The Betrayal of Trust (9 page)

If she had been talking to Penny, to a friend – to anyone – she would have made that a joke. Gallows humour. But sitting alone at the small desk with her chequebook in front of her, and all the papers
they had sent, the rows of printed facts, it was not a joke. Not funny. It was not possible to be flippant. She did not have to pretend to herself or put on a brave face. On the contrary, it seemed important not to do so.

The truth. That was all she had to hold on to and she must hold fast.

The truth.

The truth was that it cost a lot of money, but what else would she spend it on if she did
not write this cheque?

A care home. Far more expensive.

A live-in help.

Not so expensive but absolutely out of the question. She had considered the idea of a nursing home or whatever else might be available and had found that there were indeed some things to be said in its favour as well as many against. There was nothing in favour of a live-in help. Some people might prefer it to moving into
a home, but this house was so much her centre, almost her life, not just a roof and four walls. She could never share it with a stranger however discreet and pleasant.

Every time, she came back quite smoothly to where she was now, at her desk, in front of the wad of papers from Bene Mori, their website on her computer, her chequebook and pen.

The clinic put out everything in German so that you
had to search for an English version. At first Jocelyn had used the auto-translation but that had converted some of the information into nonsense. Eventually, she had found ‘English’ written small, in a list of technical information at the bottom. She had downloaded the brochure and printed it off. She read it thoroughly several times before sending a cheque for ‘membership’ and a request for the
‘Restricted’ information.

After it had arrived, she had a new lock fitted on her desk drawer, and put the key inside the battery section tube of a broken electric toothbrush.

Penny had not phoned or been to see her, but that morning an email had come from her.

It has taken me these few days even to write this, I have been so shaken and upset. I wonder if you had any idea what effect your request
would have. To be invited to supper by your mother, only to be told that she has an incurable illness is a shock, but at least you did tell me, when you might have tried to keep it to yourself. But how could you calmly sit there and not only say that you planned assisted suicide, but ask me to go with you, to be that ‘assistant’, that ‘companion’? Some daughters – or sons – might bring themselves
to do it, though I really don’t know how. It made me sick even to think of it. The other objection, which I’m pretty sure didn’t occur to you, is that I am a criminal barrister and what you propose to do is against the law here, though not in Switzerland. But accompanying someone, in the full knowledge that they intend to commit suicide on arrival at this clinic, is a criminal offence and although
to date charges have not been brought, or if brought have been dropped, a member of the Bar would be struck off immediately if they undertook such an action. Did you know that?

I am too upset to write more now but please, Mother, please reconsider. You will have every help of any other kind
from
me as you face this wretched illness but never that. Never, ever that. Put all this from your mind.

My case has another couple of days or possibly three but as soon as it’s finished I’ll come and see you. There will have been time for you to think and we can talk more calmly with this nonsense out of the way.

Much love, P

Nonsense.

Jocelyn looked calmly at the papers.

For legal reasons we do not give you the precise address of our clinic until just before you depart. You will be sent all
details and also instruction of friendly hotels to stay at before and then of suitable taxis for your journey. You should not take any taxi, only these.

Our clinic is set in rural surroundings with beautiful tranquil woodland near to hand, Photo 1, and is well appointed and furnished for comfort and peace, Photo 2.

The image of the fields and small belt of trees with mountains in the far distance
was pleasant but could be anywhere. There was, understandably, no photograph of the exterior of the clinic, but there was one she had looked at again and again – the Peace Room.

There was a bed, neatly made. A carpet. A rug. A window with the distant mountain-top view. A vase of what looked like wild flowers and branches on the sill. A small table with a lighted candle. Sunshine touching the
wall.

Peace Room
. She felt the tranquillity coming to her from the picture. There would be music playing softly – you were encouraged to take a CD of any music you chose, though there was a note that perhaps ‘heavy rock’ would not be very fitting, but it was up to you.

She would take her time in choosing. The right music would matter. The last music she would hear. Music to die to, she thought.
But that did not sound right, that was disturbing, rather than comforting.

She looked not so much at but into the heart of the Peace Room on her computer screen now. The colours were right. The bedcover was violet blue, the walls a pale rose. The flowers were violet, blue, pink. But the overall impression was of the violet blue. The colour of hills in the evening.

All this peace and reassurance
would be within her reach and her control. There would be no haste, no shock or distress, no anguish of a race in an ambulance, a clattering hospital ward, the scrape of curtains round a metal rail. Pain. Other people in charge. None of that. The time would be of her choosing, before she had lost her dignity and her will.

And Penny called it a nonsense.

Jocelyn pulled her cheque book nearer
and picked up her pen, but writing was becoming difficult. She could not grip. The pen fell. She picked it up again and it fell again.

This was what she faced – and worse, so much worse. She had all but fallen that morning, her left leg suddenly heavy and not obeying her mind properly but shuffling itself over the step into the kitchen. How she had not pitched forward she did not know. She had
grabbed at the wall and somehow managed to stay upright, but another time she might have crashed onto the tiled floor and knocked herself out, broken an arm, lain in agony or even unconscious. It was the dread of all the elderly living alone and becoming frail or unsteady, but this was nothing to do with age, this was IT. She had started to call her illness IT.

She had a card on the desk. An
MRI scan and an appointment with the neurologist.

Was there any point in going? She already knew what was important to know – what IT was and that there was neither treatment nor cure, just a railway track on which she would be propelled forward. No getting off. No stops. No relief. Nothing. Just on, steadily, relentlessly on down the preordained route.

She was worth more than that. Her life
was worth more. Worth a better death.

But she could not go to Switzerland alone. She would not be admitted, even if she had the courage. Penny could not go, of course – it had not occurred to her that she could be struck off for doing so and how could she ever be responsible for that?
Could
not go, would not go. So who would? How in the world could one ask this of even the closest, dearest friend?
And she had no close, dear friends. All her life, she had had a few people she liked, whose company she enjoyed, with whom she kept in touch, went to the theatre or on a day’s outing. They were friends, she supposed, but not close. Not what she had heard called ‘friends of the heart’. She had not quite known what was meant by it, but now she needed to find out.

FRETFIELD WAS A
village that had grown, as many around Lafferton had, but its centre was still recognisable as belonging to the country rather than the town. Maytree House was on the southern edge, and as she drove towards it, Cat remembered that it had once been a small convent school – she had had a couple of friends who went there and whose days were subtly different from her own,
marked out by the angelus bell, catechism lessons and fish-on-Fridays. She had once stood inside the front hall and been riveted by the sight of the colourful statues of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart.

‘Yes, it’s all quite fun being an idolater,’ her father had said when she had described them. ‘Apart from Hell of course.’ She had not dared to ask more.

It looked superficially the same
as she approached down the long drive, but the evergreen trees had been felled and the laurel and other dark shrubs cleared so that the whole place was now open to the fields and the distant view of Starly Tor. The school and convent signs had long gone, the whole place had been painted and the ugly prefabricated classroom extension at the side demolished. The gravel tennis and netball courts had
gone too. She realised what a handsome house it was without the utilitarian trappings.

But the outside area was a mess of builders, vans and equipment, with half-built walls, cement mixers and a site office occupying most of it.

As she walked from the car, Cat saw that a man was standing in the open doorway. Behind him, an empty hall, ladders, painters, light.

‘Dr Deerbon?’

He was totally
bald, not, she thought, from ageing or being shaved but from alopecia. He was handsome, though, enough to distract from his baldness within a few seconds.

‘Leo Fison. Come in – it isn’t as bad as it looks from here. The builders have almost finished actually.’

She remembered somewhere dark and wood-panelled but now the house was full of light. Walls had been knocked down and in the main sitting
room a wide bow window opened out onto the garden. The place was empty and smelled of fresh paint.

‘We want it to be as little like an institution as possible. There will be smaller rooms down here – a separate one for television, one for crafts and memory activities … several occupational therapists.’ He led the way into a new conservatory which looked towards the Tor.

‘I wish everyone with
dementia who needed to live somewhere like this, could.’

‘I know. Cost. Money. I’ve been talking to people in the local authority but the chances of getting any fully funded places are growing smaller every day. I dislike the idea that I will be caring only for the well off.’

‘But the well off are still people and those with dementia have equal needs. Look at it that way.’

His smile was immediate
and had a great sweetness. ‘I try to. And you’re right.’ They were heading towards the staircase. ‘Up here are patients’ rooms, staff quarters, nursing station. Utility rooms are all on the ground floor – we’ve built an extension on the back for kitchen, laundry, all of that. And a big staffroom where I hope they will be able to relax and switch off, even during a tea break. It’s vital.’

There
was the sound of banging and the smell of new carpet as they walked along.

‘When will you open?’

‘I hope we can welcome the first residents by the end of
the
month. Once the decorators are out of the main house, we can get the furniture in – it’ll come together very quickly. The builders will just have a bit of outside work to complete. Would you like some coffee? There isn’t much more to see
but I would like to know if you’ve any suggestions – I’m trying to see as many GPs as I can and people from the hospital too if they can come over. Your input will be important. The point is that there are any number of general care homes but this is the first to cater solely for dementia sufferers and to focus on their very specific needs. It’s a growing problem … well, I don’t need to tell
you
.’

He led the way back to the ground floor and down a side corridor.

‘We’ve bought the house next door – you can see it from here. We moved in a month ago so at least home is now a home. This is my office – shambles still.’

He pushed papers off a chair.

John Lowther had suggested that she come here, see the new facilities, and at the same time form an opinion about Fison as possible head of
the new hospice committee. She watched him as he made their coffee, talking all the time about what he called his mission, not only to provide dementia care but to move practical work with sufferers forward. From what he had been saying Cat gathered that he saw himself as a specialist and even something of a pioneer.

Given all of which it seemed unlikely that he would have the time or the inclination
to take on another role. Whether he would be right for that role she decided she could not tell. Fund-raising on a professional level was not her area of expertise.

But she liked Leo Fison, she thought, as she drove away, and she liked what she had heard of his plans, as well as the potential of the house. It had a good feel.

She was still thinking about it as she headed back, first to do a
grocery shop, then to Imogen House after lunch, for a clinical meeting. The country road wound round the Moor, single track in places, and as she stopped and reversed a few yards into a gateway to let a tractor pass, she saw Simon and hooted.

He had already slowed to a jog.

‘Hey! Why aren’t you at work?’

‘Same to you.’ He opened the car door and got in. ‘I was heading over there.’

Cat looked
at fluttering tape stretched between the plastic posts.

‘Have you got a few minutes?’

She parked beside his Audi, and together they scrambled up the muddy section of track.

‘Is this a crime scene?’

‘Officially. But forensics have combed it for days and pretty much done – there won’t be anything else to find, especially not after the rain we’ve had since.’

They reached the area where the soil
had been flattened down. Below, out of sight, came the rumble of traffic on the bypass. Above them, two buzzards soared lazily, wings flat, like the sails of a windmill. They were on the edge of the first clumps of trees.

Simon stood looking down, then turned and looked up at the Moor. Turned back.

Cat put a hand on his arm. ‘It’s gone, Si. It can’t tell you anything else.’