Charlotte (6 page)

She smelt the alcohol for the first time.

A look of revulsion etched across her face.

Save it for later
.

She opened the rear door of the car, slid him onto the backseat, and opened the driver door in one fast movement. As she started the car, the headlights came on and illuminated the house ahead of them.

Amy was standing there, waving, with a beaming smile on her face.

Her other hand was stretched out to her side at an unusual angle.

Almost as if someone was holding it…

"Charlotte is history," Patricia said, as she reversed out of the driveway.

Her breath was sour from the cheap, bitter coffee that she'd drank mere moments before. As she lingered in the silent waiting room of the hospital, downstairs from the Medical Facility they'd visited earlier, her tear-stained face was warm with anger and guilt. A nurse, sat behind a bland, white counter, looked up and forced a smile. Seconds later, she returned to her paperwork. Patricia rubbed her sore, irritated eyes for the umpteenth time. 

Why hadn’t she seen this coming?

You didn’t have any clues to it; it came out of nowhere.

What is it the doctor said? Neglect? Not paying attention?

Charlotte should never have happened.

What sort of a mother are you?

Patricia stifled another sob and sniffed. She raised her head and gazed at the miscellaneous health posters on the wall, looking for a welcome distraction.
Aids. STDs. Ebola. Shigella.
Patricia couldn’t help but laugh at the last one. Did it actually read
'when participating in anal-oral sex, please ensure you cleanse your hands after to prevent contamination of Shigella
.'

In the light of things, Patricia thought she deserved a laugh. She glanced at the busy nurse and commented. "They'll put anything on these posters now, won't they?"

The nurse glanced up, nodded, and resumed her work.

"Miserable bitch," Patricia muttered under her breath. It didn’t seem funny anymore.

She stared at her feet, her wet shoes covered in melting snow. She remembered seeing Bruce scream in pain and collapse into the snow. His hand…
his hand
.

Patricia gagged, calmed herself, and swallowed the bile in her throat.

"Mrs. Brunswick?"

She didn’t respond straight away, recognition absent in her mind. She looked up and her brain kicked into gear. She stared at the new arrival, a middle-aged doctor, and smiled.

"Mrs. Brunswick?"

Patricia tuned into reality, heard her name, and responded. "Yes?"

"Can you come with me, please?"

Patricia said nothing, stood up slowly, her legs protesting against the sudden movement, and walked towards the doctor. The nurse watched as they went and picked up the phone on her desk. They disappeared through a set of double doors that read
Accident and Emergency
, which closed silently in their wake.

"Is there a problem, doctor?"

They walked down an empty corridor, flanked by several wooden doors with various room numbers on them. Muffled noises and beeps came from within. The right side of the corridor was a huge sheet of glass, looking out over a picturesque wooded area. Patricia already felt herself relaxing at the gorgeous scenery. A thin layer of snow topped the trees, creating a beautiful, almost perfect view.

She remembered her husband's words.
"It's due to snow anytime. I hope we get some this year, a white Christmas is rare."
That was a lovely evening. He was right, though. Patricia shivered.

The doctor stopped at the seventh door.

"Before we go in, your husband is stable, Mrs Brunswick. The wound was a nasty one, but we dressed it and glued it shut. We gave your husband a local anaesthetic to make the task easier; the skin on the back of the hand is very delicate. He passed out afterwards…we're letting him rest. Also, his blood was very…thin."

"So?"

"Mrs. Brunswick, has your husband been drinking?"

Patricia gulped.
You can’t lie, they already know.
She gazed at the doctor; his eyes were summing her up, judging her, just like most doctors. It was a natural, all-knowing stare; one that all medical professionals contained in their repertoire. She flinched a little and nodded wearily. "Yes, I think he has been. I didn’t notice until earlier, before I brought him in."

The doctor nodded. "His blood was very thin, which indicates heavy alcohol consumption. It was very difficult to glue the skin back together and it could still dehisce…" Patricia frowned, confused. The doctor smiled. "…dehisce means to burst open. The wound could still do that. We need to wrap it up and ensure minimal activity for a few days. Now, we haven’t obtained the data yet but I think the drinking has been going on for some time. Do you know anything about this?"

The surprise on Patricia's face told the doctor everything he needed to know. "Okay, no, you didn’t. There are signs he's been drinking, on and off, for some time. By your reaction I assume you didn’t know?"

Patricia shook her head. She rubbed her tired eyes. "No…no, I didn't."

Silence filled the corridor.

"Okay. Well, there's just one more thing I need to confirm."

"What is it, doctor?" she said, exasperated. She grinned, holding her forehead in her sweaty palm. "I'm sorry, doctor, it's been a long day."

"We all have them."

"What was your question, what did you need to know?"

"Do you know a Dr. Sam Barden?"

Recognition rattled around her skull before her eyes widened. "Yes, yes, we saw him earlier on. He had an appointment with my daughter, Amy, at…one 'o'clock? A couple of hours ago. Why?"

The doctor nodded. "If you can step inside, Mrs. Brunswick." He opened the door and she saw Bruce lying on the bed, asleep and pale. The colour was returning to his face. A drip protruded from his arm and spooled off to a bag of saline on a metal rack. His chest raised and fell steadily.

She noticed the handcuffs on his good wrist, shackling him to the bed.

Her eyes flicked to the two police officers standing beside her husband. She looked around at the doctor and backed off. "What is this?"

"Ma'am, if you can come with us, please?"

"No, I want to see my husband."

"He's asleep. This won't take too long. We have some queries. Then you can come back and sit with him."

Patricia folded her arms and refused. A pang of pain shot through her heart. She wasn’t used to seeing her husband in such a vulnerable position. Realising she was in a difficult situation, she succumbed. He wasn’t going anywhere. After a moment, she nodded, exhausted.

She followed the police officers from the room.

"Why am I here? I want to see my husband."

A man in a purple shirt and black tie sat in the chair opposite Patricia. As he lowered himself, he pushed his tie against his chest, keeping it close to him. A second man, thin and gangly with a lighter blue suit and white shirt, rested against the wall behind him. He was staring at the wall, not paying attention.

The first man rested his rump on the chair and smiled. "I'm D.S Moore and this inquisitive chap behind me is D.S Ledger. Nice to meet you Mrs. Brunswick. Just for the record, you're not under arrest; we just need to ask you some questions."

"If I'm not under arrest, that means I can leave, right?"

"Yes, but if you stay, it will make this process a lot simpler."

Patricia sat still. She glanced at the door, and potential freedom, before returning her eyes back to the policeman. She knew how this went. If she left, she wouldn’t see Bruce. They'd use it to their advantage. Either way, she was their only hope of speeding this up—whatever it was. He hadn't done anything wrong anyway—she hoped—so she leaned forward. "What do you want to know?"

"Where were you between one o'clock and two o'clock today?"

Patricia breathed out. "In Dr. Barden's waiting room. He had an appointment with my daughter, Amy."

Moore noted it on a pad. "Good. Now, what happened at the conclusion of this meeting?"

Patricia searched her mind's eye for the answer. After several seconds, her eyes faced forward. "I took Amy down to the car, Bruce followed soon after. He had a chat with Dr. Barden…then we drove home. He got injured in an accident and now I'm here…we're here."

More scribbling.

"When did you last see Dr. Barden?"

"When I left the office…why, what's going on?"

Moore ignored her question and retorted with one of his own. "After you left the office, did you see Dr. Barden in any capacity before driving home?"

"No."

"Okay. An hour ago…, which was an hour after you left the complex, we found Dr. Barden dead in his office with his throat and wrists slit. He bled out on his couch."

Patricia groaned, realisation dawning on her, and put her hand to her mouth. A few seconds later, she vomited on the floor beside her. The room filled with splattering sounds. Ledger stepped to the door, opened it, and left. Moore handed Patricia a tissue. The smell of acidic bile was strong in the musty air. Moore opened the door wider, letting the air out. Beyond the doorway, Ledger was indicating to a nurse.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine." Patricia wiped her lips, fresh tears started to roll down her cheeks, expecting the key question. She knew what it was before the words escaped Moore's lips. "How long was your husband in the office for before he emerged?"

"I don’t know. A minute, two most. Maybe three. I didn’t keep count."

"Dr. Barden's secretary, Carol, mentioned that an argument took place before she left the two alone. We also found cash on the reception carpet with your husband's fingerprints on it. The doctor we spoke to, who assisted your husband, mentioned he'd been drinking. We feel they had an altercation; your husband attacked Dr. Barden, and walked out. It makes sense really, apart from two crucial details."

"Mr Moore, if my husband killed Dr. Barden, wouldn’t he have been soaked in blood? Even I know slashing someone's throat is a messy job. He didn’t have an ounce of blood on him. I would have noticed."

"Which is the first detail. The second is your husband's wound. Dr. Barden didn’t have any blood or skin under his fingernails so he didn’t defend himself. Which means he didn’t give your husband his injury. Do you know how he got the wound?"

Patricia chuckled, not believing the situation. "If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me."

"Try me."

Ledger returned with a nurse, mop and bucket in tow. Moore nodded to the new arrival and looked at Patricia.

Patricia stood up. "Okay, but I need to make a phone call first…"

"Sure."

"And I need a drink."

Moore nodded. "I'll supervise."

"Hello, Rita?" Patricia heard a low humming in the background.
Bad line?

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's Patricia."

"Oh, hiiii Pat, how are you? Long time no see!"

"I know, it's been too long…listen, can you do me a favour? It's kind of an emergency? Bruce is in the hospital and…well, it's a long story."

"Oh my, I'm sorry to hear it dear. Anything I can do, name it?"

D.C Moore was leaning against the wall, watching Patricia. A coy smile was on his lips, observing for any misplaced word or hint of danger. Patricia knew better than to fuck with the police.

"Can you go over to the house and look after Amy for a couple of hours? It might be a night job. I'll pay you."

"I'm sorry, hon, I can't. I have plans this evening."

Great, fucking great,
thought Patricia. She lowered her head. Moore stepped forward. "Problem?" Patricia shook her head and sighed.

"Mike can do it though?"

A smile lit up Patricia's face. "Really?"

"Yeah, he's not doing anything tonight. He's off school. I'm sure he could use the money too, lazy sod."

"That's fantastic; I'll pay him fifty quid if he stays on the couch. I just need him to keep an eye on Amy. Can you send him straight away?"

"Of course. Give my love to Bruce. I'll catch up with you when you get back."

"Definitely. Thank you, Rita, you're a life saver."

Patricia hung up. She breathed out. D.S Moore stepped forward. "You left Amy, who's nine, if my notes are correct, alone?"

"No," she lied. "The babysitter is due to leave any minute."

They walked to a new interview room. Patricia could see the nurse mopping the floor with a disgusted look on her face.
This is going to be a long night
, she thought.

"Mike.
Mike
. Get your lazy arse down here."

"Mummmm, I'm playing Call of Duty."

"Not anymore you’re not. Get down here,
now.
"

Footsteps rattled the floor above and after a few seconds, Mike bounded down the stairs, landing in the hall with a thump. "What is it?"

"I need you to go over to the Brunswicks' house and look after Amy. Her parents are otherwise occupied and they need your help."

"Mum, seriously? Why would I want to look after that crybaby?"

"They're paying you fifty pounds."

"Whoopee doo, I get more than that in my pocket money."

"If you do this, you can have three days of no chores. You can play Call of…whatever your games are called to your heart's content."