The Punishment She Deserves

by Elizabeth George

  Missa looked away from Yasmina towards the window as if wishing she could join the chattering birds outside. She remained wordless.

  Yasmina said, “I don’t understand why you’ve come to think you can’t talk to me. Something has happened. I can see that. Something besides wanting to leave college took you to see that man. But why you—”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think has happened?” Missa cut in sharply. “Because what I can see from this side of things is that you refuse to accept that I’m not like you. I want something different in my life to what you’ve had and you can’t cope with that.”

  Yasmina felt slapped by the reply. “That isn’t true.”

  “No? Just look at the fact that you can’t leave this alone. Here you are wanting to ‘talk about it’”—she made air quotes round the final three words—“when I tried to tell you ages ago that what I want for myself isn’t what you want for me and is never going to be what you want for me.”

  “Tell me now, then. What is it that you want?”

  “Why should I tell you again? Have you actually forgotten? Right, then. Let’s do this one more time. What I want is to be someone’s wife, to be a mum, to have a simple life supporting the man I love and the children we have together. And since you can’t entertain that idea in your head for one second, something has to be wrong with me. What’s wrong with me, Mum, is that I needed the courage to be who I am and not who you want me to be. That’s why I talked to Mr. Druitt, all right?”

  “To build up your courage to speak to your own mother? You met with this man not once, not twice, but seven times to build up this courage?”

  “Yes! And look how you’re reacting. You’re searching for some deep reason that I wanted to leave college when there is no deeper reason than the one that I gave you. Or at least that I tried to give you back in December when you wouldn’t listen.”

  “I did listen.”

  “You heard. You didn’t listen. Because all you said was that it was too soon, I needed to go back, I had to at least finish college even if uni wasn’t for me. Don’t you remember that? And I went back, didn’t I? That’s what I did because that’s what I always do. No matter how I might feel about something, that’s what I do: what you want. Or that’s what I always did. So I talked to him—the deacon—seven times because I have no one here to talk to and no one who’ll listen without jumping in and trying to make me into someone I’m not.”

  “And who is that?”

  “I’ve said! I’ve just now said and even that’s not good enough. You’re not listening because you never listen when you’ve set something up in your mind.”

  “I am listening now. I’m trying to learn. I want to know how I’ve failed to such a degree that you had to seek out this deacon . . . Did you seek him out?”

  “What difference does it make? No. I didn’t. He found me and I’m grateful he did because he helped me understand things. He helped me see what was right for me to do and I’ve done it. And now I want to be left alone. All right? Leave me alone.”

  With that, she’d drawn the bedcovers up round her neck and turned her back. And Yasmina had given her the peace she wanted.

  But things were not over between them, and it was the belief that there was more here than met the eye that took Yasmina from Ironbridge into Ludlow, where she drove to Broad Street, found an available parking spot, and walked the remaining distance to Castle Square. She wound through the market stalls and went beneath the arch on the square’s northwest side. Upon it the words WEST MERCIA COLLEGE glittered in the sunlight of a beautiful spring day.

  She discovered that the college counsellor, Greta Yates, was not in her office as she’d left to attend a meeting. She was welcome to wait, she was told, but there was no guarantee that Ms. Yates would have time to see her as her diary was generally filled. Yasmina decided she would take her chances. The matter was critical, she explained.

  Forty minutes passed before the arrival of Greta Yates occurred. When she first came through the door, Yasmina found herself slipping into physician mode, bearing witness to what was in the process of killing the other woman: high blood pressure, weight, and type 2 diabetes. She was breathing heavily, her face was suffused with blood, and a sheen of perspiration spread across her brow. Once Yasmina managed to get into Greta Yates’s office—which did not as take long as she’d been led to believe—she added the woman’s workload to the list.

  The state of the office suggested a burglary had recently occurred, one that required the criminals to dump everything from the room to the top of her desk and onto the floor surrounding it: filing folders, computer printouts, brochures, university pamphlets, books, and more. From her desk, Greta Yates brought forth a box of tissues. She took one, blotted her face with it, and then said to Yasmina, “These are unusual circumstances. This is the second time today that someone’s been to see me about your daughter, Mrs. Lomax.”

  Yasmina didn’t make the correction from Mrs. to Dr., as she would have under other conditions. The fact that someone else had been there to talk to the student counsellor about Missa was far more important. “Someone else?” she said.

  “Two officers from New Scotland Yard.”

  Yasmina tried to get her head round this, as it meant either Rabiah had changed her mind and revealed to the police that there was a connection between Missa and Mr. Druitt or the police had some other reason for speaking to Greta Yates about her daughter. She tried to appear more confused than anxiety ridden about what was going on. She said, “I hope you don’t mind telling me what their concern was. Missa’s not in trouble with the police, is she?”

  Greta Yates waved a plump and negating hand, one finger of which was dressed with an impressively large green stone. “Good heavens, no. They came to see me because I’d asked my sister if she would give a message to Mr. Druitt.”

  This was hardly making sense. “A message about Missa?”

  “About meeting with Missa. You see”—she gestured round her office at the piles of material everywhere—“Melissa’s tutor requested that I speak with her because she’d begun doing poorly in her studies. She’d done quite well during autumn term, but then she began to . . . the best expression would be slack off. Her tutor had had a private meeting with her and he wished me to do the same because she told him she wanted to leave the college and he had the impression something was wrong. Considering her age, he reckoned it was boy troubles, and she might want to talk it out with me.”

  “Did she tell him that?”

  “She told him only that she wanted to leave college. But it was strange to him because, as I said, she’d done quite well autumn term.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “Well, that’s just it. Her tutor had counselling sessions in mind. Sessions in the plural. And in a perfect world I could actually get round to counselling as that’s what I trained to do. But in this world I can do little more than work through piles and piles of rubbish like this—please don’t quote me on that—in an attempt to keep my head above water.” Again she indicated the papers and files. “However,” she added as Yasmina was about to speak, “I knew that my sister had a lodger who was a clergyman. She’d told me he had a degree in social work, so I asked her if he might be willing to have a go. He rang me and I gave him Missa’s details. According to the police this morning, she did have a number of meetings with him.”

  “She’s left college anyway. She won’t speak of it other than to say that university is not for her so there’s little point in her attendance here. But I don’t believe her.”

  Greta did not look unsympathetic. “I understand your concern. Most parents would feel as you do. But what I’ve learned from years of working with young people is that there’s a point when parental intervention is more a hindrance than a help.”

  “He’s dead, you know. The clergyman. That has something to do with why the Lon
don police are here, evidently.”

  “Flora—my sister—did tell me he’d died. She said it was suicide.” Greta was silent for a moment, looking across the room at a cluttered bulletin board but not seeming to see it. She said, “You aren’t thinking your daughter had anything to do with that, are you?”

  “I don’t know what to think. She won’t clarify anything. I speak to her. She shutters her face. She’s a different person. I don’t know why.” Anxiety was rising within her. Yasmina could feel it shimmering behind her eyes. Missa, college, a dead clergyman, the future, the past, Janna’s death, Timothy’s drug use . . . Everything was swarming in her head and she had to make someone see that a crucial moment had been reached, and this crucial moment had to be explored or cracked open or smashed to bits or reversed or something because she didn’t know what to do any longer and she needed someone to step in and take charge.

  Greta said as if in answer to her roiling mind, “This has to be dealt with, obviously. Can you bring Missa here to Ludlow?”

  “She’ll refuse. She and I . . . at the moment . . .”

  “Of course. Is there someone else who might get her here?”

  Yasmina thought about this. There was someone, but he would have to be convinced to act against his own interests.

  Greta went on. “If you can get her to me, I’ll meet with her happily. Something may well have put her off college, and I believe I can get to the bottom of it. When I do, I’d like to offer her a return so that she can finish up the work from this term and then go on fresh next autumn.” She leaned forward and clasped her hands in what seemed to be a gesture of sincerity. She added, “But please do understand, Mrs. Lomax, often all it takes is a period of time for young people to develop a bit more maturity so that they can see more clearly where they’re heading and what the result is going to be if they continue to head there. Would I be correct if I said that it’s been quite difficult for you to give her this period of time?”

  “You would be, yes,” Yasmina replied.

  “Then your course seems clear, doesn’t it? Find the person who can convince her to see me. Let that person do it. And then—as difficult as it is—be patient. We will sort this out.”

  WORCESTER

  HEREFORDSHIRE

  For the first time in only the devil knew how long, Trevor Freeman not only needed a workout, but he also wanted one. He reckoned if he drove himself hard enough he would be able to banish from his head the phone call he’d received from his son, the subsequent conversation he’d had with his wife, and the choices he now faced.

  When he arrived at Freeman Athletics, he went straight to the treadmill. From there, he went to the free weights. From there he went to the stationary gym. From there he went back to the treadmill. His sweat dripped onto the floor round him, and one of the trainers set aside working with a client and came over to him for a word. Back off before you give yourself a heart attack, was what she said. What he thought was that a heart attack, the emergency services, and a stay in hospital might not be a bad idea.

  Then the police arrived. He was surprised to see them, as he couldn’t understand how they’d managed to track him down unless they’d gone to the house, found him not at home, and spoken to one of the neighbours. Also, he wondered why hadn’t they just phoned him? Why trek all the way to Worcester?

  But he answered his own questions once he saw their faces and the manner in which each of them made a study of him. Of course they wouldn’t want to have a phone conversation. They would want to scrutinise his every twitch as he answered their questions.

  When they asked to talk to him privately, he led the way to his office. He knew he was reeking, so he shut the door on the three of them. If they wanted to question him, they could also damn well breathe in the stench of his dripping body.

  He said to the male officer, “I’ve had a phone call from my son. You talk to him again without my being there, and you’ll be dealt with by your superiors. And what do you lot call it anyway, bursting into a boy’s bedroom when he’s sleeping and scaring the hell out of him?”

  “He’s been difficult to find at home,” the man said. Lynley, Trevor thought. His name was Lynley.

  The woman—a sergeant, he remembered—added, “We did knock and ring the bell. You might advise him to lock up at night. God knows who’ll end up in bed with him if he doesn’t secure the premises.”

  Lynley said, “I conclude he was disturbed by our call upon him?”

  “If that’s what you want to name it: your ‘call upon him.’ And how the hell do you expect him to feel?”

  “He rang you and not his mum?” the sergeant said. “Odd that, since she’s a copper. Odd, too, that he didn’t ring the PCSO since he lives in the area.”

  “Your finding things ‘odd’ is your concern, not mine.”

  “It’s just that we’ve been wondering—me and the inspector here—how the PCSO fits into the lives of the Freeman family.”

  “He’s a decent lad. My wife took an interest, which is actually part of her job. And I don’t see what this has to do with the two of you entering my son’s bedroom at dawn.”

  “Don’t think I’d call the PCSO a lad. What about you, sir?” she asked Lynley.

  “He’s rather old for that,” Lynley agreed.

  “What the hell difference does it make how old he is?” Trevor demanded. He couldn’t work out what they wanted from him, nor could he see how they’d got him on the defensive so quickly when being on the defensive was exactly where he’d intended them to be. He said, “The training centre for support officers is on the grounds of police headquarters, where my wife works. Finn and I met Gaz Ruddock through her.”

  “Bring him home, did she?” Havers asked.

  “My wife wanted our son to meet him. She thought he’d be a good influence. Like a big brother as Finn has no siblings. Things went from there.”

  “Where?” Havers asked.

  “What?”

  “Where did things go to from there?”

  “You already know the answer to that. Aren’t you wasting your time at this point?”

  Lynley spoke. “If you wouldn’t mind humouring us.”

  “Since we like to keep our facts from getting all knotted up,” the sergeant added.

  “The PCSO,” Lynley went on, “told us—as you undoubtedly know—that the two of you developed a plan for him to keep an eye on your son in Ludlow.”

  “Clover’s idea,” Trevor said. “She didn’t want to ask Gaz herself. She thought he might feel pressured to do it if she was the one making the request. Because of their relative positions.”

  “Which positions would those be, exactly?” from the sergeant.

  Trevor was glad that his face was undoubtedly flushed from the workout because he could feel his reaction to the double entendre rising tidelike beneath his skin. “The obvious one. She outranks Gaz by quite some distance. She didn’t want him to think he was required to do her any favours, so she brought it up with me. I thought it was a good idea, so I did the asking.” So there it was, he thought. He’d done it. White, black, or any other colour, he’d lied as he’d been requested to lie. He didn’t like to think what this suggested about him or his relationship with his wife.

  “Why?” Lynley asked.

  “I just told you.”

  Havers said, “He doesn’t mean why were you the one to ask. He means why did you and your wife believe he needed watching over in the first place. You must have been worried about something.”

  “I’d call it cautious, not worried. Finn’s always been a handful, and his mum’s gut told her that he might not do well in Ludlow with unrestricted freedom as he’s never had that. She’s tried to structure how he uses his free time.”

  “At his age,” Lynley said, “I expect that would rather chafe.”

  “What would?”

  “Wha
t the inspector means,” Havers clarified once again, “is that most boys Finn’s age wouldn’t much like their mums either organising their time or assigning someone to play their shadow.”

  “Gaz doesn’t do that. He just keeps an eye out.”

  “Is that what Ian Druitt was meant to do as well?” Lynley asked.

  Trevor didn’t like the way they manoeuvred him from point to point. He felt batted between them like a shuttlecock. He took control back, saying, “That rubbish you said to Finn this morning? About Druitt having ‘concerns’ about him or whatever it was? Wherever the hell you got that idea, it’s complete bollocks.”

  “Which part of it? Mr. Druitt having concerns about your son or Mr. Druitt expressing those concerns.”

  “Either one. Both. Finn’s a good lad. No one will tell you any different.”

  “Yet evidently, Mr. Druitt wanted to tell you different,” Havers said. “We got told he was trying to get in touch with you, asking how to do that.”

  “He didn’t get in touch, so whatever he wanted to speak about—and I assume you mean these ‘concerns’ he was meant to have—must have been taken care of. He was reassured or whatever.”

  Lynley nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the whatever that we’re trying to deal with, Mr. Freeman.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Meaning that Mr. Druitt was dead before he could speak to you,” Lynley said.

  Sergeant Havers added, “And that’s one of those things that the coppers like to look into, bollocks or not.”

  MUCH WENLOCK

  SHROPSHIRE

  Cardew Hall wouldn’t be open daily to visitors until the first of June, so Ding knew her arrival there was going to be unexpected, which was exactly what she wanted it to be. Unexpected and, if she could manage it, unacknowledged and unknown. She wasn’t entirely clear in her head why all of this needed to be the case. She just felt it in her body, which was drifting between tense and downright ill. There was, naturally, more than one reason for this.