by Helen Oliver
THERAPEUTIC DEATH
by
HELEN OLIVER
Copyright © 2020 by Helen Oliver
The right of Helen Oliver to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For John
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to Alex, Alice, Phil and Karyn for their invaluable help. (Here is where I say that any mistakes are my own.) Thanks too for those who are always there: Clare, Justin, Sue, Jim, Jenny and Seb.
PROLOGUE
Which scent was the more potent, marjoram or lavender? Whichever it was, their oils – intensified with undertones of soft rain through the open fanlight – merged with the night air. Even the new wickedly-expensive wallpaper added to the mood.
Adjusting the fresh white towel, April leaned on the treatment couch and smiled. A massage, then bed, would be perfect. As if on a signal, they both looked around the small treatment room.
“I hope you’ve kept samples.”
“Of the wallpaper?” April walked to the chest and opened a slim drawer. “You know me, of course I have.” About to turn, holding a rectangle of Colefax & Fowler, she jerked back as something tightened round her throat. “Hey, what are you – ?”
“Don’t struggle, April. It’ll be quicker if you don’t.”
Had she at first thought this was a joke? Something to pique the reconciliation. Whether or not, April didn’t struggle. The belt tightened, and, slumped to the floor, her world ceased to exist. She heard neither footsteps on the stairs, nor those through the kitchen-diner and hall. She didn’t hear the front door close or the car drive away.
1
Detective Sergeant Cally Burns stood at the front door and watched Eileen take hold of seven-year-old Lou’s hand. She smiled as Tom took a step forward. No way was he going to hold hands with Nana. Which she knew all too well and wouldn’t have dreamed of causing him embarrassment.
Cally turned, went into the kitchen, loaded the last of the breakfast things into the dishwasher and thudded it shut. She took a small cafetière from a cupboard, made a strong, decaffeinated coffee, and headed for the stairs.
Greg, facing away from the window, lay hugging his knees.
“Coffee, love.”
He opened his eyes. “You shouldn’t wait on me.”
“I know, but I felt like it. I’m off to work now.” She gave him a little shove. “Sort your own breakfast.” She paused. “Make sure you eat, don’t wait for your mum to spoon feed you.”
He closed his eyes and she gave him another shove.
She ran downstairs, hurried into the front room and scooped papers off a side table. After upending them into a neat pile, she slid them into her case. Opening the front door, she called up to the bedroom. “Greg – stir your stumps!” She managed a smile in her voice, not reflected on her face.
As her silver Focus sprang into life she glanced up at the house, checked her rear mirror and reversed as far as the road. Where she waited for a gap in the traffic.
*
Lyn Worsnop watched Pete nose their old Honda between two 4 x 4s on the road to Leeds. She waved goodbye, hurried round to the back door of Spring House and lowered her bag of cleaning things onto the step. Balancing the new spray-mop against the stable-style door, she turned her key in the lock.
Once inside the laundry room she leaned against the door to click it shut, and cocked an ear. No Radio 4 or breakfast TV. Hanging up her cardigan, she glanced down: no cat in his basket. In view of last night’s rain she was surprised Eddie hadn’t stayed in. Apron tied, she opened the door into the farmhouse kitchen and took in signs of last night’s meal for two and a note propped up against the tea caddy: Hello Lyn. I’ll be out in the morning. Here’s the list of jobs. Back about 11. Russ not coming after all. Thanks. AP.
After scanning the list, it took Lyn less than half a minute and a damp-cloth wipe of the granite tops, to decide to start downstairs before working her way up to the bedrooms and aromatherapy treatment room. There were two phone calls while she worked on the ground floor. Both would be picked up by the machine, so no need to answer. Then, just as she’d lugged the Hoover halfway to the first floor, the front doorbell rang. Stuffing her duster in her apron pocket she hurried down to answer it.
The woman: slim, attractive – halfway to blonde – said, “Hello,” and took a step forward. “Mrs Parsons is expecting – ”
Lyn interrupted. “Mrs Parsons’s not in at the minute.”
“That’s funny. Did she say anything about going out?”
“I’ve not seen her to talk to. But I know she’s due back mid-morning. Can I tell her who called?”
The woman smiled. “She’ll know.” With the lift of an eyebrow, she added, “I’ll catch her later.” Turning away, she said, “Thanks for your help,” took keys from her bag and walked briskly along the path towards a black car parked on the road. Lyn watched until the car started to move. After closing the door, she emptied the mail from its wire basket and took it through to the kitchen.
Upstairs at last, she pushed the Hoover into the master bedroom. (Not that there was a master anymore.) She frowned. Mrs P must have been in a hurry: the bedclothes were pushed back and a pillow lay on the floor. On the floor. Lyn made the bed and gave the en suite a thorough do.
When she was just looking forward to cleaning the treatment room, the doorbell rang again. If only Mrs P would have tradesmen sent round the back! Trouble was, Russ didn’t like this idea. What if some obese delivery guy trod on his edging plants?
He wasn’t obese, this one. He was scrawny, po-faced and holding a small screen for Lyn to sign. “Anywhere,” he said, “use your finger. Don’t matter what you put. Micky Mouse’ll do.” She glanced at him. He wasn’t smiling.
She checked the box was addressed to Mrs Parsons, scribbled with her forefinger and asked him to bring it in.
“Weighs nowt,” he said, but when it became clear Lyn didn’t intend lifting the box, added. “Go on then, where d’you want it?”
“Leave it beside the umbrella stand,” she said.
Smarting with annoyance she made her way upstairs, but stopped dead on the landing when she heard Eddie meowing from the treatment room. Chuckling, she opened the door. “What’re you doing in there, you daft thing?” The cat gave a big stretch and wound himself round her legs. She bent for a second, stroked his tabby spine: “Don’t try telling me you’ve not been fed.” And, like she’d hit the nail on the head, he made for the stairs and disappeared.
Lyn straightened up, stepped into the room.
And froze.
She couldn’t move, she could only stare – rooted to the spot – at the near-naked body on the treatment couch. Mrs Parsons was lying face-down, something leather round her neck, and her head in the padded space at the top end. Lyn tried hard, so hard, not to give way, but her knees buckled, the room spun, and next minute she was a heap on the floor.
Long moments later, oxygen returning to her brain, she managed a shallow breath, moved forward and put a hand up to the edge of the couch. Where, as the tops of her fingers met cold flesh, her projectile vomit hit the bottom of Mrs Parson’s newly papered wall. If someone had asked Lyn if she’d like to die, right then, she’d h
ave said, yes anything rather than do what she knew she must do next. Make sure her employer wasn’t still alive. Throat tight, heart hammering in her ears, she crawled under the couch, twisted her neck and forced herself to look up at the hideous sight of April Parsons’s lifeless eyes bulging out of a distorted face. Confused by moaning noises she didn’t recognize as her own, she shuffled backwards, reached for a chair leg and hauled herself up.
Steadying herself on the back of the chair, she dared look at what had been used to strangle her employer: a belt with metal decorations glinting cheerfully in the sun.
Remembering to breathe, which in itself felt alien, she crossed to the small hand wash-basin in the corner of the room, splashed her face, half dried hands that didn’t want to work properly and turned for a moment to look at the least awful aspect of the body. Mrs Parsons’s shoulders, plus her back and bottom, were bare. A white towel, with a clear indentation between her calves, was laid over the rest of her legs. Lyn didn’t need to wonder why Eddie had kept so quiet. Curled up between Mrs Parsons’s legs, he’d been content until he realized his resting place had cooled off and he’d not been fed.
Hands shaking, Lyn took the phone from its cradle and dialled 999. A male voice answered. Which emergency service did she need? At her first attempt, her voice cracked and she had to try again: “I’m not right sure. I’ve found someone dead. Mrs Parsons. I clean for her.” Next, having given her name, she was transferred to the ambulance service, where she talked to a woman, who informed her that the ambulance was on its way, and that while she waited she would be instructed in carrying out chest compression to see if Mrs Parsons could be revived.
“I can’t do that,” Lyn said, “she’s laid on her front…” She swallowed painfully. “With her head in the hole. Looks like someone strangled her.”
“The hole? Are you outside the house, Mrs Worsnop?”
“No, I’m in her treatment room. She’s on couch.”
“Stay on the phone, Mrs Worsnop. The police and paramedics are on their way. Try not to touch anything.”
“Can I leave room if I don’t touch owt? I feel right wobbly. I could sit on landing.”
The woman spoke softly. “Okay, love. You do that.”
Clutching the phone, careful not to touch the door handle, Lyn slid out of the room and sank onto the top stair. She cleared her throat. “I’m sat down.”
“That’s good. Now then, I’m here as long as you need me.”
Lyn said, “Will they be long?”
The woman said it depended on whether a police car or paramedics were nearby. Keeping the phone pressed to her ear, Lyn listened to the woman’s comforting voice. She put in a word here and there and, eager for the woman’s remarks, said what a terrible shock it had been. That Mrs Parsons was her favourite employer. The woman said how sorry she was and asked if it was a nice house to clean. Stuff like that.
When the doorbell finally rang, panic grabbed Lyn with such force she nearly dropped the phone. Tightening her hand round it, she whispered, “There’s someone at door.”
“Are you all right to answer it, Mrs Worsnop?”
“Depends who it is.”
“Take the phone with you, I’m still here if you need me.”
As Lyn fumbled her way downstairs, the doorbell jangled through the house again. Thank God, she could see a policeman’s cap through the glass bullion. She took a breath, opened the door. He was young, with a flat nose that might once have been punched. “Mrs Lyn Worsnop?” He showed her his warrant card. “PC Ryan Harmer.”
Lyn’s breath flooded out in relief. “I’m right glad to see you.”
“I wasn’t far away. I’ll come in if that’s all right.”
Lyn stepped back. He glanced round the square hall, unclipped a radio from his lapel. “I’ll just make a call,” he said, and pointed to the phone clasped in Lyn’s hand. She clamped it to her ear. “Hello? Sorry! Yes, it’s police.”
“You’ll be all right now?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The PC bent to his radio. “PC Harmer. Assistance, please. Spring House, Browbridge. Suspicious death.” He gave Lyn a reassuring smile, as if death wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Back to his radio, he said, “Yeah, front and back door.” He raised his eyes to Lyn. “Have you seen anyone else, anyone at all in the house?”
She shook her head. “I’ve not gone looking. All I’ve done is clean. Mrs Parsons left a note – ” She broke off at the sound of wheels slewing to a gravelly stop in front of the garage.
PC Harmer said. “Paramedics,” and put out a hand. “Best if you come outside. Just stick with me for a bit.”
That’s all Lyn wanted to do: stick by a flat-nosed policeman with nice eyes. If anyone had asked what happened next she would have said it was a bit of a blur. Except she remembered another PC and an older sergeant arriving to check there weren’t any other bodies in the house. Or garden. They checked the loft too for a possible offender. Was that a polite word for ‘murderer’?
Later, piecing it all together, Lyn recalled that three paramedics hurried upstairs to look at Mrs Parsons, stayed a little while, came down looking solemn, and confirmed she was dead. Next, two more PCs turned up, presumably the assistance PC Harmer had called for. One stood beside the front door, making notes on a clipboard as to who went in and out. The other guarded the back door. It felt like there were folk all over the place. Even more so when Detective Sergeant Cally Burns arrived with an important senior police officer. Hammond, they called him. By all accounts a Detective Chief Inspector.
He was definitely important, something Lyn would get straight in her head a day or two later when family, friends and neighbours wanted chapter and verse of what she’d been through.
Before the pair came inside the house, Lyn watched the boss man and Cally Burns pull on white scrubs. Like on TV. From the front path she could see them stood in the hall, looking twice their size. One of them, the taller one, talked into a radio. PC Harmer said that DCI Hammond was calling the control room to ask for a pathologist. Lyn turned away. She didn’t want the PC to see how this upset her: the idea of someone resembling a giant white Telly Tubby looking at Mrs Parsons in that dreadful state. He was quiet and considerate, the Detective Chief Inspector. The Detective Sergeant smiled more. She was attractive, but in a different way from the woman who’d called on Mrs Parsons earlier.
*
The window on the half-landing looked onto Chapel Lane. Hammond gazed beyond, across miles of fields on the other side of the road and – close to the end of the front path – the Leeds-bound traffic slowing as it passed the house. Blue and white tape, quivering in the slight breeze, made its statement. Joining Hammond, Cally ran her fingers under the sweltering white polyester collar. “That was grim,” she said. “Poor woman. The cleaner, I mean. There’s finding a body, and finding a body. The shock must’ve been horrific.”
Hammond said, “Worse than a hanging?”
“Now you’re asking.”
Padding along the top landing, Neil Rutter, pathologist, looked over the banister. “That’s what I like about this job, every day something different. Occasionally very different.”
Familiar with his faux-shallow remarks, Cally looked up. “You sound like a commercial – exhorting the joys of pathology.”
He came down a couple of stairs, gave her a Michael Winner look. “It’s never dull, dear.”
“Right,” Hammond said, “anything to go on?”
Rutter joined them. “Very little. Nothing under her fingernails. No signs of fighting back.”
Hammond raised an eyebrow. “Time of death?”
Rutter shook his head. “Can’t say exactly. Only a guestimate. Somewhere between three a.m and six?”
Cally watched a white Audi pull up at the gate. The PC at the front door left his spot and walked to the car. Listening to the driver, he nodded, and, to the ghoulish interest of school kids whose swimming bus slowed to a stop in traffic, Andy Bennett, Crime Sc
ene Manager, and two of his investigation team climbed out and started pulling on scrubs. Cally smiled wryly: this was going to be a good deal more exciting than, What I did at the weekend.
Hammond and Cally climbed out of their scrubs and waited while the Crime Scene investigators worked indoors. When they finally emerged from the house, Hammond nodded to Cally, “We’ll need a word with Andy.” The word, thankfully, was to the point. April Parsons’s body could be removed, leaving the coast clear for forensics to further examine the crime scene. Cally made a mental note to ask Lyn Worsnop about the cot, complete with teddy, in a small bedroom next to the treatment room.
She and Hammond found her at the side of the house, clutching her handbag and sitting stiffly next to a PC on a garden seat. He rose quickly at their approach and Hammond instructed him to start on a house-to-house.
He looked down. “Room for two more?”
Moving up, Lyn asked, “Where’s Mrs Parsons now?”
Cally touched the woman’s arm. “She’s with the undertaker, on the way to the hospital.”
Hammond took up the reins. “You must be in shock, Mrs Worsnop.” He paused. “However, it’s important for us to learn as much as we can while everything’s still fresh in your mind.” He flicked a piece of fallen blossom off his cords. “Anything you can tell us is invaluable.”
Cally gave a little smile. “Don’t be afraid of my notebook, or Mr Hammond’s fancy phone.”
Hammond asked, “Do you have a key or keys, Mrs Worsnop?”
She nodded. “I’ve got me own keys. Front and back.”
“This morning, when you let yourself in, did you notice anything that struck you as unusual?”
She shook her head. “Nowt except it were dead quiet. Which felt a bit odd.” She paused. “Even though Mrs Parsons were cutting down on appointments.”
“Why was that?” Cally asked.