Soiled knickers.
ACT ONE.
I think I fell in love with my wife, Sally, the first me I saw her. It was across
the refectory at Leeds University where I was in the second year of my PhD,
researching language shi s in Early Modern Europe and she, as I later
found out was a fourth-year medical student. I had two documents that I
was working on open on the table in front of me, both transcripts of
different copies of the same sec on of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. What I
was doing with them was making notes on the lexical and syntac cal
differences between them. As a result, I was taking up half of a four-seat
table and, consequently, nobody had bothered asking if they could join me.
Which suited me. I was just li ing a forkful of Shepherd’s Pie into my
mouth when a light contralto voice asked, “Is this seat free?”
Absent-minded, I waved a hand and mu ered, “Be my guest.”
I saw a plate of salad placed down on the table and then, as I con nued
with what I was doing I saw a face. It was the girl I’d seen across the room
and she was much nicer up close. From a distance, she was pre y and had,
in the words of an old school friend who had opted for a life on the ocean
waves, skin like the lee side of a sun-kissed peach.
“Hi,” I said, smiling at her, “I’m Dave Parker.”
I looked at the textbooks that she’d put down at the side of her tray. Gray’s
Anatomy and the Bri sh Pharmacopoeia Codex.
“Medical student?” I asked.
“Hm,” she replied, obviously a woman of few words. I got back to my
Shepherd’s Pie. Half a minute went by in silence, then suddenly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “did you say something? I was going over my last
tutorial in my mind, I get distracted like that.”
“Nothing important,” I said, “I just told you my name and asked whether
you were a medical student.”
“Well, mine’s Sally, Sally Willis and yes I am.”
She held her hand out, it was so and warm, like her smile.
“Dave Parker,” I said, “pleased to meet you Sally, Sally Willis. So good they
named you twice, eh?”
She looked at me for a moment and then laughed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I should get out of that habit. Too many Bond films I
guess.”
“Wouldn’t it be Willis, Sally Willis in that case?” I asked.
There went that laugh again, musical and nkling, like a silver brook
cascading across stones.
She seemed to wolf her salad down and was soon gathering up her things.
“Another lecture?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, “sorry I can’t stay and chat, but I’m going to be late.”
“No problem,” I said, “you can leave your tray if it helps, I’ll take it away
with mine.”
“Thanks,” she said, “don’t you have lectures this a ernoon?”
“PhD Student,” I said, “the only lectures I have to a end I give to first-year
students.”
I watched her depar ng back and the sway of her hips as she walked across
the room to the main doors.
“Good luck there, mate,” a familiar voice said.
“What drags you out of bed before three o’clock, Phil?” I asked as Phil
Brown, IT Geek, rock drummer and my closest thing to a friend in the
whole University sat down in the chair recently vacated by Sally.
“Hmm,” he said, “the seat’s warm, I always knew she had a hot arse.”
“Do you ever think of women in terms other than their bodies?” I asked.
“Well yes,” he replied, “they need to be able to cook as well.”
I knew that this was an image he liked to create around himself. I also knew
that in reality he was happily married to Abigail, who, if she caught him so
much as looking at another woman, would rip out his tes cles, pickle them
and feed them to him.
“So have you succeeded where all around you have failed miserably?” he
asked.
“Succeeded in what?” I asked.
“Persuading her to go out with you?”
“Since I have never actually tried to persuade her to do that, I don’t see
how I could have done either,” I replied, “and what are you babbling about
anyway?”
“Li le miss n-knickers there, for the last four years just about every male
in the place has been asking her to go out with them,” he said, “there is no
evidence of any of them ever being successful.”
“Maybe she has a boyfriend at home that she’s madly in love with,” I
suggested.
“No,” he asserted, “I don’t think so, I think she’s just frigid.”
“Well, if I ever see her again, maybe I’ll try my luck,” I said.
As it happened, I didn’t see her again for the rest of that term.
Nor for most of the spring term either.
When I did see her again, I was in the library. Part of my package with the
University was to run a couple of introductory courses for students and
guide applicants around the campus on open days. Normally I only did
humani es students, but on this par cular occasion I was showing a group
of would-be Medical students around and we entered the library.
Normally you can’t get into the library without swiping your student card in
the slot in the barriers, but with a large group of outsiders, the guide has to
ring the library beforehand and let them know how many are coming and a
member of staff will override the locks on the barriers to let you in.
It was while we were wai ng for the gates to be opened that she walked
into the library.
“Hello, again, Sally,” I greeted her, “I’ve not seen you around for a while.”
It took her a few seconds to place me.
“Oh, hello,” she said, “nice to see you again.”
“Hey, do you have a couple of minutes, these folks are all poten al medical
students, perhaps you could give them a quick view of what life’s like for
them.”
“Yes,” she said, “I can spare five minutes.”
Just then a librarian came and opened the barriers for us to get through
and we were ushered into a mee ng room, where Sally spent longer than
the five minutes she had promised ,answering ques ons about studying
medicine at Leeds. With the tour of the library finished my responsibility
was at an end. I said goodbye to them all at the entrance to the library and
directed them back to their rendezvous point and walked down the steps
to return to my office.
I was halfway down when I was stopped by a shout from behind me.
“Dave, wait,” it called, I recognised it as Sally’s.
I turned and held my hand up to let her know I’d heard.
“Yes, Sally,” I responded.
She ran down the steps to me and stopped one step higher, which just
about put our eyes on a level.
“Could we go get a coffee somewhere and have a chat?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” I replied, “how about my office, it’s just next door and I’m
told I have the best coffee in the department.
“All right,” she agreed, “will I be safe alone with you in your office?”
“You’ll be as safe as you want to be,” I replied, “if you like we can leave the
door open. I usually do that when I have a female tutee in there alone with
me.”
“OK, then,” she agreed and we set off to walk the sixty metres or so to the
rear door of the History department.
When we arrived at my office, I was glad it was locked, that meant that the
researcher with whom I shared it, Bill Pickering was out. I let us in and was
happy to see that, before leaving Bill had set a pot of coffee to brew.
Take a seat,” I invited as we walked in, “how do you like your coffee?”
She took it white no sugar.
“So,” I said as I sat down opposite her in the li le conference area at one
end of the office, “what did you want to chat about?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.
“A bit personal,” I commented.
“Or a wife?” she added.
“No to both,” I said, “why do you ask?”
“Because I need a boyfriend,” she replied, “and since you’re the first male
I’ve met in this place who looks me in the eye when he talks to me and not
at my chest. I thought I’d give you a chance.”
“Well,” I said, “you have a refreshing directness and how would this
arrangement work?”
“I find it’s the best way,” she said.
“That’s probably your medical training,” I replied, “my Dad’s the same.”
“Your Dad’s a doctor?” she asked.
“Specifically, he’s Professor of Surgery at Manchester University, my sister
and her husband run a GP prac ce in Pontefract and my Brother is a firstyear Med student at Manchester,” I said, “I’m the black sheep of the family.
I decided to study Mediaeval History.”
“And now you’re going to be a doctor, but a different type.”
“That’s about it,” I said, “what about you?”
“Me?” she asked, “nothing as grand as having a father who is knighted, just
an Anglican Archdeacon and my Mum’s a humble priest’s wife in Lincoln.”
“No brothers or sisters?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, “an only child.”
“All right,” I con nued, “about this boyfriend thing. I hear that you’ve had
plenty of offers but turned them all down.”
“Yes, I did,” she agreed, “as I told you, their eyes never reached above my
neck. And I got the impression that they would stay around un l they got
my knickers off and then move on to pastures new.”
“And you don’t think I would be like that?” I asked.
“No, I don’t,” she replied, “I think you’d be willing to wait un l I decided to
take them off.”
I looked at her, le ng my eyes roam all over her body.
“They all missed a treat,” I said, “you’re very beau ful.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do you have any plans for Friday?” I asked.
“No, why?” she asked.
“Then I’ll pick you up at seven, Friday evening,” I said, “smart casual,
suitable for going on to a club later.”
“You’re saying yes?” she asked.
“I’m saying I’ll pick you up on Friday,” I replied, “for the rest, we’ll take it a
step at a me.”
Before she le , I got her address and phone number and when I picked her
up and looked gorgeous in a yellow floral pa ern dress, a matching
cardigan and sensible shoes. That impressed me, I’d men oned going to a
club and she’d got shoes that she’d be comfortable in.
The evening was a success and we agreed that a repeat would be a good
thing. That repeat date was repeated and by the me, three weeks a er
the first date the Easter break came round, Wednesday and Friday
evenings were spent together and usually at least one of the weekend
days.
Now we faced three weeks of being apart.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said as I dropped her off at her house on Friday
evening, the last day of term, “three whole weeks without you.”
“We’ll survive,” she said, “and there’s always the telephone. Or you could
always get in your car and drive down to Lincoln.”
“Won’t your father object if a heathen turns up at the door?” I asked, one
of the first things I’d revealed to her was being Jewish.
“Dave,” she said, “he worships a Jew. Are you going home this Easter?”
“I’ll go over for a few days, but I have a pile of work to catch up on.”
“Well, make sure you take some me off as well,” she said, “hey, maybe
you could come down for Easter.”
“I’d love to,” I said, “just about any other year, but this year Easter Day is
April the fourth, right?”
“I think so, yes,” she replied.
“And Pesach is twenty-ninth of March un l sixth April. My parents expect
me to be home and playing at being a good li le Jewish boy for that.”
“My Dad’s the same with religious fes vals. For the past three years, I’ve
been able to skip Easter because of placements, but not this year.”
“Then we’ll just have to s ck with the phone unless I come down for the
day some other weekend.”
“That would be nice,” she said, then we had our usual goodnight kiss.
“Good night Dave,” she said, “have a nice, what did you call it Pesach?”
“Yes, it’s the Hebrew word for what you call Passover,” I said, “one of the
two biggest fes vals in the Jewish calendar.”
“I know, the other one’s Hanukkah?” she said.
“That’s right,” I replied, “then there’s Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and a
whole host of others, most of which I completely forget about.”
“Well just remember to ring me o en,” she said, “and I’ll see you in three
weeks if you don’t manage to get down.”
We shared another kiss then as I started down the path to the street I
turned.
“How are you ge ng there?” I asked as I turned back to face her.
“Train,” she said, “Leeds to Newark, then Newark to Lincoln.”
“Well, why don’t I take you down,” I said, “I’m not doing anything. Unless
you’ve already bought your cket.”
“No, I haven’t,” she replied, “that would be lovely, and I get to see you
some more.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll pick you up at, what? Half-past nine?
“Done, she said, “I’ll ring Mum and tell her to expect an extra for lunch.”
We said goodbye again and I walked to the car, got in started it up and
drove away.
Her parents were charming. Her mother apologised to me when she
served up pork medallions for lunch.
“Don’t worry about it, Mrs Willis, my whole family are only observant
when the Rabbi comes round. In fact, I had a bacon sandwich for
breakfast.”
“So you don’t believe much in the teachings of the Torah? Her father
asked.
“I think the dietary restric ons were right for an arid, hot country three
thousand years ago,” I replied, “but we’ve invented refrigera on since
then. You know Mr, Reverend.”
“I think, young man, if you’re da ng my daughter and ea ng lunch at my
table, then just Charles might suffice.”
“And I’m Amanda,” Sally’s mother added.
They were a really nice couple and I invited them up to Manchester
some me when they were free. They thanked me and agreed that they’d
try and manage it some me in the next three weeks.
“But I’m sure you only asked because then you get to see more of my
daughter,” Charles asserted.
“Oh no Charles,” I replied, “that’s just a bonus.”
The three of them saw me to the door when I le around three o’clock.
They never did make it to Manchester that Easter break, but they did the
following Summer.
On the last day of term, when I was due to go off to Chicago on a historical
research conference, Sally and I went out to dinner. Between the main
course and dessert I stood up and walked around to her side of the table,
my hand in my jacket pocket and got down on one knee beside her seat.
The look on her face told me that she had guessed correctly what was
coming next. At the end of my carefully prepared li le speech she gave me
the answer I wanted and I kissed my Fiancée, to a round of applause from
the other patrons.”
“Did you ask my father?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied, “I wanted to do things the right way.”
“What would you do if he’d said no?”
“I would have politely reminded him that I was asking for his approval, not
his permission.”
I was away for the following three weeks, so the engagement party had to
wait. We had it during the last weekend in July, in the Garden of my
parents’ home in Cheadle, hosted jointly by both sets of parents.
We learned that weekend that my future father-in-law, would be changing
jobs and addresses shortly. He was to be enthroned as the new Bishop of
Winchester, which would mean a seat in the House of Lords. Everybody
congratulated him and I think we were all genuinely pleased for him.
We weren’t staying, Sally had a placement over the summer back in Leeds,
with a GP surgery in Bradford and I had my research to do. So, on the
morning a er the party, I loaded my bags into the car and drove down to
the hotel that she and her family were staying in and picked Sally up.
As we came off the motorway, I turned towards Brudenell Road, which was
where Sally lived.
“Let’s go to your place first,” she said, “there’s something I want to talk
about.”
I changed direc on and headed for my flat in Headingley.
A er I let us in, Sally walked into the living room, sat on the sofa and
pa ed the seat beside me.
“Sit here,” she said.
I sat.
“Dave,” she said quietly, “I think, now that we’re engaged, it’s me.”
“Time for what?” I asked.
“Time for you to take me to your bed,” she replied, “ me for me to give my
virginity to you.”
I looked at her in disbelief.
“You’re s ll a virgin?” I asked.
“Yes, I thought you’d worked it out,” she replied, “and that’s why you didn’t
make any moves.”
“I didn’t make any moves because I was wai ng for you to indicate that you
were willing,” I answered.
“And I was wai ng for the right man and now that I have him, it’s me.”
“Are you certain?” I asked, “it’s a one- me only thing, you know. Once it’s
gone.”
She silenced me with a finger on the lips.
“Shush” she said, “I’m a medical student, we covered all that in the first
year. Yes, darling I’m sure. While you were away, I even went to the campus
health centre and got the precau ons sorted.”
“So you’re on the pill?” I asked, “has it had me to take effect?”
“This one takes seven days,” she said, “now are you going to take me to
bed, or do I have to rape you?”
We became lovers that day and she started to spend nights at the flat with
me. Not every night, but usually two or three a week.
It wasn’t un l the start of the Christmas holidays that she broached the
subject of moving in. I, of course was all in favour but the only downside I
could see was the no ce period on her current house share. Why was I not
surprised when she said she’d found someone to take her place?
She was very happy when she asked me when Hanukkah was that year and
I told her the first week in December. Her idea was that it meant that we
could spend the weekend in the middle of the holiday with my parents and
then Christmas with hers.
“Would you get into trouble if you came to Church with us?” she asked.
“Don’t worry, we’re secular Jews, we celebrate the fes vals but we don’t
take the religious bit too seriously,” I told her.
“Good, you know my Dad is being enthroned this Christmas, so it will be
down in Winchester?”
“Oh, yes, I’d forgo en,” I said, “no problem. Just one thing, do your parents
know about our new living arrangements?”
“No, but they will by then,” she said.
I was surprised when neither set of parents showed any surprise
whatsoever at the news. My bedroom in Cheadle now had a double bed in
it. And Sally’s parents were surprised that we hadn’t been living together
for months.
Of course, both our mothers wanted to know if we’d set a date yet and we
hadn’t, but we had decided that it wouldn’t be un l Sally graduated at the
end of the current academic year, since I would also be ge ng my
doctorate at that me as well, all being well.
The other big ques on in my mind at the me was, what sort of a career
does a man with a PhD in Mediaeval languages history have?
My ques on was answered three weeks into the Spring term and dropped
an envelope on my desk.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He turned to Bill with whom I shared the office and asked him to give us a
minute. Bill le .
“I haven’t told you this,” he said, “but we’re expanding the department,
there are vacancies for two more lecturers, one of which is right up your
street. Lecturer in research methods and mediaeval English Language.”
“That does sound like me,” I said.
“I am glad,” he replied, “it was designed specifically for you.”
“What?” I asked, surprised.
“Dave,” he said, “you’re good. I can tell you now you’ll get through your
Viva with minimal revisions asked and the department doesn’t want to lose
you.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m fla ered, but can I think about it.”
“Of course,” he replied, “so long as the form is on my desk by a week on
Friday.”
Then he le .
I applied for the job at Leeds and got it, we both graduated at the same
me (although our ceremonies were on different days).
Sally’s academic dress, standard black gown with a dark green hood lined
with light green accentuated her blonde good looks, mine was all green
with scarlet bindings. Her cap was the standard black mortar board, mine
was a black velvet cap with a gold cord. Both sets of parents were there for
both ceremonies and I believe both were equally proud of both of us. Of
course both our fathers decided to turn up in their robes. Charles with his
Oxford Doctor of Divinity robes and my Dad with his Cambridge scarlet
MD’s robes. We both had our official portraits taken and then the pair of us
joined Sally’s fellow students for their celebra on before dinner with our
parents in town.
I suspect that some strings had been pulled in the medical fraternity, since
Sally was offered a posi on as House Officer at Leeds General Infirmary for
her pre-registra on me. We knew the next two years were going to be
difficult, she would be working strange, long hours and o en have to be at
the hospital on call for up to forty-eight hours at a me. They were, but we
got through it and within three years, Sally had an appointment as a
surgical registrar in the cardiac department. We bought a house in
Horsforth and began talking about a family. Things were great, we
celebrated ten years together and all was well in the Parker world.
I gave up my post at the University a er my first Historical novel was
published, a story of Aethelflaed of Mercia and immediately op oned for a
film. Hollywood offered me a lot of money to write the script and develop
an outline for a sequel. Enough to give up academia and concentrate on
wri ng, my second novel, based on that outline told the story of her
daughter, Aelfwynn topped the Times best seller list and made me more
money from Hollywood. So I got to stay at home all day and write, Sally
con nued to progress in our career and by the me of our tenth wedding
anniversary, we’d moved to a be er house and were, frankly rather well
off.
It was Wednesday morning, as always, I kissed Sally goodbye on her way to
work, sat down to a cup of coffee, then se led down to an hour’s work on
revisions to the screenplay for the Aelfwynn film.
I made some notes on where I thought the weaknesses were, typed them
up and emailed them to the produc on team, then decided on a spot of
housework.
We didn’t create a huge amount of washing, there just being the two of us,
but the laundry basket was reasonably full and I started to sort through it
to see if there was enough of anything to make up a full load. I sorted it
into four piles, delicates, whites, coloureds and underwear. It was one of
Sally’s things to wash underwear separately.
There were only three items in the ‘delicates’ pile, so they went back into
the basket. There were enough whites to make up a load, so I pushed them
into the washer, loaded it with soap powder and condi oner and set it
going, then turned to the rest of the piles. Coloured were not enough for
another load, so I put those back into the basket. There were about ten
sets of my boxers, fourteen or so pairs of socks between the two of us, four
bras, two vests and a pile of Sally’s knickers. Including a pair I hadn’t seen
before.
They were pink, had yellow bows and looked to be a bit large for Sally.
When I looked closer at them, they also had a C&A label in them and I
knew that C&A no longer traded in Britain. I was intrigued. Then I no ced
the gusset. In the gusset there was a slightly off white. Bordering on pale
yellow encrusta on. I knew that Sally had had a vaginal discharge a few
months earlier, but that had been cleared up and besides, if it had come
back why had she not told me about it?
I put the garment to one side and put them all back in the laundry basket. I
was both intrigued and worried. Who could I ask about this? Who could I
trust?
I took the knickers back to my study and locked them in the desk drawer,
then I sat down to think. It took half an hour, but then I had a thought.
Peter Baker. Professor of Forensic Science at the University. He could at
least point me in the right direc on.
“Dave, what can I do for you?” he asked in his sing-song Welsh accent
when I iden fied myself, “How’s it going? I haven’t seen you since you le .”
“Pete, I’ve got a bit of a problem and it’s rather delicate,” I replied, “is there
any chance I could come in and see you, or maybe meet up for a quick
pint?”
“A pint sounds good,” he agreed, “where and when?”
“How soon are you free?” I asked.
“Well now,” he said, “we’re on break at the moment, so we’re all here
thinking about our next research grant.”
“Then how about I come down now, “I said, “we can talk about my
problem and then I can take you out and buy you a pint?”
“Now, that, my boy, sounds like a fine plan, how long?”
“About an hour?” I suggested.
“Then I’ll see you when you arrive.”
We said goodbye and I stood, re-opened the desk drawer and put the
knickers on the desk top then went to the kitchen to find a plas c bag,
which I took back to the study and put the knickers into, then placed the
bag in my jacket pocket, put the jacket on and then retrieved my keys from
the hall table, unlocked the front door, stepped outside, locked the door
behind me and flashed my car unlocked.
I arrived at the University early, paid the parking fee and went in search of
Peter’s office in the sciences building. He was wai ng for me. We shook
hands and, at his invita on I sat down.
“So,” he said, a er he’d poured coffee for both of us, “you have a delicate
situa on you wish to discuss.”
“Yes,” I said, “I need to know whether there is a forensic test which would
show whether a deposit on a garment was semen and if that is so, is there
a est that would show whether the semen came from a par cular
individual, if you had a sample of that individual’s DNA?”
“Yes there are, the first test gives a result in under five minutes, the second
takes a couple of days but is conclusive. At least conclusive enough to put
rapists in jail. Now, are you asking this as part of research for one of your
stories?”
“Well, no,” I replied, “that’s why it’s so delicate. How much would those
tests cost?”
“Well that depends,” he explained, “if they were done at a commercial lab
the cost is quite steep. In the order of high hundreds to a thousand
pounds. The simplest test is to hold the garment under black light, semen
stains will show up pale yellow. If that appears posi ve, we can do an Acid
Phosphatase test. The stain will turn purple if the result is posi ve. That’s
acceptable as evidence in a rape trial. That takes about five, ten minutes.
The DNA test takes longer, but yes, testable DNA is recoverable from dried
on samples, even rather old ones and of course a comparison sample is
easily obtained just by having the test subject spit into a sterile tube. I take
it from the nature of your ques ons that you have something you’d like
tes ng?”
“Yes, how much would you charge for all that?”
“Well, normally it would come to around five hundred pounds, but , if
you’re willing for it to be done by one of my research students and seeing
as you’re a former colleague, I’d se le for a pint in the Eldon.”
“That sounds like an offer I can’t refuse,” I said.
“So do you have the offending garment with you?”
I pulled the bag out of my pocket and placed it on his desk.
“One more ques on,” he said, “sorry, but I have to ask this, you are certain
that the sample isn’t yours?”
“Yes,” I said, “for a number of reasons, one, I haven’t seen those pants
before, two, they’re C&A and a size bigger than Sally’s normal size and
three, because of her work schedule we haven’t had any sexual ac vity for
over a week, since before the last lot of washing was done.”
“Ok,” he agreed then picked up the phone on his desk, “Mark, he said into
it, can you come through and bring a DNA tube with you, would you?”
Mark, who I presumed was his research student, appeared a couple of
minutes later and placed what looked like an odd shaped test tube on the
desk. Peter picked up the plas c bag containing the knickers and held it out
to him.
“Acid phosphatase on the gusset, please Mark, then recover whatever is on
there for a DNA run. I’ll drop a comparison sample on my way out. Once
you’ve done the Acid test and set the DNA run going, join us over the road
with the test result would you?”
“Sure Peter,” he replied.
“Great,” he said, “the usual for you? Dave here’s paying.”
“Please,” he replied, looking at me for the first me, “Oh, Hi Doctor Parker,
I thought you’d le the University.”
“He has,” Peter said, “we’re doing this as a favour, hence the Eldon.”
Mark nodded and le .
“Once I’d performed the distasteful duty of filling my mouth with saliva and
then dripping it into the tube, Peter took a plas c envelope on it, wrote my
name and the date on it and sealed it up.
“There,” he said, “now we can go to the pub.”
Which is exactly what we did.
I’d spent a lot of me in the Eldon during my student days and there was a
small coterie of them in now. We picked a table in a quiet corner and I
asked Peter what he was drinking. He told me and asked me to get a pint of
Dortmunder Lager for mark.
“Lager?” I said querulously.
“Can’t get the bugger to drink proper ale,” he said, “so I insist on him at
least having the genuine German stuff.”
I walked to the bar, ordered the drinks paid and carried them back to the
table.
We had a general chat for fi een minutes or so un l the main door
opened, Mark walked in and joined us.
He picked up his glass, took a long pull at the yellow liquid inside, let out a
sigh, smacked his lips and sat back.
“Well,” Peter prompted.
“The stain we tested,” he began, then stopped.
“Oh get on with it, man,” Peter demanded.
“It turned purple,” he said, “the erm, substance, in the gusset is without
doubt human semen.”
“You started the DNA tests?” Peter asked.
“Yes, should get the results by tomorrow,” he said.
“Do you have a report of the semen test results?” I asked.
He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out an envelope and a different
plas c bag containing the pink knickers.
“Here,” he said, handing the two to me.
“Thanks Mark, Peter, I owe you both one,” I said, “I hope to be able to
repay you one day.”
I doubt you’ll ever be able to,” Mark said, “but the sen ment is good.”
We finished our pints and I bought the two of them another before we said
our goodbyes and a er a promise to email me the DNA results the
following day we shook hands and I le , walked across the road to the
University, got my car out of the car park and drove home to Horsforth.
I let myself in, checked the washing machine, which had finished and
transferred the clothes to the dryer. I put the underwear and socks into the
washer, minus the ones in the plas c bag, loaded it up with powder and
condi oner, then set it going. A er that I did myself a coffee and sat at the
table, where I took the envelope and plas c bag from my pocket. When I
opened the envelope it contained a single piece of paper with the
University heading, a photo of the pink knickers in the top right corner, the
gusset in the le showing a purple patch and an inscrip on that confirmed
that the purple stain indicated the presence of human semen on the
sample. It was signed by Mark Devers.
I tried to go back and do some more work, but I just couldn’t concentrate
on it. Instead I turned on the TV and tried to watch day me television.
ACT 2.
The call came at three thirty. Half an hour before Sally was due to finish.
Once again there was a backlog in the day’s surgery and she was going to
be late. I told her that was OK, asked how late she was likely to be and did
she want me to leave her some dinner.
She didn’t, saying that she’d get something quick from the staff restaurant,
told me she loved me and not to wait up then hung up.
I sat and debated with myself. At this point I could see two immediate
courses of ac on. Accept what my wife, whom I was pre y sure I loved and
who I had always thought loved me said at face value, get myself some
dinner later and go to bed, or I could go out, park my car in the hospital
doctors’ car park, possible because she some mes took my car into work
and it therefore had a staff pass in the windscreen and see when she
comes out and with whom. Or I could just go to the pub and get drunk out
of my mind, but that, I decided wouldn’t work, whichever way, I needed a
clear head to deal with this situa on.
I decided instead that I would go out, since I didn’t need to cook for Sally
ge ng home and have dinner, but later, for now I had to think of what I
was going to do in any scenario that I could imagine.
I sat in what was referred to as ‘my chair’ so-called because when we’d
bought out first house together, Sally had declared that every man should
have his own chair. One that, eventually would become ‘Dad’s chair’ and
then later, ‘Granddad’s chair’. This one was a very comfortable reclining
chair that I’d spent many an evening in wai ng for Sally to get home from
work, marking papers, or jo ng down story notes.
My first thought was of the simplest, or, possibly the happiest solu on. I
was mistaken, there was some simple, ra onal and innocent explana on,
not that I could think of any possibili es. In that case I would owe my wife
an apology. I was sure that was very unlikely but accepted that it was
possible.
Op ons two and three were much more likely, based on what evidence I
had seen so far. Op on two, this was a one-off slip. She’d fallen for some
lothario’s line of fla ery and slipped; it had happened once and would
never happen again. The evidence for that one was slim. The late nights at
work over the last few weeks, the complete cu ng off of our sex life for
over a week now, all pointed at something more than that. So op on three
looked the most likely, my wife was having an affair, presumably with a
work colleague. In which case what was I going to do. The short answer to
that was that I had no idea. I needed to know exactly what situa on we
were in before I could make any decision. And that’s when the brilliant idea
hit me. Well perhaps it wasn’t brilliant, but it was am idea. I was a writer, of
fic on. I o en tried out my story ideas on Sally. I’d try one out on her
tomorrow, when I knew she wasn’t working. Well, unless she had to go in
because they were rushed and short-staffed. But I’d cross that bridge if I
came to it.
I reached out to the table beside my chair, found the hardback A4
notebook that I used for all my ‘inspira on’ as Sally called them and the
Cross fountain pen that she’d bought me for my last birthday and started to
write.
It was nearly one am when I finished and I was s ll alone in the house. I
wondered where she was and surprisingly found I wasn’t par cularly
interested. My second surprise of the night, or morning, was that when I
went upstairs to bed, I fell into a deep untroubled sleep.
I awoke at seven-thirty, my sleeping wife beside me, got out of bed without
her s rring and went into the bathroom to empty my bladder. While I was
there, I took a look in the linen basket. On the top was a pair of pale blue
boy shorts, the kind of underwear Sally preferred. When I picked them up,
they were unsoiled, apart from the normal secre ons that the gusset of
any young woman’s underwear would have. I sniffed at them to make sure,
perfectly normal female small. A li le stronger than normal perhaps, but
nothing reminiscent of a man’s emissions.
“Morning,” she said, as she walked into the kitchen just a er nine o’clock.
“Morning,” I replied, my hand reaching out to pour two mugs of coffee.
Once they were filled, I put them down on the worktop and poured a li le
milk into one of them before pu ng it on the kitchen table.
“What me did you finally get off last night?” I added as I sat down with
my own coffee.
“We got finished just before midnight,” she replied, “then I got a quick
shower and arrived home just a er twelve-thirty. You’d already gone up
and were fast asleep when I got in.”
I’d caught her in a lie. It looked like op on three was the one.
“Well,” I said, “you got home safely, you know how I worry about you
driving home at night a er the pubs have shut, all those boy racers.”
“You shouldn’t, I always drive safely,” she said,
“I know you do,” I replied, “but I s ll worry about you. It’s what husbands
do when their wives are out late at night.”
“Silly boy,” she said, “I love you. So, what did you do while I was at work
yesterday?”
“Wrote a li le,” I answered, mainly edi ng and cleared some housework. I
did a couple of loads of washing.”
Did I no ce a li le flicker in her eyes?
“Then,” I con nued, “last night I sketched out an idea for a short story, but
I’m stuck on how to end it. Could you look through the outline and see if
you can think of a way?”
“Of course, love,” she said, “I’ll make us some breakfast and then I’ll look
through it. I may have to go out this a ernoon.”
“Oh, OK,” I replied, “though I thought maybe we could have had a drive out
in the country since it’s your day off.”
I walked up to the bedroom to get showered and dressed while she cooked
scrambled eggs and toast.
A er breakfast I re red to my study to catch up on my emails, of which,
fortunately there were only one or two, including one from my agent
informing me that the quarter’s royalty cheque for the film of Aethelflaed
had been deposited in my bank and could I please hurry up with the
approved changes to the script for Aelfwynn?
I answered that and then set off back downstairs. As I passed our bedroom,
I heard noises of someone, who I assumed to be Sally moving in the
bathroom. I looked in through the open door and saw her roo ng around
in the linen basket.
“Lost something?” I asked.
She jumped, then recovered herself and stammered, “Yes, I erm, lost an
earring a couple of days ago and I was looking through the basket to see if
it had fallen in there.”
That was the second lie.
“I had it empty yesterday when I did the washing,” I said, “there was no
earring in there then.”
“Oh, right,” she said, “I’ll not waste me looking then.”
She followed me downstairs and, in the living room, I picked up the blue
book as we called it and handed it to her.
“The story idea is in the story ideas sec on, the last three pages,” I told her,
“look through it and tell me how you’d finish it.”
I walked out onto the pa o with a book in my hand and took a seat on one
of the garden chairs on the decking.
One of the things about becoming well known as an author, is that
publishers approach you to review their books. They pay a small fee and
the comments are passed back to the author before final edi ng takes
place. This is the source of the quotes from other authors that you o en
see on book covers. I was doing that for a publisher right then, a book
about Katherine de Roet, or Katherine Swynford, third wife of John of
Gaunt. It was proving to be a good read and the main character almost
jumped out of the pages at me, but then I had a so spot for her. She was
one of my favourite people from late mediaeval England.
I’d read through the sec on where John of Gaunt had appointed her
governess of his children and he’d got her pregnant for the first me when
Sally came out onto the pa o, handed me the blue book and walked back
inside, without saying a word.
I put the two books down on the garden table, stood up and retrieved
what I’d hidden there earlier from under the cushion on my chair, stuffed it
in my trouser pocket and followed her inside.
She was in the living room staring off into space. It took her a few seconds
to register my presence.
“How long have you known?” she asked in a very small voice.
“Known?” I replied, “since just a er nine this morning when you lied to me
about the me you arrived home last night. I was up un l one wri ng that
outline. I’ve suspected since yesterday morning when I sorted the washing
in the linen basket.”
I took out the bag from my pocked and tossed it onto her lap.
“Is that the earring you were looking for?” I asked sharply.
She looked at the object on her lap like it was about to explode then a er a
few seconds of silence, she leapt to her feet, dropping the bag to the rug
and ran out of the room and up the stairs. I wasn’t going to give her the
sa sfac on of chasing a er her.
Less than a minute a er she exited the living room, my phone rang. It was
Peter Baker confirming what I already knew. As he put it in his professional
language, the two samples A and B had come from two different
individuals. The semen stains in the knickers didn’t come from me.
Separa on.
I decided to treat this issue as a nego a on. You know the concept of the
other party makes an offer, you make a counteroffer and then shut up. The
first one to speak a er that is the loser.
There were ques ons I had that I wanted answers to. But I was going to
make her come to me. At lunch me I made myself a ham and cheese
sandwich and poured another cup of coffee from the machine and sat
down to eat out on the pa o.
It was a er four o’clock when she finally came downstairs. I was in the
lounge watching The Last Kingdom on Ne lix. Very entertaining, but as
historically accurate as the story of Columbus discovering America.
I was, as every me sat in my recliner and she sat down opposite me on
the sofa. As she opened her mouth to speak, I held my hand up to stop her,
then pointed at the TV screen. On the screen, a very named Peri
Baumeister as Gisela was bouncing up and down on an equally naked
Alexander Dreymon as Uhtred in a sizzling sex scene.
Once the scene had finished, I paused the programme and turned to her.
“Did you have something to say?” I asked.
She looked at me.
“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly, then cast her eyes down at the floor by her
feet.
“Ah, you’re sorry,” I replied, “well then that’s se led, what are we going to
have for tea?”
She looked confused.
“What?” she said, “is that it, you aren’t angry?”
“Angry?” I asked, “why would I be angry. Tell me does the date August the
twenty-fourth mean anything to you?”
“Of course it does,” she said, “it’s our wedding anniversary,” she replied.
“Oh, yes,” I answered, “the anniversary of our ge ng married? Do you
remember that day?”
“I remember every detail of that day, it was wonderful,” she said.
“Then you’ll remember then, the man who married us. The Bishop of
Winchester himself, your father I believe,” I said.
“Of course I do,” she said, “what are you trying to say?”
“And do you remember the part where he asked you whether you took me
as your lawful wedded husband and if, forsaking all others you would
cleave only to me, for as long as we both lived?”
“Yes, yes of course,” she said tes ly.
“And do you remember saying to the bishop and to me and all our friends
and family gathered there, ‘I do?’”
“Yes,” she said, “where is all this leading?”
“Just checking that you remember all that,” I replied, “and now, just for the
record, when, why and with whom did you break that promise?”
“Why do you want to know?” she asked, “what are you going to do?”
“No reason,” I said, “I just have this strange curiosity about who my wife is
fucking, why she’s doing it and how long it’s been happening. No real
reason at all.”
“There’s no reason for bad language Dave,” she said, “It didn’t.”
I stopped her.
“Sally, please, don’t insult me any further by saying it was nothing it was
just sex,” I said, “I think that’s one of the usual responses isn’t it. Along
with I haven’t taken anything away from you.”
“But I haven’t,” she protested, “I s ll love you and only you.”
“Really,” I said, “and you think that this is the way to show that?”
“I said I was sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Did it ever enter your head that if I found out it would hurt me?” I asked,
“so it sounds to me like what you’re really saying is that you hoped I
wouldn’t find out.”
“But, really, I haven’t taken anything from you,” she said.
“Apart from my self-respect, my sense of my own manhood,” I replied, “did
that occur to you? And you’ve taken nothing away from me. What about
you? How long is it since we last made love? If indeed, what you were
doing was making love, perhaps it was just sex. A pity fuck.”
“It’s not that long,” she said.
“It was just before your last period,” I answered for her, “allowing for the
four days that that tends to last, eleven days. So eleven days for me. How
long since you last fucked your lover? No don’t answer, it was last night
wasn’t it.”
She didn’t answer, which told me I was right.
“Right then,” I said, “you’re going to ring your lover boy, now and tell him
to expect you, because you’re moving in with him.”
“I can’t do that!” She almost yelled.
“Well, you’re not staying here,” I replied, “so you choose. And, out of
interest, why can’t you do that? Because he’s married?”
She just looked at me and nodded.
“Then we have a problem,” I said, “this marriage is dead. Killed by you and
your lover. Who, by the way, is unless I guess wrong Peter Mortensen?”
“What?” she exclaimed, “how did you…”
She stopped as she realised that she had given away his name.
“So I’m right then,” I said, with a feeling of great sadness, “and do you
intend to carry on this affair?”
“I’ll give it up if you want me to,” she said.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” I replied.
“No, if you want me to, I’ll give him up,” she protested.
“Wrong answer Sally,” I said, “the correct answer would have been I realise
it was a mistake, a mistake I should never have made in the first place. I will
never see him again.”
“Well, I have things to think about,” I said, “decisions to make, I’m going
out. By the me I get back, I expect that you will have moved all your
things into the second bedroom, we won’t be sleeping together again.”
“Dave,” she pleaded.
“Sally, un l you can at least convince me that you have some sort of
remorse for what you did, I will not con nue this conversa on. I’m going
out, I’ll eat out and be back around ten.”
With that I le the house climbed into my car and drove to Leeds.
Once there and parked, I used my phone to access the online phone
directory and looked up Peter Mortensen, there was an address in
Roundhay for him and a phone number.
I rang it and it was answered on the third ring.
“Hello,” a female voice said.
“Oh, hello,” I said, is that Mrs Mortensen?”
“Yes, it is,” she replied, a slight hint of Scandinavian in her voice, “who is
this?”
“My name is David Parker, is your husband at home?” I asked.
“Yes he is,” she replied, “just a moment I’ll get him.”
“Thank you,” I said.
About a minute later he came on the line.
“This is Peter Mortensen; how can I help you?” he announced.
“Good evening Peter,” I said, “this is David Parker. I think you and I should
get together for a li le chat, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked.
“We have met,” I said, “at a couple of surgery department get togethers at
the hospital. But it’s really my wife you know. In all senses, social
professional and, I believe biblical.”
“I don’t think I have anything to say to you, Mr Parker,” he said.
“Oh, I think you do Peter, unless you’d rather I had the conversa on with
your wife.”
“She’d never speak to you,” he spat.
“Not even a er I returned some of her property to her,” I said, “something
of hers that you loaned to my wife a er one of your li le trysts, perhaps.
Something with your DNA and I assume my wife’s in the gusset?”
He went silent and stayed silent for long enough that I thought perhaps
he’d hung up on me. Then.
“Where and when?” he said.
“How about the Roundhay Fox?”
“All right,” he said, “when?”
How soon can you be there?”
“Twenty minutes,” he said.
“About the same me that it will take me,” I said, “and Peter.”
“Yes,” he said.
“If you call my wife, I’ll call yours.”
Twenty-five minutes later I was sat at a table in the Roundhay Fox with a
pint of Diet Pepsi in front of me when he walked in. I made a point of very
theatrically looking at my watch.
“You’re late,” I said, “get yourself a drink.”
He walked over to the bar and returned with a pint of bi er.
“Right,” I said, “I’m going to ask you some ques ons. So long as I get the
same answers from you as I did from my wife, you and not your wife will
get the soiled knickers back. However if any single answer differs, then they
will go to Mrs Mortensen with a note of how they came into my
possession. Is that clear?”
He nodded.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I said.
“Yes, it’s clear,” he replied.
“Good, first ques on. How long have you been fucking my wife?”
“I don’t know that I’d call it that,” he said.
“Then what would you call it?” I asked.
“Fulfilling a need,” he replied, “and to answer your ques on, four months.
But I’ve had her exclusively mine for the past two weeks.”
“Her need or yours?” I asked, “I wasn’t aware of any feelings of
dissa sfac on.”
“Oh, mine of course,” he replied, “she was totally inconsequen al, just a
set of holes to use.”
“Nice to see such a caring a tude,” I said, “so it was nothing to you. Why
then did you tell her to completely cut me off two weeks ago?”
“Oh, that was never meant to be permanent, only un l I got her pregnant,”
he replied calmly.
At that moment, I think I was as close to killing another member of homo
sapiens as I’ve ever been.
“At which point, presumably, you would have dumped her and le me
literally holding the baby.”
“I take it from your a tude that this whole thing was a case of you
pursuing her, you’re not going to make some ridiculous claim that she
came on to you?” I spat.
“Not at all,” he said, “my plan worked like a charm.”
“Well, thank you for enlightening me,” I said, “I’m now sa sfied that I know
what went on, so I’ll bid you goodbye.”
“So, I’ll get the erm garment back?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” I replied, “your wife’s ge ng those.”
“But my answers,” he protested.
“Did not match my wife’s,” I replied.
“Why what did she tell you?”
“Nothing,” I answered, “absolutely nothing at all. My plan worked like a
charm too.”
I stood up and as I turned to leave, put my hand in my jacket pocket, pulled
out the Olympus digital voice recorder that I had in there. I held it up so he
could see it and made a big show of turning it off.
“Goodbye Peter,” I said over my shoulder as I walked out, “no phone calls
or your wife gets a copy of this.”
I didn’t go straight back home, instead I did what I said I would do and
drove round to Call Lane and ate at an Argen nian steak house there.
A er a very nice T-bone steak, jacket potato and green vegetables, I paid
the bill, walked back out to my car and drove back to Horsforth. It was
almost ten when I arrived back and Sally was s ll si ng exactly as she had
been when I le .
“Did you eat?” I asked her, le ng my nature overrule my distaste.
“Where have you been?” she asked, “I was worried.”
“I told you I would be back late,” I replied as I walked through to the
kitchen and started to make her a sandwich.
She followed me in about a minute later.
“Where did you go?” she asked, pu ng stress on the did.
“I went to see a friend of yours from work.”
“Not Sabrina?” she said, startled,” I hope you didn’t tell her about all this.”
“No,” I agreed, “not Sabrina. I didn’t need to tell him, him being one of the
main actors in this drama.”
She looked puzzled for a few seconds, then realisa on dawned.
“You went to see Peter? At his house,” she gasped.
“I met him in a pub,” I explained.
“But why?” she asked.
“Because you were changing the subject every me I asked about what
was going on,” I replied, “he was very forthcoming.”
“So now you know that it was just sex and it’s you I truly love?” she asked.
“Well,” I replied, “now I know that he’s taken you for a complete and u er
fool.”
“That’s stupid,” she said, “all he ever wanted was for us to be together and
me and you to remain together.”
“Which is why he made you come off the pill and stop making love with
me?” I asked.
“He,” she began, stammering, “he told you that?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I recorded the en re conversa on, go and sit down, I’ll
bring your sandwich in and you can listen to it. It will show you just exactly
what type of man you’ve been consor ng with.”
An hour later, a er she’d finished her sandwich and listened to the
recording, she sat on the sofa, head in hands, sobbing. I sat wai ng for the
sobbing to die down.
“That was his plan?” she asked eventually.
“It seems so,” I replied.
“Dave, I’m so, so sorry,” she said, “I was caught up in it. I thought he and I
were going to be forever, but he couldn’t leave his wife because she was
severely disabled and dependent. He used, me.”
“Sally, you let yourself be used,” I said, “you’re not innocent in this, you
could have said no from the outset.”
“So what are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said, “ you need to be here for work, I can
work from anywhere, so I’m going to go and stay with my parents in
Manchester un l I can make a las ng plan, I can write from wherever I am,
you need to be here. But you will need to take overpaying the mortgage.”
“Then what?” she asked, “what about long-term?”
“Then, I’m going to destroy him.”
ACT 3.
That night, for the first me since we’d been together, we slept in separate
beds, separate rooms. First thing the following morning I rang my mother
and explained that something had happened, without specifying what.
Although I knew I’d face the third degree when I arrived, I asked if I could
come over and have my old bedroom back for a while.
Of course, it was all right so a er breakfast, I went upstairs, packed a
couple of suitcases, loaded my laptop bag up with my laptop, external
drive and all the necessary cable and loaded them into the car.
Sally had gone in to work earlier but knew that I wouldn’t be there when
she got back. If I hadn’t been able to stay at Mum’s then my next choice
would have been my sister and, failing that, a hotel.
When I got to Cheadle, an hour and a half a er I le Horsforth, Mum
greeted me at the door, hugged me, took me inside and sat me down, gave
me a cup of tea and sat down across from me.
“Well?” she asked.
I started the story. I told her about the knickers in the washing basket,
having the tests done, Sally’s a tude to the whole thing, my mee ng with
Peter Mortensen and the recording. Then I played the recording for her,
having first apologised for my language at the beginning.
“Don’t apologise, dear,” she said, “I know what fucking is.”
That was the first me I’d ever heard my mother u er anything stronger
than bloody.
When I switched off the recorder at the end, she let out a long breath.
“That’s a hell of a mess she’s got you both into, son,” she said, “no
argument about that. The ques on is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know Mum, that’s why I’ve come away, to think and to work that
out.”
“Well, you know you’re welcome, does Sally know you’re here?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I told her I was coming last night.”
“Right then, while you bring your bags in, I’m going to ring Amanda.”
“What?” I asked, surprised, “Why?”
“Because, my dear youngest child, you’re deeply hurt and I suspect the
whole thing has hurt Sally too, you came home to your mother, I suspect
she’ll need her mother’s support too. And perhaps, just perhaps, the two
of us, can sort out the two of you.”
She disappeared off into the living room to make the call and I walked back
outside and brought my bags in.
I was busy se ng my laptop up when there was a so knock on my door
and I heard Mum’s voice say, “Can I come in?”
“Of course, Mum,” I called back and she walked in.
“I’ve spoken to Amanda,” she began, “and she’s going to ring Sally this
evening a er work, just casually, you know, ‘how are you?’ that sort of
thing and see what sort of a story she gets. Do you have a copy of that
recording?”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s on the external hard drive and up on OneDrive.”
“Then can you send it to me so I can pass it on to her, or you could send it
direct to her. I think she needs to hear it before she speaks to her
daughter.”
I need the password for your broadband router, though,” I said.
“Your father set it up, what do you think it was?” she replied.
I laughed so ly, “He does like his Wagner operas doesn’t he.”
I connected my laptop, started Outlook, wrote a brief message to my
mother-in-law and a ached the file, then clicked send.
“There, done,” I said.
I spent the a ernoon working and got a good three thousand words of a
book outline wri en. A new historical novel.
When my dad got in in the late a ernoon, I went through the whole story
again, then he asked to listen to the recording. I played it for home and
when it finished, he sat back in his chair, like me he had a recliner that was
‘his’ and looked at me.
“You know,” he said, “she really should report this to the trust and the
GMC. This is sexual harassment at work and from his tone, this is not the
first me he’s done this.”
“Do you think that that would work?” I asked.
“The GMC don’t like this sort of thing from doctors, par cularly not from
senior consultants with their junior staff. The trust is a bit iffier,” he said,
“they will probably try and brush it off to save any hint of scandal hi ng
them. Or buy her off with a promo on, scare her off with threat of stalling
her career or just plain ignore them.”
“You’re not a fan of the trusts, then Dad?” I asked, although I knew the
answer well enough.
“You know what I think of trusts,” he replied, “when a star ng assistant
finance director gets paid more than a top of the range consultant surgeon
something in the state of Denmark smells like rancid bacon.”
My Dad had his favourite soapboxes and that was one of them. That and
the ridiculous hours junior doctors are expected to put in were his two
favourites. All excused by the senior doctors on the grounds that ‘Well, we
had to do it.’
Mum had done a casserole for dinner and that together with a jacket
potato was what we got. Like everything that my mother cooked it was
delicious and I even found room for a half-helping a er I finished the first.
We were just se ling down to watch some TV a er dinner when the phone
out in the hall rang. Mum was closest so she went out to answer it. She
returned a minute or so later and held it out to me.
“It’s for you,” she said, “West Yorkshire Police.”
“Hello,” I said into the mouthpiece, how can I help you?”
“Mr Parker?” a gruff voice on the other end said, “Mr David Parker?”
“Yes,” I replied, “that is me.”
“Ah good evening sir,” he said, “this is Sergeant Pete Greenfield at the
Elland Road custody centre in Leeds. I believe that you are the husband of
Mrs Sarah Parker.”
“No, I think you’ve got the wrong,” I began the stopped myself, I was
forge ng that Sally was the diminu ve form of Sarah which was Sally’s
legal name, “Sorry, yes I am, but I call her Sally.”
“Well Sir,” he said, “we have your wife here in the custody suite. She’s been
remanded on bail but, one of her bail condi ons is that she reside with her
husband un l the hearing date.”
“What is it she’s been charged with?” I asked.
“Erm, I’m not at liberty to disclose that at this moment in me, sir,” he
replied, “but if you can come in, we can tell you then.”
“All right, I’ll come over,” I said, “you say you’re on Elland Road.”
“Yes, sir, opposite the football ground.”
“Yes, I know where you are, I’m a season cket holder.”
“How soon can we expect you sir?” he asked.
“It will take me around two hours,” I said, “I can get there faster, but your
traffic colleagues might not like my method.”
“Very wise sir,” he said, “we’ll see you in a couple of hours, drive safely.”
“What was all that about?” my Mum asked.
“It seems that somehow and for some reason, Sally has managed to get
herself arrested,” I explained, “she’s being held in a police cell and has
been bailed for three thousand pounds but doesn’t have either the cash or
a credit card to pay it with. They want me to go over.”
“And you’re going to do it?” Dad asked, “Despite what she’s done?”
“She’s s ll my wife dad,” I replied, “I just wish I knew what she’s been
charged with.”
“Are you going to bring her back here with you?” Mum asked.
“I think I may have to, so assume that I am, would you?” I replied.
“Should I make up Andi’s room for her?”
“Do you mean is she going to be sleeping with me, Mum?” I asked, “no she
isn’t so, yes, please, make up Andrea’s room. I don’t know what me I’ll be
back.”
“Then take a key, just in case,” she answered.
Mum went off to get busy preparing the room, while I retrieved my keys
from the hall table, took a house key and walked out to the car. Rather
than take the motorway with all its traffic, I went over the top to Barnsley,
then Wakefield and up to Leeds. I pulled into the custody suite visitor’s car
park a li le before nine o’clock.
Once I got into the building, which was a ma er of ring the bell at the
visitor’s door, wait for someone to answer the intercom, iden fy yourself
wait for them to buzz you in and then walk across to the counter.
Judging by the three stripes on his uniform jacket arm, I guessed that this
might be Sergeant Greenfield. I took a chance.
“I strode up to the counter.
“Sergeant Greenfield?” I queried.
“That’s right sir,” he replied, “and you are?”
“Parker,” I said, “Dave Parker. We spoke earlier about my wife.”
“Ah yes, Mrs Parker,” he said, “if you would care to take a seat, someone
will be with you shortly.”
I took a seat on the back wall of the wai ng room and se led in for what, I
assumed, would be a long wait.
I was wrong. I’d only been there, certainly less than ten minutes, when a
door in the side wall opened and a different sergeant in uniform stepped
out and announced my name.
I walked across and he stepped aside to let me in.
Inside was a table and four chairs, all fixed to the floor. On the table was a
tape recorder with two casse e slots, presumably for interviews.
Two of the chairs were occupied, one by Sally and the other by a young
man in his early twen es who introduced himself as Steve Parkinson and
his role as the solicitor appointed by the authori es to represent her.
“I’ll leave you three to your discussion,” the policeman said and exited by a
door opposite the one through which I came in.
A er he le , I sat down opposite them, Sally made to stand up but I raised
a hand to stop her.
“What have they charged you with?” I asked.
“Assault causing grievous bodily harm with intent,” Parkinson said.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I kicked him in the balls,” she said.
“Who?” I asked.
“Peter, who else?” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“He was threatening me,” she replied, “we’d just finished a procedure on a
small child. We were cleaning off in the sluice room and he started telling
me that I was his now and that I should forget you. I don’t think he realised
I’d heard that recording.”
“Recording?” Parkinson asked.
“I met with Mr Mortensen yesterday and had a brief discussion about the
rela onship between him and my wife,” I explained, “I recorded the
conversa on.”
“Did he know it was being recorded at the me?” he asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Then it probably wouldn’t be permissible in evidence,” he said.
“No,” I agreed, “but I’d be willing to bet he’d do anything to avoid his wife
ge ng a hold of it.”
“I’m sorry?” he said, a quizzical look in his eyes.
“Mr Mortensen is a sexual predator. He admi ed as much to me yesterday.
He enjoys it, it makes him feel like a big man,” I explained, “now my job is
to make him feel like the worm that he is.”
“Ah,” he nodded his head in agreement, “I see.”
“So what happens now?” I asked.
“Now, you take your wife home and put her to bed,” he replied, “then on
Monday you present her at Leeds Crown Court for trial.”
“So soon?” I asked.
“All that will happen is that she’ll be asked to confirm her iden ty and how
she pleads,” he said, “then unless the CPS raises an objec on, which I
doubt, she’ll be remanded on bail for trial at a later date.”
“So we’re free to go?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “I have to give Sally this.”
He held out an A4 sheet of paper.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s the bail condi ons,” he said, “put simply, she has to reside with you
and not approach within one hundred metres of Mr Mortensen or any
member of his family, or of Leeds General Infirmary, there are two
excep ons to that, if she’s called in for a mee ng or in case of emergency
and she or some close family member is admi ed.”
“A mee ng?” I asked, looking at Sally, s ll dressed in theatre scrubs.
“I’ve been suspended, pending an internal inves ga on,” she replied, “full
pay un l such me as I go on trial then without pay. There probably won’t
be anything happening un l a er the trial and then there’ll be the GMC as
well.”
“What does it have to do with the GMC?”
“They tend to take a nega ve view of doctors a acking each other in the
scrub room,” she said, “there’ll be a disciplinary hearing, I could be struck
off.”
“Right then,” Parkinson said, “if that’s all we can all leave.”
He stood, walked to the door on the opposite wall and pressed a buzzer
beside it. A few moments later a police officer appeared and used his pass
to let us out of the other door. In the car park, we said goodnight to the
lawyer and I led her to the car. I opened the door for her and she got in
then walked round and got in the other side.
“We’d be er call in at Horsforth and get you some more clothes,” I said,
“nice as you look in those, you’ll be needing a change at some me.”
“Call in at Horsforth?” she asked.
“Yes, we’re staying with Mum and Dad.”
“Oh, Dave, please no,” she said, “I’d be so embarrassed. Do they know?”
“Yes,” I said, “they have both heard the tape. In fact about the only person
involved who hasn’t heard it is Mrs Mortensen. I’ll be correc ng that
omission tomorrow.”
“Dave, you can’t,” she said, “the injunc on.”
“That’s on you, not me,” I said, “and besides, I’m not going to see her. I’ll
call her, get an email address and email a copy to her.”
“Dave!” she exclaimed, “you can’t do that, the poor woman will be
devastated.”
“Sally, you need to learn to engage your brain before you speak.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“What will she be devastated at?” I asked.
“At learning that her husband…” she trained off, “Oh, I’m sorry, yes, you’re
right. But that’s different.”
“Why is it different, because in her case it was her husband commi ng
adultery, while in our case it was you?”
We’d arrived back at the house and I pulled into the driveway.
“Just get what you need for now un l the weekend, we’ll come back here
Sunday evening rather than brave the Monday morning M62 traffic,” I said.
“Will we be sleeping together?” she asked.
“No,” I replied with more than a hint of finality.
She got out of the car and walked slowly towards the front door, while I got
out and followed her. She stopped, which was when I realised, she didn’t
have her keys with her.
I let us in and ushered her upstairs while I went into the kitchen to make us
a coffee. I needed one. What I really needed was that single malt that my
father was about to pour for me, but for now I’d se le for coffee.
She came downstairs just as the coffee was ready and we sat in the living
room and drank it.
“I wish we could just forget all this happened and get back to how we were
before,” she said a er a pause.
“I would think you do,” I replied, “but Sally, you’ve never given me an
explana on of why you just didn’t say no to him. You knew you were
married, I thought we were happy, but it seems it was only me. Now, I’m
not sure I’ll ever be happy again. I know it will be a long me before I trust
you again.
“I did say no,” she said, “but he just kept on sugges ng, kept on digging at
me.”
“And finally he got you to say yes.”
She nodded her head.
“Yes,” she said, “I said yes. I thought that if I did once he’d stop.”
“But then he used that one yes to pressure you into a repeat
performance,” I suggested.
“Yes, he told me if I didn’t do what he wanted then you’d find out about
the first me.”
“All right, we’re ge ng somewhere,” I said, adding a silent ‘at last, “now I
have a ques on. I want one of two answers to it. Yes, or No, no
explana ons nothing else just a one-word answer. Did you ever at any me
have sex with him in our bed?”
“No,” she replied, “it was always either at work, in a hotel or at his house.”
I looked at her.
“I swear, love, it’s true,” she said.
I looked at her again and decided that she was telling the truth.
“Thank you for that, at least,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What are you thanking me for?” I asked.
“I saw it in your eyes, you believed me,” she replied.
“Shouldn’t I have?” I asked.
“You should, it was the truth,” she said.
“Then it was accepted as such,” I answered.
We finished our coffee and I took the mugs into the kitchen, rinsed them
and put them in the draining rack before I checked everything that should
be switched off was switched off and we le for Cheadle. Given the me
and I took the M62, M60, M56 route and we arrived in just under an hour.
It was nearly midnight.
I carried her bag into the house and up the stairs with her following me. I
think she was disappointed when I passed the door to my room and
opened the door to Andi’s.
Inside I put the bag on the bed and turned to leave, she caught my forearm
to stop me.
“Can’t I sleep with you?” she asked.
I shook my head, ignoring the pleading in her eyes.
“If nothing else,” I replied, “not un l I see a nega ve STD test.”
“What for?” she asked.
“Well, given the state of those knickers you’d been wearing, I’m assuming
you didn’t use condoms,” I said, “and we don’t know who else he was
having fun with at the same me.”
She dropped my arm then and I le and went to my own room. I don’t
know whether it was ins nctual, but as I closed the door, I locked it. I had
no desire to wake up next to her. While I was in the bathroom taking care
of ablu ons, I also locked the connec ng door that led to my brother’s
bedroom.
Once I’d finished, I got myself into bed and, surprising myself, fell asleep. I
woke up once, thinking I could hear someone trying the door handle, but if
they had, they went away before I awoke fully and if it was Sally, she never
men oned it the following morning when I walked into the kitchen at eight
o’clock to find her and my mother busy preparing breakfast.
“Morning darling,” Mum said as I walked in.
“Morning Dave,” Sally almost echoed her.
“Morning ladies,” I replied, before pouring myself a coffee and si ng
down.
“What have you got planned for today?” Sally asked.
“I need to go back to Leeds,” I said, “so if you give me your locker key, I’ll
call into the hospital and pick up your things.”
“Would you,” she said, “thank you. I’ll get you the key a er breakfast.”
Breakfast was Poached Eggs on toast and a erwards I got elected to clear
up and man the dishwasher.
While I did that, Mum and Sally disappeared and my wife came back a few
minutes later and handed me a key.
I pocketed the key, went upstairs to my room and got the things I needed
to take with me and set off for Leeds. Once again, given the chances of
holdups, I took the Barnsley, Wakefield route rather than the Motorway
and arrived at Leeds General Infirmary. I went in through the staff entrance
and walked the maze of corridors to the Opera ng suite where I found the
doctors’ changing rooms. I found May Chang, one of Sally’s best friends
and a fellow surgeon.
“Dave,” she said, surprised, “what are you doing here. You know Sally’s…”
“Yes, I know,” I interrupted her, “she’s with me at my mother’s.”
“You know why she was suspended?” she asked.
“For kicking her lover where it would do most good,” I said, “yes.”
“You knew about her and Mortensen?” she asked.
“Not un l day before yesterday,” I replied, “listen, have you got ten
minutes, would you like to get a coffee, maybe you can fill some things in
for me.”
“I’d love to have a coffee,” she said, “but I won’t tell tales on my friend, not
that I have any to tell.”
“Ah, but you do,” I replied, “what I want to know about is the incident
yesterday. But first, can you pop into the changing rooms and get Sally’s
things from her locker?”
“Of course,” she said, smiling, “I assume you have the key?”
I took out my keys and removed it from the ring.
“Back in a couple of minutes,” she said.
She came out a few minutes later carrying a pa ent’s property bag
containing Sally’s things.
“I emp ed the pockets of her white coat since that and her pager belong to
the hospital. Everything else is in there.”
“Thanks May,” I said, “now, about that coffee.”
“I’m just on my way to lunch, do you mind the staff canteen and me ea ng
while we talk.”
We walked down to the staff dining room in the basement and found a
table. I placed the bag of Sally’s things on it and we went to the counter
where she ordered lunch and I got us two coffees.
“Were you there when the thing blew up yesterday?” I asked.
“Yes, we were all in the scrub room, cleaning up a er repairing a hole in
the heart on a li le girl of three,” she said, “Peter had been niggling at Sally
all day and suddenly she turned on him.”
“What? A acked him?”
“Yes, but only verbally,” she said, “then he grabbed her and almost yelled
at her.”
“Grabbed her?” I asked.
“Yes and by the throat, everybody was yelling at him to calm down and let
go. Then he started screaming ‘I own you bitch, body and soul, don’t forget
that, you’re mine.’.”
“So he grabbed her and was choking her?”
“Yes, and she kicked him, just as two of the other male surgeons started to
pull him away from her.”
“So, when she kicked him, she was defending herself from a ack,” I said, a
statement, which she took as a ques on.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Yet they arrested her and not him,” I said, “has he been suspended too?”
“No,” she said, “but then again, he is in hospital at the moment.”
“So you think he will be?” I asked.
“No, the old boy network will close ranks around him and Sally will be hung
out to dry.”
“Would you be willing to go to court and tes fy to what you saw?”
“It would be difficult; we have been told by the board that we‘re not to
discuss it with anybody.”
“Yet you’re discussing it with me. Look, May, if we can find a way for you to
give evidence without it affec ng your career would you do it?”
“In a heartbeat, I’d love to see that pig taken down.”
“Then I’ll be in touch, does Sally know how to contact you without coming
through the hospital?”
“Yes,” she replied, “tell her good luck from me.”
“I will and thanks,” I stood and picked up the bag, “we’ll be in touch.”
“Ask Sally to ring me, would you?” she said.
“She will, if I have to stand over her while she does it,” I agreed and walked
out of the canteen, back to the car park and climbed into the car.
I deposited the bag of Sally’s stuff on the back seat and picked up the
notebook that was back there, opened it and made a note about May and
about Peter having his hands round Sally’s throat during the ‘incident.’.
My next visit was likely to be a li le more stressful.
I pulled up outside the house in Roundhay, which compared to mine in
Horsforth was more in the category of Mansion and parked on the street.
I got out of the car, opened the back door and picked up the two things
that I would need here, then locked the car and walked up the driveway to
the front door. There was an intercom unit on the right door surround and I
pressed the bu on.
A er a few moments, a so Scandinavian voice said ‘Hello,’.
“Mrs Mortensen,” I said, “I’m Dave Parker. I have something I promised to
your husband and I wonder if I could leave it with you?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, “I’ll open the door for you, when you hear the
buzzer, turn the handle please and come in.”
There was a brief buzzing noise and I opened the door and stepped inside.
“You’re the Gentleman who called night before last,” she said, “who my
husband had to go out and see.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You have something for him?” she asked, “if you give it to me, I will see
that he gets it. He is in the hospital you know; he was a acked at work
yesterday.”
“Yes, I know, it was my wife who put him there,” I said, elici ng a look of
horror from her, “please, don’t worry, I mean you no harm and bear you no
ill will, I just wanted to return these to you.”
I put my hand in my pocket and took out the plas c bag containing the
knickers, “They are yours, aren’t they?”
“She looked at them as if they were a cobra about to strike.
“They,” she began, then stopped, “they look like the style I favour, but the
ones I buy are from C and A in Denmark.”
“These are C and A,” I replied.
“Why do you have them?” she asked.
“Because two days ago, I found them in the laundry basket at my home.”
“Why would my underwear be in your laundry basket?” she asked.
“Because my wife put them there when she took them off to come to bed
with me,” I answered.
“Let me see them,” she said and held out her hand.
I passed them to her and she opened the bag and took them out, handling
them gingerly as if she expected them to try and bite her.
She inspected them thoroughly and a er maybe three minutes looked at
me.
“Yes, they are mine, but what is this purple spot?”
“that’s the result of the Acid Phosphatase that I had a friend in the
University Forensic department do,” I said, “it shows.”
She interrupted me.
“It shows the presence of human semen,” she said, “I was a forensic
scien st before my children came along. I take it a DNA test showed that
it’s not yours.”
“That is correct,” I said.
“You strongly suspect that another test would prove that it is my husbands,
don’t you?” she asked.
“I do, in fact I’m almost certain of it,” I said, “one of my reasons for coming
here today was to ask you if you had a hairbrush of his that I could take a
few hairs from for comparison.”
“I can do be er than that,” she said, “how about a full DNA paternity test
from two years ago?”
“You had a paternity test done, on your own husband?” I asked.
“No, the mother of his child did,” she said, “your wife is not his first li le
adventure.”
“Ah,” I said, “I see. Thank you, but I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“Do you have the test result for the sample in these?” she asked, holding
the knickers up.
“Yes, it’s in my car,” I replied.
“Then if you could please get it, I can interpret it. In the mean me I’ll put
coffee on, or would you prefer tea?”
“Whichever you’re having,” I replied and set off for the front door.
I was back a couple of minutes later, buzzed the door, she unlocked it and I
walked back in. The hallway where we’d had our earlier conversa on was
empty.
“Through here,” she shouted and I followed the voice into a large, modern
kitchen, where she sat at a pine-topped table. Two mugs of coffee were sat
in the middle of it with a milk jug, sugar bowl and spoons.
“I didn’t know how you take it, so please help yourself,” she said.
“Black,” I replied and took out the papers I’d received from Pete at the
University.
She had a virtually iden cal chart on the table in front of her and a book
beside her, it was closed, with a bookmark in it, but I recognised the book.
“May I?” I asked as I reached out and picked it up, it was my Aelfwynn.
“He is a very good author,” she said, “I believe he is local to here.”
I smiled slightly.
“Very,” I said, “do you have a pen I could borrow, Mrs Mortensen?”
“Please, it’s Ju a,” she replied, handing me a ball pen.
“And I’m Dave,” I answered as I opened the book and started to write.
“To my good friend Ju a, a true lady and excellent coffee maker, with best
wishes.”
Then I signed it using my pen name and handed it and the pen back to her.
She opened it and looked at the tle page.
“This is you?” she asked, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Guilty,” I said.
“I have enjoyed both your books,” she said, “do you have another on out
soon?”
“In about four months, this is about a young knight who returns from the
crusades to find his parents dead, his lands stolen and his sister married off
to one of the local barons,” I said, “I’ll see that you get an advance copy.”
“That’s very kind, thank you,” she said, “now, down to business.”
She picked up the two DNA charts and started scanning them alternately, I
could see her eyes flick from one to the other then back again rapidly. For
the next twenty minutes the only sound was the cking of the kitchen
clock and an occasional grunt from her as she made a mark on her chart.
A er twenty minutes she raised her head from the charts.
“Please,” she said, “help yourself to more coffee,” she nodded her head in
the direc on of a filter coffee maker of the worktop, “and if you would be
so kind as to pour me one, I’d be grateful.”
In all it took a li le more than an hour before she pushed both charts to
one side.
“Yes,” she said, “the sample is my husband’s.”
She looked sad.
“Two years ago he promised me,” she repeated it for emphasis, ”promised
me that it would not happen again. I’m sorry Mr Parker, Dave, I wish there
were some way I could make this have not happened.”
“Well we can’t,” I said, “so there is no point worrying about it.”
“Well, I can see now why your wife a acked my husband, please apologise
to her on my behalf.”
“Well,” I said, “I have an eyewitness who was there throughout the
incident that says my wife only kicked your husband where she did,
because at the me he had his hands around her throat and was strangling
her.”
“If that is the case, I hope she is not being charged with anything.”
“She is, but I think we can get a sa sfactory outcome. In the mean me she
is suspended from work,” I said.
“I am sorry about that,” she said, “if it will help, I will be happy to be a
witness to my husband’s prior adventures.”
“Thank you,” I said, “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
I stood up.
“Ju a it’s been a pleasure,” I said, “but I have other calls to make, so I must
go, but please.”
I drew a card out of my wallet.
“Please,” I said, “if I can be any help to you, call me. What will you do
now?”
“What I should have done years ago,” she said, “I shall be seeing a lawyer
before the week is out.”
“Then I wish you well with that, I said.
She showed me to the door and gave me one of those con nental cheek
kisses, then stood there and watched as I got in my car and drove away.
As I drove, I was thinking, Sally needed a be er lawyer and I knew just the
one, female, young successful and an absolute bulldog, especially when it
came to abused women and that seemed a good descrip on of Sally’s
present status.
I used the Bluetooth connec on in the car to make the call.
“Hello Dave,” she said as she answered.
“Hi Mary, how’s my favourite cousin?”
“I’m well, Dave, thanks for ringing and asking,” she replied, “now, what’s
the real reason?”
“Isn’t concern for your welfare enough?” I asked, “But yes, I do have an
ulterior mo ve, I need a lawyer.”
“All right,” she said, “what have you done and what have you been charged
with?”
“Not for me, for Sally,” I said, then gave her the brief version of the story.
“She did all that and s ll you’re protec ng her?” she said, “David Parker,
you’re even more of a saint than she thinks you are.”
“Yes, well, I’m no longer as sure as I was that she’s as guilty as she
appears,” I said, “I’ve got a couple of witnesses willing to tes fy, one of
which is his wife.”
“So, he has a history,” she said, “I’ll tell you what, give me an hour or two
to think about it and I’ll find the best person. Who’s handling it at the
moment?”
“Duty solicitor,” I said.
“Young guy? Not yet shaving. That sort?” she asked.
“Yes to all three,” I answered.
“All right, let me get on with it, love to your Mum and Dad.”
And she was gone.
I decided that I’d done enough for one day and turned the car round the
ring road towards the M1, to pick up the M63 at Lo house and head back
to Cheadle.
I arrive in mid-a ernoon to an empty house.
“Mum had le me a note to say that she had taken Sally to the hospital for
a check-up and that they should be back around five. They’d le me a
sandwich in the fridge and I was not to worry.
The bit about not worrying was what got me worried.
I ate the sandwich, refilled the coffee maker and had a mug then sat down
with my laptop in the hope of ge ng some work done.
They did arrive back at five, well, just before actually, followed a few
minutes later by my Dad.
As the two womenfolk walked in, I greeted them and pointed them in the
direc on of the freshly made coffee in the maker, then con nued with my
work.
Mum went to the machine and Sally came up behind me put her arms
around me and leaned in close.
“Been busy?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “your stuff’s in the car and May says Hi.”
“You saw May?” she asked.
“Yes, well, I could hardly barge into the female changing room and empty
your locker myself, could I?”
“Knowing half the women that use it, I’d say that chances are if you’d gone
in, you’d s ll be there.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Yes, we went to the canteen and got a coffee. She told me that at the me
you kicked him, Mortensen had his hands round your throat.”
“Yes, he did,” she said.
“I wish you’d told me that yesterday,” I replied, “that’s the basis of your
defence. He was strangling you, you feared for your life and lashed out.
Case closed.”
“You think that would work?” she asked.
“I think so,” I said, “but I’ve rung Cousin Mary, she’s going to find us a
decent lawyer, to replace the office boy from the duty solicitor’s office.”
“We also have a second witness willing to tes fy against him,” I said.
“Who?” Mum asked.
“His wife, Ju e,” I replied, “apparently you’re not his first, as she called it,
adventure. She’s also a forensic scien st and she had a DNA test chart from
a previous paternity suit. She’s confirmed that the sample I found is his.”
“But enough of what I’ve been doing, what have you two been up to?”
“Your Mum took me to the hospital and I had the STD tests done,” she said,
“everything is nega ve apart from the HIV, that test isn’t instant.”
“Great,” I said, “tomorrow I’m going to find an inves gator and have your
friend Peter inves gated, thoroughly. His background, his history anything I
can find to prove that he’s an aggressive stalker of women and a serial
adulterer.”
The first thing I did the following morning a er breakfast was answer my
phone. It was an unknown number and I answered it tenta vely.
“Mr Parker?” a voice bearing a slight accent queried.
“Yes,” I answered, wary.
“My name is Max Silverstein, I work with your cousin Mary,” he said, “I
believe that you and your wife need some help with a criminal ma er.”
“Yes,” I said, “more my wife actually, she’d be your client, so, if you’ll hang
on a second, I’ll put her on and you can speak direct to her.”
“Thank you,” he said and I handed the phone to Sally.
I le the room, telling Sally that I’d be in the kitchen.
I sat and cha ed with Mum about the family, including the surprising news
that I was going to be an uncle.
I was thrilled by the news, but, at the same me given my own current
marital situa on, I couldn’t see Sally and I being in that posi on any me
soon, if ever. I didn’t want her going to jail, or losing her career over a
stupid mistake, but I couldn’t see us las ng as a couple much longer,
par cularly if Mortensen’s plot worked and she was already pregnant with
his child.
She was on the phone for almost an hour before she came into the kitchen
and held my phone out to me.
“He wants to speak to you,” she said and sat down opposite me.
“Mr Silverstein,” I said, “what can I do for you?”
“Well, it would probably help if you started by calling me Max, Mr Parker,
or may I call you Dave?”
“Please do, Max,” I replied.
“Dave, Sally tells me you have two witnesses, willing to tes fy, is that
correct?”
I told him it was and who the witnesses were. He found it very interes ng
that Ju e was willing to tes fy on Sally’s behalf.
“And also, that you plan on hiring an inves gator to look into the man she
allegedly assaulted.”
“That’s true.”
“Then can I suggest that you and Sally come in tomorrow and we’ll meet.
We have a number of very good inves ga ons firms that we have had
success with in the past.”
“I think we can manage that, when?”
“Well since you’re over on the uncivilised side of the Pennines, how about
early a ernoon?”
“Two o’clock?” I suggested, “we can pick up Sally’s car from the hospital
car park at the same me.”
“Very good,” he said, Silverstein and Khan, We’re on Vicar Lane, just
opposite the old bus sta on.”
“Then I look forward to mee ng you tomorrow.”
We said our goodbyes and I hung up.
I stood up; I’d just remembered that the bag of Sally’s things was s ll on
the back seat of my car.
“Back in a minute,” I said and walked out to get it.
I brought it in and placed it on the kitchen table.
“Do you want to empty it here or up in your room?” I asked her.
“I’ll do it here,” she said, “there’s nothing in there to hide.”
There wasn’t, there was shampoo, condi oner, a make-up bag, packet of
tampons, pen, notebook and two clean pairs of knickers, a foil strip of
tablets and her street clothes that she’d been wearing on her way to work
that morning.
As she started packing the things back into the bag to take upstairs to her
room, I reached over and grabbed the foil strip of tablets. I wasn’t aware of
Sally being on any medica on apart from the pill and took a long look at
the strip. There was no drug name printed on it, just a very long chemical
name and no manufacturer’s name either.
“What are these?” I asked.
“Oh, they’re for period pains,” she said.
I knew that she did suffer quite badly, she’d kept me awake enough nights
for me to be well aware of that, but I didn’t know she was taking
medica on.
“Where did they come from?” I asked.
“I got them at the hospital,” she said, “they’re a trial drug and I must say,
they do work well.”
Something, at the back of my mind was ringing a warning.
“Who gave them to you?” I asked.
“Do you know, I can’t actually remember,” she said.
“I’m be ng it was Peter Mortensen and if we have these analysed we may
get some interes ng results.”
“You think he might have…” Mum began.
“Mum, I’m a writer of fic on,” I said, “I make plots up for a living. Now, if
this were a novel instead of real life, I’d definitely have Mortensen as some
sort of evil genius, developing bespoke drugs to turn people into willing
servants, slaves even. But it’s not, so there’s probably nothing in these but
a very good analgesic. But just to be on the safe side, I’m going to take
these into one of my friends at the University to analyse.”
“With all that to do tomorrow,” Sally said, “would it be a good idea for us
to sleep at home tonight?”
“Sally,” I said, not exactly in my sweetest tone.
“Dave, it makes sense,” she replied, “we’ll have a lot to do and not that
much me, if we can save two hours of travelling it gives us chance to get
more done.”
“David,” Mum said, I knew she was serious she called me David, “she’s
right, it makes for more sense to drive home tonight and do what you have
to do from there tomorrow.”
“Thank you Lady Parker,” Sally replied.
Mum’s brow furrowed.
“Sally, since when did I stop being Mum?” she asked.
“I,” Sally began, “I felt I lost that right when I was unfaithful to your son.”
“Sally,” Mum said, gently, “I’ll let you know if you ever lose that right. Right
now, you’re my son’s wife and you’re s ll my second daughter. You’ve
made a mistake, one which I don’t know whether Dave will ever be able to
forgive. I know he’ll never forget it and that’s something you’ll have to live
with. Possibly for the rest of your life. Just don’t let it become the rest of
your life.”
“And you,” she turned to me, “younger son of mine. You know you love this
girl; you’ve told me more than once that she is your very life. She did a
stupid thing and you’d be quite within your rights to just throw her out. But
that’s not you son. I’m sure you can find it in your heart to forgive her,
though truly, it might take a while, perhaps a long while. But in the
mean me, son, don’t put yourself in a posi on that you can’t back out of.”
“I hear what you’re saying Mum,” I said, “and I dearly want to keep Sally by
my side. But my problem is that I’ve had my trust sha ered. I don’t know
how much Sally is a vic m in all of this and how much she was a willing
par cipant. I’m willing to believe, but I need to see the evidence and assess
it first. So, I’m not star ng divorce proceedings, and I will keep an open
mind, but un l I’ve seen how all this works out, we will not be occupying
the same bed, and it’s unlikely that we’ll be living together. Tell me
something, what do you think Dad would do in a situa on like this?”
“I can tell you precisely what he would do in this situa on,” she said, “if it
were me and we were your age, he would sit me down, and he would
explain to me calmly and ra onally, that he wanted the truth, all the truth
and only the truth of what had been going on. He would tell me that if I
deviated from the truth or evaded so much as a single ques on then we
were finished, completely and forever. He would tell me that he would
believe every word I said, and then he would, what is it they call it now?
Fact check every statement. If there was a single, solitary thing that did not
accord with those facts, then he would leave and never return. And Sally, I
think that is exactly what you need to do.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked her.
She took a deep breath.
“David, darling,” she said, “I know what he would do because that is
exactly what he did do.”
And, having dropped that bombshell, she stood up and le the room.
As I watched her retrea ng back, I turned my gaze on my wife, s ll si ng
silently opposite me.
“Did my mother just admit to having had an affair?” I asked.
“It seems like it,” she replied.
“And what did you think of her advice?” I asked.
“Can I answer that ques on with a ques on?” she asked, “well, more than
one really.”
I nodded my assent.
“Do you actually want to save our marriage, or do you just want to walk
away? I won’t fight a divorce if that’s what you want.”
“It’s not what I want,” I said, “what I want is you, my Sally, by my side. But I
want to feel secure that you are by my side. I want to know that you’ll
come home to me at the end of every shi , that you’ll love me. I want you
to be the mother of my children, I want to die in your arms at a very old
age, but I can’t have all that if I don’t know, deep inside, that you won’t be
going off with other men.”
She opened her mouth as if she were about to speak and I held up my
hand to stop her.
“Sally, please don’t tell me that you’ve learned your lesson and that you’ll
never do it again. Let me remind you again of your promise at our
wedding. It included forsaking all others and cleaving, whatever that is,
only to me. You broke that one, please, love, give me something to hang a
belief that you won’t decide that any other promises you make will be
broken when it’s convenient.”
She looked at me and I could see the tears forming in her eyes.
“I can’t Dave,” she said, “any more than you can promise, one hundred per
cent that you will never stray from your marriage vows. All I can promise is
that from now un l the day I die, I will do my absolute best to stay faithful
to you and only to you. Even if we divorce, I have no inten on of ever
allowing any part of any man but you into my body. I just hope that that’s
enough. We need to talk this whole thing through, but not here. This is the
wrong place, please, take me home tonight and let’s talk there.”
I don’t know why, but I got the impression that that was the most honest
statement she’d made since this whole thing began. We went home a er
dinner.
ACT FOUR.
We le for home straight a er dinner and arrived just over an hour later
around eight o’clock.
Then we sat and talked, or rather, for most of the me Sally talked. She
talked about the incredible pressure that they worked under, the
emo onal strain of having, for most of the working day, another human
being’s life in your hands. The added strain when that life was that of a
child, and the huge emo onal drain when you lost one. Then all the
training, all the being told that you had to be distant and una ached went
flying out of the window. She talked of si ng in the doctors’ rest room
a erwards, head in hands, sobbing because you’d just gone out and told a
set of grieving parents that despite trying your best, your best hadn’t been
good enough and their child was dead.
Seven months earlier, they got a new Consultant on their team. Peter
Mortensen. He was, she told me everybody’s idea of the dream boss.
Cared about his team, made a point to learn about their husbands, wives,
kids and interests. Whenever he saw one of them shaken at something
that had happened in the opera ng theatre, he sat with them and
consoled them, talked them through it. Told them that surgery was like a
game of football, no ma er how good a player you were, you couldn’t win
every game.
She went on, telling me about how they discovered he was very good at
shoulder massages. It was, she had always said, been a feature of life spent
hunched over an opera ng table for hours that your back and shoulders
ached at the end of it. A fact I appreciated a er the number of mes I’d
provided shoulder massages for her a er a long day at work. The most
worrying part of this conversa on was my worries about what those
massages o en led to.
“So that’s when it began?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she replied.
“Sally, you remember what me giving you those massages used to lead to.”
“No, it was en rely professional,” she said, “the only strange thing about it
was that all the me he was doing it, he was mu ering.”
“What about?” I asked.
“I don’t know, it was very indis nct and the few words I could make out
sounded foreign.”
“Danish, perhaps?” I asked.
“It could have been,” she replied.
Whatever it was it was another piece of informa on.
Before we could carry on the phone rang and, since she was closest Sally
answered it.
“Hello,” she said.
There was a few seconds pause and she held the phone out to me.
“It’s Ju e Mortensen,” she said, sounding not too happy.
“Hello, Ju e, what can I do for you?”
“I thought I’d just give you a heads up,” her lightly accented voice replied,
“I have today started divorce proceedings against Peter.”
“Oh, thank you for le ng me know,” I said, “but how does it involve me?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I have had to name your wife as co-respondent.
I’ve put his adultery down as confirma on of irretrievable breakdown and
she was the only one whose name and address I knew.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, “but thank you for le ng us know.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, “could I please speak to your wife for a
moment?”
I held the phone out to Sally, “She’d like to speak to you.”
While Sally spoke to her I went to the kitchen and made coffee.
When I came back, whatever they had been saying to each other, they had
finished and Sally was at on the sofa with tears on her cheeks.
“What’s wrong,” I asked, gently.
“She was so sweet,” she replied, “she apologised for what her husband had
done to me, to us. Then she said something surprising.”
“What?” I asked.
“She said that it was obvious, even from the brief me she spoke to you,
that you are very much in love with me s ll and that I should do everything
in my power to show you how much I love you and whatever is necessary
to make you trust me again. Oh and she asked me if he’d ever given me any
tablets to take.”
“Which he did,” I said.
“Yes, she said we should get them checked out.”
“Which is exactly what I intend to do tomorrow.”
“How?” she asked.
“I’ll take them in and see Pete, he’ll pass them on to pharmacology and
they’ll let us know what they are and what they do,” I replied, “I don’t
think we’re going to like what they say.”
“Then what?” she asked.
“Then we go into town and see your new lawyer, put what we already
know to him and see what he advises,” I replied, “but right now, we need
for you to finish your story.”
“All right, where did I get to?” she asked, “oh, the massages.”
I nodded agreement.
She told me how the massages were really good for her aching shoulders
and back and how she started actually going to him and asking for them,
then she reminded me of the me a few months earlier when she had a
par cularly bad a ack of Dysmenorrhoea one month. I did remember it,
she was doubled over in pain for most of a couple of days, I remembered
being amazed that she was able to work because of it.
“Well that was when he gave me the tablets,” she said, “he said they were
a new product from a Netherlands pharma company and he was helping
with field tes ng. He said they were about to be licensed and there had
been no discernible side-effects. They worked, like a charm. I, well I was so
grateful when they did work and I was free of pain that I kissed him.”
“When you say kissed,” I began, “do you mean…”
“I mean I kissed him,” she replied, “like I kiss you.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that revela on. I knew that they must have at
some me, you don’t have sex with a woman without at least kissing her
and a li le foreplay, unless you’re paying her.
“How did he react?” I asked.
“When I broke the kiss, he cupped my chin in his hand, smiled and said
something in Danish,” she replied, “then I thanked him and le . But Dave,
my knickers were soaked. If you remember I came home and almost killed
you in bed that night.”
I nodded.
“So, where did it escalate from there?” I asked.
“Nothing happened for three or four days then one day as we were
leaving, his car was parked next to mine and, as we parted, he hugged me.
Nothing close just a brief hug, like any two friends might. Then he told me
‘un l tomorrow,’ and we parted.
“So what happened the next day?” I asked.
“That was the strange thing,” she said, “nothing. All he did was as we were
leaving, he asked me if I’d had any more problems and was my period
finished now.”
“Se ng up for the main event,” I murmured.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing, just growling,” I said.
I think that was the first me ever that I’d not told the whole truth to Sally.
“How long was it between the kiss and escala ng it even further?” I asked.
“About three weeks,” she said, “it was just before my next period was due.
He called me into his consul ng room just as I was about to go and shower
and change to come home and asked me about my period, then said I
should take one of the tablets to avoid any repe on of last month’s li le
problem. That’s what he called it, last month’s li le problem.”
“Then he gave me one of the tablets and told me that it was more effec ve
if I started taking it before my period started and then just as needed,” she
said.
“that was the first me you rang me and told me you’d have to work late,
wasn’t it? Theatre was running late?” I asked.
“Yes, I think it was,” she replied.
“So what happened?”
“We sat and cha ed about work for about fi een minutes, then he came
round the desk to me took my hands in his, pulled me to my feet and
started to undress me.”
“And you didn’t say no, didn’t try to stop him?” I asked, “you didn’t scream
rape at the top of your voice.”
“I tried to, believe me I tried,” she said, “but the words wouldn’t come out,
the ac ons wouldn’t happen, it was like I was paralysed.”
So what happened a erwards.
“He told me to come home and give you his sloppy seconds,” she said,
“and pointed out the video camera in the corner of the room and told me
that if I told anyone about this, the video would be on the internet the
same day.”
“And used that threat to keep you going back to him,” I said, making a
statement, not asking a ques on.
“Yes,” she said, tears flowing freely.
“All right,” I said, you need to tell all this to the lawyer tomorrow,” I said,
“then we need to gather as much evidence as we can. I’m going to ask the
lawyer about inves gators, let’s find out as much as we can about this
goon. But for now, I think it’s me for bed.”
“Dave, I know I have no right to ask this, but can I sleep with you tonight?”
she asked, “Just sleep, at least un l my test result comes back?”
I looked at her for a long moment. The look of distress, the tears. I felt that,
at least in her own view, she was telling the truth.
I nodded slowly.
“Just sleep,” I said, “and you will wear pyjamas.”
“Whatever you wish of me,” she said.
I stood up, reached out my hand and pulled her up onto her feet. We
walked together upstairs to what was our bedroom.
I let her use the bathroom first, then followed her in, did my nightly rou ne
and joined her in the bed.
“Thank you,” she said in a small voice as I lay down on the opposite side of
the bed to her.
“I do love you,” she said as my head hit the pillow, “and I am sorry for all
the hurt and the anguish. I hope you’ll let me try and make it up to you.”
“Sleep now,” I whispered, “tomorrow is another day.”
I awoke spooned up behind her, my arm across her waist and my hand
under her pyjama top clutching a small firm breast.
I withdrew it, causing a long low moan to escape her lips.
“No,” she whimpered.
I got out of bed and went to the bathroom, eased the pressure on my
bladder and returned to the bedroom.
“What me is it?” she asked.
“Time you were up and dressed,” I said, “ I’m going down to start
breakfast.”
By the me she appeared, showered and dressed, I had eggs and bacon on
the table, toast in the toaster and coffee in the mugs. I’d also made a
phone call.
“What’s your plan?” she asked as she started ea ng.
“We are going to the University first, where I’ll give them a couple of the
tablets to analyse,” I replied, “then lunch and the lawyer. There, you’ll tell
your story again.”
I le her with the clearing up while I went back upstairs to shower and
dress.
I came down to a clean kitchen and Sally sat at the table staring blankfaced into nothing.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said, “I was just thinking.”
“what about?” I asked.
“This,” she began, “this situa on that we’re in, that I got us into. If we can
get through this and come out on the other side, I am going to be the best
wife and mother you could possibly hope for.”
I couldn’t fail to no ce she said wife and mother. We’d talked about
children o en but she always argued in favour of pu ng it off un l we
were both more established in our careers. I knew she was ambi ous, she
always had been, to the point where for the last ten years all our decisions
had been made around her becoming the best surgeon there is and rising
to the top of her profession. Although there was also the chance that she
was already pregnant with another man’s child. Perhaps she’d decided that
if she was, then she’d keep the child and was hoping that I’d raise it with
her. I wasn’t sure about that. Could I raise a child of my wife knowing that it
was fathered by someone else?
I decided that that par cular bridge was be er crossed if and when we
came to it.
“Change of heart over the children ques on?” I asked, without rancour.
“Not really,” she said, “more a change of mind over the whole career
thing,” she replied, “I’ve been using career progression to put other things
off. Well, no more. If we can get through this intact as you and me, then
me and you comes before everything. Or you, me and the children.”
I didn’t answer, just sat there looking into her eyes.
“And Dave,” she said, “if it should be that I’m already pregnant, then I
promise you, a week a er it’s confirmed, I won’t be.”
“You don’t have to do that for me,” I said, “under that set of circumstances,
I’d never even try to persuade you to abort. It’s your body, your choice.”
We le it at that and set off for the University.
Jack Hawkins was a nice guy, a genera on above us in age, but a keen
poker player. I used to a end the occasional poker night in the Senior
Common Room in the Physics department and, unlike Jack, managed to
break even overall. Some mes I’d win, some mes lose, but never very
much either way. He even remembered Sally from her student days, he’d
taught her Pharmacology.
“So what brings you back to the hallowed halls of academia, Dave?” he
asked.
“We have a li le mystery,” I replied and pulled out the packet of pills,
“these, specifically.”
He took the proffered packet and examined it closely.
A er a few minutes he looked up and at me.
“Well, on first examina on, I can tell you that these are not commercial
drugs. The prin ng on the foil had clearly been done on a normal printer
and there’s no brand name or chemical name on here. I’d say they came
from a test batch of some drug under development. To tell you anything
more, I’d have to do a proper analysis.”
“How long and how much?” I asked.
“For a full do, about a week and I don’t know possibly up to ten grand.”
“How many of them do you need?” I asked.
“Two,” he said, “one, I’ll do, that will be the defini ve test and one I’ll give
to a group of final year students. That way I can include it as a class
exercise and keep the cost down.”
“Do it,” I said and he cut two of the tablets off the end of the strip and
handed me the strip back.
“Where did you get these?” he asked.
“One of my colleagues at the hospital,” Sally answered, “he gave them to
me for a bad bout of Dysmenorrhoea.”
“Did they work?” he asked.
“Very well,” she replied.
He made a note on a pad on his desk.
“I’ll need the name of your colleague,” he said, “if these are not legi mate
approved drugs, I’ll have to report the ma er, to the BPS and, since you got
them from a doctor, to the GMC as well.”
We didn’t stay cha ng since we had to rush off, first to lunch and then to
the solicitors.
The mee ng at the solicitor’s ran for over three hours at the end of which,
he suggested that he get his secretary to type up his notes into a
statement, then that we should return the next day where Sally would sign
it in his presence and he’d use his posi on as a Commissioner for Oaths to
notarise it and submit that to the police in the hope that, at the very least,
the CPS would decide to put a hold on the prosecu on while the ma er
was inves gated.
The last thing we spoke about was Ju e Mortensen’s phone call the
previous evening about Sally being named a co-respondent in her divorce.
We also le contact details for the two witnesses, one of which was Ju e,
said our goodbyes and le making an appointment for eleven the following
morning to sign the statement and he assured us that an inves gator
would contact us before the day was out.
When we got home, Sally went online and looked up Peter Mortensen on
the GMC register and discovered that he had an MD from Aarhus
University in 1998 and a PhD from the Schiller University, Jena in
Pharmacology, which was interes ng. He’d been registered with a licence
to prac ce in the UK for four years.
The inves gator rang a li le before five, just as Sally and I had decided
that, since we needed to be at the solicitor’s the following morning we
would spend another night at home.
We passed on all the details we had on Mortensen to the inves gator who
promised us an interim report within twenty-four hours and es mated that
the full report may take up to a week, par cularly if one of their people
had to take a trip to Denmark.
It was star ng to feel to me like things were beginning to come together.
The following morning I was in the kitchen making breakfast when the
doorbell rang. I opened it to see a squat, middle-aged man looking very
self-important (picture Captain Mainwaring) standing on the doorstep.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“I’m looking for Mrs Sarah Parker,” he replied.
“She’s upstairs taking a shower,” I answered, “I’m her husband can I help?”
“I have a document for her,” he said, “I require a signature for it.”
“Can I sign for it?” I asked.
“No, it has to be the addressee,” he said, “if you take it, she’ll have to
return the acknowledgement within seven days.”
“She can do that,” I said and held my hand out.
Sally saved him from the necessity of further blustering by walking
downstairs.
“Oh, hello,” she said, “I didn’t know we were expec ng visitors.”
“We weren’t,” I replied and le her to it.
The document was a copy of a divorce pe on issued by Ju e Mortensen
against her husband Peter on grounds that the marriage had irretrievably
broken down, owing to his having ‘formed an associa on with, one Sarah
Parker.’
At the solicitor’s, Max brought out a three page A4 document, got Sally to
read through it and when she answered his ques on about whether it was
a true and accurate version of events, she said yes, signed it, he
countersigned it and stamped the bo om, then called in his secretary, who
went away and made a copy, he handed it to us, we shook hands and we
le .
With our business finished, we drove home, packed a few more things and
spent the next hour and a half ba ling the Motorway traffic back to my
parents’ house.
There we got another surprise, my in-laws.
They’d arrived from Winchester earlier in the day.
We got hugs all round as we walked in and then, the two Mums took Sally
off to the kitchen while our dads took me into the living room and started
grilling me on the situa on. I brought them up to date on what had
happened in the last couple of days, guessing rightly that my parents had
kept Sally’s up to date on what was going on.
Charles looked at me, a study in deep concentra on.
“Tell me something son,” he began, “do you s ll love my daughter?”
“We wouldn’t be here together if I didn’t, Dad,” I told him.
“The fact that you didn’t call me Charles, Or Reverend or, god forbid, your
grace, tells me that that’s true,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed, “I s ll love her, but, I don’t know if I can trust her.”
“That’s understandable,” he replied, “but if the love is s ll there, the trust
can be rebuilt. Now what’s your feeling on this possible pregnancy?”
“Not happy,” I said, “she tells me that if she gets confirma on that she is,
she won’t be within a week.”
“Professionally I have to condemn that,” he said, “but as her father I quite
understand. But how do you feel about it?”
“Whatever happens between us,” I said, “I’ll support her on what she
decides.”
“Do you know, James,” he said to my father, “you’ve raised a truly
wonderful man here. One I’m proud to call son and one who I’ll con nue
to be proud to call son. But how about, since the ladies will no doubt be
hours in there, we all wander down to your local pub and indulge in a
couple of beers?”
“Sounds like a plan,” my Dad said.
“Then,” Charles said, “give me five minutes to run upstairs and get out of
uniform and into civvies and we’ll be off.”
Dad drove, he was opera ng the following day and didn’t touch alcohol
under those circumstances.
I’d just got our drinks from the bar when my phone rang.
“Hi Mum,” I said, “what’s up?”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“The James Wa s,” I said, “having a drink.”
“Get some for us, we’re on our way. We’ll eat there too.”
Since they were the only ones who hadn’t been drinking, Dad and Sally
drove home. Mum came with me and Dad, Sally went with her parents. If
you’ve never tried ge ng a drunk bishop into a car, it’s hard work.
The next morning, Sally went into Dad’s study a er breakfast to make a call
in private. She came out smiling, which I took as meaning that the HIV test
had been nega ve.
She nodded at me as she sat down beside me on the sofa and kissed my
cheek.
“What’s the plan for today? I asked.
“Well, I think you know where Dad and I will be headed this morning,”
Mum said.
“Ah, yes,“ Charles said, “it’s Saturday morning. Do you think your Hashem
would be upset if a representa ve of the opposi on tagged along?”
“Would your boss object if you did?” Dad replied.
“Well, given my place on the interfaith Council, probably not,” Charles
laughed.
Sally and I had accompanied my parents to Schul on Saturday mornings
before, although neither of us pretended to have any religious beliefs, but
for Charles and Amanda it was a new experience. The Rabbi introduced
him to the congrega on at the beginning of the service and ‘out of respect
for our guests’ the service was conducted almost en rely in English. Which
helped me too since my Hebrew was becoming rus er by the day.
Charles was even invited to read from the Torah, which surprised
everybody when he did it in accent-perfect Hebrew.
We stayed on for coffee and cake a erwards and as soon as we were back
home, Charles and Amanda disappeared upstairs to pack, he had a
confirma on service to conduct on the Sunday.
Sally and I made lunch, which we all sat down together for, just soup and a
sandwich, but the soup was home-made and tasty.
“I assume, dear, that your phone call was to get the results of the last of
your infec on tests and from the look on your face it was the result you
wanted.”
She’d just taken a bite from her sandwich, so Sally just nodded and made
affirma ve noises.
“So what now for you two?” Mum asked.
“A lot depends on whether I can prove to Dave that he can trust me,” Sally
said, “and on whether we can heal the hurt I caused.”
“Well, you know that Dad and I will always be here for you, both of you. As
will your parents, Sally.”
“I think the first step,” I said, “is we need to stop hiding from each other.”
Sally looked puzzled.
“That’s what we’re doing by staying over here,” I said, “we need to go
home and you need to stop ptoeing around me like you’re afraid to say
anything real to me in case I walk out or throw you out. We need to get
back to as near normal as we can under the circumstances. If we work
together, we can come to a point that even if we’re not happy with we can,
at least, live with.”
“Well, you know you’re both welcome to stay, together or alone,” Dad said,
“any me.”
We did know that and it was good to know, but, later that a ernoon, we
packed our things into my car and drove home.
On the Monday morning we met Max at the court building and he took us
inside where Sally formally surrendered herself to bail and we were led to
the Judge’s chambers. Inside there was a silver-haired man behind the desk
and a younger man in a suit sat in a chair at the front. He introduced
himself as the prosecu ng counsel for the CPS and we were invited to sit.
“Mr Silverstein,” the judge began, “I’m hearing this in chambers because of
the nature, not of the crime but of your client’s profession. I am informed
by the CPS that the police are currently inves ga ng further evidence in
this case. As a result what I propose to do is accept a plea of not guilty
from your client and immediately adjourn the case sine die. I further
propose to release your client without bail. Is that acceptable.”
Silverstein looked at Sally then at me, we both nodded.
“It is my lord,” Silverstein agreed.
“Very well,” the Judge said, “Sarah Parker, you are charged that on or about
the.”
He looked down at the paper in front of him and read out the date on it,
“you did feloniously assault Mr Peter Mortensen, with intent to cause
injury occasioning grievous bodily harm. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” she said, with a clarity that surprised me.
“Very well,” the judge intoned, “this hearing is adjourned sine die. I am
releasing you, Mrs Parker without bail, but with the condi on that you
con nue to reside with your husband at your marital home.”
We hadn’t expected that condi on.
“Thank you,” Sally said quietly.
As we le the chambers the prosecutor asked if he could have a word with
us in private.
“So long as I’m present,” Max said, “and Mr and Mrs Parker are willing.”
The prosecutor inclined his head in acceptance and led the way to an
interview room.
Once we had all sat down, he introduced himself as John Talbot.
“You will no ce that there is no recording device on the table and,
furthermore, I shall not be taking notes. However, I have a copy of your
statement to the police in my briefcase and I wonder if I might ask a few
ques ons, just to clarify some points?”
“Just so long as we’re in agreement that this mee ng is without prejudice,
on either side,” Max responded.
“So agreed,” Talbot said and proceeded to take Sally through her
statement.
It took over two hours and when he finished Talbot leaned back in his chair,
blew out a breath and looked directly at Sally, then across at Max.
“Mr Silverstein,” he said, “I know this is unusual, but I have something that
I wish to say to Mr and Mrs Parker, which I cannot say in the presence of
their solicitor. Would you be so kind, just for a couple of minutes?”
He gestured towards the door. Max looked at me and I nodded my assent.
“I’ll be just outside,” Max said.
“Feel free to listen in,” Talbot told him, “you just can’t be in the room.”
When he had le , Talbot outlined what had happened since the police had
received Sally’s statement. They had launched an inves ga on and had
uncovered ‘certain facts’ that suggested to him that the ‘vic m’ of Sally’s
‘crime’ had been involved in something deep and shady and had used Sally
as a guinea pig, therefore, in Talbot’s personal opinion and off the record,
he believed that the DPP would drop the case against Sally once the
inves ga on was complete. He was careful to stress that this was his
personal opinion, was off the record and he wasn’t speaking for the CPS.
I thanked him for the informa on, shook hands and le .
“Did you hear all that?” I asked Max as we le .
“Yes,” he replied, “from my experience, that about not speaking for the
CPS was eyewash. They’ve decide d that they’re not going to press the case
but are keeping quiet publicly un l the police have built their case against
Mortensen.”
“What does that mean for the disciplinary hearing at work?” Sally asked.
“That’s a different ma er, you and he a acked each other while at work.
We’ll make sure that Mortensen has to face whatever disciplinary charges
you do and then that your ac ons were in self-defence as he was
a emp ng to strangle you.”
As we walked back to the car Sally took my hand.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“For what?” I asked.
“For not just packing and leaving and for believing me enough to s ck with
me through all this.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet, love,” I answered.
“No, but at least we’re stood in a clearing,” she said, “can we go home and
make love now?”
“No,” I replied, causing a disappointed look to cross her face, “there’s s ll a
chance you might be pregnant with Mortensen’s baby. I don’t want to
cloud that issue by throwing any doubt about paternity into the mix.”
“When then?” she asked.
“As soon as we get home,” I said, “but first we need to find a pharmacy.”