‘So what kind of therapies are you trained for?’
It was a shrewd question, posed without heavy intonation, but still a probing one. Anyone could call themselves an alternative therapist, and the Inspector was assessing where Jude fitted in on the scale between serious professional and complete charlatan.
‘I did a massage therapy training, so I do use massage a lot. But the healing is really a matter of channelling energy.’
Carmen Hodgkinson nodded and asked, still without scepticism, ‘Like reiki?’
‘I suppose it does have some elements in common, but it’s not reiki. Anyway, I’m not trained in reiki, nor have I ever claimed to be.’
‘I see. So the healing power comes from within you?’
Jude found herself uncharacteristically embarrassed by the question. ‘I suppose it does, yes.’
‘I used to be a complete cynic about that kind of thing, but I have seen healing work. On humans and animals. I think it was the animals that convinced me. I mean, you can fool a human being with a load of blarney and mumbo-jumbo, but you’re never going to get away with that with a police Alsatian, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Right,’ said Carmen Hodgkinson, suddenly businesslike. ‘Let’s put you back in your TMO role. Is there any reason why you think that Fennel Whittaker did not commit suicide?’
‘My main reason is that she seemed so together on Friday evening, so positive.’
The Detective Inspector consulted one of the printouts on her lap before echoing, ‘“Together”? From what I’ve heard about how Fennel Whittaker behaved at the Cornelian Gallery Private View, “together” would not be the first word that came to mind.’
‘No, I agree. She was drunk and she did make a big scene. But the scene she made did have a therapeutic effect on her. She got a lot of stuff off her chest.’
‘Stuff like having a go at her former boyfriend Denzil Willoughby?’
‘Yes. Have you spoken to him yet?’
For the first time the glaze of police officialdom came over Carmen Hodgkinson’s face. ‘I’m sure he will be interviewed at the appropriate time,’ she replied, in automaton mode. Then, reverting to her more relaxed manner, she continued, ‘You also used the word “positive”, Jude. You said that Fennel Whittaker seemed “positive”.’
‘Yes. She said for her to die “would be a terrible waste”. She actually said that she wanted to go on living.’
‘You mean she was making plans for the future?’ Jude nodded. ‘Moving into a more manic than depressive phase on her bipolar scale?’
‘That’s how it felt, yes. Though “manic” is not really the right word. Fennel seemed very in control.’
‘In spite of having consumed at least two bottles of wine?’
‘In spite of that.’
‘Hm.’ The Detective Inspector was silent for a moment. ‘Presumably, having had dealings with a lot of bipolar patients, you are aware that the period of emergence from a depressive period can be a very dangerous one.’
‘I know that.’
‘At the really low point the sufferers may have suicidal intentions, but they are too lethargic to be capable of taking any action about anything. As the mood lifts, however, the thought is formed: I’m not going to put myself at risk of that kind of misery again. Now, while I’m actually capable of action, I’m going to do what I’ve been wanting to do for the past weeks. I’m going to top myself, and I’m going to plan it in such a way that there is no possibility of failure.’
‘I am aware that that can happen.’
‘And wouldn’t you say that Fennel Whittaker fitted that archetype rather well? She had made suicide attempts before . . . As you say, she was emerging from a bad bout of depression. Might not that be the moment for her to put into practice a sequence of carefully-planned actions?’
‘“Carefully-planned”? I don’t quite get that.’
‘We haven’t got all the information yet, but the way things look . . . the kitchen at Butterwyke House had been locked by Ned Whittaker on Friday evening, so—’
‘Why?’
‘Why did he lock the kitchen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Apparently there was something wrong with the back door lock. He wanted to ensure that anyone who broke in would get no further into the house than the kitchen.’
‘Was he expecting someone to break in?’
‘They have had problems with burglaries before. The Whittakers have quite a lot of stuff.’
‘That’s certainly true.’
‘Anyway, with the kitchen being locked, it means that Fennel couldn’t get in there when she came back after the Private View. Which means that, if the Sabatier knife that was used came from the Butterwyke House kitchen, she must have planted it there for use when required.’
‘Do you know that the knife did come from the Butterwyke House kitchen?’
‘That’s being investigated.’
‘But—’
‘What’s more,’ Carmen Hodgkinson continued implacably, ‘though we haven’t had the results of the lab tests back yet, we are pretty certain that the contents of one of the wine bottles left at the scene of her death had been laced with liquid paracetamol. Sounds like some pretty detailed planning had gone into Fennel’s death.’
‘But was it she herself who had done that planning?’
The Detective Inspector pursed her lips. ‘I see. Conspiracy theories? “The murder that was made to look like a suicide”.’
‘It has happened.’ Jude knew as she said the words how feeble they sounded.
‘Yes, it has happened, but not very often. And more often in the world of crime fiction than in the real world.’
‘Hm.’ Jude tapped her plump chin thoughtfully. ‘Inspector Hodgkinson, do you mind if I ask you how you got into this kind of work?’
‘Why? Do you want me to show you my ID? Are you suggesting I’m impersonating a police officer?’
‘No. Far from it. It’s just that you’re not the kind of person I would have imagined in this role.’
There was a silence, then a slow smile broke across the policewoman’s features. ‘I think I’ll take that as a compliment. Are you suggesting that you expected a police officer to come clumping in in hobnail boots?’
‘Well, maybe a bit.’
‘All right. I did my first degree in Psychology and Social Anthropology at St Andrews. I then went to Edinburgh to do an MSc in Criminology and Criminal Justice. That led to seven years in HM Prisons. Then into the police force, where I’ve worked as a psychologist for eleven years. Enough information?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Jude, feeling uncharacteristically cowed.
Detective Inspector Hodgkinson looked at her watch. ‘Now, as I’m sure you know, time is money in police work, as it is in most other areas of life. And it’s going to become even more precious with all the new government cuts that are coming in. What this means is that at any given time we have to make hard decisions about where our resources are channelled. Getting together the paperwork for a suicide for the Coroner’s Court is boring but straightforward. Investigating the possibility that an apparent suicide was in fact a murder would take a huge amount of police time and is therefore not something we would wish to embark on, unless we had cast-iron evidence for our suspicions. So, Jude, I come back to a variation on my original question. The TMO question. Do you have any cast-iron evidence to support the thesis that Fennel Whittaker was murdered?’
‘Not evidence as such.’
‘But . . .?’
‘But I do think it’s odd that her mobile phone seems to have disappeared.’
‘On what do you base the assumption that it has disappeared?’
‘I didn’t see it in the yurt when I found her body.’
‘No, but that was hardly the moment when you were going to be at your most observant, Jude. You were probably in shock. You knew you were about to face the unpleasant task of telling the girl’s parents what had happened to their daughter. Fennel could have dropped the phone anywhere.’