Under Parr

by Andrea Bramhall

  “I’m sorry, no, I don’t.”

  “Okay, we’ll come back to this in a little while.” She gathered up the photos and slipped them back into the document wallet. Next she let the picture of the skeleton slide out and sit on the table in front of him.

  He pushed his chair away from the table as though it were on fire. “Get that away from me. That’s disgusting.”

  One-nil.

  “I’m sorry about that, Jason. That just slipped out of the folder. Please accept my apology.” She noisily slid it back into the folder. “Can I get you anything, Jason? You look a little pale there. Some water, perhaps?”

  He nodded, still staring at her. His eyes were wide and his eyebrows drawn up. Not in a frown, more like a shocked expression. He’d prepared himself for the images of Alan in life. Even the pictures of the facial reconstruction were expected. He hadn’t expected to see the bones.

  Jimmy stepped in with a plastic cup.

  “Detective Constable Powers has entered the room with some water for Mr Maxwell.”

  Maxwell chugged it down in one and Jimmy took the empty cup away. Now they had his DNA too. She knew Jimmy would be bagging the cup and sending it over to Ruth to be processed.

  She wanted to smile that he’d let his guard down so easily, but she bit it back and continued with her next question. She placed a picture of Reginald Barton on the table. “Do you know this man?”

  Maxwell nodded.

  “For the tape please, Jason.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I’m showing Mr Maxwell exhibit BH2310. A photograph of Mr Reginald Barton. Jason, could you please explain how you know Mr Barton.”

  “He was a resident at Brancombe House for the past few years.”

  “And you were his care worker?”

  “We all worked with everybody. No one specifically looked after any one resident.”

  “I understand, but Diana Lodge told us that you were his key worker.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “And what does that entail?”

  “Making sure that Reg had everything he needed, that he wasn’t running out of socks and whatnot. Getting in touch with his family if he did need anything. Making sure he got his baths every week, scheduling his chiropody appointments.” He shrugged. “Just stuff like that.”

  “And how many residents are you the key worker for?”

  “Ten.”

  “That seems a lot.”

  “I’ve been there a long time. It’s not difficult work.” He clenched and unclenched his fists against his thighs. The tendons and muscles in his forearms flexed with each movement. “It’s stuff I’d do anyway, really.”

  “So as his key worker you’d have to be privy to exactly what Reg’s medical prognosis was.”

  “Yes. He had a brain tumour that was causing severe seizures.”

  “Did you administer any of his medication?”

  “No, I’m a carer, not a nurse. Only the nursing staff can do that sort of stuff. We do the things that are considered beneath the trained medical staff.”

  Kate cocked her head to the side as she caught the note of bitterness in his voice. A chink in the armour? “Did that make you feel like a second-class citizen?”

  “What?”

  “That there were people working there doing things that you weren’t allowed to. That they considered themselves too good to do what you had to do, day after day. I bet that pissed you off.”

  He clenched his fists tight and kept them balled on his knees. “No, that’s their job. Most of them do it pretty well. They do their job and I do mine. I’m not trained to do their job and they can’t do mine. Not the way I do.”

  She watched him as he realised what he’d said. “Meaning?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, thinking about his response. “The nurses don’t care about the patients. They’ve got too many to look after at any one time. They don’t even know their patients’ names unless they’re in their rooms where their names are on the door.” He tapped his chest. “Not me. I’m not like that. I know my patients. I know what they need, what they want. I care for them.” He shook his head. “I care about them. And because I care about them, I can do things for them that no one else will.”

  Kate pulled the photo of Reg on the morgue table from the folder and put it in front of Maxwell. The picture showed a close up of Reg’s mouth with the bruising revealed under the harsh light. She pointed to the bruises. “Is this something you did that no one else would?”

  He stared at her, refusing to look at the picture.

  “I’m showing Mr Maxwell BH2311. Is this what you did?”

  Kate waited.

  Maxwell said nothing.

  “Very well.” She left the picture on the table. “So tell me about the seizures Reg was suffering from.”

  Maxwell squinted at her quick change of subject. “The seizures?”

  “Yes. What did they do to him? How often did he have them? That sort of thing. You were his key worker, weren’t you? You know this stuff? Or should I ask one of the nurses to check his notes and tell me the answers?”

  “Pfft. The seizures started off irregular. Maybe one a month. But during a seizure, blood flow got restricted and parts of his brain would get damaged. The more damage there was, the more seizures he had, so the more damage was created. It was a vicious circle. One that the medication didn’t work for, and one he was never going to get better from.”

  Kate nodded sadly, and echoed Eva’s earlier statement. “Death was a release for him.”

  Maxwell’s eyes lit up and she saw a glimmer of excitement in them. He thought she understood his perspective. He thought she agreed with it.

  His shoulders relaxed and his fists unclenched. He wiped a hand across his face, swiping away his anxiety with the sweat he removed. “Exactly. Every day was worse than the one before. A week ago, he could speak. He could communicate enough to tell us what he wanted. But then he had another seizure on Monday.” Maxwell bent his head and clasped his hands on the table. He looked deflated. As though he really missed the relationship he’d had with Reg.

  Kate suddenly realised that Maxwell didn’t see Reg as a victim or a patient. He saw him as a friend.

  “It wiped out what was left of his communication skills. He was just turning into a vegetable where he sat.”

  “It must have been terrible to see your friend like that.”

  He nodded. “It was. Reg was such a strong man. A good man. To see him sitting there day after day dribbling and pissing all over himself. What kind of life is that for a man? For anyone.”

  “None at all,” Kate agreed.

  “He didn’t deserve that.”

  “No.”

  He looked at the picture of Reg. Not the one showing the bruises. The one showing him alive and smiling. “This is the Reg I’ll always remember. Not seeing him after he started dying, one piece at a time. Not the way he looked after he died.”

  Bingo. “I thought it was Anna who found him when he died. I didn’t realise you were with her.” She shuffled through her pages, pretending to locate a report she knew by heart while she watched him. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Anna found him and it was called in by the nurse on duty. They were with him until the GP came and declared Reg dead. When did you see him?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “But you said you didn’t want to remember him the way he looked after he died. What did you mean, Jason?”

  “I…I…” he stammered, his gaze darting about the room, and his breathing quickened for a beat or two. “I meant the picture you showed me.” His breathing slowed a little and a smug, relieved smile twitched at the corner of his lips.

  Yes, it was plausible. But it’s not fucking true. “Hm.” She shifted tracks again. “Do you know that we’re going to be able to prove who made this mark on Reg’s face?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes. The coroner and crime scene people are using the bruise to make
a cast of the hand that made this bruise. We’ll be able to match it to a person when it’s finished.”

  He paled and a bead of sweat formed on his upper lip.

  She smiled and shook her head in awe. “Science is truly amazing, don’t you think?”

  He didn’t respond with words but his jaw clenched.

  Is that grinding teeth I can hear? “Now we know we aren’t going to be able to get a print or anything conclusive like that. But that’s actually okay. It doesn’t really matter at this point. Should I tell you why?”

  He folded his hands across his chest. His tunic bunched under his armpits and pulled tight across huge pectoral muscles.

  “It’s actually quite simple. See, what this cast will show is the exact size of the hand that killed Reginald Barton.”

  His chest rose and fell as his breathing sped up.

  “Reginald Barton never left Brancombe House.”

  Maxwell’s right eye twitched. A tiny, tiny little movement.

  “So his killer had to be there. In Brancombe House, and his hand had to be that size.” She tapped the photo again. “And that took a big hand, Jason.” She splayed her fingers out. “I’ve met the other men who work at Brancombe House. The ones who were on shift last night.” She closed her hand and held her finger and thumb about an inch apart. “And they’ve all got tiny hands.” She pointed to his where he had them tucked under his armpits still. “Except you.”

  His lip curled into a sneer but he still said nothing. He just stared at her. The look in his eye had gone from feeling understood to one of anger. He felt she’d let him down by not being able to understand what he’d done for Reg. She could see it. She needed to keep him off balance. She needed to keep him thinking on his feet until he slipped up again.

  “Was Alan Parr ill?”

  “What?”

  “Like Reg, was Alan ill?”

  “No.” He paused. “I don’t know. How would I know that?”

  “You said no, first. You did know him.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. We’ve got photographs to prove it.”

  He waved a hand in her direction. “I mean I don’t remember him.”

  “That’s not what you said. You said you didn’t know him. That’s different.”

  “I meant, I don’t remember him.”

  “Then why didn’t you say that?”

  “Because you’re trying to confuse me.” He put both hands flat on the table and leaned forward, his chest almost parallel with the surface. “You’re trying to get me to say things that aren’t true.”

  Kate shook her head. “No, Jason, far from it. The only thing I’m trying to do is get you to tell the truth.”

  “You don’t want the truth.”

  “I can assure you, that’s all I want.”

  “No, you couldn’t deal with it.”

  “Try me.”

  He opened his mouth, but stopped the words from tumbling from his tongue. He sneered at her again and shook his head as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest again.

  Damn it, that was close. She could feel it. “Pathetic.” She sighed. “For the purposes of the tape Mr Maxwell is shaking his head.” She needed another line of attack and his ego was ripe for a little prodding. “Why didn’t you become a nurse?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said you care about your patients, more so than the nursing staff. Surely if you were a nurse you’d be able to help your patients more than you can as a care worker.”

  “I can do everything my patients need me to do for them just as I am, thanks.”

  “But carers are the bottom of the food chain in the medical profession. So why wouldn’t you want to better yourself and thereby do better for the patients you profess to care so much about? Did you ever apply to go to nursing school or medical school?”

  “No. Like I said, I don’t see the need.”

  “Yes, I heard. You can do everything they need of you as you are.”

  “That’s right.” He smiled smugly.

  “Do you know what that says to me?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You didn’t have the stones to try.” She crossed her own arms, mirroring his pose, and leaned back in her chair. “Don’t you think, Detective Constable Brothers?”

  She heard Tom chuckle behind her. “Definitely, sarge.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Maxwell hissed through gritted teeth.

  “Maybe,” Kate conceded. “But I think I know an awful lot, Jason. And in this job, thinking I know something is the first step to me being able to prove the truth of it. That’s the position I put myself in by becoming a detective rather than remaining a uniformed officer.” She leaned on the desk again. “That’s what I mean about getting yourself off the bottom rung of the ladder, Jason. As you climb, you start to see things a bit differently. Other options open up to you. Other possibilities. New abilities.” She shrugged. “But you don’t know any of that, because you’re happy wiping shitty arses and thinking you’re the only person in the world who can do it.”

  Tom sneered behind them both and Maxwell’s glare shifted to him.

  “What is it that makes your arse-wiping technique so much better than anyone else’s?” She waited until he was looking at her again. “Do you use balm on the tissue?”

  He didn’t respond but the vein at his temple thumped and a bead of sweat ran down his reddening cheeks.

  “No balm then. Do you use a wet cloth to ease the chafing?”

  His jaw clenched tighter. Tom must have been able to hear the grinding.

  “Come on, Jason. Enquiring minds want to know. What’s your secret?”

  “You want to know what my secret is?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper through his teeth.

  “Oh, yeah,” Kate whispered back. “I’m waiting with bated breath.”

  Maxwell sneered. “You wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t. You don’t have the capacity to perceive my secrets, my truths.”

  “Try me.”

  “You sit here in your little box and think you’re all powerful. Don’t you?”

  She didn’t respond. She could feel he was on the verge of letting go.

  “You think you’ve got it all under control. You think you’ve got me under control. With your giant ape in the back of the room to protect you.” He laughed and held his right hand up. He positioned his hand as though it were wrapped around her neck and flexed his fingers and thumb.

  She could almost feel those fingers around her neck. Feel the squeeze. But she refused to react.

  He sneered again. “You haven’t got a fucking clue what control is. What power is.” Spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth and his cheeks reddened. “True power.”

  “Then why don’t you enlighten me, Jason.”

  “Because you don’t deserve the truth.”

  “No? But Reg deserved to die?

  “Reg didn’t deserve to live! Not like that. He wanted to die, you stupid bitch. He wanted it over with.”

  “How do you know that? You’re the one who told me he couldn’t speak any more. Sat there dribbling and pissing all over himself, I believe was the phrase you used.”

  “I know, because I always know.”

  “You always know?”

  “Oh, yeah. I always know.” He curled his hands into fists. “I know when they’re ready to go. I know how they want to go. I can see it in their eyes. Begging me to set them free. They beg everyone, but there’s only me who can see it. There’s only me who’s got the bottle to do what needs to be done. Only me who cares enough. You talk about not having the stones to go to nursing school. Bollocks. No nursing school can teach me what I already know. What I can already see every time they look at me. I’ve got more than enough balls to do what they need from me.”

  “You kill them.” It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be.

  “No, Detective.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t kill
them. I set them free!”

  “Free from what exactly?”

  “From the pain. The misery. The loneliness. I set them free from this pathetic excuse of a life that they’re forced to endure because we have the medical skill to keep them alive, but not the decency to know when to stop. When we shouldn’t use our wonderful advances. So I give them what they crave.” He tapped the picture of Reg’s bruises. “Even while he kicked and tried to breathe again, I could see his eyes thanking me. He didn’t want to live like that.”

  “But he fought you.”

  “They all do. I think it’s their way of saying goodbye to life. They all fight a little. A little kick or a cry. But none of them wanted to live the way they were. None of them.”

  “None of them?”

  “That’s right. Annie, Reg, and the rest of them. They were so grateful to be free of the pain.” He shrugged. “What I did for them was the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing?” Life is precious. Life is all we have. How could someone think that snuffing that out was the right thing to do? But he was convinced. She could see the certainty in his eyes as he looked at her. He was convinced that he was the answer to these people’s prayers.

  “Definitely the right thing to do.” He snorted a derisive laugh. “We put down dogs, Detective. When they’re old, in pain, incontinent. We say that there’s no quality of life for them, and we just give them an injection. Then we feel all self-righteous about ourselves, that we did what’s best for them, and that it had nothing to do with the fact that they’d become inconvenient to us. We don’t put down our elderly and infirm. No. We stick them in homes where we can forget about them and the inconvenience of an elderly, incontinent mother or father. We dump them in places like Brancombe House to rot. Why do human beings qualify for less humanity than a bloody dog? Why are we made to suffer pain and anguish and humiliation in ways that we don’t even subject an animal too?” His eyes blazed with passion and fury as he spoke. “That’s not right, Detective. That’s cruel. And you sit there in judgement of me. All I did was give them relief from the shithole their loved ones had dumped them in.” He banged his hands on the table. “I gave them wings, Detective, and let them fly. I unshackled them from the chains of drugs and pain that held them captive. I set them free!”