The Sacrificial Man Page 3

  “Not our usual punter, then.”

  “No. But then, neither is the case. She helped her lover to commit suicide. He left some note saying he wanted to die. The court didn’t know what to do with her – he took a lethal drug overdose and had a heart attack. She didn’t call the police until it was too late. Eventually she was convicted of assisted suicide.”

  “Like euthanasia – was he ill? Something terminal?”

  Paul shrugged. “Doesn’t say so, but then we haven’t got the Crown Prosecution papers yet. He was only twenty-seven, some paper pusher.”

  “Sounds a sad story.”

  “You haven’t heard the worst. Brace yourself. Before he died she ate some of his flesh.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Paul slid his hand into his trouser pocket and whistled. “Probably tastes like chicken.”

  “Oh please. Now I definitely don’t want this case. How come it wasn’t in the papers?”

  “It was. Don’t you watch the news?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Well, it was all over the press last summer.”

  Cate thought back. Last summer she’d been quite pre-occupied with Rose Wilks and all the problems in the prison. No wonder she hadn’t seen anything about this case.

  “And another thing. Alice Mariani has attracted a lot of attention from one of those groups that campaign for legalised euthanasia. The Hemlock Society are supporting her – they’ve got some petition going, arguing that she shouldn’t be charged with anything.”

  “Great, I’ll be heckled in the courtroom.”

  “So, will you take it?”

  Cate looked at Paul’s expectant face, the thin file of papers in his hand. “No, Paul. I’m sorry. But I don’t think I can. I’ve got reports coming out of my ears and I don’t want to take on something like this. Give it to someone else, someone looking for a challenge. But leave me alone.”

  Paul skipped towards her, dropping the file on her desk, and tiptoed back to the doorway. “No can do, I’m afraid. I know you Cate – I need you on this one. Anyway, it’ll be a piece of cake. Probably just some bizarre sex game that went wrong.”

  Famous last words, thought Cate, looking down at the file which has fallen open at a newspaper article. She reads the headline: Victim enjoyed dying, claims Suffolk Cannibal.

  Four

  Cate grit her teeth to the endless shriek of violins playing in her ear, jumping as a hand appears on her shoulder. Paul.

  “Coffee?”

  She nodded, holding the earpiece away. “They’ve still got me on hold. Bloody psychiatrists – don’t they know that listening to this drivel could drive someone mad?”

  “Hang up.”

  “I would, but I want to speak to Dr Gregg before I meet Alice Mariani this afternoon. I’d like to know if I need to take a bodyguard. If so, you’re it.”

  “Me?” Paul backed away. “I’m far too busy! It’s not like the prison you know; I’ve actually got work to do.”

  He disappeared just in time to avoid the balled up paper she threw at him, whistling his way down the corridor.

  “And don’t forget that coffee!” she called. It was the least he could do for stitching her up with this case.

  “Ms Austin? Sorry to have kept you. I’m putting you through now.”

  About bloody time.

  “Doctor Charles Gregg speaking.”

  “Morning, Dr Gregg. I’m Cate Austin, Probation Officer. We have a case in common. Alice Mariani.”

  He chuckled, “Robin to her friends.”

  “I understand you’re going to be writing the psychiatric report. I was wondering if you’ve met her yet?”

  “I have. Just yesterday, in fact. She lives in a very nice house. Georgian. Very well-appointed.”

  “Really?” Cate deadpans. Maybe Dr Gregg had misheard and thought she was writing a report for Homes & Interiors. Or maybe he was just a snob.

  Oblivious to her thoughts, he continued, “She’s a lecturer at the local college. English literature – not a subject I ever got on with, but she spoke most animatedly about it. Almost made me want to read a novel.”

  “Did you make an initial assessment?” She tried to sound light, but was so tempted by sarcasm that she bit her pen nib.

  There was a beat of silence and Cate imagined him fiddling with something on his desk, not really concentrating.

  “Not yet. It was a brief meeting. I will start with the clinical investigation next time. It’s always an advantage to get to know the patient first, build an understanding. But my initial view is that she presents as highly intelligent, if a bit cool. No signs of psychosis.”

  Cate started to write with the bitten pen. “So she’s sane? We’re not looking at a hospital order?”

  “As I say, I need to see her again. One mustn’t rush these things.”

  “What’s your view on the nature of the case? I imagine you haven’t come across many cannibals before?” she joked, tasting her own revulsion as she said the word.

  “I think the eating of the flesh – and we are talking a very small amount – is not the defining feature of this case.” It defines it for me, thought Cate. “Eating human flesh does not ipso facto define psychiatric disturbance – I believe she asserts that it was not her decision, but a request she complied with for the victim. It may be bizarre, but one cannot assume pathology. I think when you meet her you will feel more assured of that.”

  Cate was unconvinced – Victim enjoyed dying, claims Suffolk Cannibal,– she wished she could get that line out of her head.

  “Okay, well I’d appreciate a call when you’ve completed your assessment.”

  Cate put down the receiver feeling that the conversation had been a waste of time. The only thing she’d learned was the period of Mariani’s home. And she would be seeing it herself soon enough. But Dr Gregg seemed to like Mariani; he didn’t think she was mad. That must count for something.

  “Coffee. As madam requested.”

  “Cheers, Paul.” She stirred the drink with her pen, and took a sip, “Christ, how many sugars did you put in?”

  “The usual. One.”

  “Must be my taste buds – maybe I’m coming down with something stress-related.”

  “If you’re going to start moaning I’m going.”

  “Okay. Would you prefer gory assisted suicide details?”

  “Hmm. Point taken. Maybe we’ll just talk fashion – so, is faded navy in this season, or is that suit one your ex left behind? You’re hardly going to get a boyfriend to play with going around like that, now are you?”

  “You know what, Paul, I’d appreciate it if you’d fuck right off!”

  “Say no more, sweetheart, I’m outa here. But at least do something with your hair.”

  Cate’s car skidded on black ice, forcing her to pump the brake before she got it back under control. She’d underestimated the time it would take to travel from the probation office in the center of Ipswich, to Alice Mariani’s home in Lavenham. She looked at the clock on the dashboard; she was already fifteen minutes late and the last sign told her she still had five miles to go. The miles took forever on winding icy roads, steep hedges obscured the view and daylight was fading. She daren’t drive fast and kept both hands on the wheel, braced for another skid. It would be dark when she drove home and none of these roads had any lights. Plus, everything in life was more reliable than her Volkswagen, whatever the advert claimed.

  Cate carefully turned a corner, passing a remote pub that was still advertising Xmas Lunch. The paintwork was dirty and the car park empty. Living in the sticks was only a dream if you had cash and a car, she thought as her headlights hit another dilapidated farmhouse.

  Recently she’d worked with a young man whose girlfriend was pregnant. They had been offered a council property in Lavenham and turned it down. Cate had been surprised, thinking that this village, which she hadn’t actually visited but knew to be attractive and wealthy, would be a great environment
to raise a child. ‘Yeah,’ her client had said, ‘But how would I get a job out there? Miles from anywhere, we’d be bored out of our brains. Besides, it’s full of tourists.’ Remembering his comment she smiled and hoped they were happy in the roughneck estate where they eventually moved. At least there would be no tourists there.

  The tiny villages that she travelled through had their share of run-down properties with mouldy For Sale signs, cheek by jowl with a handful of chalky pink cottages, selling root vegetables on wooden crates by the road. Thank God for towns. Cate couldn’t see the appeal of a low roof, of having to drive every time you wanted a pint of milk. Especially not in this weather. The last forecast had predicted snow.

  Finally, a crested sign announced ‘Historic Lavenham. Please Drive Carefully.’

  Cate pulled the Autoroute printout from her bag, holding it over the steering wheel as she drove. She had highlighted Church Street and saw that it was an extension of the main road she was on. She drove past The Swan, a large hotel featured in the local paper’s food review. That would be a nice place to go sometime, she thought, knowing that she never would.

  She squeezed into a gap behind a sporty car the colour of a ripe tomato and looked up at the house. Laburnham House was white and large, heavily framed with the bare overgrown plant that gave the house its name. Carefully maintained paintwork, gleaming windows.

  Victim enjoyed dying, claims Suffolk Cannibal… The thought arrived again, and she wiped her palms on her trousers. Cate concentrated on arranging her face into its professional pose as she left the sanctuary of her car, her empty notepad held tight in her fist. She climbed the steps to the door she saw into the front room. A woman was standing, framed by the arch of the window.

  Five

  The probation officer should be here by now. My story is about to begin. She’s late and I can’t abide poor timekeeping. There are always consequences to any action, of course; I know this. I anticipated the meetings, the interviews with those who will judge me. By whose authority? I’d like to ask, but I’ll stay silent. My fate is in their hands. I must be alert to the game that’s being played. When your power is limited, strategy is everything. I’ve been waiting for a long time for this to be at an end, but it can only finish when I’ve been sentenced. I just have to see through nineteen days and all of this will be over. But she is late, damn her.

  Finally, a car. A car for a woman who doesn’t care about such things, a run-around in dull green with a dent in the wing. She drives too close to my MG Midget. If she hits it, I’ll sue.

  Of course, that’s a lie. There’s more at stake here than scratched paintwork. As she steps out of the car I’m reassured; she matches her motor. I’d expected more presence from someone who holds my future in her hands, but it’s a relief that she will be easy to manage. She’s so average: brown hair, pale skin, a worn winter coat flapping over a navy suit with a white shirt. Predictable. Smith would have liked her simplicity. He was straightforward in his tastes, in all but his choice of me.

  She looks up to where I’m standing at the window and I smile.

  I open the door and watch her reaction. I see my beauty is a surprise. I’m tall and blonde, and I often use this to my advantage. Had she been a man I would’ve chosen a skirt, but instead I wear trousers, my hair is pulled into a ponytail, sequined Moroccan slippers on my feet, my face subtly made up. We shake hands, hers is slightly damp. Her nametag matches the name on the letter, Cate Austin. I find abbreviated names so trite.

  I lead her to the back of the house. It was once two rooms but I had it knocked through, choosing space. I’ve created a large kitchen and eating area with a pale leather sofa against the far wall. The floor is slate, and her low heels click as she walks. I direct her to an old pine table, the bench alongside. Fiery snapdragons dominate the table, yellow-red petals like sunset.

  “Pretty flowers,” she says. “And what a lovely vase.” One hand reaches out to touch the handcrafted swirls of white and blue glass in a delicate funnel, beautiful and fragile. “Thank you. It was very expensive.” She pulls her hand away but I lift it myself, holding it up so she can see the fine glass, the deep sea blue running throught it. “It’s my favourite possession,” I tell her, “If it broke I know I’d never be able to replace it.” Carefully, I place it back on the table positioned in front of glass doors, through which the daylight can be seen dying. It’s a small garden full of terracotta pots and a wooden bench, on top of which the black cat grooms himself, oblivious to the weather. It’s cold outside, bitter chill, but the cat won’t come in. He’s suspicious of strangers. Feeling himself observed he stops, paw still raised, and glances up, before dismissively returning to his ablutions.

  Cate Austin is pulling a jotter from her bag. “Is it yours?” she asks, indicating the cat.

  “By default. He belongs to a neighbour but she’s often away, so he comes here for company. Would you like some tea?”

  “Coffee, please. Black, one sugar.”

  “I don’t have coffee. Been having a lot of headaches recently, so I’ve given it up. Gunpowder tea is the closest I’ve got.”

  “Thanks.” I see her glance at the novel on the table, The Collector by John Fowles. I move the book away. “Do you read, Miss Austin?”

  “Not much. No time.” Everybody’s excuse. But we all have the same amount of time, don’t we? The only difference is how we use it. “I suppose you must do a lot of reading in your job?”

  “It’s one of the perks. Reading is classed as work in academia.”

  “How have the college taken your conviction?”

  “University,” I correct. “It’s affiliated now.” I fill the kettle, flick the switch hard. “I’ve been suspended from any contact with students. The authorities have allowed me to keep my office, and have agreed I may mark essays, but that’s all. If I get a community penalty, they’ll consider reinstating me. That’s as far as they will commit.”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t sack you outright.”

  The cup in my hand clashes with the granite counter. “Lucky? Is that what you call it? I’m a first rate academic, and they’re not letting me have any student contact. It’s ridiculous! As if I’m a threat to anyone.” I feel heat bloom in my cheeks, and remember that it isn’t wise to be so transparent. I have to turn away, back to the kettle. My face is distorted in the stainless steel. We say nothing more as the water boils. I fill the two cups.

  At the table, seating myself opposite her, I say, “So, what do you want to know?”

  “As much as you want to tell me. More, probably. I have to recommend a sentence to the judge. The courts aren’t obliged to follow the proposal of a pre-sentence report, but they usually do.”

  “That must make you feel quite powerful.” I push a cup and saucer across the table. “Mind, it’s hot.”

  She sips her tea. “It makes me want to be sure I’m right.”

  “And do you always get it right?”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead she says, “Did your solicitor explain what a pre-sentence report is, Alice?” I notice she uses my name without asking. Impolite. “He did, Cate. But I’d still like to hear it from you.”

  “It’s a report that can be requested by a judge after a conviction has been secured, and it’s to help him, it usually is a man, decide on an appropriate sentence. My job is to make enquiries and assess the case so that I’m able to propose a suitable outcome.”

  “Suitable for whom?” I ask, taking a careful sip of my drink smelling the rising aroma of lemons.

  “For everyone, hopefully. I have to consider what is commensurate with the crime. I look at what is usual for similar cases, and consider the victim, and his family… ”

  “There was no victim!”

  At my outburst, her face nips into itself, her mouth tight. She doesn’t believe me. Why is it so hard for her to understand? “It was a voluntary death. He was the one who sought me out. Don’t you believe in the right to choose life or death?”

&nbs
p; She speaks slowly. “In the eyes of the law, David Jenkins is a victim. You may feel that helping him to commit suicide was morally defensible, but it was illegal.”

  Are we not to question laws, which are made by people we elect? Who is to say that laws must always be obeyed? I don’t say this. Not yet. I bite back the words I would have used in a different place and time. Instead I say, “And what is the usual sentence for a crime like this?”

  She lifts her biro from the table, moving it between her fingers. “Well, this is not exactly a common crime, so ‘usual sentence’ doesn’t really apply. Most cases of assisting suicide concern a partner, or other relative, helping a loved one who is terminally ill to die, as a release from suffering. Euthanasia, if you like. Since the 2009 laws on assisted suicide cases like that don’t result in any prosecution.”