I am seeing, is a woman who is being really brave about a terrible, awful, traumatic life event. But that woman is teetering on the edge. Probably feeling very panicky a lot of the time. Maybe not thinking straight. Does that sound about right?”
Stella shook her head.
“Nope. I’m feeling outraged that a prank landed me in this room with you and Dan here.”
Becky shook her head.
“The problem is, if you can look at this situation from my perspective, Stella, is that what you call a prank would get a member of the public arrested for attempted murder.”
“No it wouldn’t. It would be carrying a firearm in a public place. Maybe assault.”
Another note on Becky’s clipboard. Another needle under the nail.
Dan spoke for the first time since Becky had begun the SBAR.
“Rather than getting bogged down in the legal angles, let’s bring this back to the question of what we’re going to do next. Would that be OK, Stella?”
He waited and Stella realised it wasn’t a rhetorical question.
“Fine by me, Dan.” She tried for a relaxed smile but she could feel her cheeks almost splitting from the effort. Her palms were sweaty but she daren’t rub them on her jeans.
“I don’t think it matters whether it was a joke, a prank, an assault or an attempted murder. What does matter, to me and to Becky, is that your colleagu
e Dr Akuminde had enough concerns about your mental health to section you. No doctor takes that action without a great deal of thought, and I need to respect his decision by considering your case very seriously. Now, here’s where we are. A little over a year ago, your husband and baby daughter were killed by a hit and run driver. I’ll be requesting your medical notes from your GP, but I am already fairly sure what I’ll learn from them. As you say, you were understandably grief-stricken. Perhaps you did come back to work too early. But I don’t buy your story about this business with the gun being a joke. I don’t know what it really was, and like I said before, that’s not my job. I also don’t know, yet,” he smiled, “what exactly is going on in your head. I need to find out though. And that’s going to take a little time. So, we get to the R in SBAR. I’m going to recommend that you stay with us for twenty-eight days. That will allow me to get to know you a little better and hopefully arrive at both a diagnosis and a plan to manage or cure your condition.”
He stood, and Stella realised the interview was over. She thought, briefly, of her options. Trying to overturn a section was fraught with difficulties, and she was scared that Other Stella might take over and reveal the true extent of her mental problem. She decided to do nothing. For now. Meek and mild, Stel, she cautioned herself. Meek and mild.
“OK, Dan. If you think that’s for the best.”
He paused before opening the door and looked back at her.
“I do. I have to see other patients now. Becky will find you a room and she’ll arrange to have some clothes and toiletries brought in for you. We’ll speak again in the morning.”
