The Healers

by Cleeves, Ann

  ‘If that’s true Magda Pocock should know. She’s the senior partner in the practice.’

  ‘That’s the line we’re going to take with her then? She’s the senior partner so she’s the most to gain from Ernie Bowles’s death.’

  ‘No!’ Ramsay said sharply. ‘I hope we can be more subtle than that. I’m just as interested in what she can tell us about Val McDougal. No one can explain what she was like. Quiet, shy, intimidated by her husband. Not a woman with any confidence or self-esteem but there must have been more to her than that. If she was so inoffensive why would anyone want to kill her?’

  Hunter thought his boss was talking nonsense as usual: What did it matter what the woman was like? It was facts: forensic facts, blood samples, witnesses’ descriptions that solved murders, not what the woman was like. The psychology of the victim, they called it, as if the poor cow had asked to be strangled. She hadn’t and nor had Ernie Bowles if it came to that.

  It was Sunday but the Old Chapel was open. It was their busiest day and at ten o’clock, when Ramsay and Hunter walked along the wet pavements from the pub, there was already a coach pulled up outside it. A group of middle-aged Americans climbed out. They had the dazed look of people who are not quite sure where they are. Then enthusiasm took over again as they went in search of souvenirs, their mid-western voices drowning out the bells being rung in St Cuthbert’s church across the street.

  In the Alternative Therapy Centre Magda Pocock was waiting for them. Ramsay recognized her at once. She had been featured a few weeks before in a Sunday colour magazine. There was a Slavic look to her face. She had wide cheekbones, thick eyebrows and a mane of grey hair. There was nothing of her daughter’s sandy, faded look, nothing to suggest the two were related. Except the fanaticism, Ramsay thought. They had that in common. He could imagine Magda as a nineteenth-century Christian missionary converting whole continents through the joy of her certainty. Perhaps the image was so strong because of the word itself. Rebirthing made him think of being born again and fundamentalism.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’d like some coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We don’t usually see patients on a Sunday,’ she said, ‘so we can sit here, in reception. More comfortable, I think, than my treatment room.’

  ‘But you run your Insight Group on a Sunday.’

  ‘Once a month, yes. I expect you’ll want to ask me about that.’

  It must have been Rebecca’s day off too, because Magda went away to make the coffee herself While they were waiting, Ramsay riffled through the leaflets on the coffee table until he found one on rebirthing.

  Rebirthing is conscious connected breathing, it said. Which didn’t tell him much.

  ‘You should try it, Inspector,’ Magda said in a gently mocking voice. ‘It might change your life.’

  She handed him a cup of coffee.

  ‘Did it change Val McDougal’s life?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, serious now. ‘ Really. I believe it did.’

  ‘In what way?’

  She sat opposite to him.

  ‘It gave her the power to take responsibility for herself. When she came to me she was deeply unhappy. Helpless, you might say, in her unhappiness. She came to see that she could take positive steps to bring about change.’

  ‘How did rebirthing help her to do that?’ His voice was neutral.

  ‘It’s rather difficult to explain to someone who’s never experienced it,’ she said. ‘Perhaps to you it sounds fanciful… The breathing relaxes the body’s natural energies. In Val’s case it gave her a sense of control which she was able to take into her everyday life.’

  Did it? Ramsay thought. There was no indication that she’d found the courage to stand up to her husband. But perhaps she had. Perhaps she was planning to leave him. That would provide a motive for murder.

  ‘Could you take us through one of your sessions with Mrs McDougal?’ Ramsay asked.

  ‘You do realize that usually my work is confidential, Inspector.’

  Ramsay sensed that Hunter was about to be rude and anticipated him.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But in the circumstances… What happened, for example, when she first came to see you? She was referred by your son-in-law?’

  ‘By Daniel. Yes.’ Just in those words Ramsay sensed that she disliked Daniel Abbot.

  ‘And that was last summer?’

  ‘August,’ she said. ‘I looked it up when I heard you wanted to see me. But I’m not sure how relevant this is, Inspector. She came to my group but she hasn’t attended any rebirthing sessions since Christmas.’

  ‘All the same…’ he said.

  ‘Very well,’ Magda said. ‘If you think it will help. She was very nervous when she first came to me. Very tense. That is quite usual. I always spend time talking to my client before, we start the breathing. I asked Val what she hoped to get out of the sessions. She was having panic attacks, she said. Very frightening panic attacks. She had gone to her GP but he could only suggest tranquillizers. That too, unfortunately, is quite usual. Most of all she wanted the panic attacks to stop. I suggested that the attacks were merely a symptom of her problems and that we should look more deeply at what she might hope to achieve. We talked about her relationship with her husband and her children. It was clear that she felt uncomfortable in expressing her own needs… There was a lot of frustration and resentment.’

  ‘How long would that part of the session have lasted?’

  ‘Half an hour. Longer perhaps. Val was very reserved at that stage. Not used to talking about her feelings. I had to give her time.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we’d begin the breathing. That’s what rebirthing is, you see – a specific breathing technique.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘To consciously breath correctly – to have no gap between inhaling and exhaling.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Hunter could contain himself no longer. ‘You charge fifty quid a session to teach them that?’

  Magda laughed out loud. She was quite unoffended. ‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘During the breathing the client becomes aware of tensions. I can encourage the client to feel safe, to continue breathing while they are feeling whatever they are experiencing. This can integrate the feelings and resolve the tensions.’

  ‘What happened during Mrs McDougal’s sessions?’ Ramsay asked.

  Magda hesitated.

  ‘In the first session she began to hyperventilate,’ she said at last. ‘That’s not uncommon. Especially with clients who suffer from panic attacks. I helped her breathe through it. I showed her that she could control her own reactions. That gave her confidence.’

  ‘How long does the breathing last?’

  ‘Usually between one and two hours.’

  ‘Don’t they get bored?’ Hunter demanded. ‘ Just lying there for an hour and a half. Breathing?’

  She laughed again. ‘Not at all, Sergeant. Really, a rebirthing session can be a most exciting experience. You should try it. I’d even give you a discount.’

  Money for old rope, Hunter thought. There should be a law against it.

  ‘What happens then?’ Ramsay asked. ‘After the breathing?’

  ‘Sometimes we talk through the issues that have emerged during the session. In Val’s case that was the relationship with her husband, her inability to assert herself.’

  ‘How many sessions did Val have?’

  ‘Ten. That’s usual. I like to arrange the length of the course before we start. If it’s left open-ended there’s a danger of the client becoming dependent. That’s counter-productive, of course.’

  ‘But you encouraged Mrs McDougal to come to your Sunday afternoon group?’

  ‘That’s quite different, Inspector. Much less intense. Besides, Val and I became friends. We were, I suppose, mutually dependent. I’ll miss her.’

  ‘What happened at the group on Sunday?’

  Magda shrugged.

  ‘For
the last few sessions we’ve been looking at a technique called Voice Dialogue which was developed by American therapists. I’d been working individually with group members but on Sunday I put the group into pairs. One member would be the facilitator and the other the client. In Voice Dialogue the facilitator talks to different parts of the personality: the vulnerable child, the teacher, the critic. It’s a way of developing a balanced and healthy ego.’

  More money for old rope, Hunter thought again.

  ‘Who was Mrs McDougal paired with?’ Ramsay asked.

  ‘Lily Jackman,’ Magda said.

  ‘Who was the facilitator?’

  ‘Both of them. They took it in turns.’

  ‘Did Mrs McDougal seem especially distressed or upset?’

  ‘She became emotional, but that was to be expected.’

  ‘But you don’t know what emerged from the session?’

  ‘No, Inspector. You’d have to ask Lily.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘What were you doing on Saturday evening, Mrs Pocock?’

  ‘I was here,’ she said. ‘In my flat upstairs.’ She paused. ‘Val was here too. I’d invited her for supper.’

  ‘Why?’ Ramsay asked sharply. This, at least, was one gap filled. They knew now where Val had disappeared to on Saturday evening.

  ‘Why, Inspector? Because we were friends. I wanted to spend some time with her.’

  ‘Did you meet her regularly?’

  ‘No,’ Magda said. ‘This was the first occasion I’d invited her for a meal.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘Relaxed,’ Magda said. ‘More relaxed than I’d ever known her.’

  ‘What time did she leave?’

  ‘At about eleven.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have had to drive past Laverock Farm to go home?’

  ‘Not usually. But it was a pleasant evening. It’s possible, I suppose, that she took that road.’

  And she might have seen something, Ramsay thought. The time would fit. Perhaps she passed a car she recognized.

  ‘Where were you on Monday evening?’ he asked.

  ‘In my flat,’ she said. ‘On my own. Preparing my speech for the Nottingham conference.’

  There was a pause. Hunter was beginning to get restless. This talk was getting them nowhere.

  ‘Did you know that Cissie Bowles had left Laverock Farm to you in the event of Ernie not marrying?’ he demanded.

  ‘Daniel had mentioned it.’

  ‘And were you aware that Mr Bowles had taken steps to find a wife? He’d gone as far as consulting a dating agency.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘How could I know that? I had no social contact with the man.’

  ‘Rather a coincidence, don’t you think?’ Hunter sneered.

  ‘That’s insulting, Sergeant.’

  ‘Have you done a deal with Mr Richardson at Long Edge Farm to sell him the land.’

  ‘Of course not!’ She seemed genuinely shocked. ‘It’s not even been discussed.’

  ‘You might not have discussed it,’ Hunter said. ‘But someone has. Peter Richardson was full of it last night.’

  ‘No. There must be some mistake. Unless…’

  ‘Unless?’ Ramsay prompted gently.

  ‘Unless Daniel has begun some preliminary negotiations,’ she said frostily. Again Ramsay sensed her antipathy for her son-in-law.

  ‘But you would be glad of the use of the farmhouse,’ Ramsay said. ‘It would be more convenient than going to Juniper Hall for your weekend courses.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She was impatient and suddenly eager to be rid of them.

  ‘If that’s all,’ she said, ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charles McDougal made no attempt to cook a family lunch that Sunday, though Richard, the older son, was home from university for the weekend. Instead he mumbled something about having work to do and disappeared to spend the day with Heather. Perhaps he had intended to cook one of his elaborate meals for her. Heather had become altogether kinder and more solicitous since Val’s death, though whether this was because she was genuinely sympathetic, or because there was the possibility now that the relationship might become permanent and respectable, it was hard to tell.

  The boys, Richard and James, were left to their own devices in the house where their mother had been killed. They had never been close and found now that they had little to say to each other. Richard, secretly, had thought for a long time that James was weird. All that New Age crap was a joke. Richard wanted to save the planet, too, but didn’t believe it could be done with crystals in pyramids and astrological charts. He’d thought James had grown out of it. When he’d asked his mother, that’s what she’d said. But his mother had been part of the problem and it seemed to Richard that they’d egged each other on, daring each other to accept greater follies, more bizarre ways of looking at the world. In the end he’d dismissed them both as potty and couldn’t blame his father for looking for other women.

  When Charles disappeared to Newcastle to be comforted by Heather, Richard suggested that the two of them should go into Otterbridge, spend the day together. There were a couple of pubs he knew where you could drink all afternoon. He thought after a couple of pints he might get through to James. He felt a sort of responsibility for him. He blamed that crazy girlfriend James had taken up with last summer. Before that he’d been almost normal. A bit shy, a bit intense, but not cracked. If he could get James to talk about her, Richard thought in a muddled, good-natured way, it might help him come to terms with his mother’s death. He could see that Val’s murder had affected James in a strange way. There seemed to be little grief, but an empty detachment. Richard, who had howled like a baby when he’d first heard, couldn’t understand it.

  ‘Come for a drink,’ he said. ‘The Shakespeare does food. And there’s a good juke box.’

  ‘Go by yourself,’ James said, quite abruptly. ‘You’ll want to see your friends and they won’t like me hanging around.’

  So Richard had gone, quite relieved in the end not to have to spend any more time with James. He’d never been one for navel gazing. It embarrassed him. He went into town where he met some friends he’d played rugby with when he was at school. They‘d heard about his mother and knew just what he needed. When he’d drunk so much that he was insensible they took him home in a taxi, let themselves into the house with his key and put him carefully to bed.

  There was nobody in the house when Richard came home. James left almost immediately after his brother, only making sure that the street was clear before he went out. He walked through the suburban streets, with their smells of roasting beef and over-cooked vegetables, into the town centre. Then he took the main road out of the town which led eventually to the coast. He stopped only once, at a petrol filling station which had a shop attached and which sold cut flowers. He took three large bunches from the tin bucket and paid with a ten pound note. The ten pounds he had stolen from his father’s wallet early that morning. His father would have given him the money if he had asked for it but stealing it was far more satisfying.

  The cemetery was huge, bounded by a grey stone wall which stretched for almost a mile along the road. The entrance was marked by Victorian Gothic towers, and a flower seller stood there, a hard-faced, middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair tied up on the top of her head like the plume on a circus pony. James never bought his flowers from her, not only because he found her unsympathetic but because there was something shabby and unprepared in getting them at the last moment. There must be hundreds of regular visitors to the cemetery but he had the sense that she recognized him and he felt her dislike as he walked past her with the flowers he had already purchased in his arms.

  His mother would not be buried here. Charles had decided already that she would be cremated. The funeral had been arranged for the following week. By that time the police would be prepared to release the body. It would be a dignified affair but there would be quite a show. The V
ice-Chancellor of the university had agreed to read the address.

  James always took the same path to the grave, though there were many that he could have chosen. He avoided the main track which cut the cemetery in half and which was busy with people who seemed to have no real reverence for the place – families with children who dropped sweet papers and played kiss chase around the graves nearest to the track. Once, James had even seen a jogger there – a woman in black shiny cycle shorts and a sleeveless vest.

  He took the path that followed the wall because he liked the smell of the ivy which grew there. That brought him to the grave he had come to visit. He had never met any other mourner there. That would have been unbearable. He needed to feel that he alone remembered her, though he knew that could not really be true and somewhere her parents would be grieving too.

  The grave was simple, the headstone obviously newer than most of the others. The flowers he had left on his last visit were dead and shrivelled. He didn’t mind that. It meant that no one else had been there. He squatted cross-legged beside the grave, carefully took away the old flowers and replaced them with new ones. Then he began to talk to her.

  He was sorry, he said, that it had taken so long to sort things out. But he hadn’t forgotten her. He would pay them back in the end. Faye Dawn Cooper – born 1974, died 1993 – did not answer.

  Lily was working. She saw Hunter loitering outside the health food shop door as inconspicuous, she said to herself, as a penguin in a desert. She was used to men staring at her and turned away, but he came in and hovered at her shoulder as she tipped a sack of potatoes on to the shelf.

  ‘Don’t you usually go to the Abbots for your dinner on a Sunday?’ he said.

  ‘Not today,’ she replied. ‘We haven’t been invited. They want to be on their own.’

  ‘I suppose you do get a dinner break?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘I’m off now.’

  ‘Come on then. I was wanting a chat. I’ll buy you a meal.’

  He took her arm and led her through to the Coffee Shop. Short of screaming, there was nothing she could do about it.

  ‘I didn’t think this was your sort of place,’ she said.