She pulled herself up. Perhaps they were simply positively reinforcing what she’d already chosen: straight from A Levels she went into the police, never having time to wear the lovely silly Seventies clothes because she was always at work or preparing for the next promotion at work. Her hopes were corroded by the sickening realisation that young women with degrees and none of her experience were readily outpacing her in the promotion race. So she had to abandon the idea of buying her own home to finance herself through university as a mature student. Unlike Fran, who simply had to resign from the force and then reapply, some of her male colleagues, in those dire, pre-equal opportunity days, were seconded to similar courses with their fees paid, and full salaries to support them. But even they reported difficulties at university. Whatever the situation might be now for older people returning to study, in those days anyone over twenty-three was regarded by the bright young things as a cross between a freak and an agony aunt. Her fellow students would as soon have made a pass at a nun as at this weird temporarily ex-guardian of law and order. And no one dared offer her dope.
No boyfriends, then, at university, and none at work. Most of her mates, as bright as she and as underqualified as she, by and large settled for their slower progress but acquired wives, mortgages, cars in the drive and children.
So there was no temptation to be anything except head down every evening in her bedroom at her parents’ home. No reason ever to move. Until they pulled the worn carpet from under her feet with the announcement that they’d bought a bungalow down in Teignmouth, having had a very good offer for the house. She hadn’t even known it was on the market. And she wasn’t to worry, there’d be enough left over for her to have a deposit to put down on a house, when she was ready.
There’d been enough too to buy Hazel a car to console her for her broken marriage. No one could ever say they weren’t even-handed.
So her thirties were her rebirth. She became independent at last. She bought her own home, a large, if run-down cottage in a picture postcard village in Kent. Promotions and interesting postings came so fast she was tipped at one time to be the first woman Chief Constable. She was told to apply for a chief superintendent’s post in Durham, but that seemed a long way from Devon, where Pa had just had his first heart attack. To compensate, she had a three-year affair with her Ian, an Open University tutor, a kind and generous man who helped her to her doctorate in criminology and died of a heart attack two days after she had received it. So much for walking hand in hand into the sunset with the love of her life. Not even a child of his to carry. He’d have made a wonderful father, though she was less sure about her own qualifications as a mother. Ruthlessness and impatience with people slower than oneself didn’t sit well with looking after children. Or with people entering their second childhood.
And so much for a morning’s work, she told herself dourly. It wasn’t like her to moon over the past, certainly not like her to lose her concentration so easily. It would be humiliating to have to report back to Mark that while the chief could be both a good father and brilliant at his job, she was simply a resentful daughter, incapable of doing the easy task he’d delegated to her.
Mark.
What she needed was a brisk walk – not least for her poor bones’ sake, apparently. She preferred to allude to one of her favourite plays and call it stimulating her phagocytes. A walk, then a visit to Elise. So the walk would involve the car.
Stopping in Ashford to pick up a sandwich, she surveyed the drab main street without pleasure. In the days when she’d been rescuing her cottage, the ironmonger’s at the bottom had saved her bacon on more than one occasion, knowing just what she needed when B&Q’s customer service stares had been blank. But these days she hardly ever saw the place, beautifully restored, decorated and furnished to the best of her and her interior designer’s ability though it might be. As she saw the ranks of estate agents massing in readiness she made one firm promise to herself. She wouldn’t sell it. She might rent it out, preferably at an exorbitant rent to city-rich commuters. But of all the things in Kent she could give up, that must stay hers.
She brushed away the vision of Mark and her having Sunday brunch together in the bright kitchen. There was room for his two grown up sons and their families. It could be idyllic.
Why should he want her anyway, a middle-aged spinster with bulges and grey underwear?
At least she could do something about that. She turned towards Marks and Spencer. But then she thought better of it. No. Apart from the hardware store, Ashford possessed one other specialist shop – a lingerie delight. That was where she’d use her plastic. To meltdown if needs be.
‘Any sightings of our mysterious visitor?’ she asked Penn, smiling as if pleased to see him and assured of her welcome in return.
‘Someone did say he’d popped in the other day, but he’d gone before I could do anything,’ he said, offhand.
Deep breath time.
‘Mr Penn, I know you’ve more work to do than a single pair of hands could possibly achieve. Believe me, I know how intolerable it is to be asked to add yet another task to your day’s list. But this—’
‘Come on, Chief Superintendent, you know she’s not going anywhere fast.’
Why did everyone have to say that?
Although he was in his later thirties, Penn had produced the ‘can’t touch me’ sneer of a kid wrapped round his tenth can of lager at two in the morning in Maidstone High Street.
She took a step back, to surprise him all the more as she weighed into the attack. ‘It’s not speed, Michael, it’s efficiency. If you can run a ward like this, you must be efficient. And able, and hard-working. So what’s your problem with this? I need to talk to this visitor. Whatever I’m doing, I’ll drop it the moment he appears. But I don’t have radar. I need you to make the call. Or whoever replaces you on the next shift, or the one after that. Do you understand?’
‘I suppose.’ He turned from her, muttering under resentful breath.
She picked up the words, ‘menopausal bitch.’ ‘If you said what I think you said, I could have you up for a disciplinary before you could say Women’s Ward. Get me?’
‘So it’s OK for you plods to be racist and sexist but—’
‘I assure you, Mr Penn, in Kent Constabulary, as in every other police area in the country, racism and sexism are stamped on with all the force of official policy. As for ageism, that’s not a matter to be proud of either. Now, do you ring me or not?’
A quick phone call to the hospital’s personnel department elicited the fact that Tuesday was Mr Roland-Thomas’ day for the private hospital in Canterbury, so she took herself off there, still pondering about Penn’s moodiness. He must be hell to work for. My God, what if that was why Mark had pulled her out of her previous work and put her on this, because her colleagues could no longer stomach her occasionally acerbic tongue? But at least it came into its own as she tackled the receptionists guarding Mr Roland-Thomas, his hyphen and his consultant colleagues. Of course all his patients were paying, she smiled dangerously, and entitled to his full attention and their full consultation. Of course they were entitled to be seen promptly. But this was a matter of life and death. Literally. Though she suspected that they might not understand the full force of the words. At least, coupled with her chief superintendent ID, it got her a few minutes of the great man’s time. The receptionist shrank behind the desk and pressed appropriate buttons.
To her surprise, the doctor came to the reception area in person, escorting her back to the office and offering her water from a cooler in the corridor just outside. He let her into his room, seating her opposite him in a way that reminded her of Mark. And the two weren’t dissimilar. Both in their fifties, well-preserved and well-turned out: they could have swapped tailors. Probably Roland-Thomas would have coveted Mark’s full head of still-dark hair: he’d lost most of a gingerish crop. He could certainly have emulated Mark’s regular workouts – there was a distinct sag about his midriff.
&nbs
p; ‘Are you saying, Chief Superintendent, that you can’t read my elegant fist?’ he asked, a smile she could only describe as jocular spreading his features, as he peered over mandatory half-moon spectacles. She could price those exactly. They were the twins of her last pair, ones her father had sat on last month: chic, elegant, expensive. And insured.
She tapped her notepad in emphasis. ‘I’m not saying that at all. After all, I have a verbatim transcript I can refer to at any time. No, it’s not your gynaecological expertise I need. It’s not the medical technicalities, but your impressions of your patient as a human being, not as a patient. Could you cast your mind back—’
To her fury, she started a flush, one of her deepest ones. As she unbuttoned her jacket, she saw him register it. Let him. It was probably only one amongst a dozen he’d seen that day. To her surprise, however, he jotted on a pad not unlike her own. Touché?
‘—to the first moment you saw her? As if you were telling a man in the street? Patient confidentiality apart, of course.’
‘Not the injuries?’
‘In a few minutes, if we may.’
‘I saw a lady of middle years who’d gone to a great deal of trouble with her appearance that even her dreadful injuries couldn’t conceal. She reminded me of my mother, Chief Superintendent, dolled up, as my father used to say, to the nines.’ He slid into a Welsh accent, then back again. ‘Of course, I never saw her dressed. I was more concerned, too, with stemming bleeding from traumatised tissue.’
‘Of course. You noted all the internal injuries. This was – and I dare say I’ve seen nearly as many PMs as you have – a very vicious attack.’ Many of them with bodies in far worse condition than the average gynaecologist would come across in a lifetime. ‘You speculated that she’d been penetrated with a blunt instrument.’
He made another jotting, looking at her shrewdly. ‘She was raped after the head injury. Penile penetration was probably difficult. She was probably assaulted by something like a rubber torch, since there were abrasions consistent with – blah, blah, blah.’ He waved an elegant hand. ‘Anal penetration too. Same instrument.’
‘At least she’d have been unconscious while all this was going on.’
‘Possibly. Probably,’ he conceded. ‘According to my neurological colleagues, she might even have been technically dead at the time.’
She nodded. ‘So we might be looking for one of those monsters who get their kicks by having sex with the dead. Necrophilia, isn’t that what it’s called?’
‘In that case, wouldn’t you have other people with similar penchants on your files?’
‘There was no DNA match on file, I’m afraid. But—’
‘—that doesn’t mean there isn’t now!’ he said. ‘Surely that sort of attack wouldn’t be a one-off.’
‘I couldn’t second you on to my team, could I?’ Fran laughed. ‘Seriously, this was one of our lines of enquiry, but it’s so far proved entirely fruitless. As have all our other lines, to be honest.’
‘You know they want to discontinue treatment?’
‘That’s why we’re reopening the case. If she dies – officially – it’s a murderer I’m after, Mr Roland-Thomas.’
‘I believe if anyone can find him, you will.’ He looked half-amused.
‘Elise has my solemn promise that if it’s humanly possible to bring him to justice, I will. Now, thank you for your time.’ She stood, extending a hand. ‘Your everyday observation was just as useful as your technical information.’
‘Chief Superintendent, may I make another everyday observation? Please sit down, and please don’t be offended. You are clearly going through a very awkward time of life. How you tackle it is up to you: there are as many suggestions as there are women with your experiences.’
‘I’ve had at least three suggestions this week,’ she agreed. ‘All entirely unsolicited. It seems a woman’s health enters the public domain when she reaches a certain age.’
‘You’re lucky it wasn’t more. And I’m sorry to have become the fourth with possibly unwelcome advice.’
‘If anyone is in a position to offer it I should imagine it would be you,’ she conceded.
‘In that case, may I suggest – shall we say – a quick fix? Provided there are no contra-indications, I think your GP might prescribe a course of HRT. No?’
‘She doesn’t approve of it.’ She let her anger ooze out.
He responded with an ironic smile. ‘Or her practice budget manager doesn’t approve of it.’
‘Or possibly she’s simply too young to have any idea what the menopause is like.’ She sank back on to the chair. ‘My symptoms include… No, you don’t need the litany.’ Surely to God she couldn’t be weeping. Damn and blast, she was.
He leaned forward and pressed his phone console. ‘Could you offer coffee, please, Anna, to our next patient. Apologise profusely. I’ll be engaged here at least five more minutes.’
Fran dabbed with a tissue she balled and lobbed – accurately – into his waste bin.
‘So it is a matter of life and death!’ Anna’s voice tinnily filled the room.
‘Very much so,’ he said gravely. Flicking the switch, he continued, ‘I can’t advise you formally when I don’t know your entire medical history, and heaven forbid I tout for custom.’
‘Would you take me as your patient?’ she asked, making her voice as crisp as she could.
He pulled a face. ‘Referral by a GP is the usual protocol. Shall I at least take your blood pressure, which is a good indication of whether I can suggest the H word.’ Suiting the word to the deed, he nodded approvingly. Then he checked her heart. ‘You’re remarkably healthy, Superintendent. Tumultuous hormones apart. I’ll write to your GP, shall I, if you furnish my receptionist with all her details? Yours too. I can’t of course prescribe for you, unless you want a private prescription—’
‘I’d pay for it in gold bullion if you were prepared to sign it! I can’t express my thanks, Dr Roland-Thomas—’
He interrupted her with a smile that began courtly and ended grim. ‘Sufficient if you can nail – I believe that’s the term? – the unspeakable animal that so injured poor Elise.’
Was that really why she’d gone out of her way to see the consultant? Had she ever expected he could tell her anything that Penn or Kilvert hadn’t, or that wasn’t in Elise’s file? Clutching the packet of patches, she almost danced for joy. If that was what pulling rank meant, she would pull every time.
And as she danced, her phone chirruped. It didn’t recognise the caller, and for a moment she was hard put to place his voice. ‘Michael!’
‘He dropped an opened letter. Elise’s visitor. Addressed to Dr Alan Pitt. University of Kent. Any use?’
How long had that been lying about on the supposedly clean ward floor? But today she wasn’t hygiene monitor. ‘I’m on my way now!’ she declared. ‘And Michael – many thanks.’
If he was about to protest that he didn’t deserve them, she didn’t hear. Cutting him off short she called back to CID in Maidstone.
‘It’s only four – he might still be teaching. And if he isn’t, I want his home address. Yes. Dead urgent.’
She ran back to her car. It might be rush hour in Canterbury – when wasn’t it? – but she’d fight her way through the traffic like Boudicca late for a battle.
Chapter Fourteen
‘You could see from her face what an anti-climax it was, Elise. There was this top policewoman, flourishing her ID card and looking like an avenging fury, right outside my seminar-room door. No, to do her justice, she didn’t interrupt the class. In fact, she waited till the corridor was quite clear, and wasn’t at all strident. But she radiated power and energy. Such a good-looking woman, too, and so intelligent. She’s not just a graduate: it turns out she’s got a doctorate in criminology and is a visiting lecturer at a number of universities. Oh, the top ones.
‘Very quietly, she asked me if there was a room where we could talk in private. I suggested my office. My
office! As if I didn’t have to share it with three other people, a room designed for two at the most. That’s the price of university expansion, Elise. Anyway, the others were either teaching or had gone home, so we were alone. Alone in that mess of paperwork and books and empty sandwich wrappings: I was so ashamed, I wanted to point out how much tidier my section of the room was than the others’. Maybe I did. Anyway, it wouldn’t have mattered if anyone had come in, because instead of an interrogation, we had an interesting discussion.
‘She wanted to know why I visited you. That’s all. And I told her the truth, that it was because I felt morally responsible for your being in this situation. If I’d done the resuscitation routine better, I might have saved you. If, knowing I was inexperienced – heavens, one course of first aid classes, thirteen years ago! – I’d left well alone, you’d simply have slipped away into oblivion and died. Either option, I told her, would have been better than this living death, as I’m sure you’d agree.
‘No, she didn’t say a word about suspecting me of wishing to harm you. She was au fait with all the palaver at the time, when they’d taken my DNA and tried to prove it was I who’d inflicted those terrible sexual injuries on you. My God, what a monster, Elise. I’m not a violent man, as I’m sure you’ll have realised, and certainly not a man for heroics. But if I knew who had – who had violated you so brutally, so appallingly… Yes, I’m still lost for words. Ironic, isn’t it, that I, whose business is words, can analyse with aplomb the works of the Marquis de Sade but cannot express my anger or horror at your injuries. I’d always thought, in my quiet bachelor way, that rape was – well, rape. Insertion of the male member into the vagina against the woman’s will. In my innocence, I’d always dismissed playground and lavatory jokes as sick fantasy. They wouldn’t tell me what that animal used to penetrate you. She did. Detective Chief Superintendent Harman. Frances. Fran. Now why should she abbreviate such a lovely name into such a terse monosyllable?
Life Sentence Page 8
