The Philosophy of Disgrace

by Ann Troup

  ‘Oh my god! That’s disgusting, no, it’s worse than that. I can’t find a word for it. It’, it’s ...evil. How? Why? Why would anyone do that, lie about something so awful? What was wrong with that woman that she would say something so vile? No wonder she went back after the bitch died, probably checking that the coffin lid was nailed shut just in case!’ Amy gasped, struggling to grasp the meaning of what she had just been told. ‘That’s just sick, it’s twisted. It’s foul.’ She shook her head from side to side as if the action might make the information settle in her mind in some kind of acceptable order.

  ‘Well, given what they just found in the house, it’s not surprising. Even I didn’t think Valerie Porter was capable of something like that, and I’ve seen her at her worst’. Charlie said, unsure of whether he had his own mind round the implications of it.

  ‘Dad, don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s not true is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not true. I swear, But doesn’t it give you some idea of how fragile she was, is, that she believed it?’

  Yes, it did. Rachel had been kicked when she was down, was still being kicked now. Amy put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Dad, I was really, really horrible to her today. Really spiteful’. A sob caught in her throat as she thought back to the venomous things she had said.

  Charlie reached out and patted her knee, ‘It’ll be ok, she can handle awful, she’s used to it. It’s nice she can’t handle.’

  ‘She told me that you two only got together because of circumstances, is that true?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Not for me anyway, I loved her, I still do. I always have and I probably always will. Whatever else happened, you came out of it, and I wouldn’t change that for anything’.

  ‘God dad, don’t go soppy on me, I’m really trying not to cry here!’

  Charlie ruffled her hair affectionately and she batted him away.

  ‘Seriously though, you have to tell her the truth. You can’t let her go on believing that filth. Christ, if it had been me I think I would have topped myself!’

  ‘Not Rachel, she would think it was selfish to do that. No, she will have just sucked it up and carried it on her own.’ Though his tone was casual, the pain of his statement was so acute it sent an agonising tremor of distress right through his heart. So much so, that it seemed to skip a beat or two.

  ‘That flat. The way she lives, it’s as if she’s an intruder in someone else’s life. At first, I just thought she just had tacky taste, like Gran. But it’s not that, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. She has money, in fact, she’s loaded. I think that’s the reason Valerie did what she did. I think she never changed it, never made it her own home because without us, without you, it meant nothing to her. Home is where the heart is, and her heart was always with you. I think it’s why I kept going back, trying to make sense of what she’d done. I could understand why she left me, but never why she left you. OK, I’ve heard the epilepsy excuse a million times, but I never bought it. I mean she could have paid someone to help care for you. It never made sense.’

  Amy nodded in agreement. ‘And it would have meant contact with you. Under the circumstances, I suppose she couldn’t risk that. I think she really loved you, God, her life must have been absolute hell!’ Tears filled her eyes, ‘Oh dad, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sad in my life!’ She cried.

  Charlie eased himself towards her, and started to rub her back, she was right; he had never felt so sad either. But he would mend it. The very next day he would mend it once and for all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lucille Barnes-Harman had had enough. If that man persisted on ringing her doorbell one more time, she would take a stick to him herself. Just because the police couldn’t be bothered to deal with his type effectively didn’t mean that elderly women should be terrorised in their own homes. She would tell him one more time, and that was that, if he carried on the worm would turn! Consequently, she marched resolutely towards the front door clutching in her trembling hand a large marble rolling pin. The nearest thing to a stick she had been able to find. Miffy gambolled excitedly at her slippered heels, eager for action.

  ‘I’ve told you before, go away! I have to warn you, the police are on their way and I am armed!’ She called down the hallway, brandishing the rolling pin in a wild act of bravado.

  ‘Miss Barnes-Harman. It’s me, Rachel. Can you let me in please? I don’t have my keys.’

  Lucille stared at the door in disbelief. It couldn’t be. Rachel had been carried out on a stretcher. There had been so much blood. It was impossible that she had recovered enough to be allowed home. In fact, Lucille was having a hard time coming to terms with the reality that Rachel had survived her ordeal at all. Typical of the NHS, sending people home who were barely alive. She had always favoured private medicine, a much more civilised system in her opinion, though it was true of life really, you only ever got what you paid for. Fortunately, she had always functioned with the best of health and some good British stoicism, that and a fundamental mistrust of men that were far too handsome for anybody’s good. The doorbell rang again.

  ‘Are you there? Please open the door, I really don’t feel too good. Miss Barnes-Harman?’

  Shaken from her reverie by the fragile tone in Rachel’s voice, Lucille plonked the rolling pin on the hall table and made for the door, and was shocked at what she found when she opened it.

  Rachel was leaning against the wall of the porch, her face drained of colour, her hair stuck to her face by the glaze of sweat that clung to her pallid skin. Instinctively Lucille put out her arm to help the girl inside. Rachel clung to her, gratefully, and hauled herself through the door limping badly.

  ‘Good grief Miss Porter! Look at you; I can’t believe they allowed you to come home in this state.’ Lucille was genuinely shocked. Rachel was wearing a blood stained T-shirt, the same one she had been wearing when Lucille had found her, and a pair of blue cotton trousers, the kind that surgeons wore. Both her hands sported dressings, and on her feet, she wore only carpet slippers. She looked like death warmed up.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine. Just a bit sore. They needed the bed, you know how it is.’ Rachel lied. In fact, she had just had an unholy row with the on call doctor who had point blank refused to agree to discharge her. In the end, she had threatened to walk out, wearing nothing else but her hospital gown. The doctor had grudgingly relented and had signed a prescription for her medication, and told the nurse in charge to give her some clothes to wear. He had made her sign a detailed disclaimer, absolving the hospital of all responsibility for her welfare. The A&E staff had cut off her trousers, but fortunately, there was still a twenty-pound note in the pocket, a little bloodstained, but still legal tender. The cabbie had been happy to take it when he realised that he was going to get to keep the change. He hadn’t helped her get out of the cab though, and had just driven off, leaving her to haul herself painfully up the steps to her house. Despite her gung ho attitude in the hospital, she really did feel like death. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but I didn’t have my keys’. She said wanly, trying to reassure the frightened old lady.

  ‘My dear child. Let me get you inside properly.’ She said, supporting Rachel’s weight on her thin shoulders and half carrying her to the stairs. Muttering all the while about gross neglect and abject negligence. She wanted to help Rachel into the flat, but Rachel refused, insisting that she would be all right. Both of them ignored the rust brown blood that still stained the floor, though Miffy sniffed at it and licked it with unreserved interest. Rachel thanked Lucille profusely for her help, and remained, smiling, clinging to the doorframe until she heard the door to the downstairs flat click shut.

  Once alone, she hobbled into the flat, just about ready to pass out. They had given her painkillers and stronger anticonvulsants and she needed to take both. Unable to face the mess in the kitchen she hauled herself into the bathroom and took the drugs with handfuls of water from the cold tap, clinging all the while to the ed
ge of the basin for support. Unable to move another step, she sank down onto the toilet, straightening out her injured leg, which was stiff and swollen, the sutures pulling painfully with every movement. Only then did she dare to breathe and let her mask slip, allowing her face to crumple into a contorted agony as her desperate tears began to flow.

  When the tablets kicked in, when she felt better, she would pack a bag. Now that Amy had been here, now that she was exposed she had no choice but to leave. She didn’t have a clue where she would go, one of the other flats perhaps. Lila had owned quite a few. She was pretty sure that one or two would be empty. In the meantime, there was always the hotel option. One with a huge walk-in shower preferably, where she could wash away the tide of guilt that was threatening to make her smash her head into the bathroom tiles with the next wave.

  Angela woke her boss and presented him with a cup of coffee. She was already washed and dressed having had a sleepless night spent wondering what the hell she was doing getting her boss drunk and letting him spend the night on her sofa. It was dangerous ground and she knew it. It was common knowledge that his marriage was a farce. Angela had never met his wife, but had heard on the grapevine that the woman was a harridan. But it wasn’t an excuse for encouraging him to stay. Not that there was anything in it other than a bit of mutual liking, but it wouldn’t look good if anyone at work found out. The thing was, she did like him, he was a decent bloke, and a good copper, even if he was a bit burned out. This case had taken it out of both of them yesterday. Stella Baxter’s interview had run like a bad film plot, evil stepmothers, incest, insanity, the lot. What it left them with was the chance that they wouldn’t get a prosecution based on the suspect’s blatant instability. To be honest she would be glad when the whole thing was done and dusted, then they could go back to dealing with normal felons. The type that didn’t sleep with their fathers and hoard mummified corpses.

  ‘There’s a new toothbrush in the cupboard in the bathroom and some razors and shave gel on the shelf, that’s if you don’t mind smelling of mountain flowers instead of old spice.’ She called from the kitchen, determined to avoid seeing Ratcliffe in his underpants.

  Once she heard him unzip the sleeping bag and stumble up the stairs she went into the lounge and removed all traces of his presence there, folding up the bedding, throwing out the beer bottles, spraying the room with air freshener. No evidence here, she thought quietly as she heard him empty the sink and flush the toilet.

  They drove in together, but Ratcliffe dropped her off a street away from the station, just so they could arrive separately in the office. The cold light of day had seemed to filter some sense into him too.

  There was a message on her desk from the hospital, Frances Haines was conscious. Also a message from the Met, Charlie Jones had been arrested the day before for a suspected attack on Rachel Porter, she was in hospital, and he had been released without charge. Lack of evidence. She showed Ratcliffe the messages, adding ‘What the hell is it with these people?’ Ratcliffe had said nothing, he was too busy trying to get an extension on the length of time they could hold Stella Baxter without charge, and he was trying to get a psych report done on her. In the meantime, he told Angela to grab one of the uniformed officers and get down to the hospital to get a statement from Frances Haines.

  Angela took one look at the woman, propped up regally in her hospital bed, and decided that she didn’t like her. There was something gratingly theatrical in the woman’s pose that smacked of someone milking their disadvantaged position to the max. As Angela sat down, Frances gamely struggled up on her pillows and asked her for a glass of water. Which Angela grudgingly poured for her and waited patiently for her to drink, watching with mounting irritation as the woman fell back onto her pillows with a wan sigh, saying ‘I’m not sure how much I will be able to tell you, it’s all been such a blur.’

  ‘We just need a statement of what happened on that day.’ Angela repeated, reluctant to engage in whatever game Frances Haines wanted her to play.

  The woman gave a stifled sob, holding her hand over her mouth and waving her apology at Angela. Angela and the other officer, PC Phil Bennett, exchanged glances.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s all just so terribly upsetting, but I’ll do my best. Right, here goes’. She said taking an exaggerated breath. ‘I was at my former family home, clearing it after my mother’s recent death. My sister, Rachel was inside the house and I was outside with one of the men we had employed to help. Having done the bulk of the work in the house, I decided to tackle the outbuildings. I knew it was going to be a long job as no one had been in them for years. I went in first and started to hand things out to the man. Eventually I uncovered a large tin trunk, assuming that it was full of old junk I asked my helper to pull it out and help me to open it. We were surprised to find that it was extremely heavy. It’s difficult to recall what happened next, it’s still all quite a blur I’m afraid, but I know we managed to get the lid up. All I can remember then is seeing a hand, a human hand. I think then that I must have staggered backwards and hit my head on the door. That’s it, that’s all I remember.’ She said with an apologetic smile.

  Angela waited until PC Bennett had finished writing and handed over the paperwork, and then she read Frances’s words back to her, asked her to read it then asked her if it was an accurate account of the events on that day. Frances agreed that it was, and put her signature to the page. ‘Is that all?’ She asked.

  ‘Yes thank you.’ Angela said, getting to her feet. ‘We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else we need from you.’

  ‘Well that’s all there is to tell I’m afraid. My husband tells me you’ve found Stella, how is she?’ Frances said, a pained expression on her face.

  ‘Mrs Baxter is currently helping us with our enquiries.’ Angela said, a little more curtly than perhaps she should have.

  ‘But how is she bearing up, she’s never been a terribly capable sort, if you know what I mean. I must admit I find it hard to believe my own sister capable of such a thing.’ She said stifling another sob.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m unable to discuss the details of the case at this stage. We’ll be in touch Mrs Haines.’ With that, she nodded at Bennett and turned to leave, not even bothering to say goodbye.

  Back in the car, she turned to Bennett. ‘What did you make of that then?’

  Bennett shrugged. ‘Not for me to speculate really, but I reckon it was worth at least a BAFTA, if not and Oscar.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought too.’ Angela said, wondering how a woman who had been in a coma for three days could have rehearsed a statement so thoroughly when the subject of her account had been the discovery of her deceased brother in law crudely mummified in a tin trunk.

  Back at the office, she compared Frances’s statement with the one taken from Steve Budd on the day the bodies had been discovered. They tied up, except for the fact that Steve had reported that Frances had called out the word ‘Roy’ when the trunk had been opened just before she had knocked herself senseless. What DS Angela Watson wanted to know was how Frances could have identified her brother in law from the mere sight of a mummified hand? The finding of an intact wallet and the presence of a gold canine tooth had identified Roy Baxter’s body. From the glimpse that Angela got of his remains, the only thing she could have identified him as on that day would have been a man-sized piece of beef jerky. Where was Ratcliffe? They needed to talk.

  Ratcliffe was once again standing in Julia Ferris’s office, hovering in the doorway as usual, ever reluctant to venture in to the domain of the dead. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  Julia peered at him over her glasses and treated him to an amused smile. ‘I did indeed; I have some interesting news for you.’ She picked up a small plastic jar and swirled the contents.

  Ratcliffe could see something unpleasant floating in the liquid; no doubt, it was some body part that had been pickled by Dr Death. His face betraying his revulsion he asked. ‘What is it?’

 
Julia smiled, looking at the sample fondly, ‘It’s a piece of skin, well, scalp actually. I recovered it from the shed door at The Limes. It came from Frances Haines.’

  Ratcliffe was nonplussed. ‘And?’

  Julia savoured the moment, making Ratcliffe come down and look at things that revolted him was one of her favourite pastimes. It amused her to see him squirm. Not that she disliked him, she didn’t, and he was a nice guy. But his approach to her and what she did amused her and she liked to play him a little, especially since she had found out his nickname for her.

  ‘I tested it; the DNA matches with the hair that was found on Baxter. Gene for gene, so to speak.’ She said, waiting for him to react. ‘I only ran the test for the sake of being thorough, after all we were looking for Stella Baxter’s DNA, but I’ve run her sample, and there is no match.’ Ratcliffe’s face was a picture. ‘Methinks you have the wrong sister.’

  Ratcliffe’s mind was processing nineteen to the dozen, but like every good computer, he was able to convert it to a background activity. ‘What about the baby, does Stella’s DNA check out with that?’

  Julia shook her head. ‘Not able to get a sample, he was too far gone. There’s not a lot on a baby that would withstand the process he was exposed to, or would last that length of time. But, I ran Rachel’s sample against Stella’s and there is a match. So my guess is she could be telling the truth about the baby, but no way of proving it I’m afraid.’

  ‘And what about the father?’

  ‘Do you have any idea how much all these tests cost Ratcliffe? Or more to the point do you care? Well Benton does, and she’s after your hide for all this. But in answer to your question, William Porter is Rachel’s father, but is not Stella’s. I took the liberty of requesting Stella’s biological mother’s medical records. She didn’t die of TB, she died of Syphilis. By the way, I’ve not met Stella Baxter, and I only have her DNA, not a blood sample. Tell me, is there anything odd about her eyes, and the way she moves?’