Fragile Cord (21 page)

He paused to let his words sink
in. ‘Think of the mercy killing of a sick or suffering child-’

‘How does this differ from
Battering Mothers - mothers who beat their children senseless –
doesn’t it amount to the same result?’ Alex butted in. She could
feel herself getting wound up just thinking about it. Ansell shook
his head impatiently, as though dealing with a difficult
student.

‘Not at all.’ He reassured her.
‘A mother who raises her hand in frustration and anger has reached
the end of her tether, feels unsupported, unable to cope either
financially or emotionally. They’ve usually suffered a turbulent
time. Relationship problems, worries about money or housing-’

‘My heart bleeds…’ Alex cut in
contemptuously. In the year Ben was born she’d had problems with
all three yet hadn’t felt the need to resort to violence. Nor did
most other women for that matter.

‘-and if you’d let me finish,’
he said deliberately slowly, causing Alex to flush, ‘They strike
out in temper, with an intention to punish. They have no clear
impulse to kill….You know, Alex, I’d happily go through the mental,
social and economic reasons that make a mother raise her hand, or
even allow others to do it for her,’ Ansell interjected, ‘but we’re
veering off track. From what you’re saying this investigation isn’t
concerning the case of an angry mother gone berserk. This is
something else entirely. Done with careful planning and rational
thought.’

‘Was she mentally ill?’

Ansell paused long enough to
unwrap another sweet. He held it poised between his forefinger and
thumb, ready to devour.

‘Were there any instances of
impaired reality?’ he asked.

Alex shook her head, then
stopped. ‘I think I can remember what you’re about to say…..’

Ansell smiled, popped the sweet
into his mouth. Using his tongue to push it behind his teeth he
regarded her with his bulging eyes. ‘I sincerely hope you
do….otherwise your term here would have been wasted.’

The silence hung between them,
interrupted by the sound of crunching and the drumming of his
fingers on the side of his desk. He stood up, paced around the room
as though he was giving a lecture to a packed auditorium. After a
minute or two the crunching subsided.

‘Everything is relative Alex,
what may seem incomprehensible to you, will seem perfectly rational
to a person suffering delusions. Their feeling of suffering – or
that of their child is so extreme that yes, filicide is rational to
them. You have to stop looking at the world from your point of
view.’

‘But this was a woman betraying
her flesh and blood in the most primitive way.’ Alex persisted.

A look of irritation flitted
across his face.

‘Perhaps we should end this
discussion.’ He said simply.

‘No!’ she retorted, ‘If you’re
implying I’m not capable of understanding-’

‘Ha!’ he batted her words away.
‘Far from it! Despite your obvious – and quite understandable in
the circumstances - prejudices to this case, you are clearly
prepared to at least try and open your mind.’

She remained silent. He didn’t
need to know that paying him a visit was a three-line whip from
above.

‘Let’s stick to what is known
about this mother, OK?’

Alex nodded.

Ansell had stopped pacing, sat
himself abruptly on a low imitation wood table by her side,
sweeping a pile of undergraduate brochures to the floor. His knees
jack-knifed out at ninety-degree angles. He looked spectacularly
uncomfortable, Alex thought, but remembered enough about him to
know that when he got his teeth into something, he was oblivious to
his surroundings.

‘If she was
suffering from a mental illness – and remember this is an
if
– then it is unlikely
this would be an isolated act out of the blue. I don’t mean there
was a way to predict this – sadly, we’re no nearer that I’m, afraid
– what I mean is that usually there is a history of contact with
psychiatric services, or social work, due to schizophrenia or a
postpartum illness.’

‘You mean the Baby Blues?’

‘Yes, but the term Baby Blues is
putting it mildly. The fluctuation in mood and delusional thoughts
that effect some women in the first year of their baby’s life –
even during pregnancy - can be a sign that there is a significantly
increased risk of harm to the infant.’ He explained.

‘We checked with Tracey’s GP.’
Alex informed him. ‘She never presented any symptoms of depression.
She and Kyle were well-nourished and content.’

Ansell nodded.

‘OK. Let’s look at the facts.
She was….how old?’

‘Late twenties.’

‘OK, so she’s not a slip of a
girl who thinks she’s tied herself down too early with kids. She’s
married, with no relationship problems and a supportive husband.
The children were a conscious decision?’ He looked at Alex for
confirmation.

She nodded. ‘According to the
father.’

‘All well and good.’

He consulted the file Alex had
brought along, his finger moving slowly along the page as he read
her hastily typed notes.

‘Husband’s
business is doing well,’ he read aloud, ‘ so there were no
financial worries.’ His finger paused, ‘Now……it says here she kept
herself to herself……but so what? There
is
a high incidence of filicidal
women who have been socially isolated except for a relationship
with their child’s father. And it’s true that if this is the only
major social interaction she had, then any factors threatening that
scenario may make her feel particularly vulnerable, enough to tip
her over the edge, so to speak.’

Another pause as he read some
more.

‘She was pleasant by all
accounts, cared enough about her community to join the local PTA.
Reliable enough by the sound of it.’ He said, nodding
vigorously.

‘Responsible. Any of that sound
odd to you?’ He looked over the top of his glasses at her.

Reluctantly Alex shook her
head.

‘She didn’t abuse her child,
nor take any risks during her pregnancy. According to her husband
and local midwife she ate well, didn’t put her unborn child in
harm’s way at any time. She was considered by those who knew her to
be a good mother, indeed spent most of her time focussing on her
son and his needs.’

He placed the file down on the
floor between them, returning his attention to Alex.

‘Out of the blue she commits
this unthinkable crime, but in the context of her delusional mind
it is a rational act, carried out to save her son from some awful
fate, or even from being motherless after her suicide. Look at the
way she ended his life. Not with a gun or a knife, nor was she
drunk. Maternal filicide is usually committed in a way that entails
close physical contact between mother and child.’

Alex straightened herself: ‘She
held him under the water till he drowned.’

The words were still no easier
to utter. She could feel pinpricks stabbing behind her eyes.

‘Deconstruct your sentence Alex.’ Ansell
said gently, reaching out for her hand.

‘She. Held. Him.’

The tears fell freely down her
face as she considered his words. She swiped angrily at her eyes to
stem the flow. He studied her gently as he spoke, noticing the
lines around the corners of her eyes and mouth.

‘Whatever stresses were praying
on her, her tipping point kicked in and she reacted in a way that
seemed almost altruistic to her.’

Letting go of her hand he picked
up the case file again, flicking through the pages of her notes as
though looking for something, then paused, pointing to a line on
the second page with his finger.

‘Your notes
record that witnesses say she was devoted to her child.
That’s
my point, you see
– devotion itself, doesn’t form a protection. In fact, high levels
of emotional attachment can put a child at risk.’

Footsteps stopped outside
Ansell’s room, followed by muffled voices deciding whether or not
to knock. Instead a slim plastic folder slid under the door. ‘Late
again Jones!’ Ansell bellowed loudly before turning his attention
back to Alex.

He smiled sadly; balancing his
elbows on the top of his knees he made his hands into a steeple,
resting his chin on his out-turned thumbs.

His next words would haunt her;
pray on her mind in the darkest hours. Make her analyse and agonise
over and over her strengths – and failings – as a mother.

‘I’d say if she was guilty of
anything Alex, she was guilty of loving her son too much.’

Coupland had no sooner sat down
at his desk when a hesitant knock on the goldfish bowl door found
him staring at Johnson, the red-faced photographer, together with a
man Coupland assumed to be the instructor from Johnson’s sailing
club.

Sergeant Coupland?’ Johnson
began, ‘This is Tony Jeffreys. I mentioned to you that he might be
able to help…..’ His sentence petered out and Johnson looked at him
helplessly, waiting to be invited in. His companion had no such
social insecurities, stepping forward confidently and offering his
hand.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ He said,
pulling over a seat and settling himself into it before looking
over at Johnson, who shifted uncomfortably on his feet until
Coupland motioned for him to do the same.

Coupland regarded Tony for a
moment, decided it’d do no harm to hear him out.

‘I’m sure Johnson has explained
to you the sensitive nature of the case.’ Coupland began,
‘so…………..’ he tailed off, hoping the other man would pick up where
he was heading.

‘I’ve helped on a number of
confidential cases for the police over the years.’ Tony assured
him, ‘Rivers and canals have been the keepers of secrets since time
began.’ What he said was true, no one knew how many bodies had been
dumped into the Bridgewater Canal over the years, it was a secret
that only time itself would reveal.

Coupland nodded as he looked
Tony over, deciding to take him at his word. He was a stocky man,
late fifties. Grey hair worn long, in the same style, Coupland
suspected, that he’d sported as a younger man. His face was
weather-beaten, craggy, the result of years on deck come hail or
shine. His cheeks were riddled with broken veins, giving him the
look of a drinker. Casually dressed in jeans and a chunky-knit
crew-neck sweater he folded his arms and leaned back into his chair
with the confidence of someone used to giving out orders – and
having them followed.

Johnson, who’d been superfluous
until now, handed the photographs he’d shown Tony back to Coupland.
They were the close-up shots of the knot securing the rope to
Tracey’s bed, and one taken from the back of her head. Coupland
grunted his approval at Johnson’s choice. They were anonymous
shots, taken without the backdrop of the beautiful home or the
heavily pregnant mother. It kept the discussion objective – at
least for now.

‘So,’ Coupland began, ‘Can you
tell us anything about the knot? Anything that might be
useful.’

‘Well,’ Tony
began, ‘Johnson was right about it being a bow-line knot, which in
itself doesn’t tell us a great deal, I’m more interested in the
rope itself, and the
way
it was tied.’

Coupland reached over to his
desk drawer and unlocked it. He shook the rope free from its
protective wallet and watched it fall onto the desk. Keen not to
touch it, he gestured for Tony to take it. The memory of the
feelings it evoked when he’d held it two nights ago was still very
fresh in his mind. He didn’t want to touch the ligature ever again,
if he could help it.

Tony held the rope across the
palm of his hand as though weighing it, before turning it over in
his hands, much the same as Coupland had done.

‘Rope is constructed in two
basic ways,’ the older man said, ‘Twisted, and Braided. Although
there are variations on the theme. The twisted variety is usually
made up of three strands coiled around each other. You’ll see it
everywhere – from the rope on a child’s swing to towing lines. This
rope has been braided which makes it stronger, less likely to
stretch – works better in a pulley than the twisted variety.’

He ran his fingers over the
fibres. ‘It’s made from polypropylene, a synthetic material which
floats well in water.’

‘So you’re familiar with this
type of rope then?’

‘Absolutely, although most
seamen hope they never need to use it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s most commonly used in
rescues.’

‘Any idea why the deceased would
have it?’

‘I suppose she could have had a
passing interest in sailing, perhaps. One she grew out of,
anyway.’

‘What makes you say that?’

Tony pointed to the time-worn,
discoloured edges of the rope.

‘It’s starting to degrade.’

‘Can I see the video of you
untying the knots?’ he asked Coupland. ‘I understand you had
Johnson record you untying them.’ Tony looked from Coupland to
Johnson, who waited for his cue from Coupland before setting up the
AV equipment.

Coupland nodded, lapsing into
silence while Johnson moved the trolley containing the TV and video
player towards his desk. It struck Coupland that Tony’s
self-assurance came from his meticulous eye for detail. It was hard
not to feel anything but complete confidence in the man. A safe
pair of hands in an emergency.

If Coupland ever decided to
step off terra-firma and venture out to sea he’d have absolute
faith in him as a skipper, which was more than could be said for
Johnson who seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to
rewind the tape and set it to ‘play’ again. Finally, after a couple
of protracted sighs the young man sat back in his chair, pointing
the remote control at the blank screen which was immediately
replaced by a close-up of the ligature in Coupland’s hands.