As the car raced through the streets, its blue lights flashing, siren shutting out any other sound, Maggie felt as though she were floating above it all, a disembodied soul observing this chaotic dash to the hospital.
Inside the hospital she was met by a nursing officer and another policeman who whisked her away in a lift, then she was out in a daze of greenish light, being guided along a maze of corridors.
At last she was in the doorway, looking at the familiar figure of her husband sitting by a high bed where a patient was lying under a white sheet, tubes and wires leading to a variety of monitors that bleeped their rhythmic sound into the softness of the night. Maggie’s sigh became a stifled sob as she tried to move forward to the bed and the still figure.
Lorimer stood up, moving slightly to one side allowing Maggie access to her mother. She felt his touch on her arm as she passed him, heard his low voice murmuring words of comfort, but she only had eyes for the woman who lay so quietly upon that white bed.
Alice was asleep, her eyes closed on wrinkled lids. There was no expression of pain on her face, just a slight downturn to her mouth as though she were cross about something. It was a look that Maggie knew well. But she could remember her smiles and her laughter too, she thought, as the tears began to slide down her cheeks. She could remember the good times they had spent together. Taking her mother’s hand in hers, she stroked it softly, bending forwards so that Alice might hear her.
‘Do you remember the time we went to Skye, Mum? The mist was all down when we arrived and you said we’d have been better off staying at home. Then the next day everything was so clear we could see the whole of the Cuillins. And that sunset? D’you remember the sunset? Dad and you made me stay up to see it until the sun had gone right down, even though it was past my bedtime. You were always so good to me, Mum, always. The best Mum in the world.’ Maggie stopped then, unable to speak for the tears pouring down, clasping Alice’s hand as though she would never let it go.
Even when the sounds changed and the thin green line upon the monitor brought nurses into the room, Maggie refused to let go of her mother’s hand. Squeezing it gently in a gesture of farewell, she bent over and kissed the still-warm cheeks.
‘Goodnight, Mum,’ she whispered.
Then Maggie felt her husband’s hands upon her shoulders and she leaned against him, taking her hands away from the bed at last.
CHAPTER 37
Detective Inspector Rhoda Martin waited until she was sure that the courtroom had finally emptied. An usher looked her way, a frown of enquiry on his face so she rose from her seat and made her way out. She turned up the collar of her jacket. If she kept her head down, looked down at the floor, maybe nobody would see her, or try to engage her in conversation.
Ever since that dreadful night, Rhoda had been unable to face her colleagues. The extended leave of absence was coming to an end and she would be moving on. A desk job, the psychologist had suggested, but Rhoda had demurred.
Stumbling through the wide hall, the policewoman pushed open the door to the ladies’ toilet and stood, gasping for breath. She would not let it happen. She would conquer the sudden trembling that threatened to overwhelm her whole body. Breathe. Breathe, she told herself, willing the shudders to subside.
Blowing out one long exhalation, Rhoda opened her eyes. Her hands still grasped the edge of the basin, the cool porcelain a relief after the stuffiness of that witness room. Above the basin the mirror showed a thin, unsmiling face, green eyes regarding her image critically. Yesterday she had gone to see James who had cut her hair. With every snip of his clever scissors, the hair stylist had shorn more than her blonde locks. Rhoda remembered how she had felt, gasping at her reflection in the salon mirror. James had handed her a tissue and she had blown her nose noisily, trying not to weep. ‘It’s wonderful,’ she had assured him, smiling tremulously through her tears.
And now that elfin shape hugging the line of her jaw belonged to the person she had needed to become. The foolishness of trying to emulate another person was over. But the shame of it still lingered.
And when had it all started? Her mind had played over so many scenes from school during the last months, wondering how the girl that had fascinated her for so long could possibly have become a killer. Had there ever been any manifestation of evil in the slight, blonde child who had beguiled her? It was hard to remember Serena as anything other than the perfect girl. Yet hadn’t she been the one to suggest the malicious little pranks that other kids carried out? Serena Jackson might have been on the edge of the action, but never at its heart. It was strange how she had such clear recall of events from her schooldays. The psychologist had given that some name or other, explaining how the trauma had triggered all these snippets of their shared past.
One memory stood out from all the rest. They had been in English class the period before lunch for a poetry lesson. Miss Michael had been in an inspirational mood, waxing lyrical about one of the best poems from a twentieth-century poet, as she had put it: Edwin Brock’s ‘Five Ways to Kill a Man’. They’d been issued with handouts of it and had stuffed them into their satchels, making a bee-line for the girls’ cloakroom to eat their packed lunches. She couldn’t recall who had asked the question first. ‘How would you kill a man?’ They’d giggled over their sandwiches, suggesting daft and even lewd ideas until Serena had spoken. ‘I’d burn him alive,’ she had said. The conversation had effectively stopped then and Rhoda could still remember the shiver that she had felt as the girl had uttered these words. Yet, until the night when her school friend had robbed her of every shred of dignity, leaving her drugged and trussed in the back bedroom, these words had been completely forgotten.
Rhoda took another deep breath. It was becoming harder to find the same inner strength that had made her become a police officer in the first place. Okay, so that little voice kept telling her worse things happened to other people. And hadn’t she seen so many of them already in her young life? But she was ready to begin again. The memory of Serena disappearing down into the cells below the courtroom would fade in time. Like everything else. The transfer to Kilmarnock had been approved and next week a new chapter would begin for DI Martin. She could never pretend that these terrible things had not happened and she knew that police gossip would continue to follow her wherever she went. But she had to go on, as the psychologist had gently advised; there were people out there who needed her to be a good police officer.
Slipping her bag across her shoulder, Rhoda left the coolness of the ladies’ room and walked past the people milling about in the foyer of the High Court. Men and women in black robes, bewigged and talking closely together; neds dressed up in their best gear for the occasion; officers like herself, coming and going for reasons of their own.
Out in the warm summer air, Rhoda stood for a moment looking around her. Over there was the back door of the mortuary: there were other deaths and other trials still to come. And perhaps, one day soon, she would play her part in bringing a culprit to justice. Straightening her collar, Rhoda Martin lifted her head and walked smartly into the afternoon sunshine.
Doctor Solomon Brightman winced as the blinds were opened, letting in the glare of light. Harsh shadows sliced across the room, making dust motes whirl in lozenges of sunshine. The click of the door made him look up and he stood politely as the woman was ushered in. The duty nurse who had opened the blinds gave the patient a cursory glance.
‘I’ll leave you all to it, then, shall I?’ he said, nodding at the patient and her female companion. Serena Jackson sat down at the table, her head turning towards the window as if she wanted to bask in the warmth of the sunshine streaming in. It was a gesture guaranteed to remind Solly that she was a prisoner here. He leaned forwards and held out his hand. ‘Good to see you again, Jacqueline,’ he told the psychologist. They met from time to time for seminars and discussions but Jacqueline’s time was mostly spent here as a full-time employee of Carstairs Mental Hospital. The woman smiled and nodded, her eyes always on the slim blonde woman sitting at the table, even as she retreated to the back of the room where she could quietly hear and observe.