by Deborah Bee
In the en suite there was a row of nail polishes in every shade of purple. Twenty of them. More.
But she has no nails, thought DS Clarke. When does she wear nail varnish?
In the cabinet behind a mirror there are vitamins, minerals, healthy stuff.
And a receipt. For bleach. Stuffed at the back, behind a shampoo bottle. Strange place to keep a receipt, thought DS Clarke.
‘Have you checked outside, Chapman?’
‘The laundry room? Yup. It’s clean. It’s smart. It’s not what she said. It smells newly painted.’
‘So, it could have been done up? Show me.’
‘Oh, there’s an attic. It’s only storage.’
‘OK, you look up there, Chapman. We’ll do the laundry. Walker! Come on.’
*
DS Clarke glances at the forensics team, packing up their stuff into plastic toolboxes.
In the living room, there’s a sofa she recognises from the Sofa Workshop ads, with two matching tub chairs. The cushions are lined up, puffed up in a geometric pattern in grey and cream. All very tasteful – like some kind of show home on a brand-new estate.
A wedding photo, over the mantlepiece. Wedding photo?
Clare is there, in white, alongside a man who is presumably Gareth.
The picture is quite close-up, not full-length. Their faces are glowing, with his head over her shoulder. She’s wearing a white lace veil and the dress has got a silk ruffle neck. She’s wearing diamond earrings.
He’s going in for a kiss, his hand protectively around her shoulders, looking like the happiest man alive.
‘Chapman. CHAPMAN. HERE! Walker, get Chapman down here,’ says DS Clarke as she steps back to get the whole picture into the photo she’s taking on her phone.
‘Lovely, isn’t it? Scrubs up well, Clare, doesn’t she?’ says Walker.
DS Clarke’s phone goes before she can say anything.
‘I need to get back. You lot finish up here.’
Show home, thinks DS Clarke. Designed to give the very best possible impression.
Twenty-Eight
Clare
Celia, my caseworker, has brought Emma Tudor to see me. Emma is a CPN.
‘It stands for Community Psychiatric Nurse,’ says Celia, getting breathy.
Emma is standing in reception, wearing an Indian print blouse and cropped jeans. She’s also wearing tiny gold ballet flats that she could probably have got from a children’s department. Emma Tudor is very small and very, very quiet.
To the point that I can’t hear what she’s saying.
‘Hi,’ I think she says.
That’s what it looked like she said.
‘She will visit you here, and if you’d like, can continue seeing you, even when you move on from here,’ Celia says.
‘Provided you don’t move to Cuba, or something,’ whispers Emma, winking.
She has very long eyelashes and a beauty spot above her lip like Marilyn Monroe.
‘I’ll leave you two here,’ Celia says, mainly to Emma.
We’re in one of those grey soundproof rooms again with pink names. There are two chairs – scuffed plastic ones like you get in school, and a round plastic table with a pot plant on. The pot plant has chunky leaves and tiny yellow flowers. It looks like a cactus or something.
The room has no window.
No air.
‘I’m going to check in with the station to see if they’ve picked up your belongings, Clare, and try and get you some shopping,’ says Celia.
She’s trying to close the door as slowly and quietly as is humanly possible.
I don’t know why.
‘Thanks, Celia,’ says Emma, hugging her laptop to her chest and leaning back in her chair.
Watching me.
‘How are you feeling today, Clare?’
She sounds breezy.
Given the circumstances.
‘This must all feel slightly surreal after everything you’ve been through.’
There are long pauses between her sentences.
‘Can I just ask how you know what I’ve been through?’ I say. ‘Not being funny or anything. I just wondered.’
‘I’ve been through your case file. I’ve spoken to DS Clarke. I’ve seen your tox report and the police doctor’s report and I’ve talked it through with Celia.’
‘A lot of homework,’ I say.
She thinks she knows everything about me.
I can’t even remember her name.
No one will believe you.
Look at you!
Do you look like a reliable witness?
‘Did they get Gareth yet?’ I ask.
She doesn’t reply.
‘Can I get a police injunction?’
She’s one of those people who lets you talk and doesn’t interrupt. They get trained to be like that.
It’s not normal.
Her lips are pursed. The frosty pink lipstick gluing her mouth together.
She waits a bit longer.
Then she says, ‘I’m here to talk about you, Clare, not Gareth. Do you mind if I call him Gareth? I’ve heard you can find his name disturbing?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
If I find out you’re talking to your friends about me, you’ll get it.
Understand?
She really does know everything.
‘I’m here to make a psychiatric assessment, which sounds scary, and as though I’m here to judge you. But that’s not the point at all. OK? I’m not here to judge you.’
‘Yes. Sure. That’s OK,’ I say.
‘If and when your case comes to court, this assessment can be used in evidence against the accused. It’s like an official evaluation of your mental state. Same as the physical one the police doctor did at the hospital, only this is about how well your mind is, not your body.’
She pulls up her chair to the table and flips open her laptop.
‘It’s easier if I type it in – I hope that doesn’t feel too impersonal,’ she says, very, very quietly. ‘Bit of housekeeping first. Bit of background.’
Oh, background. I thought she meant she was going to get a duster out or something.
Must remember to tell Sally that one.
‘I’m a qualified psychotherapist. I specialise in behavioural disorders, specifically in BPD, Borderline Personality Disorder, and PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. Just to be clear, we’re here to do a psychiatric evaluation with a two-fold purpose. Firstly, so we can produce an accurate assessment for the court of your current state of mind and, secondly, so we can agree, you and I, on a course of treatment to help you moving forward.’
‘I get the first bit,’ I say. ‘But the best course of treatment for me going forward is to live my life without Gareth. Once he has gone, I’ll be fine. I can get my job back. Get my friends, my house, back.’
She waits for like ten seconds.
Long enough for it to feel uncomfortable.
‘We can come back to that point,’ she says.
I don’t want to come back to that point.
For me that is the only point.
I think that, but I don’t say that.
‘Shall we begin?’ she says.
I don’t know what’s going to happen.
I nod.
‘Can you tell me how you got the injuries that you presented at Camden Police Station on the tenth of April 2018.’
Haven’t we been through all this already?
‘Yes,’ I say.
She tips her head to one side.
‘Oh, I see. Yes, I was attacked by my former partner, Gareth James.’
‘Can you remind me what your injuries were?’ she says, tapping away.
‘They will all be in the police doctor’s report,’ I say.
‘Yes, but I was hoping you would be able to tell me.’
‘Well, OK. I had match burns and chemical burns. On my shoulders,’ I say, moving the neck of my T-shirt, so she can see.
She nods her head and s
miles sympathetically.
‘And on my legs; I have burns there too. I have an infection where I cracked the back of my head open,’ I say, touching the bandage under my hair. ‘I’ve got bruising. I swallowed something that made me sick. I cut the soles of my feet on the way to the police station, but I don’t think that really counts?’
She smiles the same smile, but says nothing.
‘What about your weight?’ she says.
I feel my ribs through my bathrobe, dressing gown.
‘I’ve lost weight,’ I say. ‘I don’t have scales. I don’t weigh myself.’
‘And how did you acquire all those injuries?’ she goes. ‘Include the weight loss in that if you can,’ she says.
Acquire. Like I bought them from Harrods or something.
‘You know how,’ I say.
‘I need you to tell me how,’ she says.
‘Gareth is a psycho. That’s how,’ I say.
‘So, Gareth is responsible for all the injuries?’
‘What, do you think I did them to myself?’ I say. ‘People don’t go around setting fire to themselves. Not normal people anyway. I’m getting a bit fed up . . .’
‘It’s all part of the assessment, Clare. I have to ask you these things. I know it’s difficult.’
She pauses.
‘Shall we?’ she says.
Emma is a miserable cow. I can see that.
She carries on.
‘Do you suffer from flashbacks or nightmares?’ she says.
‘No, my life is one long nightmare,’ I say. ‘Going to sleep couldn’t be any worse than being awake.’
I start to cry.
Because I’d never thought of that before, and now I have, it seems all the more tragic.
‘Do you worry about being alone?’
‘No, I like being alone.’
Although I never knew how long he was going to be, so being happy didn’t last long because I would start to dread him coming back.
‘OK,’ she says.
‘Do you sometimes lose your temper with your friends and say things you don’t really mean?’ she says.
I was, like, what are you talking about?
I didn’t say that though.
‘Do you think you have the right document there, Emma?’ I say. ‘Do you know the last time I saw any of my friends? It was over eighteen months ago. When I lost my job.’
She says nothing.
Then she says, ‘If you can think back to a time when you were with your friends, or contacting your friends, let’s say, was there ever a time when you lost your temper and said something, perhaps, that you later regretted?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘But Gareth sent them some shit messages telling them not to contact me. You can ask him when you arrest him!’
‘Would you like some tea, Clare? You’re getting a bit overwrought,’ she says. ‘How about some water? I think that will really help. It often works that if you reduce the temperature . . .’ her voice trails off as she goes out of the room towards the kitchen.
Sally walks past, casually.
‘You OK?’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘You look like you’re gonna kill someone.’
‘She’s asking me such dumb questions,’ I whisper.
‘They always do,’ she whispers back. ‘Just keep calm and factual. They are actually on your side – they’re just so used to dealing with complete nutters that they treat everyone like complete nutters.’
I take in a very deep breath and let it out slowly.
‘I ordered a pizza for lunch. Hurry up and get this over and done with,’ she whispers as Emma comes back with a glass of water. She doesn’t notice Sally wandering in the opposite direction.
‘What about the weight-loss, Clare? You say you’ve noticed that you are underweight? Are you satisfied with your eating patterns?’
‘I am aware that I’ve lost weight,’ I say. ‘And I didn’t control my eating patterns. Gareth controlled them. Again, ask him!’ I say.
‘Does your weight affect the way you feel about yourself?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know my own weight so how could it affect the way I feel?’
‘Have any members of your family suffered with an eating disorder?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ she says, like I’m deliberately hiding something.
‘I don’t have any family to ask,’ I say.
‘Your mother,’ she says, ‘did she have any kind of eating . . .’
‘I don’t know. Don’t know. Don’t know.’
She pauses, more for my benefit than hers I think. She has a patronising look on her face.
‘Do you think you will resume normal calorific intake now that you are outside of the influence of Gareth? I ask because I understand that when you were at the hospital, you spat out the ice cream you were given.’
Hmmmm.
‘I did spit it out. I remember spitting it out. I’m lactose intolerant, you know.’
‘We’ve estimated that on the day you were in hospital you had 347 calories. You need to be pushing 1500. Are you accepting this as a future goal?’
‘Yes,’ I say, calmly.
‘Have you ever self-harmed, Clare. In the past?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve been too busy self-saving. It’s an occupational hazard when you live with a psychopath.’
She frowns at her screen.
‘Could you class anything in your recent behaviour as reckless?’
‘Reckless?’ I say. ‘I’m not sure what’s more reckless, Emma, staying with a man who wants to kill you, or running away from a man who wants to kill you. What would you say?’
She looks at her screen and taps.
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t look at me.
She just taps.
What’s she saying about me?
That I’m mad?
That I deserve this?
That I asked for it?
‘Emma!’ I scream. ‘What would you say?’
She closes her laptop.
‘Shall we have a break?’ she says.
‘I don’t want a break. I want to finish,’ I say, very quietly. ‘I want to go to my room.’
‘There’s only a couple of questions left,’ she says. ‘I guess we could carry on, if you’re happy to continue.’
I nod.
‘Mood swings. Do you have mood swings, do you think?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever been prescribed anything for mood swings,’ she says, ‘in the past?’
‘I had vitamin shots. Gareth insisted because he’d had some vitamin shots and they gave him back all his energy. Made him feel younger.’
‘So, you had vitamin shots for mood swings?’
‘Yes, but I never thought I had mood swings. Gareth said I did. Said I needed cheering up. So, we went to see this American doctor in Harley Street, one of Gareth’s mates from Delaware or something, I think, and he gave me shots and these tablets. Gareth used to get them from the pharmacy in reception, while I waited in the car.’
‘And you went there more than once.’
‘Yes. We went once a month. Ish.’
‘In your car?’
‘I don’t know why this is interesting,’ I say.
She says nothing.
She just taps.
‘I’m trying to understand what your life has been like, Clare.’
‘We went there maybe ten times. In my car. But he always drove. We ended up having massive rows because he never wanted to pay for the parking meter. Or he’d pay for twenty minutes and we’d be like half an hour, so I’d have to race down to the car and sit in it and wait for him.’
‘So, you never collected the tablets. He took charge of that?’
‘Yes, while I made sure we didn’t get a ticket. He hated traffic wardens. Anyone telling him what to do. One time, he got down to the car and there was this warden about to issue us with a ticket and Gareth went mental at h
im so the guy started dialling the police and saying he wanted Gareth’s full name so he could report him.’
‘When was this?’ Emma interrupts.
‘I’m not sure.’ I can’t remember. It feels like the last few months are a real jumble.
‘Was it recently?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But it was when you went to visit the doctor?’
‘Yes,’ I say. But I’m not sure.
‘So, what happened?’
‘He was shouting at the guy. Told him he wouldn’t show him his licence. Told me to climb over to the driver’s seat. And then he got in the car. He was so angry. Like he gets with me. And I watched him wrap his jacket around his fist. While I was starting the engine. And I looked over my shoulder to reverse. And he was just winding it round and round. And just as I pulled out of the space he punched me in the side of the head. I blacked out, I guess for just a second, and the car stalled. So he punched me again. I was trying to find the keys to switch the engine on, but every time I reached forward, he hit me. The last time he hit me so hard I banged my head on the side window. Blood was dripping through my eyebrow. He told me to fucking hurry up. Just fucking hurry up.’
‘Was it his car then, Clare?’
‘No, it was my car. But he liked to drive it. On our second date, he pointed at the car keys and put his hand out. He didn’t even say anything. He’d done this course for stunt driving. There was nothing he didn’t know about driving.’
‘OK. So let’s move on,’ she says. ‘Just five more minutes, Clare. Do you think you could pinpoint for me how you are feeling right now? I mean, right now. In the present. How do you feel, in the present?’
‘I don’t know. Relieved maybe?’ I say. ‘Well, I will be when he’s been locked up.’
‘Anything else?’ she says.
‘Embarrassed. That I fell for it all in the first place.’
‘Many victims say that.’
‘Useless, I suppose, a bit,’ I say, ‘kind of empty.’
‘Empty?’
‘Yeah, like I can’t decide what to do. I’m so used to, you know . . .’
