Bound, page 23
I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, then smiled as I wiped the spilt tears from his cheek.
‘Bye, Dad.’
79
‘Sam, can I have a word with you please?’
Alison Cowan, the medical director for the community hospice had nabbed me on my way back from the toilets, where I’d retired to have a quiet chuck. The jury was out on whether the persistent nausea I was experiencing was due to my fragile emotional state, or hormonal state, or both. The company in Dad’s room was rather tense. Mum was there and being stoic. My brother Steve had just arrived up from the farm and wasn’t. Sheryl was barely holding it together. Big brother Mike was silent and unreachable in his own thoughts. The only thing that made it tolerable was the presence of my favourite niece and nephew. Kids made it impossible to wallow in the negative. Still, I leapt at the opportunity to avoid going back in there, even if it was only a brief respite.
‘Come down to my office.’
I followed her down the hallway, and then sat down in the chair she offered. She shut the door and sat down on the other side of her desk.
‘I’m not entirely sure how to broach this with you,’ she said. The concerned look on her face had me going uh-oh – she’d sprung me and figured out the reason for my impromptu trips to the ladies’ room. ‘But,’ she took a deep breath, ‘I’m not entirely happy with the circumstances of your father’s death.’
That wasn’t what I expected. I shook my head to see if I’d heard right. ‘What do you mean?’
She leaned forward, elbows on the desktop, looking at me squarely. ‘There is a problem with the amount of morphine he was given.’
My mind grappled with her words, trying to grasp what she was trying to tell me. We wouldn’t have been having this conversation if he’d been given too little.
‘Are you saying that he was accidentally given an overdose of morphine by one of your staff?’ The stress of the day was showing and I heard my voice rising.
Again, the sigh. ‘Not by one of our staff.’
My mind rolled that around a bit before coming to a conclusion. ‘Are you sure? How else could he possibly have had an overdose?’ No medical institution liked to admit their staff had made an error that resulted in the death of a patient, not even one who was clearly dying anyway. I felt a swell of anger rising up in my chest. They’d made a mistake and were denying it.
‘His syringe driver has been tampered with. It wasn’t a mistake.’ She could see I was ready to explode, and talked in a very calm and even voice. ‘Listen while I explain. The syringe driver is designed, as you know, to give a slow and steady dose of medicine to the patient over a twenty-four hour period. We chart exactly the amount of morphine in each syringe driver, and the exact time it starts, and the specific rate of administration on the machine. When Jock died, we stopped the machine, and removed it, but the amount of morphine left in the syringe was not what it should have been, not even close.’
My head was just beginning to realise what it was she was trying to tell me and I tried to brush aside the thought, because it was too horrific to consider. ‘But, what if you set it up wrong? Set the driver on the wrong speed so it accidentally pumped more into him?’
‘I checked the machine. The rate was still set correctly, and the volume of liquid missing didn’t equate to what should have been there, even if the machine was set in error. We have set the machine running with a saline solution in it to make sure it wasn’t the unit at fault, but so far it is performing perfectly. Sam, it was deliberately tampered with. Someone has drawn up a large dose of morphine from the syringe driver and injected it into your dad.’
‘But who would have done that?’ I uttered. I felt a cold chill spread from my neck and down my spine, work its way around to my guts and squeeze. There were only two people who had been with Dad more or less constantly in his last hours. Two. I felt the bile rising in my throat, clapped my hand over my mouth and bolted from the room.
80
I leaned against the washbasin, hands clutching the sides, as if hanging on to its cold, impersonal porcelain would stop the swirl of emotions that had thrown me off balance. I stared at the ashen, shocked reflection in the mirror, my eyes tracing the features held in common with the beautiful man lying lifeless, murdered, in the room down the corridor. I had his eyes, now bloodshot, and his mouth, now trembling, and recognising the likeness seemed to make the loss all the more unbearable.
My brain struggled with the medical director’s words, ‘not one of our staff’. The implication was clear: not them, one of us. There could only have been two. Sheryl or Mum. But who? It had to have been Sheryl – she was a nurse, she could pull it off. She knew how all the gadgetry worked, she’d know where to inject him, she was that one step more removed, detached. He wasn’t her dad, her husband. Could she? Would she? It had to have been, because the alternative was impossible.
The tightness in my chest intensified as the chill edges of shock were replaced with the bubbling heat of anger. She had killed my father. She had stolen those last moments from me, that last chance for something, anything. My jaw clenched, and I found myself storming out of the toilet and down the corridor. Dr Cowan must have been waiting outside. I registered the look on her face before my stride took her out of view, and I could hear her scampering to keep up.
‘What are you doing?’ I heard her ask.
What was I doing? I didn’t know, but by God I was going to get some answers.
‘Sam, don’t do anything…’
I strode around the corner into the room. Six faces looked up startled.
‘What the hell did you do?’ I yelled at Sheryl, bitterness leaching into my voice.
The faces changed from startled to shocked. I heard the click of the door closing behind me, and a steadying hand on my shoulder.
‘Sam? Don’t.’
I shook off Alison Cowan’s good intentions. ‘What, you couldn’t wait for him to die in his own time? You had to turn around and kill him, for God’s sake.’
‘Sam!’ This time there was admonishment in the voice, but I was beyond listening to reason.
‘That’s murder, that’s what it is, did you know that? You have murdered him.’
Sheryl had been gawping like a goldfish. She finally found her voice. ‘What are you talking about? What’s wrong with you?’
‘What’s wrong with me? The question should be what’s wrong with you? Dad’s morphine pump was tampered with. He was deliberately given an overdose, to kill him. It was you. You murdered him. You murdered my father, and by God you’ll pay for it, you bitch.’
Steve thrust himself to his feet, and before I knew it he was across the room and had slapped me hard across the face. The sharp sting made me gasp, and my eyes watered furiously. ‘Don’t you dare talk to my wife like that. You can’t come in here and make all these ludicrous accusations. You take that back.’
I pulled my hand back, ready to give as hard as I got, but felt it caught and restrained, my head whipping around to see Dr Cowan, face contorted with the effort, holding me back.
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ Sheryl yelled back. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean you killed my father, you murdering cow.’ I saw a flash of movement and felt another sting across my cheek.
‘Stop it, stop it, all of you.’ I heard Mum’s voice rising above the chorus of people all talking and yelling and crying at once. Then, that one voice, with pain and clarity, said five words that ripped through the mêlée and silenced the room.
‘Stop it. It was me.’
Everyone turned towards the voice, movements suspended in mid-action like someone had hit the pause button.
‘What do you mean, it was you?’ I said, my voice a whisper.
She looked at me then, her eyes steady. I looked at the face in the corner of the room, a face that at once held grief and pain, and was it even defiance?
When she spoke her voice was anything but steady. ‘He was in pain, Sam. He was in so much pain. He was, even when he…’ As she struggled to find the words I could feel the anger and disgust that had been choking me moments ago loosen their grip. Mum took a deep breath and visibly steadied herself against the chair. When she spoke, her voice had lost its quiver. ‘He was suffering. I couldn’t let that go on. Even when he was unconscious he was in pain. It was cruel, and it wasn’t right. I did what I had to do.’
‘But he was your husband, my dad. How could you just kill him like that?’
‘I didn’t kill him, I freed him. It’s what he would have wanted. He’d have done the same for me if it was the other way around, or for you, or for the dog for that matter. There was no point in dragging it out any longer. It was hurting everyone.’
‘But he might have come around again.’ I felt the warm flow of tears running down my cheeks. ‘We could have had more time with him.’ Even as I said the words I could see Mum shaking her head, with the same look on her face she used to have when trying to make a petulant seven-year-old see sense. I felt the steadying hand back on my shoulder. I let it stay this time. The petulant child resorted to the age-old fall-back of repetition, with that other age-old standby, sobbing.
‘But you killed him!’
Mum came over and gently cradled my face in her hands.
‘I had to, Sam. I loved him.’
81
Once again I stood in the hallway, outside The Boss’s office, but this time my heart wasn’t racing, it was thudding, a jarring, hollowed ache, as if weighted by dread. My body felt like it swayed with each exaggerated beat. I knocked.
‘Enter.’
DI Johns’ eyes narrowed when he saw it was me, but the hostility on his face quickly changed to puzzlement, and then realisation. I may have even glimpsed pity.
‘Sit down, Detective,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your father.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
He sat too, hands on his desk, lightly drumming his fingertips together. ‘If you need to take leave, that’s fine. Take as much time as you need.’
‘I may need a while,’ I said, trying to choose the right words. ‘There has been a bit of a complication.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I wanted to come to you first, before you heard it formally, but…’ I took a shuddery breath, my fortitude abandoning me. ‘My mother has confessed to having overdosed my father with morphine.’
The finger-drumming stopped. I waited for the explosion.
‘Let me check I’m hearing you correctly,’ he said, his voice carefully even. ‘Your father was in the last days of his life at the hospice, and your mother gave him an overdose to hasten his death?’
I could only nod. I was so determined I was going to do this, and show my strength in front of this man, but it crumbled away, and the tears came despite my best intentions.
‘She admitted this just to you?’
I shook my head.
‘To the hospice staff?’
‘Yes.’
He gave a large sigh and pressed at the sides of his temples as if this was another headache that wouldn’t go away.
‘Have the hospice indicated whether they are going to make an official complaint?’
‘Yes, they said they have no choice.’ And they didn’t. Even if the person only had hours, minutes, to live, the law was black and white.
The thought of my mother having to face a murder trial was devastating. After the initial shock of what she’d done, and the realisation Dad was actually gone, I’d had to admit I felt relieved he was dead, that it was over, and that – and this was the hardest to grapple with – I was glad she did what she did. I hated her for it, but I loved her for it, too.
‘Jesus Christ, Detective Shephard. You do take all.’ He said it like a man who saw me as his penance in life, his cross to bear.
This had been a mistake. I’d been foolish to think he’d give me any quarter, any kudos for fronting up and baring all. I felt a surge of anger and was about to bite back when he continued. ‘This is one hell of a mess, and it will have to take its legal course, you realise that?’
I nodded.
‘And it will have to especially because you are a detective, and the police can’t be seen as favouring their own.’ He sighed again, and I caught a glimpse of something else in his demeanour, a look of something unexpected that left me feeling confused. ‘But I’ll see what we can do to make it as gentle as possible.’
82
I really wanted to avoid bumping into anyone, so took the stairs and the rear exit to the building. My plan was going well until I walked around the corner of the carpark to find, concealed in the corner, Smithy having a fag. Since when had he smoked? I could guess why he’d suddenly found the need to start.
‘Sam,’ he said, by way of greeting.
‘Gidday,’ I said as I hurriedly walked past.
I’d got ten feet before my steps slowed and I came to a halt. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t not say anything about my suspicions, because if I didn’t, what would that make me? Besides being morally wrong, and spineless, if they did prove correct it could make me an accessory. And considering the legal ramifications that were going to be hitting my family sometime soon, I didn’t need that on my plate as well. In a strange kind of a way I didn’t even feel nervous about the thought of confronting him. I just felt numb, dead inside.
I turned around and wandered back.
‘I’m sorry about your dad, Sam.’
‘Thanks. At least it’s over now,’ I said. I paused for a bit. ‘How’s your cut? Have you got those stitches out yet?’
He looked at me, a hint of caution flitting over the shadows of his face. He dropped the cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it under his shoe, blowing the last bit of fetid smoke from his lungs.
‘It’s fine. It wasn’t that bad.’
‘At least knife wounds are clean and heal well.’
With that he looked positively startled. ‘What do you mean?’
I looked up at him, and wondered at how this colleague, mentor and friend had come to feel like a stranger.
‘Now that we’ve got blood evidence on his clothes that suggest he got one in on his killer, we’ll be checking with the hospital and medical centres for anyone who may have come in with what looked like a stab wound after the night Gideon Powell was murdered.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He’d stood up straight, and I felt acutely aware of the fact he was literally twice my size.
‘And even though the fact that you were conveniently one of the officers present at the crime scene could go some way to explain away your DNA being there, it’s a bit harder to explain away blood.’
He didn’t say a word, just stood there rigidly, his tension tangible, almost audible.
‘And although police officers’ DNA isn’t recorded on a database like our fingerprints are, the day will come when it’s mandatory. But even before then, it might be requested if your name suddenly turns up on a list of people who had little mishaps with sharp objects recently.’
‘What are you saying, Sam?’
‘I’m saying that it seems a bit more than coincidence that you seem to have acquired a recent injury.’
‘Jesus, Sam. God and everyone knows I had a beef with Gideon Powell. But I’m not stupid enough to take matters into my own hands. So before you start with wild and fanciful accusations, I cut myself while trying to chop some wood. You can go read the ACC form if you like. I know you’ve had a bit of a shit time lately, and you’re upset, but that is no reason to start pointing fingers and mouthing off ideas that could ruin a career. What sort of a man do you think I am?’
I looked up at him, with his tortured eyes, dishevelled, unloved look, sheen of sweat, and whiff of cigarette smoke and thought, I no longer had any idea.
I turned and walked away.
EPILOGUE
The warmth of the sun on my back felt delicious, and I leaned my head back, closing my eyes to enjoy it. I could hear a bellbird singing its glorious song in the distance, and the low breeze playing with the leaves in the nearby trees. I opened my eyes again and marvelled at the incongruity of a place so beautiful and tranquil being a place of such sadness. But, I supposed, if you were going to be somewhere for eternity, it may as well be picturesque. In a weird kind of a way the physicality of the cemetery seemed an antidote to the confused mess that had been the last few weeks – coming to the realisation that Jill Henderson had killed her husband, Smithy had likely killed his nemesis, and my mother had – well, killed wasn’t the right word – but she had helped Dad to die. It was all too much to take in, but somehow being here helped to ground me, put it all into perspective. Then there was the other issue to deal with. The big arm around my shoulder squeezed me tight.
‘How are you going?’ he asked.
‘Pretty well, considering.’
Paul and I had stopped off for one last visit to Dad’s grave on the way back to Dunedin. The weather had been kind and the flowers around the freshly filled mound were still at their best.
‘Do you think Jock would like it here?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but I think he would have preferred to have been planted down the back of the veggie garden at home, composting in the garden. But they don’t allow that kind of thing. And anyway, Mum said if we did, he would probably ruin the carrots.’
The last few days hadn’t been so bad. The turnout at the funeral had been immense, and, as was the nature of farming communities, the after-match function at the village hall had been a food-laden, beer-flowing, noisy and happily reminiscing kind of affair.
I closed my eyes again, concentrating, seeking, trying to sense the new life within me as I stood before the remains of the old. And there it was, a gem, radiating a solidity and warmth.
