That letter had set in motion a chain of events that ended with Zoe being detained for assessment at Maudsley Psychiatric Hospital in Camberwell under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act 1983.
Not that the assessment had been clear and undisputed.
The letters flying back and forth between the hospital psychiatrists had been copied to her medical notes and I read through them all in chronological order.
The only thing the medics all seemed to agree on was that Zoe was suffering from some form of mental illness, whether it be schizophrenia or another type of dissociative disorder. What they had disagreed about was whether she had represented a significant danger to herself or others.
However, it was a single-sheet letter from one of the psychotherapists that was the real eye-opener.
Whereas the doctors were arguing about what was wrong with her, the therapists were clearly concentrating more on why she was ill, and one of them had reported that, in one counselling session, Zoe had claimed that she had been sexually abused throughout her childhood by both her father and her brothers.
What?
I read it through again twice more to ensure I hadn’t misunderstood, but there it was in black and white. No mistake.
However, it seems that it was not the first time such an accusation had been made.
‘As before’ was written in pen across the top of the letter, presumably by her then GP, followed by a dash and a single word – ‘fantasist’.
As before.
It looked like I would have to read through every one of the envelopes after all.
The detective sergeant returned as I was using my phone to photograph the psychotherapist’s letter.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘But still lots to do yet. I’ll be here for another hour or so at least.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said.
‘Any chance of a coffee?’ I asked.
I could almost see the mental process of whether he, too, should be complicit in helping the defence, even if it was just to fetch me a cup of coffee.
‘I’ll see what I can manage. Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, thanks.’
He disappeared and, as I reached for envelope 2, Kate called.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’
‘At the police station in Bury St Edmunds. Going through Zoe Chadwick’s medical records.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Are you going to be long?’
I looked at my watch. It was already half past four. Where had the day gone? But, to be fair, I’d done a lot since being dropped at the hotel this morning.
‘Another hour, at least,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘I just wondered if you’d like to meet later for a drink?’
‘How about dinner?’ I said. ‘And why don’t you ask Janie to join us?’
‘Janie?’ Kate sounded unsure.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She might need cheering up. Let’s go to that Chinese. I’ve had no lunch and I’m hungry.’
‘The Fountain?’
‘That’s the one,’ I said. ‘How about seven-thirty?’
‘I’ll book a table,’ she said, still sounding slightly tentative.
I hung up and DS Venables returned with a mug of steaming brown liquid that tasted vaguely of coffee.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘I knock off at six so you’ll have to be finished by then.’
‘Should be fine,’ I said. ‘Come back just before you go.’
The sergeant hesitated for a moment but then shrugged his shoulders and left me alone again. He was clearly fighting his natural instinct to be obstructive.
I went through everything in the notes, but found no great revelations about abuse. The only possible reference was a letter to Zoe’s doctor from an educational psychologist expressing concern that the outcome of the recent investigation by the Children’s Welfare Department had done little to improve Zoe’s state of mind or her ability to concentrate on her learning in school.
The letter was dated June 2004 when Zoe would have been fifteen.
It was in the same envelope as numerous medical reports detailing the extent of Zoe’s self-harming, specifically cutting her arms and legs with razor blades or scissors. Three times the injuries had been serious enough for her parents to take her to hospital and, it seemed, there were several other occasions when a visit to the doctor was required.
I felt so sad for her.
How dreadfully disturbed she must have been to believe she had no alternative but to slice open her own skin.
What had she been seeking? Attention? Understanding? Love?
Or was it something totally different?
I remembered back to my time as a solicitor in Totnes. The daughter of a divorce client had regularly cut her arms as a way of punishing herself, believing wrongly that it was all her fault that her parents were ending their marriage.
Was Zoe also trying to punish herself?
If so, for what?
Her medical records gave no clues.
Overall, I was surprised that, considering the number of instances of self-harming, there hadn’t been more referrals to specialist psychiatric care during her early teenage years.
In fact, the remainder of the notes mostly detailed only a diet of routine everyday non-emergency medical consultations, dealing with such unexciting problems as an outbreak of acne and a recurring sinus infection.
Indeed, the only other item of any interest I found was a letter signed by a Dr Andrews, director of somewhere called the Healthy Woman Centre in Bell Street, Cambridge, dated 8 August 2002. It was addressed to Dr Benaud, Zoe’s then GP, and it reported that the gynaecological intervention, previously discussed on the telephone, had been successfully completed that morning and the sample sent for analysis. Strangely, there was no further indication of the problem or the outcome.
I had just finished taking photographs of anything I thought might be relevant when DS Venables returned to say it was time for me to go.
‘Find anything?’ he asked sardonically as we walked back along the windowless corridor.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Could have told you that before you even started.’ He laughed. ‘I wasted my time doing the same thing last week.’
‘But it’s best to be sure,’ I said, and thought about asking him about the letter from the psychotherapist. ‘Did you follow anything up?’
‘I did try to contact one of her past doctors about her cutting her arms and stuff, but he died three years ago.’
He didn’t sound particularly bothered.
‘Nothing else?’ I asked.
‘Nope.’
He let me out and the driver took me back to Newmarket.
The food at The Fountain was all that Janie had claimed it was, with the crispy-duck pancakes going down a real treat.
‘Any news?’ Kate asked. ‘Did you find anything?’
‘Not really,’ I replied, giving her a quick ‘don’t go there’ glance.
I didn’t want to mention anything with Janie listening. I knew she was currently pretty pissed off with Ryan, but I thought she might still be loyal to Oliver. Not that that was going to stop me asking her some questions. That’s why I’d suggested that Kate should invite her in the first place.
‘Tell me more about Zoe,’ I said, rolling another pancake.
‘What about her?’ Janie asked.
‘Did she ever have a boyfriend?’
‘Not that I remember. All the boys at school tended to steer well clear of her. So did most of the girls.’
‘Did she ever talk to you about sex?’
She giggled. ‘What about sex?’
‘I thought teenage girls talk about sex all the time, just like teenage boys.’
‘Of course they do. But I don’t remember Zoe doing so. She was never “one of the girls” in that respect. Not in any respect, in fact. She was always so serious and anxious. I don’t
think I ever heard her laugh.’
‘Did she talk at all about her life at home?’
‘She didn’t talk much about anything.’
‘Do you know if she got on well with her brothers?’ I asked.
‘I don’t recall her getting on well with anyone. She used to make things up about them all the time.’
‘What sorts of things?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Half the time she would praise them for being so brilliant and then she’d accuse them of being cruel towards her or the horses.’
‘Did the social services ever get involved?’
‘I know they did at least once,’ Janie said. ‘Two women turned up at school. But Zoe wouldn’t help them. In fact, she accused them both of lying and trying to put her into care. That was typical of her. Just when you tried to help her, she’d go and blame you for something you hadn’t done.’
‘Like cutting her arms?’ I said. ‘Kate told me.’
‘Exactly,’ Janie said. ‘She told a teacher I’d done it. All complete twaddle, of course, she did it to herself, but nevertheless it caused me all sorts of problems at the time. Stupid girl.’
‘I’m surprised the teacher believed her,’ I said.
‘I don’t think she really did but, you know how it is, everyone covers their own back, just in case. So the teacher simply passed on the accusation to her boss and it just spiralled out of control.’
‘But it was all right in the end?’
‘Yeah,’ Janie said. ‘Eventually. But not before I’d been given the third degree. I never trusted her again. No one did – not the kids, nor the teachers.’
‘Or believed her?’
‘Yeah, especially that. She used to invent stuff about people that was more and more weird. She’d accuse everyone of bullying her, which they probably did, but she’d make up awful things about them and then swear blind they were true. Mind you, she’d been doing that since primary school.’
‘St Louis Roman Catholic Primary School?’ I asked.
She looked at me strangely as if wondering how I knew.
‘It was in the medical records,’ I said, even though that was a lie. It had been in the Simpson White report. ‘Was Zoe a Catholic?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Janie said. ‘But I’m not one either. Only about half the kids at St Louis were, even though we all had to go to the Catholic church for school services.’
‘So was Zoe odd right from the start?’
‘I can’t really remember,’ Janie said. ‘I think so. She always seemed to live in her own fantasy world.’
Fantasist.
And no one would have believed her even if some of what she’d said had been true.
Our main courses arrived and the three of us talked about other things for a while but, eventually, I couldn’t resist returning the conversation to the Chadwicks.
‘Do you happen to know how old Ryan was when he left home?’ I asked.
‘Left home?’ Janie said. ‘Do you mean Castleton House?’
I nodded, popping a piece of beef in black bean sauce into my mouth.
‘He was still there when I arrived,’ said Janie. ‘But by then he was living in one of the flats above the old yard. The one that burned down, in fact. He only finally moved out when he got married.’
Eight years ago. He’d been thirty-four.
‘How about Declan?’ I asked.
‘He’d gone before I started. But only just, I think.’
Odd, I thought, for Declan not to have flown the nest sooner, considering the animosity between him and his elder brother.
‘Oliver’s very keen to keep his boys close around him. He’s always saying that he is head of the Chadwick dynasty, one that will dictate the direction taken by horse racing for decades to come.’
‘Has he been in touch with you again since this morning?’ I asked.
‘I’ve had a couple of missed calls on my mobile from the stable office number,’ Janie said. ‘I didn’t answer them on purpose. Let them stew for a while.’ She smiled at me but it wasn’t the real McCoy. It didn’t make it all the way to her eyes.
‘You’ll go back, then?’ I said.
‘Yeah. Probably.’ She sighed. ‘What else can I do?’
‘I’m sure there are other stables that would love to take you on.’
‘Better the devil you know,’ she said.
‘But make sure you ask for that raise,’ Kate said.
‘And compensation for hurt feelings,’ I added.
We completed our dinner in happy companionship.
‘Are you going home tonight?’ I asked Kate as we stood up to go.
‘Not unless you force me to,’ she said. ‘My bag’s in the Mini.’
I smiled at her and she smiled back at me.
‘Oh my God!’ Janie said with a laugh. ‘You two lovebirds. It’s enough to make me vomit.’
The three of us walked out of the restaurant door onto Newmarket High Street.
‘Have either of you two ever heard of a place in Cambridge called the Healthy Woman Centre?’
Both of them laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.
‘The name,’ Kate said. ‘It’s so misleading.’
‘Why?’
‘Because everyone knows that the Healthy Woman Centre is just an abortion clinic.’
28
I didn’t sleep very well and woke on Tuesday morning with the rising of the sun at five o’clock.
My mind was simply too busy whirling facts round and round like clothes in a spin dryer. And the threads were getting just as tangled.
Newmarket in May comes alive well before six and I lay awake listening to the sounds of the morning. Kate was still sleeping soundly beside me and, being careful not to wake her, I got up and dressed.
I used a sheet of the hotel notepad to leave her a note on my pillow.
Gone out to the gallops. Back for breakfast at 7.30.
I walked up the Warren Hill training grounds to the very top where the tree plantation grows on the crown of the hill. I sat down on a stump and looked down on the town with the huge cantilever roof of the racecourse grandstand standing out white above the houses in the far distance.
I didn’t usually like early mornings but there was something rather special about being up here at this hour, before the ever-strengthening sunshine had driven away the last of the mist from the hollows.
Was it really only a week since I had first walked this same turf, getting mud all over my polished black city shoes?
So much had happened in that time but, here I was, still searching for the key to the mystery of why the seven horses had died in a stable fire.
Had it been just an attempt to cover the murder of Zoe?
Or was there another reason as well?
And why had Zoe been there in the first place?
What did Arabella know that she was afraid would all come out?
Was it to do with sexual abuse?
Had Zoe really had an abortion at age thirteen?
And, if so, who had been the father?
So many questions but precious few answers.
And there was something troubling me about what Janie had said.
I took out my smartphone and sent a text message to the research team containing a couple of requests. One was easy and the other much more difficult.
I knew that the wizards were renowned for getting into work early and leaving late, but I didn’t expect the confirmation of reception reply that I received back almost immediately.
It was only five forty-five in the morning.
They need to get a life, I thought.
At six o’clock, I watched as the strings of horses started to appear and, each in turn, cantered up the polytrack towards me, the sound of their hooves on the ground growing louder as they approached.
And, talking about hooves, whose stupid idea had it been to lock me in a stable with the mad horse Momentum?
I considered that
a real affront to my dignity. I had walked straight into a potentially disastrous situation when I was the very person that others came to in order to get them out of theirs.
I didn’t particularly want that on my CV.
As ASW was always telling his operatives, we were in business to protect the reputations of our clients, but the most important reputation we needed to protect was our own and that of our company. Without that we were nothing.
I watched as a Land Rover drove up Moulton Road and parked.
Ryan and Oliver, I thought, but only Ryan emerged. Oliver was probably still at home trying to mollify his wife after my exposé yesterday concerning the monthly payments.
I smiled at the memory and decided it was time to insert another thunderflash.
I remained hidden by the cover of the tree line and watched as three strings of light-blue caps and red pom-poms came up the polytrack, Ryan watching them intently through his binoculars.
The horses made two runs each up the track and then Ryan walked back to his Land Rover and drove away. Back to Oliver’s house for his coffee before second lot.
I stood up, went down the hill and back to the Bedford Lodge Hotel.
‘Thought you’d deserted me again,’ Kate said when I walked in.
‘Never,’ I replied. ‘I just needed some space to think.’
‘Did it help?’
‘Not really.’
‘You should have stayed here with me then,’ she said in mild rebuke.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Fancy some breakfast?’
‘To be honest,’ Kate said, ‘I’m still pretty full from last night’s Chinese. But I could murder a coffee.’
Murder, I thought.
I needed to remind myself that I was dealing with someone capable of the most heinous of crimes. And he or she would probably do anything not to get caught.
In the end I skipped the coffee as well, opting instead to take a thunderflash along the Fordham Road.
Susan Chadwick opened her front door in jeans and a sweatshirt, and with no red lipstick in evidence.
‘Ryan’s up at the yard,’ she said.
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