by Ruth Dugdall
Cate thought of Alice’s dismissive attitude towards her addict student Alex. “Not a huge amount. But she did go to some lengths to protect her parents. I think she cares about their feelings.”
“She needs to show five traits to be diagnosed. Even if she has empathy, her need for excessive admiration is obvious from the way she talks. She showed a great deal of arrogance, demanding what right I had to judge her. It struck me as quite a typical presentation of the symptoms.”
There was a pause on the line, but Cate found herself momentarily unable to fill it. “What other traits would she have if she’s got egomania?”
“One is envy of others. They’re highly exploitative people, they can sniff out other people’s weaknesses like rats. In work situations they’re often high achievers but also bullies.”
“Yes, I could see her as a bully.” Cate herself had felt Alice’s intimidating presence. “But is she dangerous?”
“That depends. If a person feels beyond the law, if they feel justified in everything they do, and if they lack empathy, then they can be very dangerous indeed.”
Cate took a breath, and thought she should have seen this coming. “So, are you going to be treating her? Can egomania be cured?”
“Most psychiatrists think not. A personality disorder is a part of someone’s makeup, and very hard to alter. Of course, cognitive behavioural therapy, working on distorted thoughts, can have some impact. But I need to assess her further. She’s here at the hospital. I had her admitted.”
“She’s at St Therese’s?” Cate remembered visiting the psychiatric hospital, its low grey buildings and wandering patients. Alice didn’t belong there, surely? “Why?”
“For her own safety. The danger with narcissistic personality disorder, if that’s what she’s got, is that if the patient feels thwarted, when their power is threatened, they rage. They rage against the world, against others. They can rage against themselves. I saw evidence of self-harm on her wrists. As the interview progressed she was increasingly hysterical. She threw things, she shouted, and then she smashed a vase and held the glass to her neck. I just couldn’t take the risk that she wouldn’t harm herself or someone else. After calling out the approved social worker, who shared my concerns, I had her admitted to the secure ward of St Therese’s. She was totally uncontrollable, hysterical to the point of vomiting, until we sedated her.”
“But why would she harm herself? From what you’ve said, she feels justified and certain of her own ability. Why would she be suicidal?”
“She wouldn’t, in the usual sense of depression and projecting negative thoughts inward. But an egomaniac would kill themselves to make a point, as a grandiose act. Think of cult leaders who instigate mass suicides. That’s typical narcissistic personality disorder behaviour, revenge against the world on a magnificent scale. I couldn’t take the risk that Alice wouldn’t do something to make a point.”
Cate silently cursed. How had she not spotted that Alice was so ill? She had picked up that Alice was arrogant but not that she was a risk to herself. Had she misjudged Alice? Dr Gregg was obviously more qualified to judge than her, but somehow Alice didn’t strike her as a self-harmer or a suicide risk. “So what will you be recommending in your report? A hospital order instead of a prison sentence?”
“It’s too early to say. I’d need another psychiatrist to agree, if a hospital order looks likely. But I’d have to be sure I could treat her, and I haven’t made a firm diagnosis yet. First, we’ll see how Alice responds to the hospital environment.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“I think a visit from you would be a good idea, so you can see how she’s responding. Just don’t excite her in any way. She could be violent.”
Cate braced herself, “I’ll come this afternoon.”
“She was very distressed at being sectioned, so we had to sedate her. She was asleep when I did my ward round this morning and will be groggy for a while. Why not wait until tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, then. Thanks for letting me know.” Cate put down the phone. Suddenly losing her appetite she threw the remains of her sandwich in the bin and picked up the case file, wondering if there was a clue, something she had missed, in the witness statements.
The crown prosecution papers, bound in a thick red band, had arrived just yesterday. She’d intended to read them over the weekend while Amelia was with her dad, but given the sudden change of events she decided there was no time to waste.
The first thing she saw under the headed front sheet was a photocopy of a handwritten letter. On closer inspection Cate saw it was David Jenkins’ suicide note. It was written in small black letters, the hand of a man who uses the left side of his brain, tiny scratches of letters and over-rounded consonants. It was dated June 15th last year. The day before he died.
To Whom It May Concern.
This won’t make sense to many people, but that doesn’t matter. It makes sense to me. Please excuse my crap handwriting. I read on a computer site dedicated to these things that suicide notes are more personal written than typed. Looking on those websites, and there are lots, made me realise how the last words of a dying man can be twisted. This is important. I want to get it right. Not for me, but for Robin. For what she’s risking.
What I want to say is that suicide is my choice. No-one else is to blame. Robin answered my call, but if she hadn’t I would have found someone else to be with me when I do it. Whatever, it would have ended up this way. I couldn’t bear to think of her being punished. I just want her to be left in peace.
Robin is no more responsible for my death than a train driver who runs over a guy who jumped on the tracks. She may be driving the train, but she never made me jump. It will be me swallowing the drugs, knowing they bring death. The eating, too, is my request. Robin doesn’t even really want to – she’ll be doing it for me. And I’ll be alive at that point, so it’s not even illegal.
I wish this letter could guarantee that she won’t get put through the grinder over this. She doesn’t deserve any hassle. All she’s doing is helping me. Helping me to die.
Cate felt a pang in her heart that may have been regret. There was a part of her that thought suicide was a personal right, but why not just do it on your own? Why had David Jenkins involved Alice? And why, for goodness sake, had Alice eaten him? Presumably this act was symbolic, but didn’t they realize when they planned it that the police could not overlook such a bizarre perversion, and the media certainly wouldn’t. But then, Dr Gregg had said that Alice could be an egomaniac, and that she thought herself above the law. That must be how she justified it to herself.
Next was a photocopied statement of a police constable.
Statement of: PC Flynn
I responded to an incident that had been called in by a local woman. She said her boyfriend had committed suicide. As it was a Friday and the monthly farmers’ market, I had been assigned to street patrol in Lavenham. After receiving the call, I was the first on the scene.
I have only been with the police force for six months, but I have responded to one previous suicide. I knew that my role was to support the paramedics when they turned up, and make general observations.
When I arrived outside the house a woman, who I now know to be Alice Mariani, was sitting on the front step, waiting. She was wearing a dressing gown even though it was nearly lunchtime, and her hair was wet as if she had just showered. The door was open behind her, but I could not see into the hall. Ms Mariani struck me as very calm, and was eating a cheese sandwich. When she saw me she stood, as if she’d been waiting, and shook my hand. Her hand was wet. I guessed from her demeanour that the 999 call had been a false alarm, and that her boyfriend was okay.
‘He’s upstairs, in bed.’ she told me. She was so calm that I thought he would be alive. That he must have fainted and she had panicked.
The bedroom wall was painted white, and splattered with blood. The wooden floor was slippery, and I could see a mop in a bucket further down the hall. On
the bed, in a strange crouched position, was a naked man. His head was bowed over, so I couldn’t see his face, but his legs were covered in blood and I could see he had some wound to his genitals. I started to speak to him, saying who I was, and approached him to take his pulse. There was none and rigor mortis had set in.
I had to leave the premises at that point as I felt physically sick, and I passed Alice Mariani who was sat on the front step. I retched in her garden and she asked if I was all right. I asked her to find a blanket to put over the man. I then radioed my skipper, and was told that further assistance was on the way, along with the paramedics.
As I waited for back-up to arrive she handed me her boyfriend’s suicide note (exhibit 1-a). It was covered in bloody fingerprints.
Cate felt ill just picturing the scene, and so sorry for PC Flynn who had no doubt been enjoying light duties at the farmers’ market. How could Alice sit calmly eating a cheese sandwich? And the mention of the mop meant she had cleaned before the officer arrived. Why hadn’t she put a sheet over the body?
Cate looked at the next page. The senior officer, Stephen West, who had taken Alice’s statement, was someone she knew from an earlier case they had worked on together. She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers.
“Stephen, it’s Cate Austin.”
“Long time, no see,” he said cheerily, “how are things in the prison?”
“I’m out now, Steve. At liberty. My secondment in the prison finished three months ago. I’m based in the Ipswich office now.”
“I thought you’d only been in the slammer a few months? Don’t prison secondments normally last a couple of years?”
Cate imagined Steve in his messy office, his large feet on the desk, and smiled. “Let’s just say I’d served my time. Truth is, Steve, with all that happened there I was glad to move on quickly. And I’ve been landed another tricky case. I was looking over the witness statements and saw your name. Can I run a few things past you?”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Alice Mariani.” She could hear a slight chuckle down the line.
“Might have guessed, you always get the psychos. So shoot.”
“It’s this question of assisted suicide. I’m trying to write the report, and I’m mulling over what sentence to recommend. I can’t find any case histories to base my proposal on. It’s such a freakish case.”
“Welcome to the real world, love. There’s nothing stranger than folk.”
Cate knew he was right. But she also knew that all actions had motives, and that all behaviour could be rationalised. However strange Alice may be, she was not beyond help. Cate just needed a bit of direction. “I’m doing a bit of research, trying to look up similar crimes. Do you remember a few years ago there was that guy in Germany who killed that other bloke? The victim wanted to die, and he’d responded to an advert placed on the internet by the defendant. Armin Meiwes.”
“Yeah, that does ring a bell. Course, the Germans are a funny race. Wasn’t he known as the Gentleman Cannibal?”
“That’s right. And do you know how long he got? Eight years. So I’m thinking Alice is looking at a similar term… ”
“Nah, you’re out of date. That first prison term was upped. The prosecution objected if I remember right and he got convicted for murder. Anyway, Meiwes wasn’t like Mariani. He killed that bloke just so he could eat him afterwards. He was a self-confessed cannibal. That’s not like her. Jenkins’ death was more like euthanasia. He took the drugs and left a suicide note, after all.”
“Yes, but then she ate some of his flesh… ”
“Don’t remind me. It’s enough to make a bloke weep. She ate Jenkins’ penis, said it was a symbolic act. Wouldn’t feel symbolic to him, poor fucker.”
“Do you know why, Steve? Was she trying to emasculate him, or was it some sexual fetish?”
“God knows. The bloke must’ve been a masochist. He cut his own todger off, y’know. Probably served it for her on a bloody platter. That’s why we couldn’t even charge her with wounding, not when he’d done it to himself. So she’s not like Meiwes, no way. He froze his victim, then ate him for several meals. And you know he filmed the death, masturbated over it later.”
Cate’s stomach clenched, and she was grateful for the small mercy that Alice had not done likewise. “Still, this isn’t a typical euthanasia case, isn’t it? She wouldn’t have been prosecuted if it was. Jenkins wasn’t dying, didn’t have any fatal disease.”
“Autopsy said not. He died of a cardiac arrest brought on by the overdose of GHB. And I remember he didn’t have a GP, so he can’t have been unwell. Digging anything up on him was hard. I even went to London, met his boss, then tried to find out who his doctor was. He wasn’t even registered with the local surgery. But he must have been one sick puppy, depressed or whatever. Doesn’t that count as an illness?’
“I don’t know, Steve.” Cate breathed deep, wanting to find the answer in a pause. Nothing came back. “None of it seems right to me. I can’t think of this as assisted suicide. It feels more sinister.”
“Yeah, well that’s just tough, sweetheart, ’cos the charge has already been decided, and she’s pleaded guilty. Assisted suicide it is. So you better think of a sentence that matches.”
That was Steve, always a straight talker. “I know. Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Anytime.”
Cate put down the phone and logged on to the internet. After thinking for a moment, she typed in the search box, ‘internet suicide pact’. She sighed as the screen filled with article after article, faced once again with the extent of weirdness in humanity. Perhaps this wasn’t such an unusual case, after all. She looked for cases that were British, so she could see how sentencing had panned out.
There was the boy from Manchester, only fourteen-years-old, who wanted to commit suicide but couldn’t do it himself. Instead, he tricked a friend by starting an internet relationship posing as a female spy, telling him that he and the fake spy could have sex if he killed him. Another case was that of Matthew Williams, whose friend Potter wanted to be killed. Williams had slit Potter’s throat and then drank his blood. Cate then remembered the case of Suffolk murderer Jason Mitchell, who had tried to eat his victims…
But none of the cases were like this one.
After making a few notes Cate turned back to the Crown Prosecution bundle. She had come to Alice’s own statement:
S f: Alice Mariani
Age – Over 18
Smith placed the advert. He came to me. He never even told me his real name. He wanted to protect me. That was our arrangement. I agreed to be with him when he took an overdose, knowing it would be fatal. He took a knife and cut his own skin. Smith wanted to die. It was his free choice. His death is the result of a suicide. I was just with him because he didn’t want to be on his own when he died. Who wants to die alone?
I should not be here. This is not a police matter. It is a free country and two consenting adults have free choice. I don’t pose a risk to anyone. He wanted to die and I agreed to assist him to do it.
Choosing to live or die is a basic human right.
Cate sniffed through her nose in distaste; talk about romanticising! Having just read PC Flynn’s statement, and then Alice’s account, she knew which rang truer. No wonder Alice was in St Therese’s, she was unhinged, that was certain. But one sentence resonated. The sentiment that Cate struggled with. She read Alice’s words again, testing to see if she believed them: I don’t pose a risk.
Thirteen
As I regain consciousness, I’m aware of the smell of Dettol and the swishing sound of a mop. I open my eyes, sticky from sleep. I’m in a cell. The walls are bare, the floor is plastic, and the door has a small window. Someone’s peering in. It’s a man, and when he catches me looking he disappears. Then I see the steel frame of the bed, the curtain on wheels collapsed against the opposite wall. I’m in a hospital, then. Institutions are all the same: hospitals, schools, even airports. That smell of b
oiled food and bleach, the noise of wheels on plastic, beeping machines and voices through intercoms. Night is never dark, never quiet; always someone is working, someone is awake, doing a job. How am I supposed to sleep? I think that jail would be the same. Except I’d be without power, would have to wait for a long time, striking off the days until I could be free. In hospital there’s no release date. I just have to be pronounced well.
I reach for the folded pile of shoddy clothes on the bedside table and wish that I had something decent to wear. I push back the limp white sheet and the heavy blanket to see that I’m wearing a gown, which has risen to my waist, and no knickers. Filthy bastards, they would have seen everything. Quickly, I pull on knickers that, although a day old, are at least decent, and then reach with less enthusiasm for my leggings and t-shirt. I remember now that I wore no bra for Dr Gregg’s visit. The tee shirt is not fully on when, after a single knock, a male nurse comes in with a plate of sausages and chips and a sachet of tomato ketchup. His name badge tells me he is called Shane.
