Under a Dark Cloud

by Louisa Scarr

  Finn killed Sharp. And everyone knows it.

  Even Robin.

  59

  The air stills. Everyone is silent. Even though Craig has her man, nobody, not even the most hardened police officer, likes to watch someone die.

  ‘Poor guy,’ Grey whispers, his hands over his mouth.

  Robin can’t sit there any more. He gets up and walks out into the corridor. It’s empty, nobody around, and he stands for a moment.

  He has no idea what to do. He’s failed everyone. He’s a terrible friend. He didn’t even know Finn was an alcoholic, and he certainly hasn’t been around for him over the last few years. Josie was relying on him to save her son and he hasn’t done that, only made matters worse.

  He hears a door open and close, and glances over. Freya’s standing next to him, her face sympathetic.

  ‘You okay?’ she asks.

  ‘Hmm,’ is all he can bring himself to say.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He nods, then stares up at the ceiling, taking a long breath in. ‘What do I do now, Freya?’

  ‘You tell Josie the truth. And we apologise for breaking into her house.’

  Robin manages a laugh. ‘Yeah. That wasn’t the best decision I’ve ever made. Sorry for dragging you into it.’

  ‘Ah, never mind,’ Freya says. ‘You make life interesting, Butler, I’ll give you that.’ She puts a hand on his arm for a moment and rubs it. ‘Come on, mate, let’s get out of here.’

  But before they make it far, his phone rings and he pulls it out of his pocket.

  ‘Steph?’ he says. ‘It’s okay. We have the video. We know what happened.’

  ‘You do?’ she replies. Her voice sounds surprised. ‘You’ve seen it all?’

  ‘Well, no…’

  ‘Then you don’t have a clue. Get DI Craig and come to the Royal Berks,’ she finishes. ‘I’ll see you in ten.’

  * * *

  When they arrive, Steph is waiting for the four of them in the corridor outside Finn’s room. She has a thin file in her hand; she passes a copy of the report inside to Craig and then another to Robin. She points to the empty hospital room across the way and the four of them go obediently in.

  ‘Sorry you’ve had to come all this way,’ Robin says to Steph. She looks good, Robin thinks, now she’s out of her pathology PPE. Her hair is a bit longer, tied up in a high ponytail. He likes it like that. He really has missed her, he realises with a sting.

  Steph gives a tired shrug. ‘What else have I got to do, Butler,’ she replies, ‘but respond to your every demand?’ Despite her words, her tone is light and her eyes meet Robin’s with a smile.

  ‘What exactly is going on, Dr Harper?’ Craig says sharply. ‘I have a case to wrap up.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I won’t keep you long. The coroner wanted me to share my findings with you directly to avoid any confusion.’

  Robin recognises her tone – it’s the patient, measured voice she uses when she’s on the stand, giving vital information to juries.

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve been watching on the video,’ Steph continues, ‘but I think I can shed some light on what happened that night.’

  ‘And let me guess: you have a different cause of death?’ Craig asks.

  ‘No, no,’ Steph replies. ‘Cause of death is exactly right. Exsanguination from an incision to the carotid artery. Sharp bled out in minutes.’

  ‘So why are we here?’ Craig snaps, exasperated.

  Robin is confused, too, and opens the file. He watches as Steph sits down on the empty hospital bed. She’s taking her time, wanting to get the message across in the right way.

  ‘While my findings don’t contradict those from the first post-mortem, it’s my more detailed enquiries that I want to share. As doctors, we’re as guilty as anyone of confirmation bias: so blinded by the obvious that we don’t look any further. To the other smaller details that might also be pertinent to the case.’ Steph opens the folder in her hand. ‘So, with this in mind, I did a full and comprehensive review of Simon Sharp’s body, and I found a few other interesting features.’

  The whole room is silent, all four police officers waiting for Steph to speak.

  ‘On first examination,’ she continues, ‘I noticed a large amount of laryngeal and pulmonary oedema. Fluid in the tissues of the neck and damage to the lungs,’ she adds, and Robin knows she must be hugely simplifying what she’s found. ‘Plus, obstruction to his airway caused by oedema and mucous plugging.’ She looks at them all. ‘When Simon Sharp died, he was having massive problems breathing, and that’s if he was managing to do so at all.’

  Robin remembers the staggering around on the video, Simon looking like he was choking.

  Craig scowls at Steph. ‘So would I, if I had a knife wound to my neck.’

  Steph shakes her head. ‘No, I believe this was prior to the exsanguination. To confirm my hypothesis, I tested his blood: he had raised levels of mast cell tryptase.’

  Robin watches as Steph takes in their blank faces. ‘Just before Simon Sharp died, he was experiencing anaphylactic shock.’

  ‘An allergic reaction?’ Craig stutters. ‘To what?’

  ‘I went back over his medical records. Simon Sharp had an allergy to peanuts. And looking at his stomach contents, he was eating something that looked like a sandwich before he died.’

  ‘We know he did,’ Robin replies. ‘We saw it on the video.’ He grabs his bag, pulling the file out and rifling through the pages. He pulls out a crime scene photo and puts it in front of them; two plates lying on the side. ‘See here. But surely he would have known that, and been careful? Carried an EpiPen or similar?’

  ‘Not all allergy sufferers carry an EpiPen,’ Steph replies. ‘And he might not have realised how serious it was. Severity can change over time. Even a tiny amount could induce a reaction.’

  Craig glances down at the photo, then looks up, frustrated. ‘But so what? A nut allergy doesn’t cause a knife wound to the neck. Or,’ she barks, annoyed, ‘are we saying that Mr Peanut went after him with the penknife, too?’

  ‘What if he did it himself?’

  Freya’s been silent up to now, leaning against a wall on the far side, listening intently to Steph.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ Craig scoffs.

  ‘No, hear me out,’ Freya says. She stands up straight and addresses the room. ‘They’re stranded in that van, alone, storm raging outside. Simon can feel his throat closing, realising he’s struggling to breathe. Finn’s worse than useless in a crisis’ – Robin nods – ‘and he remembers he has a penknife in his pocket. And he knows how to do an emergency…’ She tails off, looking to Steph. ‘He called it a crike?’

  ‘Cricothyrotomy,’ Steph says, supplying the correct term.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Craig blusters.

  ‘Is it?’ Freya faces her, standing her ground. ‘He’s done it before, live on TV. And it worked then, the guy survived. He’s the sort of bloke that believes he can do anything. He drives into tornadoes for a living. He has the arrogance, the Type A personality. So he tries to pierce his own windpipe. Tries to find a way so he can live. And it goes wrong.’

  Freya stops. Robin looks at the faces around the room. Craig looks doubtful, Grey disgusted. He knows he himself can’t yet get on board with the idea that Simon Sharp slit his own throat.

  But they hadn’t seen the actual act on the video. It’s possible.

  Steph’s looking down, studying the photos from her post-mortem, laying them out on the bed in front of her.

  ‘Finn’s left-handed, right?’ Steph says to Robin. He nods. ‘And Sharp was right-handed?’

  Craig agrees.

  ‘So, look here. The cut clearly starts from the middle of the neck, then round to the right-hand side, nicking the carotid.’ She pushes a photograph forward, skin loose over a neck wound. ‘Which my colleague assumed was caused by someone left-handed, but which could equally have been caused by Sharp.’ She squints at the photo. ‘And these shal
lower cuts here, at the front of the neck, are hesitation marks. Again, in the first post-mortem they were said to have been done by a reluctant assailant, but they would fit better with Freya’s theory. That he made a few aborted attempts first, before desperation took over.’

  The room plunges into silence. Everyone deep in thought. Robin can guess what Craig’s thinking. A defence lawyer presents this to a jury, however ridiculous it sounds, and it might create reasonable doubt. And it fits with the footage on the video. As a theory, it’s bonkers, but it’s possible.

  Robin’s finding it hard to believe it himself. It makes him feel slightly sick – the idea that someone could stick a penknife in their own throat so they could survive. But, as he well knows, people do strange things when they’re pushed to the edge.

  And the tussle. The fingertip bruises on Simon Sharp’s arms. Finn had been trying to stop him.

  A quiet knock interrupts the stunned silence, and Josie puts her head round the door.

  ‘Robin,’ she says. ‘Finn’s asking for you.’

  60

  Robin follows Josie out.

  ‘Listen, Josie—’ he starts, but she stops him, her hand in the air.

  ‘No, Robin. I can’t be dealing with you now.’

  ‘I just wanted to apologise—’ Robin tries again, but there’s a shout from Finn’s room.

  ‘Not now,’ Josie repeats and leaves him, going in to see Finn. Robin follows, chastened.

  Finn’s sitting up in bed, his glasses on. It’s the first time Robin’s seen him in days, and he looks healthier: his cheeks have a pink hue, his hair washed and brushed. He smiles as Robin comes into the room.

  ‘Rob! It’s been ages!’

  ‘I know, I—’ Robin begins, but Finn cuts him off.

  ‘I haven’t seen you since that night we went out, you know, when we got wasted.’

  Robin’s uncertain what he’s talking about and glances to Josie.

  ‘Don’t worry about me being in hospital, Rob. Honestly,’ Finn continues. ‘Doctors say they’ll have my appendix out in no time. Routine op.’

  Josie pulls Robin to one side. He’s aware that Steph and Freya have come into the room behind him and are watching the exchange with interest.

  ‘He’s been like this since the weekend,’ Josie whispers. ‘He keeps on coming up with these random explanations about why he’s in hospital. Like he can’t remember and he’s making something up to cope with it.’

  ‘Has he done this for other situations?’ Steph’s been listening to Josie and now joins them. ‘Other questions he’s been asked and can’t answer?’

  ‘Yes. Constantly.’

  Steph frowns. ‘Do you mind…?’

  Josie nods and gestures towards the bed. Steph approaches Finn.

  ‘Finn?’ she says. ‘My name is Dr Steph Harper. Do you mind if I examine you?’

  ‘Go for it,’ Finn agrees. ‘I remember you from last week.’

  Robin, Josie and Freya stand back and watch as Steph examines Finn. She looks into his eyes, asks him to stand up, get out of bed and try to walk. His movements are uncoordinated, his shuffling slow, with a wide gait.

  ‘What day is it, Finn? What date?’ she asks.

  ‘December, nearly Christmas.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I was born in February 1978.’

  ‘So that makes you…?’

  ‘Forty-two.’

  Josie glances at Robin. Finn’s missed a birthday – he was forty-three in February.

  ‘And where are you?’

  ‘Hospital, clearly,’ he laughs. ‘Doc says I’ll be out in a few days.’

  Steph turns back to Robin. ‘When he came in, was he muddled, disorientated?’

  ‘Yes, he was the same when he was in the van. Didn’t know where he was, couldn’t remember what happened.’

  ‘And he’s an alcoholic?’ she adds bluntly.

  Robin nods.

  Her head dips slightly. ‘I need to speak to his doctor,’ she mutters and walks quickly out of the room.

  Robin watches her go, confused, then follows after her. Steph has paused, talking to a nurse in the corridor, who runs to a phone and makes a call.

  ‘What are you thinking, Steph?’

  She’s still deep in thought. ‘When did Finn come in?’

  ‘Last Wednesday.’

  ‘So, nearly a week ago?’

  But Robin doesn’t have time to answer her question, as a man joins them in the corridor.

  ‘Dr Harper? I’m Dr Blackstone, Finn’s doctor. I’m just doing my rounds. You want to speak to me?’

  The man towers over Steph, not looking too happy at being summoned.

  ‘I’m sorry for calling you, but I was here with DS Butler,’ she begins, gesturing to Robin, who doesn’t even get a nod. ‘And I had some observations about Finn.’

  ‘Right…’ Dr Blackstone’s holding Finn’s chart in his hand and is quickly reading the pages, not looking at Steph.

  ‘He came in with symptoms of disorientation, memory loss—’

  ‘Both anterograde and retrograde, yes.’

  ‘Changes to his eyes and vision, ataxia, confusion, exaggerated storytelling and confabulation?’

  ‘Correct. Plus, symptoms arising from his alcohol withdrawal: shaking, anxiety, nausea, sweating. The usual.’

  ‘What were his thiamine and B1 levels when he was admitted?’

  Dr Blackstone stares at Steph for a moment, then his eyes slowly drop to the chart. His fingers flick between the pages.

  ‘That can’t be right,’ he says under his breath.

  ‘Dr Blackstone?’ Steph prompts.

  Robin watches as his face turns pale and he meets Steph’s gaze. ‘We didn’t test for vitamin B when he was brought in through the ED. It’s not part of the baseline bloods. You have to specifically request it.’

  ‘And you didn’t?’

  ‘No.’ He clears his throat, awkwardly. ‘We didn’t know about the alcoholism until later, and we didn’t suspect…’ His voice tails off as he stares at the chart again.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Robin asks, but Steph ignores him.

  ‘What did his MRI show?’ she asks.

  ‘Some damage in the dorsal medial thalamus and the mammillary bodies, but nothing significant. Shit,’ he mutters under his breath, then turns to the nearest nurse. ‘Please get Finn Mason started on thiamine. Now.’ The nurse rushes off and Blackstone turns back to Steph. ‘We’ll get the lab to run the tests ASAP.’

  ‘Steph?’ Robin repeats. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll go and speak to his family,’ Blackstone says quietly, and leaves Robin and Steph in the corridor.

  Steph turns to Robin. Her face is serious; he can tell immediately that it’s not good.

  ‘There’s a condition called Wernicke’s encephalopathy, and it’s caused by a lack of vitamin B, in particular thiamine. It’s found most commonly in people suffering from malnutrition, often resulting from alcoholism.’

  ‘But Finn’s not malnourished,’ Robin begins, then he stops. He remembers Sophie’s words about Finn not eating properly, knows his own worry when he first saw his friend’s gaunt appearance.

  ‘It might have resulted from as little as two to three weeks of unbalanced nutrition. Coupled with Finn’s drinking and probable vomiting, it’s likely this has occurred.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Robin asks. ‘You can treat it, right?’

  ‘Caught early, yes. But Wernicke’s in alcoholics is commonly associated with another condition called Korsakoff’s syndrome, and given Finn’s amnesia… I’m sorry, Robin. But if he has Korsakoff’s he may have some permanent damage to his brain.’

  Robin’s hands go to his mouth and he leans back against the wall, stunned. ‘They said it was psychological,’ he manages after a pause. ‘That all Finn needed was time.’

  ‘Sadly, in this case, time was the one thing Finn didn’t have,’ Steph says. ‘They’ll know more once they’ve done some
more tests. A repeat MRI will show the extent of the possible damage to Finn’s brain. And you never know, he might respond to the thiamine.’

  ‘But he might not,’ Robin says.

  Steph places a reassuring hand on his arm, then leans forward and wraps her arms round him. Robin leans into the hug, resting his chin on the top of her head, his eyes closed.

  ‘No,’ Steph says, from Robin’s chest. ‘He might not.’

  61

  Potentially irreversible brain damage. Might never be able to form new memories. Freya feels like an intruder as she listens to the pale-faced doctor explain the situation to Josie and Sophie.

  All from a lack of vitamin B? Freya can barely comprehend how things have gone so wrong. Missed because nobody thought to ask for the right blood tests. A nurse arrives with a bag of fluids in her hand and hurriedly links it up to Finn’s cannula. A new MRI needs to be scheduled; calls made to a neurologist. Clinical psychology, occupational therapy – everything seems to be happening now.

  The doctor leaves and Josie slumps at Finn’s side, holding his hand. Finn is sitting up in bed; to Freya, he doesn’t seem to have understood. He’s inattentive, apathetic to what’s going on around him. Sophie’s moved backwards against the wall, pale, standing with her hands over her face. Then she turns and walks out, past Freya.

  Freya hesitates for a second, then follows her. She doesn’t know Sophie, only what Robin’s told her, but she shouldn’t be alone.

  Sophie heads quickly through the first double doors out, then keeps walking until she’s a good distance from the hospital. Freya wonders if she’s leaving, until she stops at a bench and sits down, digging in her bag, pulling out a hand-rolled cigarette and lighting it.

  ‘Hi, Sophie?’ Freya says tentatively. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  Sophie looks uncertain, then nods. She takes a drag from her cigarette and blows it out in one long plume.

  ‘I’m Freya. I work with Robin.’

  ‘You…’ Sophie’s face falls. ‘Oh shit,’ she mutters, and Freya, noticing the sweet smell of weed in the air, realises that the hand-rolled cigarette is a joint.