All very mundane, and rather boring.
I decided that, at this rate, going through every envelope from start to finish, every doctor’s note, every hospital letter, was going to take me far too long.
I skimmed through the other three envelopes, looking for the notes relating to Zoe’s first psychiatric hospital admission in early 2007.
They were in envelope 4, obviously shortly before the records became computerised, and there were lots of them, including several letters from both psychiatrists and psychotherapists.
Yvonne hadn’t been quite right.
The initial letter had not been from a psychiatrist, as she had said to Kate, but from a professor of psychology at York University who stated that, at the request of her father, he had studied Zoe Chadwick’s behaviour patterns and had concluded that she was suffering from schizophrenia and should be considered at risk of harming both herself and others.
That letter had set in motion a chain of events that ended with Zoe being detained for assessment at Maudsley Psychiatric Hospital in Camberwell under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act 1983.
Not that the assessment had been clear and undisputed.
The letters flying back and forth between the hospital psychiatrists had been copied to her medical notes and I read through them all in chronological order.
The only thing the medics all seemed to agree on was that Zoe was suffering from some form of mental illness, whether it be schizophrenia or another type of dissociative disorder. What they had disagreed about was whether she had represented a significant danger to herself or others.
However, it was a single-sheet letter from one of the psychotherapists that was the real eye-opener.
Whereas the doctors were arguing about what was wrong with her, the therapists were clearly concentrating more on why she was ill, and one of them had reported that, in one counselling session, Zoe had claimed that she had been sexually abused throughout her childhood by both her father and her brothers.
What?
I read it through again twice more to ensure I hadn’t misunderstood, but there it was in black and white. No mistake.
However, it seems that it was not the first time such an accusation had been made.
‘As before’ was written in pen across the top of the letter, presumably by her then GP, followed by a dash and a single word — ‘fantasist’.
As before.
It looked like I would have to read through every one of the envelopes after all.
The detective sergeant returned as I was using my phone to photograph the psychotherapist’s letter.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘But still lots to do yet. I’ll be here for another hour or so at least.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said.
‘Any chance of a coffee?’ I asked.
I could almost see the mental process of whether he, too, should be complicit in helping the defence, even if it was just to fetch me a cup of coffee.
‘I’ll see what I can manage. Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, thanks.’
He disappeared and, as I reached for envelope 2, Kate called.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’
‘At the police station in Bury St Edmunds. Going through Zoe Chadwick’s medical records.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Are you going to be long?’
I looked at my watch. It was already half past four. Where had the day gone? But, to be fair, I’d done a lot since being dropped at the hotel this morning.
‘Another hour, at least,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘I just wondered if you’d like to meet later for a drink?’
‘How about dinner?’ I said. ‘And why don’t you ask Janie to join us?’
‘Janie?’ Kate sounded unsure.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She might need cheering up. Let’s go to that Chinese. I’ve had no lunch and I’m hungry.’
‘The Fountain?’
‘That’s the one,’ I said. ‘How about seven-thirty?’
‘I’ll book a table,’ she said, still sounding slightly tentative.
I hung up and DS Venables returned with a mug of steaming brown liquid that tasted vaguely of coffee.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘I knock off at six so you’ll have to be finished by then.’
‘Should be fine,’ I said. ‘Come back just before you go.’
The sergeant hesitated for a moment but then shrugged his shoulders and left me alone again. He was clearly fighting his natural instinct to be obstructive.
I went through everything in the notes, but found no great revelations about abuse. The only possible reference was a letter to Zoe’s doctor from an educational psychologist expressing concern that the outcome of the recent investigation by the Children’s Welfare Department had done little to improve Zoe’s state of mind or her ability to concentrate on her learning in school.
The letter was dated June 2004 when Zoe would have been fifteen.
It was in the same envelope as numerous medical reports detailing the extent of Zoe’s self-harming, specifically cutting her arms and legs with razor blades or scissors. Three times the injuries had been serious enough for her parents to take her to hospital and, it seemed, there were several other occasions when a visit to the doctor was required.
I felt so sad for her.
How dreadfully disturbed she must have been to believe she had no alternative but to slice open her own skin.
What had she been seeking? Attention? Understanding? Love?
Or was it something totally different?
I remembered back to my time as a solicitor in Totnes. The daughter of a divorce client had regularly cut her arms as a way of punishing herself, believing wrongly that it was all her fault that her parents were ending their marriage.
Was Zoe also trying to punish herself?
If so, for what?
Her medical records gave no clues.
Overall, I was surprised that, considering the number of instances of self-harming, there hadn’t been more referrals to specialist psychiatric care during her early teenage years.
In fact, the remainder of the notes mostly detailed only a diet of routine everyday non-emergency medical consultations, dealing with such unexciting problems as an outbreak of acne and a recurring sinus infection.
Indeed, the only other item of any interest I found was a letter signed by a Dr Andrews, director of somewhere called the Healthy Woman Centre in Bell Street, Cambridge, dated 8 August 2002. It was addressed to Dr Benaud, Zoe’s then GP, and it reported that the gynaecological intervention, previously discussed on the telephone, had been successfully completed that morning and the sample sent for analysis. Strangely, there was no further indication of the problem or the outcome.
I had just finished taking photographs of anything I thought might be relevant when DS Venables returned to say it was time for me to go.
‘Find anything?’ he asked sardonically as we walked back along the windowless corridor.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Could have told you that before you even started.’ He laughed. ‘I wasted my time doing the same thing last week.’
‘But it’s best to be sure,’ I said, and thought about asking him about the letter from the psychotherapist. ‘Did you follow anything up?’
‘I did try to contact one of her past doctors about her cutting her arms and stuff, but he died three years ago.’
He didn’t sound particularly bothered.
‘Nothing else?’ I asked.
‘Nope.’
He let me out and the driver took me back to Newmarket.
The food at The Fountain was all that Janie had claimed it was, with the crispy-duck pancakes going down a real treat.