“The deceased was a poorly nourished female of fifty-seven years old. She looked older, Mr Griffiths. She weighed forty-five kilograms when stripped. On speaking to Doctor Banesto, the deceased’s general practitioner, I understand Bianca Rhys was a paranoid schizophrenic undergoing regular therapy. I formed the opinion that she slipped and fell into the pool, hitting her head, possibly against the side or even on some object in the pool. A large amount of debris was present at the bottom of the pond. I believe that the fall combined with even such minor trauma caused her to die of shock. That would be consistent with my post mortem findings.”
“Were there any marks on the body?”
“Only the one bruise on the deceased’s occiput done at around the time of death. The deceased’s nails were bro ken and mud was retrieved from beneath them furthering my deduction of the mode of the deceased’s death.”
He was loooking complacent. It made Megan uncomfortable - tempted her to mistrust him. She looked across at Alun. His gaze was fixed firmly forward. But she could tell from his profile that he accepted the pathologist’s statement without question. And why not? It had been thorough.
“How long did you think Mrs Rhys had been dead for?”
“I examined the body at two pm on Monday the fifth of August, four hours after the body was first discovered. At that time I was of the opinion she had been dead for something more than twelve hours. Possibly up to twenty-four hours. It’s very difficult to be precise after prolonged immersion in water. Added to that the weather was warm with temperatures well up into the seventies.”
“Was there anything else discovered at post mortem which might indicate the circumstances surrounding Bianca’s death?”
“I took some blood for serology,” Franklin Jones-Watson said. “They showed a high level of hypnotics - namely Chlorpromazine - or Largactil.” For the first time he seemed aware of Carole Symmonds. He looked at her for a brief moment before continuing. “She might well have been prescribed that for her general condition.”
“Was she, Doctor Banesto?”
Megan nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And this was …?”
“Normally administered by a neighbour who gave her her daily tablets.”
“So an overdose …?”
“I didn’t say an overdose, sir, but enough to make her quite drowsy.”
Now Megan found herself admiring Jones-Watson’s precision.
“And your opinion was …?”
“These were large amounts but some schizophrenics are sedated quite heavily.”
The coroner addressed his next question to Megan. “What dose was Mrs Rhys prescribed?”
“100 mgms, three times a day.”
The coroner nodded. Both a doctor and a legal man he thought he understood perfectly. Bianca had hoarded her medication, probably pretended to swallow it, spat it out and saved it “for a rainy day”.
“I’d also like it mentioned there was an injection site on her right buttock.”
“How old was the injection site, Doctor?”
Jones-Watson peered at her through rimless glasses with his intelligent grey eyes. “A day or two.”
The coroner glanced down at his notes and nodded. “I believe Doctor Banesto mentioned in her statement that she had administered an injection to the right buttock on the Friday before the deceased’s death. And her lungs?”
“It was a dry drowning,” Jones-Watson replied. “No water was found in her lungs, only in her mouth and some in her oesophagus. She did not breathe beneath the water.”
The coroner spoke to Carole Symmonds. “Would you like all this explaining to you?”
She nodded and the coroner, still speaking in the same gentle tone, clarified all the post mortem findings. It gave Megan a free moment to ponder.
As she had watched the pathologist give his evidence she remembered the primary rules of forensic pathology. You don’t construct facts around the forensic evidence but analyse both separately before slotting them together. Jones-Watson was ignoring slices of forensic evidence because they failed to fit in with his initial theory. Namely the bruise on the occiput. How did she do it? If she had tumbled in the pool surely she would have fallen head first. Knowing Bianca’s fear of bodies of water Megan could not imagine her standing with her back to the pool yet close enough to the edge to fall in.
Bruising should have been found on the front of her head - if anywhere. Not on the back. Theories should have come last in his statement - not first. Listening to his self assurance she had begun to mistrust his conceit. She would have preferred a more balanced pathologist, one who didn’t make premature assumptions. Was she the only one to have these misgivings? Again she glanced across the aisle at Alun. He looked contented. She swivelled round to see Carole Symmonds. But Carole was holding a hankie up to her eyes. Not enough of her face was visible to know whether she accepted this version of events or not. As Megan scanned the courtroom she realised that she was the only person dissatisfied with the proceedings. Even Caspian Driver’s visitor was nodding approvingly at the pathologist. It seemed he too was convinced.
Megan turned back to the front to hear the coroner’s summing up. And knew he had decided the verdict before the proceedings had begun. The open court had been a sop to Bianca’s daughter, a means of reassuring her that everything that should, had been done. The coroner was already shuffling his papers together, fastening them with a giant paper clip. He was satisfied. He had probably already filled his verdict in. He addessed one last question at Alun. “Are there any ongoing enquiries, Constable Williams?”
“We’re still trying to find witnesses,” Alun said, “but we don’t feel there’s any question of foul play.”
“And no suicide note was found?”
“No, sir.”
Again Alun gave Megan the briefest of glances. And so the coroner made his statement - that there was no evidence to indicate that Bianca Rhys had intended to take her own life but it seemed she had fallen unintentionally into Llancloudy Pool.
Death by misadventure.
He was accepting Jones-Watson’s version of events.
In fact all professional people, Alun, the coroner, the police surgeon, the pathologist - as well as the family and friends accepted the verdict without a hint of misgiving.
So why couldn’t she?
Chapter 11
Megan stood up with everyone else and filed out slowly.
She had expected to feel reassured after the coroner’s court. But she didn’t. Instead she felt troubled - as though something was wrong. It felt as though everyone had glossed over Bianca’s death, without taking the trouble to explore the alternatives. What about the head injury? She couldn’t see how anyone could hit the back of their head either against the side of the pool or on the bottom. Or exactly when she had tumbled - unseen by anyone. Neither had they addressed the puzzle of where Bianca had been from Saturday morning to Monday morning - invisible to everyone in Llancloudy. Nobody had asked the simplest of questions. Was there trace evidence on the stones at the side of the shallow pool? Had anyone even bothered to look? How had she walked up there without anyone seeing her when it was a distance of a little over a mile?
The silent explanation to every unasked question was the same. Bianca was irrational therefore her movements would not be explained rationally. And no one bothered to ask.
In a sudden fit of frustration, Megan caught up with Alun outside the courtroom, tugging his arm.
“And are you happy with that?” she demanded.
Again he looked angry. “Of course I’m happy, Megan.” He glanced around to see who was watching or listening. Carole Symmonds was, her eyes brightly inquisitive.
Alun shook his arm free. “As happy as I can be after an accident.”
“Misadventure,” she corrected.
He interpreted her sarcasm correctly. “That’s right, Megan. Misadventure. That’s what the coroner said. That’s the official verdict. Now just drop it, will you. Don’
t go looking for toads under stones.”
“Because they might be there?”
“They’re not, Meggie. They’re not.”
They stood for a while, staring at each other. Megan turned away first. She was reading coldness and rejection in his face. They were expressions she had never read before and they both shocked and hurt her. He might like her. Love her - a little. Lust after her. But behind all that something deep within him was beginning to dislike her too.
She mumbled something and crossed the car park to where Carole Symmonds was shaking the Coroner’s hand. Megan waited until he had walked on and then asked Carole the same question.
“Are you happy with the verdict?”
“Very happy,” Carole said. “I feel much happier - more settled about Mam’s death now. I can picture what happened. And the coroner’s told me quite certainly that she didn’t suffer. It was instant. She never really knew what happened to her.”
And neither will we.
“Knowing Mam didn’t suffer makes it easier for me, doctor.” Carole was smiling in the direction of the coroner’s dark green Audi indicating to turn right out of the car park. “You really feel you can trust him.”
Megan unlocked her car with a feeling of exasperation which was tinged with isolation. She was the only one to voice any misgivings.
She drove straight home without speaking to anyone else.
No one wanted trouble.
Bianca had been interred. The verdict had been passed. She wasn’t quite happy with the verdict but what was she going to do about it?
And so Megan did nothing. Life moved on. She took up the invitation to dinner with Phil and Angharad, she copied one of the TV chef’s dinner parties and had a riotous weekend in Torquay with a couple of med. school friends who were kind enough not to mention Guido’s name for the entire weekend.
She even spent an evening at Cardiff’s new Festival Hall listening to a concert of Harp & Mozart. And the man who had invited her was what her mother laughingly called, “a bit of a charmer”. So life was good. Too good to ruminate over the tragic death of a sad, mad woman.
She even visited Triagwn once a week, as was contracted but she was not asked to see Geraint Smithson.
And then, on the first day of November - a Friday - Megan found a note in her pigeonhole asking her to ring Arwel.
He picked up on the first ring and as usual his voice was abrupt and peremptory.
“I asked you, Doctor Banesto, if you would sedate my father to relieve his wanderings and help the staff. They have informed me that you have done no such thing. Now they are finding him so difficult they are threatening to have him transferred to one of the psychiatric establishments.”
“He’s already written up for appropriate medication.”
“Well he needs more.” A pause. “Or something else. Something stronger. He’s causing chaos there.”
He always got under her skin.
“I’ll go and see him today,” Megan said sharply. “I’ll use my clinical judgement to decide how best to deal with him.”
Arwel’s answer was a loud snort and Megan put the phone down.
The colours of November appeared dingy and unwashed when compared with August’s bright tints. Megan brushed the surgery blinds apart and looked at today’s ice grey sky. Soon every last vestige of colour would be drained from the valley. Rousseau and Gaugin would be lost; the hues would be that of Gericault, despairing, muted, depressing greys, blacks, charcoal.
She hated the winter.
Maybe she should follow advice and visit the travel agent in Bridgend. She was owed a couple of weeks’ holiday. India, Africa or the Caribbean could always provide heat and colour. A few hours on an aeroplane would soon make her forget a Welsh winter.
As she drove towards Triagwn she dreamed again of Italy as it had looked when Guido had first welcomed her to his restaurant; the faded red terracotta, brilliant scarlet flowers, the scent of herbs growing in pots. And he had looked so different, his shirt super-white against the olive skin, his eyes very very dark and his oiled black hair. No wonder she had tripped and fallen for him.
She smiled.
Normally she would announce her arrival but this was an unofficial visit. She had been summoned by Arwel Smithson to visit his father. She did not want to be escorted round by Sandra, to see everyone who had an ache or a pain and wanted to speak to the doctor. One patient would be enough. She wanted to drive to Bridgend and plan a short escape.
So she parked the car round the back of Triagwn and walked in through the kitchen entrance. No one saw her. The nurses must be busy elsewhere. And no one knew she was coming except Arwel. The corridor was deserted. At this time of the morning it was in the kitchen that activities were centred. She could hear the clatter of pans and the hum of kitchen gossip, the radio providing old pop tunes to work by. Megan passed straight by and walked upstairs towards room four. She was anxious to find out for herself how much disruption Smithson senior was really causing.
It was obvious before she reached the top of the stairs.
She could hear the old man shouting from the end of the corridor. “Why will no one believe me? I tell you it’s true. It’s all true.”
“Oh, shut up.” The voice replying was unrecognisable as the matron’s.
Smithson again, “Look. She told me. Right?”
“No one believes you, Mr Smithson. You’re just makin’ trouble here, upsettin’ people. But then when has that ever bothered you?”
“I don’t care what you think of me. I know there’s people here who must hate me. I understand that. But I’m not confused.”
“You don’t know anything.”
Another different voice. Scornful. Disbelieving. Valerie. “Val” they called her. Valerie Simpson. Second in command to the matron. Megan drew nearer room four and heard Geraint Smithson break down, a note of sheer desperation making his voice gravelly. “I can’t remember the exact year, I tell you. It was a long time ago. I don’t know exactly. I’ve forgotten. The sixties. The seventies. Look it up, I tell you. Look it up. Perhaps you’ll believe me then.”
“We’ll never believe you, you - ”
Megan could only guess at what Sandra Penarth had been about to say. She had reached the doorway and the matron had spotted her straight away. Immediately her face changed. Guilt swiftly replaced by a bold, defensive look. Megan took in the scene in an instant. The two nurses were bent over the old man giving him an injection. Smithson’s eyes were filled with fear. He appealed to Megan. “Doctor Banesto.”
Megan approached Sandra, tried to keep the nurse from reading the shock in her eyes. She had never before witnessed cruelty here at Triagwn. Only kindness, humanity, consideration. Was it all fake? As much a facade as was the stone porch fixed on the front of the house?
“What are you giving him?” she asked.
Sandra Penarth had finished pressing the plunger on the syringe. She withdrew the needle. “Only a sedative, Doctor.”
“But who’s written him up for an injection?”
“Andy said if he became too noisy we could give him the extra Chlorpromazine.”
“By injection?” Megan didn’t intend to make it sound so much like an interrogation.
“Yes. He wouldn’t take his tablets. He spat them out so Andy agreed over the phone that we could give him his Largactil by injection.”
“Has Andy examined him?”
“No - he didn’t need to. He listened to what we told him. Not like some.” The two nurses exchanged conspiratorial glances. Megan knew they had been talking about her. Val had her hands on her hips and was staring at her, unblinking. It was a direct challenge. Geraint Smithson gripped her hand. “Please,” he pleaded desperately. “Please. All I ask is that you believe me. Listen. Just listen.”
Megan nodded, not even half understanding what was happening.
Not yet.
“You see,” Sandra said briskly. “He’s very disturbed. He definitely needs the extra se
dation. He’s agitated.”
Smithson’s eyes were begging her.
“How much are you giving him?”
“Five tablets three times a day.”
“What strength?”
“A hundred milligrams.”
“That’s over the maximum recommended dose. And the injections too?”
“He’s agitated.”
Smithson’s hand shot out to grasp hers. “I just want them to listen. The little girl was going to buy some chips …” He was beginning to sag. His grip was loosening by the second. His eyelids were drooping. His face took on a vacant look.
And knowing she was not doing the right thing but undermined now by both her partner and the nursing staff Megan took the prescription chart from the bottom of the bed and cancelled the injections but to appease the nurses added on yet another oral tranquiliser, Haloperidol, a drug specifically prescribed for the disturbed, elderly, confused patient.
The only adjective out of the trio that she knew described him accurately was elderly. The rest was open to debate.
Chapter 12
But the fates have us in their grasp.
It was the following Thursday, November the 7th, Megan’s half day. And once she had waded her way through the morning’s surgery and done a couple of home visits she would be free. She drew the blinds right back and made her decision. She would ring a friend. Even though the weather was blustery, there were hopeful glimpses of cold blue in the sky. It was a bright, energetic sort of a day, ideal for a trip to the coast, a brisk walk along the sands of Porthcawl and a gossip in one of the hotels which served dinner. They would pass Coney Beach, the fairground, closed for the winter. Out of season there would be only the faintest, lingering scent of vinegar and chips and none of the rattling and screaming that made it such a nightmare in the summer.
She always had loved it more out of season when its seediness and flaking paint hinted at some of the fairground parodies of the past: the fat lady, the tooth-pulling man, the strange creature from Africa. The rickety rides also had a charm of their own - the waterchute, the roller coaster and best of all the carousel, its fiery horses awaiting the call to gallop round and round, their names painted along their necks: Valkyrie, Thunderbolt, Battle Scar. It returned her to her childhood and herself clinging on for dear life, Bonnard’s Bareback Rider, risking life and limb as the world spun past her.
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