Troubled Waters (15 page)

The Sanctuary, however, was considered by its neighbours to let the square down. It would pass for a hostel. Posters were stuck inside its slightly grimy front windows, a flattened cigarette packet lay on its cracked doorstep among piles of dog ends, and a large dark-green stain disfigured its frontage. This eyesore was the result of a permanently overflowing gutter. Funding for the Sanctuary, after the cuts, no longer ran to routine maintenance. Opposite, in the centre of the square, was a small, enclosed garden which had been planted with trees and a few flowering shrubs.

Since the City Bypass had been opened property prices in Windsor Gardens had rocketed. It had become an exceptionally tranquil place, a backwater, isolated from the hustle and bustle of the town for most of the year. On race days alone its peace was shattered. The hubbub they created transformed the square, to the chagrin of residents and visitors alike. Jaguars, Range Rovers and Saabs revved on the nearby Linkfield Road, nose to tail, queuing to enter the grandstand, their numbers augmented by horse-lorries, horse-boxes and coaches, the pavements on either side of the road overflowing with streams of chattering, enthusiastic pedestrians. Later the pounding of hoofs and the roar of the crowd would further enliven the noisy mix, until finally, in the late afternoon, the meeting would come to an end. Then the punters would depart, tired and hoarse, their wallets lightened, some going to console themselves with an ice cream from Luca’s Café in the High Street, some in search of more alcohol. All that would be left would be litter, blowing like tumbleweed about the place for days.

Aileen Tennant, a plain woman in her mid-forties with thin, mousy hair, was employed as a counsellor by the charity which owned and ran the Survivors’ Sanctuary. That afternoon she was exhausted. Her last hour had been spent empathising and communing, almost exclusively in silence, with Allan, one of her regular clients. He invariably wore black and was, she intuited, mourning his lost innocence. When she had mentioned this to Janice, the secretary, she had opined that he was probably just a Goth.

As the minutes of the session had ticked by, she had had to remind herself, several times, that the pace of the meeting must be dictated not by her or her needs, but by
him and his needs. Months earlier, the lad had confided in her the cause of his distress, but since then, at their five subsequent sessions, he had uttered hardly another word. All of the sympathetic noises, remarks and inquiries that his counsellor had made that afternoon had been greeted with either silence or, at best, a flash of his shy and unhappy smile. Today, quarter of an hour into their allocated time, Allan had shaken his head, clicked his tongue and said, ‘Women, eh?’

The last time he had made this precise, solitary and momentous remark, she had seized her chance and immediately inquired if he would prefer to speak to a male colleague. It could easily be arranged, she had assured him. No offence would be taken by her. But he had declined, shaking his head at the suggestion and, reluctantly, she had accepted his decision. There was no point in repeating the offer now.

And all her subsequent gentle prompting had produced nothing more until, having racked her brain for inspiration, anything to help her client to open up, air the issues which so obviously preoccupied him and paralysed him, she said, ‘Is your mother . . .’

His response was immediate and silenced her once again.

‘I have no mother!’

The emotion so briefly displayed died down as quickly as it had flared up, and he shifted his wooden chair away from her, scoring the lino in the process. Motionless once more, he emitted one of his long, hopeless sighs.

A vase of white lilies stood on her desk, brought by her from home to shield the cat from their deadly pollen, and, deliberately, she inhaled their strong, musky scent, hoping that it would have a soothing effect on her. ‘Touchy’
was the word that trespassed into her thoughts. No, no. Vulnerable, damaged.

It was odd, she reflected, that sitting still, moving not a muscle, simply trying to emanate sympathy and understanding, could be quite so wearing, so tiring. Listening, proper, active listening, even to nothing, required intense concentration, drained the last drop of life-energy. Mid-session, forgetting herself for a moment, she had jotted down a list of things to do for Duncan’s birthday party. There were not enough hours in the day, what with that, organising the builders, finding a home for Granny and helping Hannah with her Healthy Eating project. When Allan had caught her writing (could he read upside down?), she had smiled, closed her notebook, and tried to return her full attention to him and his issues. Thankfully, there was only ten minutes to go, only ten minutes to coffee time. And a Jaffa Cake, possibly, if there were any left. Perhaps, she wondered, counselling was, after all, not for her? How could she beam off safe, soothing, relaxing vibes if her mind was constantly elsewhere, on her next break, or planning her post-work work? That thought recurred when Allan rose from his seat and said, warmly, and with more animation that she had ever seen from him before, ‘Great. See you next week, then, Aileen.’

From his tone, they might have been regulars at the same pub, arranging another convivial drinking session. Baffled, she nodded her assent.

As he left, Janice on the desk rang to say that a police-woman wanted to speak to her. This news both rattled and perplexed her. She was in sore need of a break, not to mention the coffee and Jaffa Cakes.

‘Now? You’re joking. Why?’ she asked, feeling unreasonably put upon by the world and its unceasing demands.

‘Now,’ Janice replied, before adding, to protect herself, ‘that’s what Mr Tranter says. You’ve an emergency appointment coming next but they’ve not arrived yet. She was your client, the woman they want to speak to you about. I’m to bring in her notes to you now.’

Once the policewoman had introduced herself, her request for information about Miranda Stimms caused the counsellor further perplexity. She could feel herself becoming hot and bothered, her hunched posture betraying her inner turmoil. No secrets, she had determined, would leave her lips. Usually, if there were questions to be asked, she asked them. Usually she was in control, even if she did not dictate the pace.

‘I’m afraid, Inspector Rice,’ she replied, disconcerted, her brow furrowed, ‘that I cannot disclose anything about Ms Stimms. All our clients are assured of confidentiality. It’s to do with trust, trust is central to the relationship between counsellor and client. No one would tell us anything if they could not be sure that what they said would not leave this room.’

‘I appreciate that, but Miranda Stimms is no longer your client since, as I explained, unfortunately, she’s dead.’ Alice said. Her firm tone should have made it clear that she would get the information she had come for.

‘Still . . . I’m still not sure. The bond must not be broken. Trust is the cornerstone of everything we do,’ Aileen Tennant reiterated, her face reddening as she tried to tread water, wondering what her duty might be in these unexpected circumstances. The handbook, inadequate document that it was, would not cover it. None of her clients had, as far as she was aware, died before. A dreadful thought suddenly struck her.

‘Was it suicide?’ she demanded.

‘No.’

‘Thank God!’ she murmured, sighing out loud with relief. A client’s suicide was, obviously and as everyone said,
not
the hallmark of failed counselling, but it must be hard in the deep, dark depths of the night not to view it as such.

‘No, it was murder. That’s why I need your help.’

‘I see,’ Mrs Tennant replied, feeling almost faint at the news, unreal, conscious as she looked at the policewoman that by giving such help she might be dragged into her life, a life lived faster, a life incalculably more dangerous than her own. This inspector person inhabited a world where things, bad things, not only happened, but had to be dealt with by her. She picked up the pieces with her own hands, got them dirty. Got them cut and bleeding, quite possibly. This woman did not just listen and then go home.

‘Was she referred by her GP here? How did you come to see her?’

‘No. I asked her that, how she came to us. She told me she picked up a leaflet, one of ours, in a doctor’s surgery. She went in to make an appointment but never actually had any contact with the GP, any GP, she said. People do that sometimes – it’s easier for them. That’s why we leave our leaflets in these sorts of places.’

‘Why did she come and see you?’

‘She’s only been once. She needed help, someone to talk to, someone to listen to her . . . to be a witness, you could say.’

‘To be a witness to what?’

‘To her story . . .’

‘What story?’

‘To affirm her survival.’

‘What ordeal
exactly
had she survived?’ the police-woman asked, failing to conceal the irritation she felt in the face of the counsellor’s evasive replies.

‘As I recall, she was experiencing . . . difficulties, relationship difficulties . . . sexual difficulties within her relationship. Nightmares, she had them too. She had anger issues as well.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of the damage . . .’

‘What damage?’

‘The damage to her psyche – to herself.’

‘I note that your clinic specialises in cases of child abuse, helping the victims get on with their lives – focusing on the fact that they have survived their ordeal.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was that her problem? Sexual abuse? Had someone abused her sexually when she was a child?’

The woman hesitated, before committing herself and answering, ‘Yes. It was. If you need to know more I’d have to consult my notes.’

‘On you go,’ Alice said, sitting back in her chair and looking properly around the room for the first time. Apart from posters giving the address of various genito-urinary clinics within the capital, nothing decorated the green-painted walls except for a child’s drawing of a snowman and a snow-woman, their gloved hands linked as if they were about to dance. No clinics required for them, she mused. Breathing in, she smelt the heavy scent of the lilies, and wondered if they had been chosen for their perfume, specially selected to obliterate any underlying human notes arising from repressed emotions, panic or anxieties felt by the countless clients seen within those four walls.

Less than a minute later the woman closed the file in front of her and, brows still furrowed, said, ‘What else do you want to know?’

‘Anything and everything. Please.’

‘There really isn’t much. She’d only come here once.’

‘Whatever you have will be fine,’ the policewoman said, trying to sound reassuring, encouraging. Surely the need for such information was obvious?

‘We’d other sessions planned. She didn’t say much at our first meeting . . . and I have to go with that, accept that, allow her to move on when she’s comfortable with that.’

‘I understand.’

‘All I can tell you from our meeting is that she was abused, sexually, from about the age of fourteen onwards. From puberty. Hence her sexual difficulties, her low self-esteem, anger and so on.’

‘Do you know who was responsible?’ Alice asked. At that moment, her phone rang and, gesturing an apology, she answered it, hearing DC Cairns’ voice at the other end. The constable’s words tumbled out in her enthusiasm. ‘I’ve got an address for William Stobbs, and his mother, Margaret Stobbs, is at home there just now and will be for the rest of the afternoon. She’s due to get a hairdo, at home. The son’s away at his work.’

‘Well done, text it to me and I’ll meet you there in, say, half an hour?’

Putting down her mobile, she looked expectantly at Aileen Tennant, eager to get an answer to her last question. But the woman’s attention appeared to have drifted, seemed focused on something outside in the square. She had, in fact, taken in every word of the phone call, and was pleased to know that her ordeal was all but over.

‘Do you know who was responsible?’ Alice repeated.

‘For what?’ Mrs Tennant asked, managing to sound startled, as if her reverie had been disturbed.

‘For the sexual abuse of Miranda Stimms.’

‘No. I never ask,’ she replied, slightly condescendingly. ‘If my client wants to tell me I listen and react accordingly – but I never ask. They’ll tell me if they want to. Some do, some don’t. It’s not necessary for healing to take place. Could have been a family friend, a teacher, a parent, the family doctor, a brother . . . They tell me sometimes.’

‘Child abuse is a crime. Did you have any suspicions, from anything she said?’

‘It’s not my place . . . as a counsellor – to have “suspicions”, I mean. Who the abuser was matters to me only because it matters to my client. Because it matters to them, sometimes they tell me. That’s really all I can say…’

‘You’d tell us if anyone came to mind?’

‘Of course – but I can’t tell unless I know.’

Two worlds, Aileen Tennant sensed, were colliding within her office. In hers, the counselling world, the victim was genuinely of paramount importance, all that really mattered. The perpetrator of the abuse had, at best, a walk-on part and then only if he, or she, was invited. But to the policewoman and her kind, once a crime had been committed, the victim became a means to an end. Everything might be done in their name, but what counted, really counted, was catching and prosecuting the criminal. Miranda Stimms as Miranda Stimms no longer counted.

‘Did you know that she had a boyfriend?’

‘Yes,’ she hesitated for a second, returning her thoughts to the particular, to her own client, ‘I did. I assumed he was the catalyst, part of the reason, certainly, that she decided to come here – the sexual difficulties, fears and
so on, I assumed that was with him. Hamish, I have noted he was called. Someone, him presumably, wouldn’t understand. Not that she’d said anything to anyone, but she didn’t want to lose him, or whoever it was. She was afraid of that, I know that much. She was, as she put it, “trying to sort herself out”.’

‘Did she tell you that she was pregnant?’

Looking alarmed, the woman shook her head. ‘Maybe . . . maybe that’s what he wouldn’t understand. Maybe she thought she’d lose him?’