by Alison Bruce
‘I’ve read some – heard comments. I’d just like it first-hand.’
‘Fair enough. So you have four deaths that are possible suicides. They weren’t part of the same group of friends, but each person knew at least one of the others?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you just want general background?’
‘Yes, please. Without knowing specifics, the kind of questions you’d want to ask and the kind of background information that you would take into consideration.’
‘Okay, I understand. Have you heard of the term “suicide cluster”?’
‘It was mentioned at the station.’
‘Well, when I use the word “cluster” I’m talking about both suicides and attempts that are linked in some way. So, for instance, maybe there is a group of suicides at one college or in a particular community.’
‘Geographically linked.’
‘Possibly. They might also be grouped by time, as in impact suicides where an event such as the death of a celebrity or the collapse of a bank seems to provide the stimulus.’
‘So by place or event?’
‘Yes. It’s usually referred to as a link by time or space – space meaning place.’
‘There’s another term I’ve seen mentioned: contagion.’
Miss Martin nodded. ‘When talking about suicides, the words “contagion” and “cluster” both relate to a situation of multiple suicides, but are actually quite different. The cluster is the way the group is related, while contagion is a theory about cause. As the name implies, it’s the idea that a suicide has been triggered in response to an earlier suicide.’
‘It’s catching, you mean?’
‘In essence, yes. But I must stress that it’s a complicated subject, and as far as I’m concerned, the contagion idea is unproven. There are key groups that tend to be more vulnerable: students and psychiatric patients, for example. But these people may naturally gravitate towards grouping with similarly minded individuals, and my personal view is that it is the propensity for depression amongst those connected to the first victim that puts them at risk. In the sense that the initial suicide acts as a catalyst, that could be argued as being contagion – but any notion that a person who has never before suffered from depression or suicidal tendencies would be suddenly overtaken by a desire to kill themselves is nonsense.’
Elizabeth Martin offered to talk Goodhew through some published papers on the subject. He declined. He was just about keeping up with her, but had the feeling he ought to find a few medical students to hang out with before he tried keeping pace with a fully fledged consultant again in the near future.
‘This case I’m dealing with . . .’
‘The one in the papers?’
He nodded. He hadn’t seen any news for several days but knew Shanie’s death had been referred to on the billboards. Unless he had a specific reason to check a media report on an active case, he kept well away from the press. It was hard enough to keep his thinking straight without tripping up on other people’s supposition.
‘And there were two cases before, and one since?’
‘Potentially, yes. There’s a gap of over two years between number two and number three, though.’
‘But numbers three and four are just days apart?’
‘Correct.’
‘Unless number three was particularly close to either of the first two and had, for example, been finding it difficult to cope since their deaths, I’d feel sceptical about considering that they might be linked. Incidentally, I saw no mention of related suicides in the paper.’
‘I don’t believe they’ve made a connection yet.’
‘Better if it stays that way. Once the media starts with the dramatic headlines, these things take on an identity of their own. Boredom, lack of belonging and impulsivity can make people do things they won’t then live to regret . . . But, more crucially for your case, I think you should consider Shanie Faulkner as an unconnected case.’
‘Okay.’
‘With number four, you need to consider whether the third death alone provided sufficient stimulus to link them.’
‘Possibly two pairs of suicides, then?’
Elizabeth Martin nodded, but had suddenly become distracted. She rose from her chair and crossed to a small oak writing desk next to the door. With a tug the front opened to reveal four bundles of newspapers, each held together with a thick elastic band. ‘I like to keep the previous four weeks; it’s surprising how much local news is discussed during sessions. Here we are.’ She pulled the band from one bundle and flattened the copies out on the writing surface. She had her back to him so that the pages were partly obscured by her body.
As he hadn’t been invited to join her, Goodhew stayed where he was.
‘Do you always separate work from work like this?’ she asked him casually.
He wished he had joined her then, as he would have liked to witness her expression as she spoke. ‘Like what?’
She poised, with a page half turned. ‘Take tasks away from the job then come back with them later.’
Even though she wasn’t looking at him, Goodhew shrugged, then replied, ‘Sometimes.’
‘Don’t you think I recognize avoidance when I hear it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You, question after question, but still avoiding giving me a straight answer. Obviously you’ve heard of a square peg in a round hole? Well, you’re potentially a peg of many shapes; you may still develop in many different ways. Interesting to see, when so many dies are already cast.’
Goodhew fidgeted. Might have even reddened slightly. Certainly didn’t know how to reply. ‘The suicides—’
She waved him quiet, then turned to face him. She held one particular copy of the Cambridge News in her hand, but her attention was directed fully towards Goodhew. ‘Have you considered some counselling yourself?’
‘For what?’
He imagined her emitting a tut.
‘For the things you find difficult.’
He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t expected a sales pitch.’ And he knew he would feel disappointed if that was where this was heading.
‘So cynical. Seems to me you’re split between wanting to fit in and feeling drawn to challenging the status quo. Am I right?’
He heard himself sigh.
‘Why did you join the police force?’ She waited for a few seconds more, then slapped one hand with the now folded paper held in the other. ‘Shanie Faulkner, your number three?’
‘Yes.’
‘I take it the evidence is pointing at an overdose, accidental or otherwise? I’m not scared to voice my opinion, Detective, as I am not a consultant on this case, nor do I have any more background than the press report and the information you have given me. I am actually a scientist and as such would far rather work with facts than supposition. However . . .’ She emphasized the word, then paused for full effect. ‘The post-graduate course on which she was enrolled suggests she was an extremely bright student, and that attending this course was a real feather in her cap. Medical history?’
‘A vague reference to depression, nothing detailed as yet.’
‘Okay, that would be a key consideration. Without that, though . . .’ She paused. ‘I’d be doubtful, unless you found she’d suffered some kind of major trauma, physical or emotional. Without that, I would take plenty of convincing.’
Goodhew saw her glance at her watch. He checked his own and found he had used up all but ten minutes of his hour with her. He gathered his thoughts, but she stopped him before he had a chance to ask the next question.
She smiled. ‘You know, there are actually only fifty minutes in a therapist’s hour, so I’m throwing you out now.’
He stood to leave and reached out to shake her hand. ‘Thank you, I really appreciate your time.’
‘You will consider what I said though, won’t you?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be thorough.’
‘Not her situation, Gary. I mean yours.
’
THIRTY-NINE
Goodhew was the first to arrive at the public park in Arbury Road. It included a small slide, one swing and plenty of wood shavings, all enclosed behind smart red-painted railings. Seemed to him that rather too much had been expended on health and safety and not enough on the items that would actually encourage kids to play.
It was a warm morning but the place was empty. Being a lone male hanging around a children’s play area made him feel a little conspicuous. It took him several minutes of switching his attention between watching passing traffic and checking his mobile before he spotted a second, larger playground beyond some trees.
He headed over and immediately saw that Libby and Matt were there already.
This area was better equipped, and even had a few children playing on the climbing equipment. A blue steel beam ran horizontally about six inches off the ground, topped with Frisbee-sized stepping stones. Matt and Libby each sat on one of them, facing one another with their knees almost touching.
They stood up as soon as they saw him, and moved over to the nearest bench. Goodhew followed them, sitting at one end while Libby sat in the middle.
He explained that the deaths of both Shanie and Meg were being passed to the coroner with police evidence supporting a suicide verdict. Neither of them said much, so he couldn’t work out whether they’d heard this already or didn’t expect anything else. Libby eventually spoke first. ‘We’re not going back to the house. I’m back at home with my mum, Matt’s staying at home too. Jamie’s gone back to Devon. She’s abandoned her course.’
‘Oslo and Phil?’
Matt shrugged. ‘We don’t want to see them again.’ He frowned suddenly and glanced at Libby. ‘I don’t, anyhow.’
Libby picked up on the thought. ‘I love Jamie, but I don’t see how we’ll ever keep in touch, because I think the shadow hanging over us will always be too big. It’s just one more thing that can’t be fixed.’
They were all silent for a moment or two. Goodhew wondered if Matt was, like himself, silently agreeing but not knowing the best way to put it.
‘As for Oslo and Phil, I don’t think I care one way or another,’ she confirmed. ‘I didn’t really know either of them. They hung out together a bit but maybe only because they were living in the same house. Phil and Meg were the close ones.’ Libby shot a glance at Matt but immediately turned her attention back to Goodhew. ‘I know Phil slept with Shanie.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘From the stallion’s very own mouth.’ She studied Goodhew’s reaction closely for a moment. ‘I thought you detective people were unshockable.’
‘I am surprised, that’s all. And he told you this?’
Libby managed a wry smile. ‘I overheard him and Meg fighting. They were loud – and pretty frank.’
‘When was this?’
Libby began to speak, but Matt cut in quicker. ‘In case you need to know, Meg and I had sex during the first week of college.’ He started the sentence speaking to Goodhew, but by the end of it he was facing Libby. ‘I’m sorry, I should’ve said.’
‘Why?’
‘I felt guilty not telling you.’
‘She didn’t have any qualms telling Phil about it.’
‘Well, I just thought . . .’ Matt’s voice drifted into silence. Eventually, both he and Libby turned their focus back on Goodhew.
It seemed like they either wanted him to change the subject, or clear off.
He copied down Jamie-Lee’s mum’s home number from Libby’s mobile phone, then started walking back towards Arbury Road.
‘Wait!’
Goodhew turned. Matt hung back, but Libby was running towards him. ‘I forgot to say, Shanie was going to meet someone. I think it was the same week she died, but I don’t remember which day. She came back home from the pub, complaining she’d wasted her money buying a drink for someone who didn’t show.’
‘Who?’
‘I asked her, but she just shook her head and said it was no biggie.’
‘Male or female?’
‘A man . . . no, I’m not sure. I don’t know whether she actually said he or whether I just assumed it was a man.’
‘D’you know which pub?’
‘Something close by, I think. She said she’d waited half an hour, and I remember thinking she was exaggerating because she hadn’t even been out of the house much longer than that.’ Libby didn’t move and Goodhew waited for her to add something else. In the end she said, ‘That’s all I know. I’m sorry . . .’ The inflection on the final word made it sound as if it wasn’t at the end of the sentence.
‘There’s something else?’
A quick nod. ‘My sister . . .’ she swallowed. ‘I was too young to go to her inquest.’
He wasn’t prepared to guess what she wanted to say, or ask, so he just waited. By the time she found the right words, she was close to tears.
‘I heard you tried to save her,’ she managed finally.
‘But I couldn’t . . .’
‘I understand . . .’ The words caught in her throat and she fought against them until she was able to speak again. ‘I understand it was instant.’ She steadied her breath before speaking again. ‘There was no chance you could – but you stayed with her. I had terrible dreams afterwards.’ She squeezed her eyes shut, heavy tears dropping on to her cheeks. ‘But however bad I dreamed it was, there was always someone trying to reach her. When you did that for her, it turned out you did it for me too. I just wanted to thank you now.’
* * *
Goodhew reached his car and left it parked while he phoned Jamie-Lee Wallace. Their conversation was brief, punctuated by awkward silences at the other end. Goodhew could tell from her tone that she really wanted to help. He could also tell that, every time she couldn’t answer a question, she felt as though she was letting him down.
Jamie seemed to have some insight regarding each of the housemates; her observations of their personalities tied in with his own.
‘Do you think Shanie could have been more deeply involved with any of the other housemates?’ he asked.
‘I’m not actually bi-sexual, but there are moments when I feel a little ambivalent.’
‘Ambivalent about men, or curious about women?’
‘Good question, Detective. Let’s just say I can look at a woman and appreciate in her what I would appreciate if I were a lesbian. Makes me think men have it lucky. But the fact that the idea of sex with another woman doesn’t arouse me is probably what’s going to keep me heterosexual.’ A pause. ‘Are you still there? Does that make sense?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Shanie didn’t appreciate the female form. I think she found the whole thing of being human a bit odd.’
‘Really?’
‘You know, like some nerdy people can’t get their heads round the function of a pet?’
‘Go on.’
‘I think Shanie liked interaction, but didn’t quite get it either. All I’m saying is, I’m one hundred per cent sure she wasn’t into girls. And I reckon she hadn’t got further than a little dabbling with the boys.’
Goodhew pulled up outside Rob Stone’s house, but Charlotte wasn’t home. He tried her mobile, leaving a message for her to call him.
He’d just left the car back at Parkside when she replied. He let it ring three times before he picked up, wondering whether her actual voice would banish the thoughts of her that had drifted in and out of his mind for most of the day.
‘Hi, this is Charlotte. Stone.’ She added her last name when he didn’t immediately reply. He imagined she was smiling.
‘When can you talk?’ he asked.
‘Right now, if you like.’ Wherever she was standing sounded empty. ‘I can come to the station.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Clearing out the King Street house.’
‘Really? Then I think I’ll come to you.’
The house had been rented by Rob Stone and Tony Brett solely for the use
of their children; someone had to sort it out now that it wasn’t needed. He didn’t know why he felt surprised that the task had fallen to Charlotte; there didn’t seem to be anyone else.
It was a short walk up to Christ’s Pieces where the footpath across the public gardens took him directly on to King Street.
He could spot the house as soon as he turned in to the street. A row of dustbin sacks and cardboard boxes were lined up against the front wall. The door opened before he had a chance to knock, to reveal Charlotte clutching another black sack in each rubber-gloved hand. She had pulled her curly hair into a loose pony-tail, and wore jeans, work boots and the tattiest looking T-shirt he could remember seeing since his grandmother had dragged him along to a student fashion show.
She dumped the bags alongside the others, before speaking. ‘Go in, but it’s a real mess.’
He went through to the kitchen. ‘What’s happening with the house?’
‘Going back to the agents. It has to be in the same condition as when we took it on. They’ll clean it for about three hundred quid but I said “no way”.’
He’d seen worse but it was a long way short of being clean. ‘Can I give you a hand?’
‘Why?’
He didn’t stop to consider what Bryn might advise him to reply. Goodhew just shrugged. ‘I can stop for an hour, and I’m guessing you can’t.’
Instead of replying, she turned away and began filling yet another dustbin sack, this time from the fridge. He pulled a couple of black bags from the roll, stuffed one in his pocket and turned to the nearest kitchen cupboard. ‘Any food that’s opened?’
‘Only if it’s obviously inedible.’
They barely spoke until the entire kitchen was clear, vacuumed and smelling of bleach and detergent. So much for an hour. One room, two hours.
They’d retreated as they’d cleaned, and finally made it as far as the door leading to the hall. She passed him a can of Coke.