A Room Swept White

by Sophie Hannah

  Hope finally came for Ray Hines when there was a breakthrough in Helen Yardley’s case. A document came to light, courtesy of another Dr Anonymous, in which Dr Duffy consistently referred to Helen Yardley’s son Rowan as ‘she’. That’s right: the expert who was so sure Rowan was murdered didn’t even know what sex he was.

  Next, the pathologist who had performed the postmortem on Rowan Yardley came forward. After Rowan’s death, she had contacted several people she regarded as expert and asked their opinion about the high level of salt she’d found in Rowan’s blood. Judith Duffy, not knowing at that point that Rowan’s brother Morgan had died, also with high blood-salt, three years previously, sent a reply in which she said that, ‘the instability of blood chemistry after death renders it diagnostically immaterial. Dehydration is the most usual cause of high serum sodium’. Dr Duffy concluded by saying, ‘Unless you’re looking for a specific poison, blood results cannot and should not be relied upon.’ A mere eighteen months later, Duffy had forgotten that this was ever her view, and testified in court that Helen Yardley’s sons had died of deliberate salt poisoning. She presented Morgan and Rowan’s high blood-salt levels as all the proof of murder that anyone could need.

  The CCRC finally saw sense. Helen Yardley was granted leave to appeal. A year later, so was Ray Hines. Some unkind personage must have leaked information to the press, because various accounts of Judith Duffy’s disgraceful behaviour appeared in national newspapers, and public opinion started to turn against the woman who was once lauded as a champion of children everywhere. Suddenly, Helen Yardley, JIPAC and I were no longer the only voices calling for Duffy to be stopped.

  In February 2005, Helen Yardley’s murder convictions were quashed. This evidently gave Dr Duffy no pause for thought, for in July 2005 she was back in the witness box testifying against Sarah Jaggard, the latest innocent woman on trial for killing a child – Bea Furniss, the daughter of a friend of hers. Thankfully, the jury saw sense and unanimously acquitted Sarah. They listened to Bea’s grief-stricken parents, who were adamant that Sarah had adored Bea and would never have harmed her.

  Did Dr Duffy listen? Had she listened when Paul Yardley and Glen Jaggard – two of the most solid, reliable men I’ve ever met – said over and over that their wives would never harm or kill a child? Did she listen to the scores of parents who had entrusted their sons and daughters to Helen Yardley’s care, who said that Helen was incapable of violence or cruelty, that they would happily use her as a childminder in the future? Did Dr Duffy hear Sarah Jaggard’s parents, two mild-mannered retired school teachers, or her sister – a midwife, no less – say that Sarah was loving and caring, that there was no way she would ever lose her temper and shake a defenceless baby?

  The sad truth is that Dr Duffy listened to none of the real experts, none of the people who knew Helen or Sarah personally. Hers was the only opinion that mattered, and she would have stopped at nothing in her attempts to ruin the lives of innocent women, using her status as expert in the criminal and family courts to wreak further destruction on already ravaged families. Paige Yardley, the child Helen conceived and gave birth to while at home on bail awaiting trial, was forcibly taken from her birth family on the say-so of guess who? Dr Duffy told the court that Paige was ‘at grievous risk of harm’ and ought to be removed from her home ‘without delay’.

  Now Duffy’s career and reputation lie in tatters, and not a moment too soon. It beggars belief that she was involved in the care arrangements for Paige Yardley when it was known she would appear for the prosecution at Helen’s trial. It defies common sense, not to mention common decency, that she was allowed to give evidence as an expert witness at Sarah Jaggard’s trial. Helen Yardley had been free for five months at that point, and the extent of Duffy’s misconduct in connection with her case was well known. What better things had the GMC to do than take action against her, and why did it take them so long?

  How time must have dragged for Ray Hines, who was not freed until December 2008. Unlike Helen Yardley and Sarah Jaggard, who had plentiful support from family and friends, Ray had been disowned and divorced by her husband Angus when she was found guilty. She had been reviled in the press as a ‘drug addict’, after Angus told a reporter she was a regular marijuana smoker. In fact, she only used the drug occasionally, when the bad back from which she has suffered all her life caused her so much agony that she’d have tried anything. She is as far from the stereotype of a grubby, sofa-surfing junkie as it’s possible to be. She is a proud, spiky woman who holds her head high and refuses to cry for the cameras. She admitted in court that she can’t think straight unless her home is tidy and that she believes it’s bad for women to give up their careers and stay at home with their children. How Judith Duffy must have hooted with glee when she saw how easy it would be to take this remarkable woman and turn her into a murderous she-devil.

  Even now, with Ray Hines free and Judith Duffy deservedly disgraced, JIPAC’s work is far from done. 62-year-old Dorne Llewellyn of Port Talbot in South Wales is just one of the many women still behind bars for a crime she didn’t commit: the murder, in 2000, of nine-month-old Benjamin Evans. Dr Duffy testified that Mrs Llewellyn must have shaken Benjamin, causing the brain haemorrhage that killed him, but couldn’t answer when counsel for the defence asked how sure she was that the shaking episode, assuming there was one, had taken place while Benjamin was in Dorne Llewellyn’s care. Interestingly, one of Dr Duffy’s staunchest supporters is Benjamin’s single mother, Rhiannon Evans, who was 15 when Benjamin was born. Now 23, she is a prostitute and well known to local police.

  The case is currently under review by the CCRC. JIPAC is praying for a speedy and successful appeal. The only evidence against Mrs Llewellyn is the opinion of a doctor who’s been struck off for misconduct, so how could any appeal judge uphold her conviction? Surely for our country’s esteemed judicial system to make another heinous mistake in a child death case, having already made so many, is, to quote Dr Duffy, ‘so unlikely it borders on impossible’?

  7

  Thursday 8 October 2009

  I’m sitting at Laurie’s desk making a list when the phone rings. Since talking to Maya, I’ve done more background reading than I’d have thought possible in such a short time, and made so many phone calls that my right ear feels as if it’s on fire. I have appointments to see Paul Yardley, Sarah and Glen Jaggard, and most of the lawyers and doctors I’ve been reading about. I smile at my list of ticked names, ignoring the cross next to Judith Duffy’s that spoils the display, and pick up the phone.

  ‘What are you playing at?’ Laurie demands.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve left hundreds of messages.’

  ‘I’m not going to let you make a mockery of everything I’ve worked for.’ He mumbles something I can’t make out. It sounds insulting. How many insults can you pack into three seconds’ worth of mumble? Maybe two if you’re a nobody, but at least twenty if you’re the great Laurie Nattrass. ‘I’m not doing this over the phone,’ he says. ‘You’d better come round.’

  ‘To your house?’ A townhouse in Kensington: that’s all I know. I’m ashamed to feel my eyes filling with tears. How can he be so angry with me? What have I done? ‘I don’t know where you live,’ I say.

  ‘If that’s your idea of an insurmountable obstacle . . .’ There’s a click, then he’s gone.

  I refuse to cry, so I practise blinking for a while, then ring Tamsin and ask for Laurie’s address. She recites it from memory. ‘Have you been summoned?’ she asks, from which I infer that I might not be the first person this has happened to.

  Why do I love Laurie so much, when he treats me like a servant? Why do I think he’s gorgeous when he’s at least a stone overweight, his eyes are always bloodshot and his skin looks as if it hasn’t seen sunlight for years? I put this question to Tamsin.

  ‘Aha!’ she says. ‘So you admit it: you love him.’

  ‘Isn’t admitting it supposed to be the first step towards recovery?’
/>   ‘Ha! I knew it!’

  ‘Is being jeered at by your friends the second step?’

  ‘You love him for the same reason everyone loves him: he’s a mystery. You don’t know what he is, and can’t see any way to find out. That’s kind of addictive, until you realise you’ll never get the satisfaction you crave.’

  If Tamsin knew the truth about me, would she change her mind about why I love Laurie? Would she say I’m deluding myself that by getting close to him, I can shake off the taint I’ve been carrying around with me? By loving the man who helped to free Helen Yardley and Rachel Hines, I can maybe . . .

  Except I can’t, not if he doesn’t love me back. The more he treats me like his worthless skivvy, the more tainted I feel. What am I doing kidding myself that I can make Laurie’s film, that I’ll do such a brilliant job that he’ll respect me and love me and I’ll finally be able to move beyond the shame? I’ll end up making something pallid and average because I feel guilty, then hiding its existence from my mum when it’s broadcast, so that she won’t be devastated.

  Whatever I do, whether I make the film or not, I’m going to feel horribly guilty. That doesn’t seem fair.

  ‘I read Laurie’s “Doctor Who Lied” rant,’ I tell Tamsin.

  ‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘If ever an article’s going to make the entire legal system hang its head in shame, it’s that one.’

  ‘I thought it veered between pathetic and downright offensive.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She sniggers. ‘Course you did.’

  ‘I did,’ I insist. It’s true, isn’t it? So why do I feel as petty as a jilted girlfriend sewing prawns into the linings of her ex’s curtains?

  I get rid of my helpful and not at all annoying friend, and leave the office, armed with Laurie’s address. I stop the first taxi I see, praying the driver will be shy, unfriendly or a Trappist monk. My wish is not granted. I get a twenty-five minute lecture about the West being in decline because it doesn’t produce anything any more, and a prediction that soon we Westerners will all be slaving away for a pittance on Korean assembly lines. I restrain myself from asking if, in exchange, a Korean person will come over here and be made to feel like shit by Laurie Nattrass.

  How can he disapprove of what I’m doing? I haven’t done anything yet, apart from contact the people whose names are in the files he left for me.

  Laurie’s house is one of a row of immaculate white stucco villas on a quiet, tree-lined street. The front door, glossy black-painted wood with two stained-glass panels, stands open. As with most things about Laurie, I have difficulty interpreting this. Does he want me to go straight in, or is he too busy and important to bother with mundane tasks like shutting doors properly?

  I ring the bell and shout hello simultaneously. When nothing happens, I take a tentative step inside. ‘Laurie?’ I call out. In the hall there’s a bike leaning against the wall, a grey and black canvas rucksack, a briefcase, a jacket scrunched up on the floor, a pair of black shoes. Above the radiator, four shelves run the length of one wall, housing a collection of neatly folded newspapers. Opposite these are two large framed photographs, both of what looks like an Oxbridge college. Where did Laurie go to university? Tamsin would know.

  Between the two photos is a small square sticker that totally ruins the effect: a circle of gold stars against a navy background with a thick black line running diagonally through it. There’s another sticker on a grandfather clock at the far end of the hall, stuck to the wood: ‘Say No to the Euro’. It offends me, not because I give a toss about the euro one way or the other, but because the clock looks old and valuable, and shouldn’t be used as a fly-posting site. It stands slightly wonky, as if it’s too tired to straighten up.

  The white-painted wooden steps directly in front of me are heaped with books and papers. Every step has a pile of something on one side, though not the same side in each case: anyone who wanted to go upstairs would have to zig-zag. I see JIPAC-headed paper, and several copies of Nothing But Love: one hardback and two paperbacks. I bet Helen Yardley didn’t write any of it herself.

  If I wrote a book, would Laurie read it?

  I am not jealous of Helen Yardley. Helen Yardley lost all three of her children. Helen Yardley was murdered three days ago.

  I pick up the hardback of Nothing But Love and turn it over. On the back cover, there’s a photograph of Helen with her coauthor, Gaynor Mundy. They’ve got their arms round each other to suggest deep friendship as well as a close professional relationship. Bound to have been the photographer’s idea, I think cynically – the two women probably loathed each other.

  I’m about to put the book down when I notice Helen Yardley’s hand, draped over Gaynor Mundy’s shoulder, and my mouth turns dry. Those fingers, the nails . . .

  I drop the book and root in my handbag for the cream envelope. I try to feel pleased that I didn’t bin it, but part of me wishes I had. If I’m right, I don’t want to think about what it might mean.

  Pulling out the photograph, I compare the fingers gripping the card in the picture to Helen Yardley’s fingers on the cover of her book. They’re the same: small square nails, neatly cut. Without stopping to think, I tear the photo and the envelope it came in into little pieces and drop them into my open bag like a handful of confetti. I notice that I’m shaking.

  For God’s sake, this is ridiculous. How many people must there be who have well-trimmed squarish fingernails? Millions. There is absolutely no reason to assume Helen Yardley is the person in the photograph I was sent, holding the card with the sixteen numbers on it – no reason whatsoever. There’s no reason to think that because she was murdered . . .

  I shiver, and force my attention away from my silly morbid fears. ‘Laurie, are you there?’ I call up the stairs.

  Still no reply. I look in both downstairs rooms: a wet-room twice the size of my kitchen that contains a shower, basin, loo and more small square black tiles than I think I’ve ever seen before in my life, and a huge L-shaped kitchen-dining-lounging space; from its elegant finish in several different shades of nut and earth – brown and beige for posh people – I guess that it would prefer to be described as a space than a room. It looks as if it recently contained a party of eighteen who panicked mid-way through a slap-up meal and did a runner. Was Laurie one of them? How many of the twelve empty wine bottles did he drink, and who helped him? Did he host some kind of JIPAC shindig here last night?

  I swan-neck my way up the stairs to the first floor, treading carefully, aware that one misplaced step could provoke a paper-quake and do irreparable damage to Laurie’s filing system. I spot an envelope addressed to Mr L. H. S. F. Nattrass and a cardboard Nike shoebox with the word ‘Accounts’ scrawled on it in green-marker pen. L.H.S.F.: that’s three middle names he’s got, as well as all his awards, money and the world’s admiration. I’ve only got one middle name and it’s a terrible one: Margot. If I weren’t so tired of psychoanalysing my romantic impulses, I’d wonder if my love for Laurie might be misinterpreted jealousy. Do I want to be his girlfriend, or do I wish, deep down, that I was him?

  I come to a landing and a choice of four doors, one of which is ajar. As I move towards it, I see shapes in the gloom: the end of a bed and the lower part of a pair of legs. ‘Laurie?’

  I push open the door and there he is: Mr L. H. S. F. Nattrass, in a crumpled grey suit. The curtains are closed. Laurie’s sprawled on a double bed that I assume is his, staring at a small TV on a chair in the corner of the room – an ancient one, by the look of it. There’s a metal aerial balanced precariously on top that’s almost as big as the TV itself. On the screen, a woman is crying in a man’s arms, but there’s no volume. Laurie stares at them as they mouth words at one another. Can he tell what they’re saying? Does he care? A purple silk tie lies on the duvet beside him.

  I turn on the light, but he still doesn’t look at me, so I decide I won’t look at him either. Instead, I take the opportunity to have a good nosey at his room, something I never thought
I’d get to do. It’s disappointingly similar to his office. My office. There are framed posters of constellations and planets on the walls, two globes, a telescope lying beside its case, a pair of binoculars, some weights, an exercise bike, three books: The Nazi Doctors, Knowledge in a Social World and Into That Silent Sea: Trailblazers of the Space Era, 1961–1965. Wow, they sound like fun bedtime reading.

  Poking out from under the bed is a dustpan and brush with a packet of disposable razors and a canister of shaving gel in the pan, as if they’ve been swept up off the carpet. Coins – silver, copper and gold – are scattered everywhere: on the bed, on the floor, on top of a chest of drawers. It makes me think of the bottom of a wishing well.

  ‘What do the H, S and F stand for?’ Laurie Horrible Selfish Fucker Nattrass.

  ‘Hugo St John Fleet,’ he says, as if these are perfectly normal names to have. No wonder he’s a nutter.

  ‘I love black and white films.’ I nod at the screen.

  ‘What about technicolour sentimental crap on a black and white TV – do you love that?’

  ‘Why are you angry with me?’