hatred of defence barristers.
‘With eighteen years, there was a chance Tyndle could be out in half the time,’ said Jo. ‘Not that he was in much of a state to enjoy life. Going through the windscreen took most of his face off. Severe lacerations to the bone.’
Dr Forster cocked her head, completely unfazed. You wouldn’t be if you’d seen him …
‘Karma, perhaps?’ said the counsellor.
‘Ben thought so,’ muttered Jo. ‘Said he deserved everything he got.’
Neither of them spoke for at least thirty seconds. Jo looked at the screwed-up tissue in her hands. So much for holding it together …
Dr Forster put aside her writing pad, and placed her hands on her knees, looking at Jo like she was a rare specimen.
‘Do you blame yourself for what happened to Ben later?’ she asked.
With four minutes until the session ended, the question took Jo by surprise, telescoping time from the earliest days of her relationship with Ben to the final, terrible day when he was killed. It wasn’t like she hadn’t asked herself the same thing, or a version of it, a thousand times though. What if they hadn’t argued that night? What if she hadn’t left him alone and headed upstairs? What if she’d made the connections and arrested a suspect more quickly? Any number of minor actions on her part and he would still be alive.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I blame Dylan Jones.’
With the words came the memories: Ben, collapsed on her brother’s kitchen floor, eyes still open but pupils dilated; the jagged edge of a broken wine bottle buried in his neck.
‘What about Dylan, then?’ asked the psychologist. ‘Did he deserve his fate?’
What sort of a question was that? Dylan was abducted as a shy little boy and turned into a monster through neglect. He’d committed terrible, terrible acts, but they all came as a consequence of his mistreatment. There was no karma there. No justice at all, cosmic, legal, or otherwise.
‘I think he was better off dead, after everything that had happened to him,’ said Jo.
‘A mercy killing?’ said Dr Forster. This time the surprise on her face looked real as well as painted on.
‘Maybe,’ said Jo, meeting her eye. In the end, there’d been no choice. Dylan had tried to kill Jo. It had been him or her.
One minute to go until she could leave. Dr Forster saw her glance at the clock.
‘It must be hard in your job,’ the psychologist said.
It was not a question but a comment, and such a vague one that Jo wondered if she was supposed to respond. What did it even mean, anyway? Being a woman in a predominantly man’s world?
‘Lots of jobs are hard. Isn’t yours?’
Dr Forster gave a rare smile. ‘It has challenges. Challenging patients. But you must see the worst in human nature. Awful things.’
‘That’s why we do it,’ said Jo. ‘To make awful things better. To deliver justice.’
‘And when you can’t – how does that make you feel?’
‘Part of the role,’ said Jo. ‘You move on. Do better next time.’
‘Sounds simple.’ The tone wasn’t exactly sarcastic, but there was a degree of challenge there that Jo didn’t entirely like.
The clock chimed.
‘I guess that’s it, then,’ said Jo, standing up.
As Jo took her winter coat from the stand in the vestibule, Dr Forster emerged from the consulting room. She really was a tiny woman, little more than five feet tall, and away from her chair she looked quite fragile.
‘Detective Masters,’ she said, ‘the Welfare Unit mandated six hours as a minimum, but I’d be keen for you to continue. I feel there’s quite a lot more for us to talk about.’
Jo wasn’t sure that she agreed. Really, she felt she’d spent plenty of time in the past.
‘But it’s my choice?’
‘Thames Valley Police will ask me for a recommendation, but ultimately it is your decision,’ She paused. ‘But … Jo, don’t play down what you went through. And don’t underestimate the impact it could have on you psychologically.’
Jo started to put on her coat, trying to hold back the mental images from the previous case assailing her. Ben’s dead body, his throat slashed. Her nephew William’s terrified screams as he was snatched from his bed. The pale, distorted form of Dylan Jones as he tried to strangle her.
‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘This has been really helpful, but I just want to get back to work properly.’
‘I understand that,’ said Dr Forster. ‘How are you faring with the anxiety medication?’
‘I stopped taking it,’ Jo said. There was no reason to lie.
‘Fair enough,’ said Forster. ‘Are you doing anything nice for your birthday?’
Jo glanced up sharply. It wasn’t for a few days, but she was sure she’d never mentioned it. ‘How did you know?’
‘On your file,’ said Dr Forster. ‘I’ve an eye for detail.’
‘The answer is not much,’ said Jo. ‘Thirty-nine is hardly a big one, is it?’
‘After the year you’ve had, that’s a questionable assertion,’ said Dr Forster. ‘Goodbye, Detective Masters. Look after yourself.’
* * *
The grand Georgian house where Dr Forster had her practice rooms was in the leafiest part of north Oxford, between the Woodstock and Banbury roads. It didn’t take much detective work to establish that the sleek Mercedes coupé parked outside belonged to her, as the number plate read F0RST3R. That level of narcissism seemed rather out of character for the diminutive psychologist, and Jo assumed therefore it had been an ill-conceived gift, perhaps from a partner.
As she wrapped her scarf around her neck against a freezing wind, Jo felt the vibration near her hip. She reached a gloved hand into her purse for her phone. The text was from her brother.
Would you mind heading to the house? Estate agent has lost key! Viewing at 1.30. P x
It was twenty to already.
No probs, she texted back. How’s the beach?
Her brother had decided the family needed some time away, and Jo got that. For all the shit she’d been through that year, her nephew Will had suffered worse, and his school hadn’t put up a great fight about the absence.
