Damaged Goods (22 page)

Lilly exhaled.

Marshall got to his feet. ‘Doctor Lorenson, you seem very young to be involved in this type of court work,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Sheba. ‘I inherited my mother’s good skin.’

The barrister had of course meant to undermine Sheba’s credentials, but her deliberate misunderstanding deflected the insult to good effect.

The next ten minutes was a veritable tennis match. Marshall aimed high and served each ball with a bovine grunt, Sheba returned them all with style, skill and wit.

‘Your analysis seems to focus almost entirely on the defendant’s mental state, Doctor Lorenson,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ Sheba replied. ‘I’m a psychiatrist. That’s what I do.’

‘But you don’t seem to take into account the seriousness of the crime involved. You do know what the defendant did?’ he persisted.

‘I’m aware of the offence with which Kelsey has been charged. I thought whether she did it or not was a matter for the jury, not for me, or, for that matter, for you, Mr Marshall.’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re missing the point, Doctor. Surely even someone charged with such a crime cannot be allowed to roam around freely while assessments are ongoing?’

Sheba smiled back. ‘You’re absolutely right, which is why I’m recommending Leyland House.’

‘Quite so, but it’s not a prison,’ said Marshall.

‘It’s a secure accommodation for young people.’

‘Which means what exactly? That the staff try to ensure that the inmates don’t wander off?’

Lilly thought Sheba would blow up, but instead she just giggled. ‘Don’t be silly, Mr Marshall, I’m sure you’ve been to enough of these facilities to know that the
children
can’t leave unaccompanied.’

Clever, very clever. Of course the pompous old fool had never been to a children’s home of any variety in his life.

‘Never mind other facilities, Doctor, let’s stick to this one. It’s brand-new, hasn’t been tried and tested. Let’s face it,’ he opened his arms to encompass the room ‘none of us have seen it.’

Sheba picked up her racket and gently, oh so gently, tapped the ball over the net.

‘Actually, I went there last night.’

‘Last night!’ said Marshall and the judge in unison.

Sheba tossed her head distractedly, her hair shivered like a sigh. ‘Mmm. I called Doctor Collins and asked to be shown around before I endorsed Leyland House to the court.’

Dr Paul Collins was one of the most eminent professionals in the field of child psychiatry. Revered by lawyers and judges alike, and hailed by the medics as the new voice in the field. A modern-day Freud. Lilly had seen him give evidence twice, and on both occasions he had blown the court away with a genius that would have grated were it not accompanied so generously with his humility and humour.

‘He’s always so busy. How on earth did you manage it?’ asked the judge, his interest clearly genuine.

‘I trained under him,’ said Sheba. ‘He’s remained a close friend, so when I told him I was considering Leyland for a patient he was only too happy to give me the tour.’

‘And you were impressed?’ asked the judge, who seemed to have taken over from the deflated Marshall.

Sheba nodded vigorously. ‘Absolutely. Paul – Doctor Collins – has set up a wonderful place. It takes a maximum of five children at any time. Each child has their own key worker who has been trained specifically for this type of work. Of course, they’re all hugely overqualified.’ Sheba’s tone was conversational, as if only she and the judge were in the room. ‘When he put out the word he wanted staff they were queuing round the block. I mean, who wouldn’t want to work with the greatest child psych this country has ever seen?’

‘Indeed,’ said the judge.

Sheba dropped her voice to a whisper. Every ear in the court strained. ‘I’d have applied myself but thought it might smack of nepotism.’

‘Of course,’ said the judge, as if Sheba’s integrity elevated her to sainthood.

‘Anyhow, there are therapy sessions every day, sometimes twice a day, but they’re not standard. Doctor Collins, together with the key workers, devises an individual programme for each child, and the programme is reviewed once a week to see if it’s going in the right direction. Even the teachers who come in for academic lessons are also therapists, so the process is seamless. It really would be the right place for Kelsey and’, she turned to Marshall, ‘there are plenty of bars on the windows.’

Game, set and match.

After a short discussion the prosecution decided not to oppose the application for bail and Judge Blechard-Smith made a secure accommodation order, which although not a passport to freedom did mean that Kelsey could leave the adult prison as soon as a place came up at Leyland House, which Dr Collins had assured Sheba would be in the next day or so.

Jez beamed. ‘We did it, Lilly.’

‘We certainly did,’ she replied. ‘Now all we have to do is find out who killed her mum.’

‘Don’t you ever stop?’ he laughed. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink.’

‘No chance,’ said Lilly, ‘I’m never drinking again.’

‘Whatever,’ he said, and kissed her on the cheek. Which was pretty brave of him considering she smelled of yesterday’s wine and vomit.

Lilly made her way out of the building and headed into the bright day in search of food. The press ignored her as Marshall was giving a statement that attempted to claim the current turn of events as his own idea.

‘That barrister of yours is a smooth one,’ said a voice from behind her. Lilly turned and saw Jack. ‘On kissy-kissy terms already, I see,’ he added.

Lilly cocked her head. Jack had been watching her with Jez. Did she detect a note of jealousy or was she flattering herself? She rubbed her hips where the buttons of her ugly dress were digging into a well- defined roll of fat. Definitely flattering herself.

‘I’m glad things went well for Kelsey,’ he said.

‘You’re supposed to play for the other team,’ she said.

‘Doesn’t mean I want to see the kid rot in jail,’ he answered.

Lilly smiled. ‘Where’s Bradbury?’

‘You don’t have a dog and bark yourself.’

Lilly hated it when Jack belittled himself and his job, and was about to launch into a lecture when her stomach wailed. ‘Let me buy you breakfast,’ she said instead.

‘How do you know I haven’t already had a bowlful of organic muesli with soya milk?’

Lilly laughed. ‘Call it an educated guess.’

William Barrows leafed through the local paper. Why did anyone read this rubbish? All-time highest turnout for the fire station’s open day. Local community leaders condemn those breaking the hosepipe ban. Banal wasn’t the word. It had been mildly entertaining when Hermione had glared out from the front cover, resplendent in Armani and warning of the dangers of today’s ‘instant gratification society’, but this edition had relegated her finger-wagging to page four and there were no pictures.

It had been an excruciating few days since his meeting with the black man, as Barrows waited for news of his appointment with the girl. Hermione hadn’t helped, stomping around the house like a demented teenager, hating the sight of her wizened raisin of a face on the television while simultaneously terrified that the Brand story would die down and her own fifteen minutes would pass.

Then a trip to the doctor’s had left her tearful and wobbly. It was familiar territory but Barrows preferred Hermione mark two.

When he received word that things were underway and would be finalised in the next forty-eight hours, Barrows let the relief flood over him before allowing his heart to quicken in anticipation. It had come just in time or he would have been forced to relieve himself, which was always so very unpleasant.

One day he might even get caught. No, he was too clever for that.

Now all he needed was to buy himself some time and space. At the allotted hour there must be no distractions. Like an athlete, he needed total focus on the task in hand, and this strict regime meant daily life must be kept at bay.

In the past he had told his office he was ill and he was not to be disturbed, but there was always the tiniest possibility that his secretary would override these instructions and call him at home. Hermione might ask questions, demand that he leave his mobile on at all times, enquire as to why he was feigning illness. It was a small anxiety, but there nonetheless, spoiling his moment like a dark spot on a white sheet.

He considered how much easier it must have been for his grandfather to remain incommunicado. No phones, faxes, computers. He’d have simply disappeared for the day and then told his wife some nonsense about an accident or a fire. She probably wouldn’t even have asked, certainly wouldn’t have cross-examined him.

Barrows turned to page sixteen and eyed the community notices. Scouts, Guides and Rainbows (whatever the hell they were), book groups, writing circles, self-help meetings for single parents, the aged, those caring for the aged and anyone in need of finding their inner eye. Then he saw it, like a raft in the open sea.

Are you a gay man happily living a straight life?

If the answer’s yes and you want to meet kindred
spirits for leisure activities without any hint of pink then
join us on the first Monday of each month.

Call Andy on 07728772717.

Absolute discretion guaranteed.

Barrows decided to tell his wife he’d joined the group. Not only would she ask no questions, she would insist on total separation from it. Better still, he wouldn’t tell her, he’d just circle the ad and leave it for her to find. Things left unsaid and given room to fester usually took on a life and a truth of their own. As a shrink he knew this all too well.

Thrilled by his own devious genius he drew a deliberate ring in pencil.

‘I’ve just been on the phone to Margaret.’

Barrows hadn’t even noticed his wife come into the room and he automatically closed the newspaper. It was a gesture without guile, which was better still. He knew Hermione would check what he’d been reading as soon as he left the room.

‘What did she want?’ he asked, his voice deliberately small.

‘Where shall I start?’ she said, and dropped dramatically into a chair. ‘Hugh was in court today on the Brand case. The defence had it listed for an urgent bail application or something.’

Barrows felt panic rising but kept his tone even. ‘I bet he didn’t like that on a Sunday.’

‘Not one bit. Margaret said he had to look keen but once he got there he tried every trick in the book not to hear it, but they brought in a doctor who apparently made an unanswerable case to have the girl put in some institution or other.’

‘Who was it?’ he asked.

‘Hugh couldn’t remember, said it was a biblical name, but that she was absolutely gorgeous with fantastic boobs.’

‘Bathsheba Lorenson.’

Hermione shrugged. ‘Could be. Margaret said old Hugh probably took one look at her cleavage and the rest, as they say, is history.’

Barrows managed to squeeze out a conspiratorial laugh. Bathsheba Lorenson was the stuff of most men’s dreams. He thought her gross, like an overblown lilo. He’d once had the misfortune of sitting next to her at a conference on transference and her smell was so nauseating he’d actually vomited during the lunch break. He felt a similar feeling creeping into the pit of his stomach now. If the girl was out of jail the black man would panic, he might call everything off.

‘Where have they sent the girl?’ he asked.

‘Some new centre for mad children, run by a hotshot called Collins,’ said Hermione.

His stomach muscles relaxed. Collins had set up a new centre called Leyland House. It was a secure unit; the Brand girl was as good as in prison.

Hermione slapped her forehead with her open palm. ‘I don’t know what to do about it. They’ll start asking for a comment any second. If I condemn the courts for letting her out, Hugh and Margaret will never speak to me again.’

‘And you’ll look as if you’re hounding a sick child,’ Barrows added.

Hermione’s face betrayed the fact that she hadn’t thought of that; nor had the idea of hounding a sick child caused her any concern.

‘So how shall I deal with this, William?’ she pleaded.

‘Give a statement to the press saying you know they’ll be interested in your views but you really don’t want to hound a child who obviously needs help. She’s clearly in the best place, blah, blah,’ he said.

‘But I don’t want the story to sink and me with it.’

Barrows smiled. ‘You could also point out how the whole saga does raise questions as to why social services allowed a child, with whom they were involved for so long, to remain untreated. Some would say they put both the girl and others at risk.’

‘I don’t know, William, turning the tables on social services might make me look petulant,’ she said, sticking out her bottom lip.

‘Not at all, people like to give them a good roasting. They need someone to blame for this mess,’ he said.

‘But I thought I’d been championing collective responsibility.’

William patted her knee. ‘That was last week, darling.’

Lilly left Jack at St Paul’s to finish his fifth cup of coffee. He’d clearly forgotten the previous day’s debacle and had chatted openly with Lilly about his life in the RUC before he moved to England. That was one of the things Lilly most liked about Jack: he didn’t try to evade uncomfortable topics or attempt to reinvent history, he simply acknowledged what was what and moved on. She also liked his laugh. Full and throaty, it filled his whole body and cast an infectious spell on those around him. At least it did on Lilly. She had to admit that there was not very much she didn’t like about Jack McNally.

She could have had the day to herself but she decided to see Sam. Lilly never had been able to stomach any bad feeling between them.

‘Never go to bed on a row,’ her mother used to say.

As she approached David’s house, Lilly worried how her abandonment of Sam might have affected him. She needn’t have, he’d had a fine old time, he told her. Dad had agreed to go halves on the trip to Austria and Sam had thrashed him three times at Battleships.