Divine Poison

by AB Morgan

  ‘Eddie, it’s pineapple time.’

  He agreed without any form of protest. It’s what we do. We take the rough with the smooth. There’s a vast amount of rough to cope with, and a twisted sense of humour is required, as is pineapple on occasion, and alcohol at the end of the day.

  We went upstairs, accompanied by Sergeant Masterful and an ever-increasing odour of death. Breathing through open mouths, we shakily confirmed Jan’s identity for the record, although the body on the bed didn’t resemble the Jan I knew. Her hair was the same and I recognised her dressing gown but she was a variety of deep purples and blues, as if she had become one giant, swollen bruise. She didn’t look peaceful. She looked assaulted by life and battered by death. The overwhelming smell of putrefaction was so warmly cloying, sickly and thick, I could almost feel it on my tongue. It was no wonder the young officer downstairs had struggled to avoid vomiting.

  Eddie found the thermostat, and would have turned off the unnecessary heating, but we were told to disturb nothing, so returned downstairs to await the arrival of a senior officer, medical confirmation of death, and transport for the body. Meanwhile Eddie and I helped the police sergeant to identify the tablets on the kitchen table, and estimate how many Jan had taken. There were packets of lithium, carbamazepine and olanzapine. Jan had emptied her whole medicine cupboard by the looks of things. There were plasters, throat lozenges, paracetamol, and a bottle half-full of liquid Kemadrin among the scattered debris on the kitchen table. We tried not to touch anything.

  ‘Blast and buggeration! Look at that, Eddie, dothiepin. That would have done the job on its own.’ I directed Eddie’s gaze to the packet, with a point of my index finger. He agreed with me.

  ‘It’s not used much anymore. Too toxic in overdose,’ he confirmed for the benefit of the officers present.

  ‘She hadn’t been prescribed a lot of these meds in years. Probably stockpiled them,’ I informed Sergeant Masterful, who noted down the relevant information and took a careful record of the tablets that Jan should have been taking currently, as prescribed.

  ‘Why would she have kept so many of these tablets if she didn’t use them anymore?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, it’s difficult to say. It’s unlikely that she’d planned to keep them in case she decided to top herself one day. She wasn’t really like that. She seemed so positive and I was under the impression that she’d been relaxed and happy before she went to France. I suppose she could be the sort of person to keep tablets just in case. Or she simply didn’t get around to returning them to a pharmacy and knew better than to flush them down the sink. It’s anyone’s guess,’ I replied.

  The doors to a wall unit cupboard were wide open, and this was where Jan had kept her medication. I could see more drugs squirrelled away, still in the pharmacy bags she had taken them home in. This sight made me feel sad and inadequate. Why didn’t I know this? Why had I suggested last winter that she might feel less sedated if we reduced her medication? Why had I supported her to stop taking injections?

  There were to be nights of questions about Jan’s death to keep me awake before we had to prepare for Coroner’s Court, which could be months away.

  Pending the imminent arrival of a police inspector or detective from the station, the young police officer was to be left with the deceased, Jan, while Sergeant Masterful came with Eddie and me to our office, a mile or so away. Before departing, Eddie and I spooked the young officer with a few tales of ghosts and groaning bodies and then we cruelly left him alone in the smelly house, with only Sparkey the cat for living company.

  The sergeant required details of friends and nearest relatives. When making his enquiries, he appeared intrigued by our reference to a missing boyfriend. ‘I’ll let the investigating officer know that and he’ll probably have to follow up once we get back to the station.’

  There was no suspicion of anything other than suicide. No note was evident. Nevertheless it was obvious to me, from what we found inside the house, that Jan had simply made the decision to poison herself with prescribed medication. Perhaps the embarrassment of being taken for a complete ride by Liam had been too much for her to bear after all.

  I phoned Consultant Psychiatrist Adnan Siddiqui.

  ‘Adnan, it’s Monica. Have you recorded Jan Collins as discharged in absentia yet? Why? Because if not, I suggest you hold fire. She’s dead. I found her at home … suicide by massive overdose … no, the police are already dealing with the situation … Yes, I’m okay, thanks for asking. Of course, I’ll update you with anything … I don’t know what more you need to know. Dead is dead … No, that’s okay. Bye, then.’ Apart from asking the few relevant details, he had been lost for words and I had been curt. I think I was cross with him for not heeding my warning about sending Jan on home leave when I was on holiday. She had been through a terrible time and it wasn’t fair to expect her to cope without a lot of support.

  When we arrived back at the office it was quiet, which was in my favour. Eddie and I dealt with the sergeant’s request for information, after which I had reports to write and risk incident forms to complete, and I knew for certain that I would have hundreds of questions from senior management to contend with. What a way to undo the relaxation I’d achieved in my week off.

  3

  As she came back into base from her early morning appointments, I managed to catch Steph, the new support worker. I needed to clarify a couple of points with her for the reports and for my own peace of mind. She had done exactly as I had asked, and had been round to Jan’s house at about one o’clock the previous Wednesday, but there had been no reply to the door.

  ‘Were the lounge curtains open or closed, did you notice?’

  Steph had a good think about this question. She worked her staccato way through her recall of arriving, parking, approaching the door, ringing the loud doorbell, waiting, waiting, and ringing the doorbell again.

  ‘No, I can’t remember. I’m not sure if I looked. The neighbour said Jan must have been out because the vicar had tried the door a few minutes before I turned up, and he’d given up too.’

  ‘The vicar?’ This was news to me. Since when had Jan joined the God Squad?

  ‘Apparently. Must be the same one who visited her on the ward. She went a bit religious, I think, when she was high.’

  ‘Yes, she did, didn’t she? Still, I didn’t know she was friendly with the vicar. Thanks, Steph, I was curious, that’s all. Are you all right? It can be a bit of a shock when patients kill themselves.’

  ‘Yeah. Though I’ve been thinking about whether she was already dead when I was ringing her doorbell and putting notes through her letter box.’

  ‘If she was, you couldn’t have done anything. Try not to worry.’ I had to leave young Steph to her thoughts, as my phone rang.

  The police had assured me they would be contacting the known relatives and Jan’s best friend, Lily. Predictably, as soon as each of them was informed, they phoned the team office to speak to me as if needing confirmation. It was a long day.

  Three of us shared the small office space as best we could, making use of old fashioned desks and temperamental, battered, metal filing cabinets bulging with case notes. Two irritatingly untidy social work colleagues, and me, Mrs Organised, were wedged into one pokey room. My social work colleagues were, on the whole, great company and without the mutual support we would definitely have struggled to maintain our own sanity in such a stressful working environment. Toni and Anne were well aware that I hated the mess in the office and by way of a humorous dig at me, Anne had invested in an enamelled sign, which took pride of place on the wall above her scruffy paper-strewn desk. It read; ‘A tidy desk is a sign of a sick mind’. Maybe she was right.

  The previous month, we had finally been given our own computers and a printer to share between us, which took up even more space. Who would have thought it was 2005? The NHS Mental Health Services, especially in Lensham, always lagged behind everyone else in terms of efficiency. For that reason alone,
I still very much valued a good old-fashioned message book.

  When I had glanced at my message book before heading off to ward round that Monday morning, there was a memo from Kelly regarding a name I had failed to recognise or recollect. Frank Hughes wanted me to call as he was worried about his sister. A telephone number was left for me to make use of, which I had put on my list of things to do.

  He phoned again while I was mid-report writing.

  ‘Monica, I have Frank Hughes on the phone for you. Jan Collins’s brother. He’s been trying to contact her all week, so I don’t think he knows. Can I put him through?’ I had no choice other than to take the call. I didn’t even know Jan had a brother until that very moment and the police had not been in contact with him, as they were also unaware of his existence. So, instead of giving reassurance, I had to break the news to Frank that his sister was dead.

  We talked for several minutes, and although on the surface he seemed upset, this related more to his negative opinion of Jan’s boyfriend, and where her savings money was kept. Frank was intent on discussing with the police the possibility that this fellow had killed Jan.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hughes, but I’ve never met Liam. He was never at the house when I called to see Jan and I can only tell you what she told me. Liam was younger than Jan, tall, thick set, and intelligent and she enjoyed his company. I do know that Jan had careful arrangements regarding her finances but of course I don’t have the details of what the exact provisions were. I’m sorry, I know that sounds unhelpful.’

  ‘Yes it does. You don’t seem to know much about your own patient, do you? Why on earth did you let her go to France in the first place? It’s a bloody disgrace and I have a good mind to make a formal complaint.’

  ‘Mr Hughes, I appreciate that you’re upset to hear about your sister’s death, but please be assured that she was perfectly within her rights to go on holiday with whoever she pleased, and her health was not a cause for concern before she went. She is – I mean, was, an extremely capable woman.’

  ‘Unlike yourself …’

  I ignored the boorish attitude and ill manners, thanked Frank Hughes for his call and passed on to him the police sergeant’s name and the number to call at the police station in Hollberry. I hoped that would be the last time I would have to deal with him. It wasn’t.

  A short while later Eddie popped his head around my office door, but as I was ending another call, he turned as if to go. Needing to update him, I beckoned with one hand, and placed the other over the mouthpiece. ‘Eddie, hang on a minute.’ Eddie swivelled back into the midden of an office space, where I gave him the latest on Jan’s brother and his theory that Jan had been killed.

  ‘It looks like the police are taking him seriously. They’ve phoned me to ask if we could go down to the station, to have fingerprints taken,’ he said.

  ‘What the fu … Why?’

  ‘They must suspect foul play, or they’re paying lip-service by doing something in response to Mr Hughes and his demands. Anyway, they need our fingerprints to distinguish them from any others they find on the property. It’s a good job we did as we were told for once and didn’t fiddle with anything while we were there. By the way, I’ve sent Kelly out to get us both some fresh pineapple. I can’t get the stench out of my nostrils.’

  ‘Me neither.’ I wrinkled up my nose.

  A Detective Sergeant Adams had kindly informed Eddie that matey-boy Liam-the-conman had been suspected of breaking into her house while Jan was in hospital. The offence would have occurred in the week before both she and I went on leave. Jan had reported it to police but she didn’t tell me.

  After a few phone calls to the inpatient psychiatric unit at Hollberry Hospital, Eddie and I uncovered that Jan had been given permission by the ward consultant to go home for one day. Ostensibly this was to check on her house and, we were told, in preparation for a trial of longer home leave. The ward had neglected to tell us, so we had no idea she’d been there. Jan, it seems, didn’t tell the ward staff about her break-in either, which was most peculiar.

  According to the police, Jan reported that she had a number of items stolen, but DS Adams insisted that the break-in wasn’t reported as a ransacking; it was a careful removal of cash, one or two items of value, and paperwork relating to the holiday in Perpignan. Jan obviously had immediately concluded her burglar had to be boyfriend Liam, and reported him. She must have been furious when he’d abandoned her in France and even more enraged that he had returned to take advantage of her again.

  Police were still looking for Liam to question him in connection with the break-in, and he was nowhere to be found. Anyway, the news of a possible burglary connected with Jan’s death, and my sighting of a man’s leg, resulted in Eddie and me having to make a trip to the nick in case Liam had murdered Jan.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell. This is a real nightmare.’

  ‘That’s nothing. The sergeant rang me after that. He wants us to find a home for the cat.’

  I’d forgotten about Sparkey. Although I wanted to, I couldn’t take Sparkey home myself because Deefer, our Staffordshire bull terrier, would eat the poor thing. Deefer loved people, but wasn’t too accepting of other dogs, let alone cats.

  ‘Oh God. Poor Sparkey. No panic. I’ll give Emma a ring, she does fostering.’

  ‘Kids or cats?’

  ‘Cats, you fool. She’s not responsible enough to have any more kids. She has two of her own, and they’re practically feral.’ I contacted my old friend and fellow nurse Emma Foster, an ironic surname for one so keen to adopt animals. In actual fact, she had become Mrs Emma Frost since she married her farmer boyfriend, Jake, years earlier. She decided against a double-barrelled surname, as Foster-Frost sounded pretentious. So, like me, she kept her maiden name for professional dealings; and married name for her private life. Very handy it is too, to have a couple of names. Emma had recently landed herself a specialist nurse position at the Lensham Drug and Alcohol Service, or Len-DAS as it was known locally. She worked part-time to fit in around the children and the family farming business. Glad to have Sparkey, Emma arranged to meet me at Jan’s address after work. Problem sorted.

  I phoned Max, my husband, to forewarn him of my undoubted lateness home due to ‘a hideous day.’ I had thought he would absorb what I was trying to communicate but he seemed more intent on outdoing me with his own Monday tales of woe.

  ‘You think that’s bad? I had the bloody factory inspector round … Elf and Safety tosspot! Not the right guards on the machines apparently. The obnoxious twat was threatening me. I wagged my finger at him, and you know what that means!’

  Yes, I did. Finger wagging was stage one. It usually indicated that stage two was imminent and would usually be a good whack. Fortunately, with age came a modicum of wisdom, enabling Max to control stage two. His whacking was mostly confined to the rugby pitch, or it had been. He had finally semi-retired only to be wheeled out for the odd veterans’ game. These days I stood on the touchline with the car jump leads in my hands, at the ready, in case his heart could take no more. Occasionally, Max turned the most peculiar puce colour, and I became convinced a coronary was on the cards every time he played.

  When I finally arrived home late, and Max demanded to know why, I realised he had failed to absorb one single word I’d said to him on the phone earlier. Great. No takeaway for dinner then. There were many Mars vs Venus communication breakdowns in our house. John N. Gray had it pegged in his book Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. Max speaks and understands boy language and behaviour, because he is from Mars, and most of what I have to say seems to be misunderstood.

  ‘I’ll cook, shall I?’

  ‘You normally do … by the way how much did you pay for that medicine cabinet thing?’

  I was not really in the mood to discuss my spontaneous whim of a purchase from the local antiques auction. It was my money.

  Rapidly, I caught on to the fact Max was fishing.

  ‘I assume you’re bidding on another blood
y motorbike on eBay,’ I challenged.

  By the look on his face, I had been spot on.

  He was forever trying to convince me these were investments, not boys’ toys. ‘Look, my lovely. Do what you will. I found one of my patients dead today, so it’s hardly important in the great scheme of things how much money I spent on myself. Besides which, if you’d only realised how important passing those exams were for me, then perhaps I wouldn’t have had to buy myself a present to celebrate my own achievement.’

  I had passed the requirements to become a nurse prescriber, for which I would get paid no extra money nor get promotion. I was hugely proud of myself.

  ‘Oh, someone died?’

  The information had reached its final destination, at last.

  ‘Yes. It was very smelly and sad,’ I replied, keeping the information simple for Neanderthal Man. Frustratingly, he could be incredibly astute and intuitive on rare occasions. Never when it was needed, it would seem.

  My reward was a hug, which caught me off guard.

  ‘So how much did you pay?’

  4

  We often sit chatting in bed, Max and I, with many of our most awkward decisions made at the end of the day. We subsequently sleep on those decisions and re-evaluate them the following morning. I couldn’t escape his inquisition about my medicine cabinet. It was now in the dining room, sitting on the deep recessed corner shelf adjacent to the fireplace, but not too close to cause heat damage.

  ‘Not as much money as a motorbike,’ I offered in response, as Max continued to dig for validation of his plan to invest more hard-earned cash in future classic motorcycles.

  ‘So, can I put in a bid for the BSA?’

  ‘I did say I had no objection. It’s your money, Max. Where are you planning to store this one? We’re running out of room for these investments of yours, you know.’