The Trials of Sally Dunning and a Clerical Murder

by Miller Caldwell

  The location was fortunate. The body was under the bridge, not washed away. Reports of bodies in the water usually meant a search of the banks but this was an easy find.

  The coxswain threw the dregs of his coffee flask into the river. His colleague threw his fag end into the dark ripples on the other side of the craft. The coxswain slowed down and approached the body with due reverence.

  An ambulance stood by on the bridge with unnecessary flashing blue lights. The crew remained inside, dry, awaiting developments. Two policemen walked onto the bridge where the departing point of suicide began. But they knew the day’s drenching would have washed away any possible evidence at that site. Perhaps the autopsy would determine whether he jumped or was pushed; whether he was drunk, depressed, deranged or drugged.

  The boat hook secured a grip on the man’s clothing. As he was dragged off the grassy reeds, a groan was heard.

  ‘Easy, he’s alive Mark, be prepared.’

  Mark was the crew’s first aid man. A paramedic in daytime, they always hoped he was available when life at sea was in danger.

  The man was dragged over the rubber bulwark and placed in the recovery position. Some water trickled from his mouth. His right leg was clearly broken below the knee.

  ‘Give me space,’ said Mark straddling the body. ‘He’s unconscious.’ There was certainly some life in him. ‘Alert the ambulance.’

  The inflatable craft sped towards the town slipway where the ambulance arrived. A crowd of passers-by forgot the rain to view some real life drama. Their second dose of drama awaited them at soap-time that night but this was certainly not acting. They sensed a different atmosphere, less paced than screen offerings.

  Shiny survival foil was wrapped round the man who was transferred to a stretcher which was quickly secured inside the ambulance. The driver sped away with the siren screaming and blue flashing lights to the A&E department of the local hospital while his colleague fought to keep the patient alive in the swaying vehicle.

  Alan welcomed medical social worker Lin Howie to his home. She was there to assess his wife’s needs initially, and his, but before she could arrange all those identified to help, she spent three days getting the manse shipshape. He watched her settle in, like a sheep dog eyeing her every move.

  ‘Right, now Alan. Off to your study. Coffee at 11 a.m. Skedaddle, on you go.’

  Alan relaxed and raised his arms in the air.

  ‘Yes....yes..yes,’ he said. Menial jobs fell from his hands. His pen resumed its paper activity. The phone calls were now initiated by him. The Royal Volunteer Service provided Massie, a fun loving, book club enthusiast and recently retired pet shop manager, as a regular visitor to chat with his wife. Massie often brought some home baking. She read to Penny and opened her world to female companionship. On fair weather days she took Penny out in her personalised and motorised chair. Her collie dog Georgie accompanied them on such occasions. Alan was on the road to recovery as a result of this array of assistance.

  Tony looked at the case notes of Major Risk and smiled. He hoped he would not live up to his name.

  Major Paul Risk played the trombone. That piece of brass tubing which defies understanding to the uninitiated. A slide moves up and down making different notes. Sometimes it stays in the same place while a series of different sounds are heard. It has no keyboard or finger placing. It is the most mysterious of brass instruments. Paul had mastered this instrument to make its melodic tenor notes soft and warm or loud and harsh when the music dictated. Paul was the doyen of the Salvation band. His militaristic uniform was immaculate and his instrument polished to catch sunlight on its shaft and emit the glory of the Lord. Rotund like Santa, he had neither a white beard nor a constant smile.

  Paul had a dark side. A decade ago he taught his instrument to a series of young music pupils. They came from different backgrounds and none were Salvationists. The Moorov doctrine was applied to the Police charge when evidence emerged of inappropriate touching of both boys and girls over a prolonged period. It was their collective evidence against his faltering words of defence that led to a three year prison sentence and a life on the sex offender’s register.

  That was ten years ago and the denomination had supported his resurrection, his seeking forgiveness and his firm faith. Music lessons were a thing of the dark past and no longer given. As a musician however, he was priceless. He was always on the front row when the Salvation Army Band was entertaining. After all, the movement of the trombone demanded space. That put him in the spotlight, which he devoured.

  His wife Irene was also a Salvationist who supported her husband through thick and thin to all who knew her but the doubts about his past, although forgiven, were not forgotten and she would be first to admit not all was well within the marital home. She played cornet three rows behind her husband when on the march.

  Tony made an appointment for the Major.

  Ward 8 was for men who were recovering from medical treatments. One patient had all his rotten teeth removed yet he was anxious to communicate with his fellow bed companions. It was a struggle to hear him, let alone understand what his toothless gums were saying. It led to many misunderstandings, resolved by his inane smile.

  There were no misunderstandings when the leg-plastered, head-bandaged Imam regained consciousness. He was propped up resting in the sitting position in bed.

  He had not expected the approaching medic to stop in front of him.

  ‘So it’s Farook, isn’t it? Farook Elahi?’ asked Dr Tony Scriven.

  Farook lifted his eyes to the psychiatrist whose tie sat over one collar. Failure was etched on his face but he managed a minimal nod.

  Tony smiled as he put his hand on Farook’s shoulder.

  ‘Salaam Alaikum.’

  ‘Alaikum Salaam,’ Farook replied instantly.

  Tony gave a smile of recognition.

  ‘Taxi driver I think. That you?’

  Farook was pleased to have been identified by profession. ‘Yes, Ali’s Taxis. Not running today.’

  Tony’s laugh came close to a snigger. His smile was not reciprocated. Farook was in a state of confusion. He had failed to end his life, like the unsuccessful bomber’s unexploded suicide vest and yet he was being cared for and treated by those tasked to preserve his life. For what purpose? Tony ventured straight to the point.

  ‘Well did you jump, or were you pushed?’

  Farook shuffled around as much as he was able in the constricting bed sheets and set his dark eyes on the jug of water beside his bed.

  ‘Pushed into jumping. That’s what it was. The third option you didn’t give me,’ said Farook. He turned his eyes back to the doctor.

  Tony thought for a moment. Perhaps this was a police matter more than what he had to offer but that was premature to conclude. ‘So not a simple suicide attempt? You know, that was some height you fell. Many wouldn’t have survived that bridge drop.’

  ‘The lucky ones,’ said Farook.

  That statement determined Tony’s response. ‘I see. Perhaps we can arrange an appointment before you leave.’

  ‘And when might that be?’

  ‘The Physio will let me know. They’ll get you ready for departure. It might be a week yet. Head injuries, you know, your plastered leg too....they take time.’

  Farook nodded as if an apology for his failed suicide was necessary.

  ‘Okay, stick in there, Farook. I might need your taxi one day.’ He smiled and tapped his left shoulder a couple of times but the future seemed bleak for Farook.

  Tony strolled back to his office. It was not far away. He enjoyed the light breeze, swaying branches and floating white clouds. They cleansed his thoughts to prepare for the next patient but the waiting room was empty. No apparent pressures made him more thoughtful than usual.

  ‘Want a coffee?’ he asked his receptionist Madge.

  Madge
stopped typing. What on earth did he say? Tony get the coffee? No way. ‘I’ll get it doctor,’ she said instinctively rising from her computer screen to boil the kettle.

  ‘No, no. Stay where you are. No patients waiting, I’ve got the time.’

  Tony made his black coffee with a sensation of sugar, believing each day he stirred in one less grain.

  ‘It’s tea for you anyway, isn’t it?’

  ‘Redboosh tea bag, on the shelf. Just on its own, thanks,’ said Madge keeping an eye on his unexpected domesticity.

  Tony brought over her mug wishing he had not filled it to the brim. He moved with canny caution and managed to bring it to her desk. However when he lowered the mug to its coaster, he spilt some of her dark red hot liquid.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘That’s fine, don’t worry,’ she said taking a tissue from her patterned paper hanky cube on her desk.

  ‘Mail’s on your desk sir,’ Madge said dabbing away, annoyed that she had let him serve her.

  The mail might take him comfortably through till lunchtime he thought as he kicked the door open with one eye on his coffee. Indeed there was a pile. But he was glad to see a couple of Journals in the mix. He sat down and took his first sip as he leafed through the collection. One brown envelope caught his eye. Pre-sentencing Court reports came every now and then. He opened the letter. He lifted the phone.

  ‘Madge, this Court report. They have only given me a couple of weeks. Can you make an appointment for this patient, Lizzie Taylor?’

  Farook arrived at the clinic three days later.

  ‘A wheelchair I see, not your taxi?’

  ‘No, not sure when I’ll be back driving,’ replied Farook.

  Tony was pleased to see his patient seemed more optimistic, more mobile and less gloomy. It augured well for a better consultation. Farook wheeled his chair in front of Tony, prepared to face his mental daemons.

  ‘So tell me about that day,’ asked Tony crossing his legs and polishing his reading glasses.

  ‘It was a build-up over many months. Pressures from my own people.’

  Tony nodded, wondering, clarifying. ‘What kind of pressures?’ he asked not quite sure of who his ‘own’ people might be. Taxi colleagues perhaps or even Mosque attendees?

  ‘I was asked to give an eighteen year old girl driving lessons. Of course her father had to sit in the back of the car. You know, traditional Muslim. I told the girl I could not teach her to drive if she was going to wear her burkah. She could not possibly be observant as a driver. She was putting lives at risk as well as her own. I was not going to teach her in a burkah, and that was final.’

  ‘Eminently sensible I would have thought,’ Tony frowned, as he put on his glasses again.

  ‘Her father told me his daughter had a right to wear what she wished. I told him this was not Saudi Arabia. If he wanted to go there, then she could dress that way but she would not be allowed to drive at all then.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘The girl still does not drive but her father has influence in our Mosque and doesn’t like the way I am running it.’

  ‘Surely not because of the driving incident?’

  Farook retied his left shoe lace. His head dipped under the desk for a moment. ‘No that was the tipping point. You see, I’m trying to make the Muslim British more British. Of course they say they are but they are clearly not.’

  Tony wondered how able he was to cope with this developing scenario; he was way out of his comfort zone.

  ‘You don’t see Muslims playing at Wimbledon and not many play football or golf. Some mix at school although these new Academies have Muslim-only pupils.Even at university they gather with their own. There is no inter-marriage, which you can expect with other faiths. They really don’t mix enough. They are certainly not encouraged to mix. They are not part of the general community.’

  Tony agreed with his observation. ‘So it’s a traditional, conservative Mosque you run.’

  ‘Traditional? Isn’t it the same in the Church of England? You have the traditional church attendees all set in their ways. They don’t like the guitar playing or youthful pop choirs. There’s friction, just like we have.

  The elders have the voting powers. In our Mosque I am only their religious leader.’

  Tony had never been in a Mosque but it was certainly not the time to ask to visit when there was ill feeling around. Farook’s shoulders were tight, his hands clasped.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Tony.

  ‘Yes, but you want to know about that bridge don’t you?’ Tony nodded without saying another word. He was in no rush. It was good to get back on track.

  ‘I really want to bring my people with me. So I did a twelve week course at the Charmley Muslim College.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘East Midlands. It’s a course to empower British Muslims to feel confident in their faith while drawing on the traditions and the values they see around them in Britain, their adopted home.’

  ‘I see. Like the Monarchy for example, they are big on that aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, the Queen and the Houses of Parliament with all its faults. At least it’s more democratic than the governments of most of the former colonial countries. The course had visitors from the Police, the Catholic Bishop of Birmingham and even a Rabbi. I had to keep that information from my Mosque because they don’t want influence from other faiths.’

  Good on him, thought Tony, taking a lead. ‘So you were away for twelve weeks? Did another Imam take your place?’

  ‘No, I came back every Friday but the atmosphere was not good any longer. They did not want to hear my new ideas of a better outward approach. They started to make life awkward for me. You see Islamaphobia is growing but not as bad as in France or in America where the press stoke the flames of hatred. But recent extreme events in France, The Netherlands, Denmark and Belgium make us nervous. People don’t realise that ISIS kill Sufis and established Sunni Muslims in Iraq and Syria.’

  ‘And don’t forget the persecuted Christian minorities in the Middle East,’ added Tony to complete the picture.

  ‘Exactly. There are many victims. I agree. But also young unemployed Muslims from my own Mosque have been setting out to join Isis. They had the backing of the elders and I had no power and no permission to stop them or report them.’

  Farook shook his head from side to side in despair. ‘I could only silently pray that they would be caught before they left the country. That was the way our Mosque was being run. Run with a knife at my back. I saw no way out and I was not only losing influence but losing friends too. ....I needed to get away...get out.... out of this life and that is why I tried to end it. End it at the bridge.’

  Tony sucked a pencil end and nodded as Farook spoke. Hearing yes, but not fully understanding the cultural divide he had been given by his patient.

  ‘So what plans do you have now?’

  ‘I’ve had a few visitors from the Mosque. They are quick to forgive and grateful that Allah - blessings upon His Name - saved me. So I suppose I can return there and I’ll see if they will sack me as their Imam. It’s within their power to appoint a new Imam. So taxi driving and the Mosque ....I’ll give it another go.’

  ‘Good. I hope it goes well for you Farook. But I want to see you again. Perhaps in a few weeks. I’ll drop you a line. Are you comfortable with that?’

  Farook smiled through his beard. ‘That’s what I like about the British. Are you comfortable with that? It does not translate well in my native tongue. It’s why we should be more British. I’ll be pleased to see you again.’

  3

  Happy Clappy Lizzie

  Lizzie Taylor paced up and down the waiting room like a hungry caged lioness. Her eyes fixed on the closed door handle. When opened, she would find someone whose attention would be tested. That was how s
he worked when she was high. Today was one of those days. She was approaching the peak of her parabolic mental health problem.

  Tony found the woman to be in her early forties when he opened the waiting room door. She wore an open coat showing a glimpse of her cobalt blue jersey and its internal contours and a patchwork skirt with woollen brown stockings and a pair of well-polished brown leather boots with solid block heels. Her face etched agitated concentration.

  ‘Lizzie Taylor, please. This way.’

  ‘Tell me, are you a doctor or a psychologist?’ she asked clinging to her overcoat, rolled up in a ball.

  ‘I am a specialist in mental health. I am a psychiatrist but also a psychoanalyst.’

  ‘So I am mad? That’s what the Court said.

  Wasn’t it? Tell me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Lizzie let me take your coat and hang it up. You have a seat over there, opposite my desk,’ said Tony in a slow methodical instruction. It had no effect on his patient.

  ‘Do I lie on the couch? I mean that’s what psycho...psychotherapists want don’t they. I’ll take my boots off.’

  ‘No need. Have a seat. So this incident took place on Good Friday I see. Tell me about it.’

  Lizzie was glad to be given full control of her reply. ‘I’ve never been charged by the Police before you know,’ she began.

  ‘That does not matter. I just want you to tell me what happened that morning around midday.’

  ‘Glory be to God. Was it not the most sacred day of the year, Good Friday?’

  Tony scrutinised the charge paper.

  ‘It was, yes 12.07 p.m. on Good Friday.’

  ‘Yes, I was driving a van. Not my van of course. I don’t have a van. It’s Billy Craig’s van. He let me use it. It’s a nippy little thing. Guzzles through the petrol mind you. Oh no, diesel it was. Mine’s petrol. Yes, mustn’t get them muddled. That would be a problem, not so? A really big problem. I’ve got a Golf Polo. Nippier to drive than a van. Good for the town, when it’s busy.’