Missing pieces, p.7
Missing Pieces, page 7
‘You see, Daria, I told you. There she is. Work, work, work. It’s all she thinks about!’
Freeman hadn’t heard her mother and Daria come into the conservatory. The words had not been spoken crossly – her mother was pleased to be right, that’s all, pleased she had shown she knew her own daughter. Daria said, ‘Sorry, Cara. We not disturb you long. We’re going into the garden, get ready for breakfast. The new routine, breakfast out of doors in the fine weather.’
Her mother was carrying two folded and neatly ironed tea towels. Cara asked what those were for and her mother said, ‘The table and chairs will be soaking wet. I have to dry them every day before we can sit down and eat.’
Cara must have looked puzzled even though she wasn’t – her mother said loudly, ‘Condensation!’ and waved one of the cloths as if she was already drying the garden furniture.
‘OK, Elaine. Let’s go. Cara is busy.’
This had come up in conversation before. Daria believed in the restorative powers of nature. She called it the green medicine. Freeman smiled inwardly at this faint echo of the New Age thinking she had been considering only moments ago – except, of course, that modern science has since proved beyond any doubt that there is truth in it. Randomised blind trials have shown that hospital patients recover more quickly after surgery if they can see trees out of a window. Intervention programs for city kids going off the rails have learned that the first thing you need to do is get them out of the city and into the woods – the bad behaviour doesn’t magically disappear but everything slows down, becomes less confrontational and more manageable – maybe it’s just harder to be angry with poplar trees than with people. Daria hadn’t been trained in any of this but she understood it, nonetheless.
Freeman said, ‘What do you have for breakfast, mother?’
‘Toast and coffee. Sometimes croissants. It reminds me of the Latin quarter. I’ve got to go. The tables need drying.’
Her mother strode purposefully out of the conservatory and set off across the lawn. Daria shrugged and said, ‘Sorry! Only started outdoor breakfast this week but she’s very into it. You are working, we leave you in peace.’
As she turned to leave, Cara said, ‘Hold on. There’s nothing urgent here, believe me. Can we do toast and coffee for three? Would she mind? I mean, I don’t want to upset the routine.’
‘Mind? No! She would love it! Get her talking about Paris, it is wonderful. She has so many memories! Sometimes I laugh – sometimes I would almost cry.’
Later, while her mother was taking her nap, Freeman showed Daria the photograph albums. There were many pictures of her mother in times past – young and attractive, and then the increasingly single and successful businesswoman in her shops; pictures of the shops with her mother standing outside each new acquisition, smiling, looking surprised as if it had been a matter of luck rather than the hard work and long hours that Cara remembered all too well.
There were many pictures of Paris, too; the usual landmarks but also more intimate images of backstreets, restaurants, cafés and bars. Freeman said, ‘I think this was the part she loved best – the real Paris, as she calls it.’
There were people in the pictures, too, men and women around the tables in those cafés and bars. Some were posing for the camera which had probably been in her mother’s hands, but then someone else had taken the camera because her mother was in some of these pictures. She looked happy, very at home in those Bohemian places with those Bohemian people, holding up her glass, giving a toast to the life she wanted to live. As Daria had said about hearing the stories, sometimes I would almost cry…
‘Who is this? He is in lots of pictures. Not your father, I think.’
Freeman had often wondered about the man Daria had pointed out. He was thickset, swarthy skinned and handsome. Her mother had visited Paris for several years in succession, buying wholesale and developing the contacts that would lead her to having some exclusive and lucrative Paris lines in her English shops. The man was in pictures taken in different times and places. She said, ‘No, not my father. He wasn’t around much by this time.’
Daria looked awkward and as if she was about to apologise.
‘It’s OK. My father was terminally unreliable. Instead of complaining, she just got on with making a life for herself and me. He was pretty much out of the picture by the time these were taken.’
Daria smiled, pointed and said, ‘And this man was in the picture, I guess.’
Freeman said, ‘I think so.’ And then, after a pause, ‘I hope so.’
At exactly two o’clock on the Sunday afternoon, Dr Yelena Kaminski arrived with Isabel, as arranged. Freeman heard the car stop on the gravel in front of the house and went to the window; apprehensive wouldn’t quite have covered how she was feeling. This could go wrong in so many ways.
But Isabel looked stunning, almost unrecognisable from the young woman Freeman had first visited in Meadowlands two years ago – she was wearing heels, cling-fit jeans and a white, lacey top that showed off her bare neck and slender arms. It was a choice of clothes that said look at me, and that in itself was remarkable. As the two women approached the front door, they were walking side by side and talking to each other; no one could have guessed they were doctor and patient.
Her mother was waiting in the drawing room with Daria, who was here by choice – she had offered to come because she was curious to meet Freeman’s half-sister, and because she understood that the strange relationship between Elaine Freeman and Isabel might cause her charge some distress. Cara’s father had never revealed the existence of this other child to his wife and daughter, and yet between them those two had paid for and provided the care Isabel had needed after a brutal assault had left her in deep psychological trauma. As Elaine’s carer, the young Ukrainian woman had herself got caught up in the drama of this first meeting between the half-sisters and one of their mothers.
For a moment Elaine had remained seated on the couch, like a grand lady who does not stand to receive visitors, and then she got up and held out her hand towards Isabel, who took it. Freeman could see the two of them looking directly into each other’s eyes but could only imagine what they might be feeling. Added to that, of course, was the question of quite where her mother was at this afternoon – was she nearly herself, or was she the bright but unpredictable eight-year-old with a complete disregard for social niceties?
Elaine let go of the hand and said, ‘I understand you’re Kenneth’s daughter.’
Isabel responded to this matter-of-fact opening with, ‘Yes. Or so they tell me. I don’t remember him.’
Elaine looked around at the other women before saying, ‘Well, consider yourself fortunate. I’ve spent thirty years trying to forget him. It’s bloody typical, isn’t it? I’ve forgotten all sorts of things that were important to me but he’s still there. Would you like some tea?’
The question was to both of her visitors. Isabel was, unsurprisingly, still dealing with the remarks that had preceded the question but Yelena stepped in and said some tea would be very nice. Freeman had completed the introductions then. When Daria said she would go and put the kettle on, Elaine said without rancour that she could look after her own guests and walked out of the room. The four of them stood in an awkward silence. When Cara made a move to follow her mother, Daria said respectfully, ‘I think she need a little space. She makes tea every day. She will be fine.’
Freeman had accepted it but felt the familiar guilt that the paid help sometimes knew her own mother better than she did herself. It’s just a part of the price you pay for compromise, for managing others’ lives the best you can. Isabel had turned to her, looking for something, and Freeman said she would show her the rest of the house while they waited for the tea. Yelena nodded and Freeman wondered whether this was the doctor allowing her patient to leave, giving her consent; Christ, there was a lot going on here…
As Isabel stepped through the doorway, behind herself Freeman heard ‘Czesc!’ and realised that the doctor and the carer were, in terms of their nationalities, next-door neighbours. Had Poland and Ukraine ever invaded each other? Must have done, they’re always at it in that part of the world. It might be worth checking with Waters, just in case a meeting like this one ever took place again. But presumably it was safe to leave the two of them alone for five minutes.
The table and the seats where they had had breakfast that morning were in the dappled shade of a sycamore tree. They had all sat here for a while and drunk more tea, and the Madeira cake bought for the occasion had been consumed – the only evidence of its existence was the crumbs remaining on the willow-patterned plates of the best tea service. Elaine and Isabel had made a connection. Despite her opening words, Cara’s mother had talked about Kenneth Freeman, and despite her natural irony, it wasn’t all bad – Isabel had, Cara realised, learned more about her father this afternoon than she had in all the conversations with her half-sister. Cara herself had heard things about him for the first time, and with that came an unexpected feeling of loss; she would have liked him to be here, if only to defend himself, to account for himself in front of this committee of independent women. She would have liked to hear what he had to say for himself.
Yelena had already said that she and Isabel should be leaving soon – she and Cara had agreed beforehand that the first visit, if indeed it was the first and not the only one, should be a short one. Elaine had responded to this by saying that Kenneth’s other daughter could not leave without seeing the fruit garden, where there would be raspberries to be tasted, and possibly strawberries. As with most matters these days, this was not up for debate. Elaine had got to her feet and indicated that Isabel should be doing the same – she had done so, and Daria had said she would go with them. Her look said, a chance for you two to talk about how things are going.
When the three of them were at a safe distance, Yelena Kaminski said, ‘Your mother – a force of nature!’
Freeman nodded, and said, ‘Still! You should have known her before she became ill.’
‘I wish that I had. Though I can see plenty of her in you, I think.’
There was truth in that, of course – the single-mindedness, the at-times-embarrassing absence of beating about the bush – but she hadn’t expected Isabel’s doctor to be saying it, at least on this short acquaintance. She said, ‘I think she’s taken to Isabel. She seems to like the idea she’s Kenneth’s daughter instead of resenting it. I had visions of the whole thing turning into an episode of a terrible soap opera.’
Yelena said, ‘It has been an interesting afternoon. I have enjoyed it. More Chekhov than East Enders!’
Freeman was only vaguely familiar with the references, but she smiled and said, ‘Isabel is doing better than expected, isn’t she? She’s coping really well with this.’
‘She is. We’re further along than I anticipated when we first discussed changing her treatment. Stopping the Clozapine has made a big difference.’
Freeman said, ‘That’s the schizophrenia drug?’
‘Yes.’
Her mother was crouching, picking strawberries. Then she straightened up and held out her hands to the others, and Isabel and Daria took one each – there was talking and murmurs of approval at the taste of the fresh fruit.
Freeman said, ‘You never stated it directly but you had doubts about that diagnosis. Was it wrong? Was she never suffering from schizophrenia?’
She realised she must have sounded like a DCI then, but the doctor was still smiling as she said, ‘Psychiatrists don’t like to be definitive about each other’s diagnoses.’
The raised eyebrows told Yelena that her answer wasn’t good enough. She said, ‘Severe dissociation can manifest as all sorts of things. I understand why they tried Clozapine. But…’
‘But they were wrong. Your predecessor got that wrong.’
Moments passed and the fruit-picking party had moved a little further away to consider the line of raspberry canes. Yelena said, ‘In your job I don’t think you take many prisoners, do you?’
It was Cara’s turn to smile. She said, ‘On the contrary, it’s what I do all the time!’
Their gazes held, and then it was Yelena who glanced away. She said, ‘Let’s look forward. Isabel responds well to reconstructive talking therapy. Not just with me. I have involved two other people so she isn’t dependent on me. It is working. Soon, maybe in weeks, she will be off all the medication. We will need to plan the next stage for her.’
Freeman said, ‘And what does that usually look like?’
‘No two cases are the same. In some ways, Isabel’s withdrawal means she often wasn’t ‘there’ at Meadowlands and so… What I mean is, she hasn’t become institutionalised, which is often a problem when we return them to ‘normal’ life, whatever that is. You will know this better than I, but I think we are beginning to see Isabel as she was before the trauma, at least in some ways.’
It was a question posed as a statement, and Yelena Kaminski waited for an answer. It was an easy one to give – the thought had already occurred to Freeman that afternoon. When she had it, the doctor continued, ‘In which case, if she is stable she does not need to be in the facility. She should become an out-patient.’
And becoming an out-patient means you are ‘in’ somewhere else. Where? That’s what they were discussing. Isabel had been renting in Camden, a two-year lease, but that had ended long since. She was estranged from her own mother. The local authority was obliged to offer some sort of accommodation in circumstances like these but as a police officer Freeman had been to such places all too often – putting someone like Isabel into a social housing bedsit was unthinkable.
She said, ‘We have plenty of room. I’ll talk to my mother but she’ll agree.’
Yelena said, ‘She is the legal owner of the house?’
Professionally meticulous – Freeman liked to see that. She said, ‘Yes. But I have full power of attorney. We agreed that when she was first diagnosed. Not that I would use it were she to disagree with me. But she won’t. She has paid for Isabel’s care, and I think she’s decided she likes her.’
Yelena was watching the other women – they would soon be returning to the table. She said, ‘Your mother’s illness will progress. I realise you know this, so forgive me. If she needs residential care, this house may have to be sold. Where does that leave Isabel, assuming she is still here at that point? As her doctor, I have to ask.’
Freeman said, ‘The house is held in a family trust. I took a lot of advice when we bought this place. Sometimes those are challenged but by the time it had been through the courts, my mother would be past caring, and Isabel would have had more than enough time to get back on her own two feet.’
There was a nod that conveyed respect before Yelena said, ‘So that just leaves you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What you do here I think is amazing. The way you are with your mother, it enriches her life so much. But you have a big job, too. Detective Chief Inspector? Now you plan to add in a half-sister with her own special needs. Your Daria is wonderful, especially for a Ukrainian, but this is still a lot for you to take on…’
Cara smiled at the gentle humour and said, ‘It is what it is. We’ll manage.’
‘Yes. I think you will. But you have my personal number. You can always call me, at any time.’
Cara said, ‘You think I’m going to need a psychiatrist? It’s going to get that bad?’
It was Yelena’s turn to smile, as she said, ‘I was thinking more maybe as a friend. What is it you say? A shoulder to cry on?’
Chapter Eight
Freeman was on a call, and so she had waved to Tom Greene to begin the briefing – the squad’s meetings always started on time, and the consequence was that no one was ever late. Greene was already seated at the large table they used on such occasions and the rest joined him there, taking with them notepads and iPads. As soon as all were seated, the detective inspector said, ‘Good morning. I hope everyone remembered to say “White rabbits” before anything else today?’
There were some blanks looks, especially from the younger members of the party. Greene examined each face in turn before he said, ‘Anyone?’
John Murray said, ‘I can’t say I did, boss. But I recall my mum doing that.’
‘What? Every morning or just Mondays?’
This was from Serena, who, as the individual most likely to make apparently random remarks, had little patience with anyone else who did so.
Murray said, ‘No. Just the first of the month. It’s the first of June today.’
She said, ‘White rabbits. Really? Why not pink potatoes?’
Eyes went back to Greene, who took it upon himself to answer her question to the best of his ability. ‘I’m not entirely sure but I believe it goes back to witchcraft. Something to do with a pinch of salt, and a punch. Salt was thought to be lucky, so it would ward off your local witch.’
Serena said, ‘That’s good to know, sir. Where do the rabbits come into it? Just in case my local witch decides to have a go at me.’
When Greene indicated he wasn’t sure about that either, Clive Betts said, ‘Rabbits are lucky. I had a rabbit’s foot keyring once, when I was a kid…’
Serena said she wasn’t at all surprised by this, and then Clive suggested she was only playing dumb with all this because everyone knew Serena was the local witch. Denise Sterling pointed out that this was not as ridiculous as it might seem – wasn’t Serena the name of one of the characters in that TV series, “Bewitched”? Was anyone else familiar with it? There were groans at the awful joke.
