A Woman's Place (14 page)

The inquiry had been set up following a murder, unprovoked and apparently unmotivated, on the platform at a London Underground station. The perpetrator had had a long history of violence and mental instability. In a second case a care worker in a hostel had been stabbed to death while trying to persuade a discharged patient to accept his medication. Surely, given their known histories, an efficient system should have kept both men out of harm's way.

The laconic prose tried to reassure. Of over 235,000 admissions annually to in-patient psychiatric units in England and Wales under 17,000 – about 7 per cent – were formally detained under one of the relevant sections of the Mental Health Act 1983. By far the majority of those admitted were voluntary patients, willing to receive whatever care would relieve their misery. Still, 17,000 compulsorily ‘sectioned', as the jargon had it, for their own good and the public safety was a huge number of madmen. And women.

In any one year there were 600-700 cases of homicide, Elaine read. Most murderers were sane; barely 100 of those responsible were, on average, subsequently admitted to psychiatric care. Of those, many had a breakdown as a concomitant to or even consequence of the murder, especially of a loved one. Some should have been spotted and helped earlier, but had fallen through the net – the deranged mother who killed her baby after giving birth was a good example. Most killings were of family or close acquaintances. The murders which most terrified the public – of a complete stranger by a deranged lunatic on the loose, the sort which had given rise to Sims's commission – were extremely rare, only one or two a year.

‘And I will have to answer for the next couple, no doubt,' Elaine mused. It filled her with foreboding.

It was not clear, however, from the report whether she was to be reassured or further bothered by the fact that of the group of mentally ill murderers checked out by the inquirers two-thirds appeared to have had no contact with psychiatric services before their crime, while in some cases papers were lost or doctors refused to co-operate. Everyone seemed to know what happened to the convicted killers
afterwards;
but what about beforehand, when something might have been done?

Of the hundred murderers in the original sample, there were only twenty-two people, fifteen men and seven women, whose case histories could be analysed in any detail. Two had been completely discharged as better, and had still gone on to kill. One had been an in-patient and killed a hospital worker. The rest had been judged safe enough to go home. This, despite the fact that previous violence appeared on the records for
most
of them.

Whatever the intention of the NHS staff, there was clearly a gap between desirable management and what actually took place. Two people's names got lost in the system when they changed addresses. It was also discovered that five patients had not been taking their medication and eight others had failed to keep appointments, thus avoiding treatment. That was more than half – and nearly two in three of those judged well enough to go home.

Rapidly Elaine performed some mental arithmetic. If two in three mentally ill murderers were not receiving treatment before the crime, and two-thirds of those who were supposed to were avoiding
it, then it wasn't a question of a couple of inexplicable fatal mistakes a year. Instead most of the hundred deaths might have been avoidable. Nearly two murders
a week
were caused by men (and a few women) who were mad, known to be dangerous and untreated. And out there, unrestricted.

There was a huge difference between one or two unpredictable random murders a year, which had been her first reading of the document, and two a week. Slowly she poured another glass and sipped the wine. It was her responsibility now.

Elaine could easily imagine the howls of rage from Liberty and similar groups if she proposed legislation to restrict patients' rights, and doubted in her heart of hearts whether it would work. The most effective answer saddened her: it was to lock such people up more often and more securely, where treatment was compulsory, and throw away the key.

There was hardly an over-supply of suitable places, either. The closures paper had mentioned the large mental hospital, St Kitts, which although ten miles away served her constituency. The old county asylum was an unloved and neglected monstrosity. But did unloved mean unwanted? What would happen to those who relied on it? Would their fragile health collapse? Had the whole closure programme, which in three decades had seen over 100,000 NHS hospital beds for the mentally ill vanish, gone much too far?

No one would campaign much against the closure. This was not St Bartholomew's in the heart of London with 900 years of history behind it – and even that effort had failed. The land was worth more for housing. The council would pitch to get half an acre for old people's bungalows. If she resisted as a local MP – it wasn't even in her patch – everyone would think she was playing politics. Indeed, it suddenly struck her, it would be her own signature on the closure order.

She turned back to the report, blonde hair falling across her face in the light of the reading lamp. With drug therapy mad people could be practically normal. How would she feel, normal, knowing she was deprived of her freedom for years, maybe for ever? No wonder they would do anything, including lying to social workers and slamming the door in the doctor's face, to stay clear of authority.

The evening was drawing in: it was time to close the curtains and turn on the main light. She rose and gazed out moodily at the dark garden. Then with a sigh she reached up and pulled the curtain cord.

Something was out there. It moved in the blackness – a shape: an eye caught the yellow of the light. She jumped and cried out in fear, then the thing was gone.

For a moment she stood stock-still, heart pounding, then backed away from the window. It was just the effect of reading that stupid report. The security light had not turned on, so it couldn't have been anything substantial – a cat, maybe. To steady herself she drained the remainder of her glass.

Her manner a little forced, she laughed at herself. But before she settled down for the night she checked, as usual, that her doors and windows were shut tight and curtains drawn.

Only a cat, of course. What else could it be?

‘Anthony! Anthony – for heaven's sake, wake up.'

With a loud cry he opened his eyes. Mrs York stood over him in her dressing gown, her white hair in an untidy halo, her face creased in anxiety. With a sigh she sat down on the edge of the bed, and gently touched her son's face.

‘Leave your wallet at home, Fred. There'll be plenty of pickpockets in Trafalgar Square trying to bring in something else besides the New Year.'

Karen wrapped a long blue college scarf several times around her neck. A large blue beret was pulled down over her hair. She checked her body-belt for money and keys and pulled a purple sweater down over it, hitched up black leggings and finished off the ensemble with an overlarge denim jacket, fleece-lined. The effect was odd, as of an aubergine on legs. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and giggled.

‘No wonder my mum sniffs at the way I dress. But you have to be ready for anything on a night like this. These may be old clothes but they're
reliable
.'

Fred buttoned his navy overcoat, pulled on leather gloves and felt somewhat out of place. Then a new-found confidence made him shrug. If he was to be observed by television cameras he intended to be seen as a dignified scion of Westminster, albeit out enjoying the celebrations. Karen and Lachlan's strictures had struck home. In the winter sales he had spent what seemed to his old self an incredible sum of money, over £700, on two new suits and this coat. As he took Karen's place in front of the mirror he refused to be fazed. He was, he would admit, rather pleased with his appearance.

‘You won't be ashamed to be out with me, then?' Fred was fishing. For Christmas he had been given Sue Townsend's latest edition of Adrian Mole's diaries. To be truthful it was the nagging recognition of traces of the awful Mole in himself as much as the remarks of his fellow tenants which had driven him at last to Moss Bros.

‘Come on. Stop admiring yourself, Fred. Though I must say, you look splendid. I could
almost fancy you.' So saying, Karen pulled Fred out of the door.

She did not notice the blush which suffused the young man's cheeks nor the pensive silence in which he accompanied her down the street.

It was a hell of a party. The penthouse apartment was packed to overflowing. The neighbours were either present or out of town or there'd have been complaints about the noise, and police raids. That would never do. MPs and peers, especially the younger and more vigorous, needed protection from prying eyes as well as fine food, fair company and plenty to drink. All of which Lady Sommers certainly knew how to provide.

The old woman, it was rumoured, had been a high-class hooker in her time. After a dazzling and lucrative career she had retired into marriage, first with a scion of the Churchill family, then with an arms dealer who had conveniently died a year later, then with one of the premier earls of England. The latter's untimely demise had left her enormously well-off, able to indulge her taste not only in the erotic art which adorned the walls of the flat but in the artists also. Yet her preference remained for the more imaginative inhabitants of the foothills of politics, though she had no objection to an occasional bishop or film producer as well.

Harrison could not decide which to do next – grab another glass of champagne from the tray sweeping past in the waiter's gloved hands, seize another smoked salmon and caviar canapé from the silver platter by his right elbow or slide his fingers over the back of the lissom girl perched on the red silk sofa on which he currently lounged. What was her name – Marie? Theresa? Something inappropriately holy, anyway, given the way she'd nudged him all evening.

The girl leaned back against him, laughed and passed him a joint.

‘C'mon! Don't be a stick-in-the-mud. This is the finest stuff, I tell you. My brother grows it under glass at his farm. Best Dutch, he calls it. The locals think it's tobacco. Well, it is, sort of.'

She twisted around and peered at him. ‘It'd make you great in bed, Derek,' she whispered appealingly.

Harrison preferred to keep off proscribed drugs. It might be a respectable libertarian point of view to urge their legalisation, and most young people had a casual attitude to their use, but his older voters would disagree. Instead he drank deep of the excellent champagne – a 1975 Dom Pérignon – then moved his hand firmly on to the coltish thigh. The warmth of the skin, the firmness of tone, made him much more interested. She kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes at him invitingly.

His hand slid beyond the stocking tops and up into the darkness beyond. He was not in the least surprised to find that the girl was not wearing panties. Probably none of the girls did, least of all his plump hostess, who would expect her pick of the guests, male and female, before the night was out.

‘No problems on that score,' he murmured, and circled an exploratory fingertip. The girl threw her head back and mewed like a cat. Obligingly she opened her legs a little wider. He leaned over and kissed her roughly on her open mouth, pushing his tongue down deep, his fingers busy.

The party was getting wilder. Freddie Ferriman was jigging furiously on the tiny open square of carpet, jacket off and tie askew, beer belly swaying up and down, his face puce with effort and pleasure. His dancing partner was a girl ten inches taller who was in the early stages of discarding her blouse to whoops of encouragement from Freddie. Nearby their hostess paused to watch, her tiny eyes glittering. Not that the girl had breasts of sufficient bulk to make the display worthwhile, Harrison judged, though the nipples had turned hard already. Lazily he wondered where his fellow MP's wife had been packed off to this evening, then smiled with anticipation as Marie's more ample flesh began to escape from the loosely ribboned sweater heaving beneath him. She wasn't wearing a bra either.

Carefully he put down his glass. Pushing a second finger inside the girl he continued his rhythmic pressure as she gurgled throatily at him. With a flick of his free hand he untied the nearest
ribbon and began to suck the nipple which emerged.

The girl slid back on the sofa. One leg was stretched out, her skirt rucked up to her hips; she raised the other leg and rested her foot on Harrison's shoulder. He bent over her, his mouth on her breasts and neck. With one hand she pulled his head back and kissed him again energetically. From the reefer she took another quick puff. Then she reached down and affectionately squeezed him between his legs.

‘Nice. Oh, let's stay here and do it. Give 'em all an eyeful. Better in public, isn't it?'

The white panelling of the parlour gleamed cosily in the chandelier's light. Beyond its yellow curtains a thousand acres waited patiently for winter to end. Down the avenue beech trees soughed; the rose garden nearby lay bare and silent. A grandfather clock ticked softly. From the Great Hall came the sound of discreet merriment.

Gravely the Prime Minister poured a glass of ten-year-old Veuve Clicquot from the Chequers cellars for his wife, filled his own and clinked the two.

‘We'll have to join the staff soon to see the New Year in, but let's have a few moments together. What shall we toast?'

Caroline Dickson looked around at the elegant room with its vases of flowers and side tables crammed with cards. A small tree, still glossy and with its needles intact, stood in a corner, its baubles twinkling in the soft light; the big pine, a gift from Scandinavia, stood twenty feet tall in the Hall. She smoothed her silk dress and self-consciously touched the diamond necklace borrowed from the safe. Rumour had it Mrs Thatcher had grieved openly when the previous Prime Minister's wife had been seen with it, but this was hardly public, and Roger owed nothing to the baroness.

‘I'm not sure, Roger. I certainly didn't expect to be seeing the New Year in here. Did you?'

He put the glass down and joined her, slipping his arm around her waist. ‘I must say you've coped beautifully and I'm proud of you. I am sorry it was such a shock, but I had to move quickly. Funnily enough it feels quite natural now. I can understand why Prime Ministers get so attached to the job.'

‘You've had a honeymoon so far. It is lovely, having almost fifty per cent approval in the polls. You're a long way ahead.'

‘Don't take them too seriously. Blair did and look what happened to him. John Major used to tell a story about comparing notes in the late 1980s with Brian Mulroney, the Canadian Prime Minister, who told him nobody in Britain had any concept of what unpopularity meant. In their polls he'd hardly ever seen his percentage climb above the level of inflation.'

‘Oh, dear,' Caroline chuckled. ‘What happened to him – Mulroney, I mean?'

‘Him? Got chucked out by his party, but it did them no good. The subsequent election was a complete wipe-out – left with only two seats. Vanished into the blue yonder.' Roger bent to sip the champagne, then remembered that no toast had been proposed.

He hugged his wife and kissed her brown hair. A faint memory of another woman, blonde, smaller, brighter, surfaced but was pushed away into the furthest recesses of his mind.

‘We've such a lot to be thankful for. Let's just toast each other, and pray for another good year.'

‘You're a man of hidden talents, George,' commented Betty Horrocks appreciatively. Around her came cries of astonishment and a ripple of applause.

George Horrocks, white chefs cap at a rakish angle with a sprig of holly pinned to it, arranged a handful of fresh herbs around the magnificent roast Suffolk ham, almost 15 lb in weight, cured by
his friend Nigel Jerry in Peasenhall in a mixture of stout, spices and molasses which was now deposited carefully as the centrepiece of the buffet. George's tasks, modest by comparison, had included soaking and then cooking it for nearly five hours. An hour before his guests had arrived its mahogany-coloured skin was removed, the fat scored, patted with mustard and honey and Demerara sugar and criss-crossed by cloves before it was finished off in the oven. Beside the ham stood a traditional game pie with chunks of venison and hare lying in juices rich with port, brandy and thyme, its crust golden and barely cool. A huge platter nearby held an Italian risotto with three kinds of mushrooms, while the two vegetarians present cooed happily over the prettiest dish, roasted red peppers stuffed with fennel oozing pepper berries, coriander seeds and hot olive oil. The bread basket was piled high with crisp rolls baked a moment earlier, their aroma redolent of home and hearth and gastronomic pleasures to come. Still hidden were the puddings.

With a flourish George raised the carving knife and sharpener and deftly began to strop. ‘Plates over there, cutlery on the tray, baked potatoes behind you, plus caramelised baby onions, red cabbage, parsnips, salads if you prefer – everything's ready. Now, who's first – Elaine?'

‘You should have warned me he could cook, Betty,' Elaine commented several minutes later as with piled-up plates and full glasses the women settled in the living room.

‘He's a man of many parts, is George.' Betty peered thoughtfully at her brother-in-law, who was obviously in his element as he ladled food on to plate after plate.

‘I know,' Elaine remarked, then wished she hadn't. Betty was grinning broadly at her. She touched Betty's arm. ‘Don't go match-making, please. You would embarrass us both. He's a sweetie, but I think I'd rather have him simply as a friend.'

Elaine omitted to mention the afternoon at an exhibition in the Mall Galleries sponsored by George's firm followed by a lively and crowded tea at the Ritz, or the chaste evening at David Mamet's play
Oleanna
where after arguing amicably right through the interval, he taking the woman's side, she the man's, they had parted with a laugh and quick peck on the cheek outside. If this was companionship, so far it had been all she might have asked; if courtship, its leisurely pace was well judged and undemanding. Those few hours in his company had, however, begun to imprint the image of George's face on her mind. Without effort she could summon up his quizzical smile, as if he were always thinking private thoughts which might be shared if only trust could be firmly established. Roger was still powerfully in her thoughts. To picture anyone else felt disloyal and uncomfortable. Yet also present, unexpectedly and increasingly, was George; and if one relationship was going nowhere, where might the other lead?

Betty pouted. ‘You could do a lot worse. How many men do you know that can take care of themselves, and are content doing so, are complete gentlemen – and can cook like a dream, too? I tell you, I wish I was fifteen years younger: I'd be batting my eyelashes at George right now, so I would.'

Her companion hid her interest as she forked strips of ham and home-made salad into her mouth. She hadn't eaten so well in the entire holiday. ‘So why isn't a man like that married? What went wrong?'

Betty hesitated. ‘That's for George to tell, if he's a mind to. But,' she added hastily, ‘there's nothing unpleasant to hide, nor anything shameful, I assure you.'

As unobtrusively as she could, Elaine observed their host, who had moved on and was offering sorbet made from mulled wine, or champagne jellies and syllabub with brandy and a truffle torte laced with rum, or a vast apple pie. Some guests guiltily asked for a little of each and George obliged. An enormous Stilton, its knobbly skin swathed in a red-checked cloth, also demanded his attention as he scooped out portions with an antique silver spoon.

What a contrast he made with her former husband, whose infrequent forays into the kitchen produced nothing more elaborate than a sandwich, and who seldom rummaged in a cupboard other than for Jaffa Cakes and ready-salted crisps. His new wife Linda would almost certainly be a more
enthusiastic housewife than Elaine had been, and in that sense at least would make him a suitable partner. Karen too could live quite happily on junk food and chips, though the girl had recently shown interest in a proper diet. Maybe lodging in a house surrounded by men was having an effect. What, Elaine wondered, would Karen make of George, a genuinely masculine man who yet clearly knew his way around a cookery book?