The victim, p.1
The Victim, page 1
The Victim
Gillian Jackson
Copyright © 2021 Gillian Jackson
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The right of Gillian Jackson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN 978-1-914614-60-6
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
A note from the author
Acknowledgements
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Also by Gillian Jackson
The Pharmacist
1
Day 1
Blood pooled on the kitchen floor where Bill Rivers, gasping for breath, lay staring at his wife, his words lost in the battle for air. Caron stood motionless for what seemed an age yet was only seconds, watching her husband struggle to breathe whilst his blood seeped from the gaping wound over the kitchen tiles – a lustrous crimson carpet.
Bill’s eyes finally lost focus, sightless forever, and his chest stilled. The sight of her dead husband transfixed Caron; it was her actions which killed him – the proof lay before her in the silent, pale version of the man she’d married four years previously.
The blood drained from her face, her lips tingled and Caron’s whole body trembled. For a moment, she thought she might pass out, might join Bill prone on the kitchen floor. But no – taking a deep breath she remained motionless – the only sound was the blood pulsing through her ears. She would never hear Bill’s voice again.
Finally, Caron’s eyes travelled to the knife clenched in her fist. She stared horrified to see Bill’s blood, sticky and warm, covering her fingers. The knife, clutched in her hand appeared almost fused to her skin, an extension of her body. Unable to bear it any longer, she released her grip and watched as the knife dropped to the floor. Then she turned to rinse her scarlet hands under the cold water from the kitchen taps.
Caron was the one gasping for breath now, dizzy and nauseous. Turning back to look once again at her dead husband, in a fog of chaotic emotions she picked up the telephone and with trembling hands, dialled 999.
A woman answered, her clear crisp voice asking which emergency service was required.
‘My husband’s dead. I’ve killed him.’ Caron’s words sounded remote and unreal even to herself but the operator remained calm and proceeded to ask questions.
‘Is the patient breathing?’ The woman paused, waiting for answers which Caron couldn’t form. ‘Does he have a pulse?’ Caron remained silent. The woman switched to more direct questions. ‘What’s your name? Can you tell me where you are and if there’s anyone else in the house with you, a child perhaps?’
Caron barely recognised her own voice as she finally managed to shape a reply, speaking in barely a whisper, a stranger reciting her name and address. The calm even voice on the other end of the line explained that an ambulance was on its way and could Caron open the door and stay on the line.
It was surreal, a dream perhaps from which she’d soon wake up to her everyday life with Bill alive and well, getting ready to go to work.
The sirens grew louder as they neared the house; the ambulance first to arrive, followed almost immediately by a police car screeching to a halt outside number thirty-four Appleton Close.
It was early morning and the weak April sun was already burning off the moisture from the overnight spring rain as two uniformed officers ran towards a shivering Caron, who stood in the doorway. It was a relief to allow these outsiders to take over, to relinquish the weighty responsibility of what would happen next. One of the men fiddled with a small device on his shoulder which Caron recognised as a camera. Every movement the officer made, every little thing he saw and heard from that moment on would be recorded. There was a procedure to follow and they appeared to know what they were doing.
Caron wondered what they would make of the mess in the house. Crystal glasses and shattered plates were strewn about the normally pristine kitchen, bar stools overturned and of course Bill’s body lay sprawled on the floor where he’d fallen; the body camera would preserve the whole ghastly scene. But it was hardly a time to be house-proud.
One of the police officers steered Caron away from the kitchen to allow the paramedics to do their job. Sitting her down, he perched on a chair opposite her in the lounge, the silence stretching between them. Caron’s ivory skin was even paler than usual as she stared blankly ahead, and her large brown eyes were wide with shock. Pulling her bloodstained robe tightly around her body, her slim figure was almost lost in the large cream sofa. It was as if she was viewing the whole scene from a distance, not present in mind even though there in body.
‘How old are you, love? The constable asked.
‘Twenty-four.’ Caron’s words were barely a whisper. The officer nodded then allowed the silence to fill the room once more until they were joined two long minutes later by his colleague with a cup of tea in one of Caron’s best china mugs. The man handed it to her and mumbled something – an order to drink it, she supposed. It tasted sweet – she didn’t take sugar in tea yet assumed it was part of the process – for shock, wasn’t it? The first officer explained that a detective was on his way to ask some questions. Caron nodded numbly, his words already forgotten. Perhaps the tea was too late and she was already in shock?
The sound of another car door slamming outside announced the arrival of two more police officers, detectives Caron assumed as they were not in uniform. After stopping in the hall to speak briefly to those already on the scene, Caron saw their backs as they entered the kitchen, presumably to view the body and then after only a few minutes they came to find her in the lounge.
The taller man, who seemed to be in charge, showed Caron a warrant card and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Jack Priestly. She raised her head to look at the newcomer; he was over six feet tall with brown eyes and an open, honest expression. Priestly’s face exuded sympathy, a lined expressive face with the overall demeanour of a man who’d seen much and was not shocked by the scene in the Rivers’ home. When he sat beside her on the cream sofa, she looked into those kind brown eyes and felt he could be trusted.
‘Caron, isn’t it?’ the DI asked. She nodded as he continued, ‘Before you answer any of our questions, I’m going to read a statement to you and then I’d like you to tell me if you understand it.’ Jack slowly recited, ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ ‘Do you understand what I’ve said, Caron?’ Again, she nodded dutifully, and Jack gently asked his questions.
In quiet halting words, Caron answered, describing the morning’s events while DI Priestly listened with a passive expression and few interruptions as she related how she’d stabbed her husband. The other detective sat out of her sightline, yet Caron was aware of him scribbling furiously in a notebook.
More car doors slammed outside and people in white overalls crowded into the house. An invasion, an intrusion into her privacy, they swarmed like ants seeking honey. Caron knew there was worse to come and this day would change her life forever. Cameras flashed and the buzz of background noise registered somewhere deep in her mind. With the cacophony intensifying, it was becoming impossible to concentrate on the detective’s questions.
‘Caron?’ DI Priestly’s words broke into her thoughts. ‘We’re moving the investigation down to the police station.’
‘But I’m not dressed…’ She was still in her robe, a long silk affair tied loosely over wide-legged satin pyjamas; beautiful items of clothing now stained with the blood of her husband. ‘Can I get showered and dressed first?’
‘No, I’m sorry. We’ll need your clothes as evidence but we’ll give you something to wear once we’re at the station.’ Jack took a throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around Mrs Rivers’ shoulders as she stood meekly on trembling legs to be led away.
As they left the house, the usually quiet street seemed to Caron to resemble a scene from a television police drama. Cars lined the street, lights still flashing, and several neighbours stood around watching, arms folded and whispering to each other, speculating on the events at number thirty-four. Yellow tape had been strung across the garden path, fluttering in the light breeze like bunting at a carnival and a young uniformed policeman lifted it to allow them to pass. Pink blossom blew around their heads, the last petals from the cherry trees, and there was the promise of a pleasant day ahead, but not for Caron Rivers. She lowered her head, reluctant to meet the inquisitive stares of her neighbours and allowed DI Priestly to help her into the back of the police car where a silent woman officer securely fastened her seat belt.
It was unclear to Caron whether the police were treating her as a suspect or a victim; they were almost too kind considering her ready confession to stabbing Bill and behaved not at all how she’d expected. At the police station, she was taken to a room by the same female officer who’d accompanied her in the car, a woman no older than herself, with severely swept back hair, a bad case of acne, and an impassive, though not unkind face. The young woman explained that they needed to photograph Caron for future reference and positioned her by the wall where the morning light streamed through the tiny window and dust motes danced in the stale air. The officer lifted a camera from a shelf and took several photographs. Next, she pressed Caron’s fingers on to an electronic pad to record her fingerprints, quite different from the messy print pad Caron expected. The woman then asked her to remove all her clothing and put on the white cotton overalls from a neat pile on the end of a high examination table.
‘Everything?’ Caron whispered.
‘Yes. Procedure, I’m afraid.’ She offered Caron a tight-lipped smile. ‘A bit embarrassing I know. A doctor will be coming to see you very soon and if you have any injuries or feel unwell you need to tell him. He’ll probably have a few questions to ask you too, so it’ll be best all round if you can answer everything as clearly as possible. Then, when the doctor’s finished someone will take you to an interview room to see DI Priestly again.’ The confident way in which the police officer spoke was in some way reassuring for Caron. The process had begun, and things were out of her hands; other people would decide her future from now on, yet strangely there was a bizarre comfort in such knowledge.
2
Four weeks previously
Caron Rivers was sat in the doctor’s waiting room for the second time in a week. Dr Choudhry, however, didn’t appear to mind how many appointments she took up and seemed genuinely anxious for her welfare, which was precisely what Caron needed. A spotty child bumped into her leg and she attempted a smile when he stopped to stare, mouth open at the sight of her face. Other patients in the waiting room glanced in her direction too, swiftly turning away, embarrassed to see the cut on her forehead and the red swollen eye. Caron hung her head, allowing her rich chestnut hair to cover her face. She’d always considered her glossy, shoulder-length hair to be her best asset. Today she felt anything but attractive.
Caron’s name was called just a couple of minutes after her appointment time, and she soon found herself cocooned in a warm, comfortable room, listening to the doctor’s soothing words and the concern in his rich, deep voice. Enda Choudhry was a thin, middle-aged man with leathery skin and a full head of thick dark hair, noticeable for the distinctive widow’s peak. A gentle manner made him popular with patients, and Caron always requested an appointment with him rather than any of his colleagues.
‘This is twice this week, Caron. Don’t you think it’s time to sort this problem out permanently?’ The doctor spoke softly and with genuine empathy as if his patient was important to him. Caron shrugged dejectedly, leaving him to draw his own conclusions. Enda Choudhry stood up and moved beside his patient, gently lifting her hair to assess the open wound on her forehead.
‘I’ll get a nurse to clean it up before you go and I suggest an ice pack for your eye; it’s going to be a real shiner before the day’s out. Would you like to tell me what happened this time?’
Caron lowered her head and spoke quietly into her lap. ‘It looks worse than it is and it wasn’t Bill’s fault. I’d forgotten he was going into work early and didn’t have his breakfast ready in time. He was angry yet didn’t mean to hurt me, he never does. It was just a little push and I fell onto the door jamb and did this.’ She pointed to her eye and the cut above it.
‘We can get you help, Caron. There are so many places for vulnerable women to go to these days and plenty of support. You have choices, you know, you don’t have to stay with Bill.’
‘No, I couldn’t leave him. He loves me. It’s just that sometimes I do stupid things which annoy him, but he would never really hurt me.’ She sounded shocked at the suggestion.
‘From the state of you on your last few visits, I would say he’s already hurt you enough, and seriously too. Bill shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this. Are you sure you don’t want help? You don’t have to report him to the police if that’s what’s worrying you. There are so many support groups who can help without involving the police.’ The doctor’s brow furrowed, concern evident in his eyes.
‘Really, I’m fine, and I’ve nothing to complain about. We have a nice house, and I don’t have to go out to work; Bill’s a great provider and besides, he’s all I’ve got.’ Caron looked thoughtful and somewhat weary.
‘Then would you consider counselling? Fiona Singleton’s an excellent counsellor and she’s based here at the surgery.’ The doctor paused while his patient considered the suggestion. ‘Sometimes talking things through can allow you to see a situation from a different perspective. I could make an appointment now if you like?’
‘Do you think it will help?’ Caron asked, a spark of hope in her eyes.
‘I’m certain it will, and we’ll get a nurse to clean that cut for you as well.’
Dr Choudhry picked up his phone and asked a nurse to dress the wounds before taking Caron from his room to the reception desk. The receptionist made an appointment for her with Fiona Singleton and then a smiley nurse took her to a treatment room to clean and dress the wound. Caron left the surgery feeling so much better. The visit had gone well, better than she expected and seeing a counsellor was a bonus too. Surely it could only be to her benefit?
Caron decided to walk home. It was a bright late-March morning, with the warmth of the sun offsetting the cold, crisp air. She would enjoy cutting through the park, seeing the daffodils heralding better times ahead and being alone with her thoughts. Setting off at a brisk pace, she wondered about Fiona Singleton. Would she be as kind and sympathetic as Dr Choudhry? There was still a week to wait before she would find out for herself.
