3
None of us is immune to trauma. Some people seem to shrug off the terrible things life throws in their way; that’s an illusion, one whose roots lie deep in their past in the shape of unresolved horrors. When she was working at Broadmoor secure mental hospital, Dr Gwen Adshead used to say, ‘Our people come to us as disaster victims. But these people are the disasters in their own lives.’ Even the actions of psychopaths are shaped by their own personal traumas . . .
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Despite having programmed it into her satnav, Carol Jordan had struggled to find Melissa Rintoul’s address. She’d only been to Edinburgh a couple of times previously and she held a vague memory of the New Town as a place of wide streets, tall grey Georgian buildings and private gardens enclosed by the kind of iron railings designed to impale trespassers. But behind those severe façades there were apparently mazes of back alleys and narrow mews whose coach houses were now bijou apartments. Or small businesses like the one Carol was looking for.
She’d found a remarkably expensive parking slot for her Land Rover a few streets away and spent the half hour before her appointment prowling round the area. These days, she liked to familiarise herself with the potential escape routes. She never wanted to be cornered again.
Melissa Rintoul operated out of a two-storey cottage in a pretty cobbled lane that cut a narrow slice between tenement blocks. Pots of lavender, rosemary and hydrangea lined the narrow pavement, forcing pedestrians to walk with one foot in the gutter. Carol almost missed the discreet plaque that identified the Recovery Centre, sandwiched between a podiatrist and a boutique selling lamps made from reconfigured industrial machinery.
It wasn’t too late. She didn’t have to do this. She could carry on shouldering her own burdens. She was surviving, after all. But the voice in her head, the voice she knew as well as her own, wasn’t having that. ‘Surviving isn’t enough.’ The last time she’d spoken to Tony Hill in the flesh, he’d said just that. And followed it up with, ‘The people who care about you want you to live your life to the full. Surviving shouldn’t satisfy you.’ The words echoed in her head, trumping her misgivings.
So Carol took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A woman in her twenties dressed in what looked like yoga clothes sat at a small table in one corner of a tiny reception area. Opposite her were two comfortable-looking armchairs. She looked up from her laptop screen with a smile. ‘Hi, welcome to the Recovery Centre,’ she said. ‘How can I help?’
Carol fought the urge to run. ‘I have an appointment with Melissa Rintoul.’
Another smile. ‘You must be Carol?’
‘Yes. I must be.’ She gave a tired smile. ‘I don’t have a choice.’
A flick of the eyebrows. The woman rose in one fluid movement and tapped on a door near the table. She opened it a few inches. ‘Carol is here,’ she said. The reply was muffled, but she opened the door widely and smiled even more widely. ‘Melissa’s ready for you.’
The room Carol entered was painted a pale sage green, the floor covered with a carpet a couple of shades darker. Two generous armchairs faced each other in front of a minimalist gas fire whose flames flickered in a low line behind smoked glass. The woman who rose from the upholstered window seat had an air of comfortable calm. Carol, who had trained herself to itemise people as if she would be called on later to provide a police bulletin, found herself struggling for detail. Melissa Rintoul’s defining feature was a shoulder-length mop of corkscrew copper curls, but her facial features were somehow harder to pin down. The overall impression was of placidity. But there was nothing bovine or dull about her. She crossed the room and wrapped both hands round Carol’s right. ‘Come and sit down,’ she said. Her voice was deep and warm, her accent faintly Scottish.
The two women sat opposite each other. Melissa met Carol’s gaze unwaveringly. ‘Can I ask how you found out about us?’
Carol rummaged in her canvas satchel and produced a dog-eared flyer. ‘I picked this up in my osteopath’s waiting room. I thought it was worth a try.’
‘Can I ask what you’re hoping for here?’
Carol breathed heavily through her nose. ‘Recovery,’ she said. A long pause, which Melissa showed no signs of breaching. ‘I believe I’m suffering from PTSD.’
‘I see. Have you had a formal diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder?’
‘It’s complicated.’ Another pause. Carol knew there was nothing for it but to explain herself but that inevitability didn’t make it any easier. ‘I’m a former police officer. I led a major incident team. My closest colleague from those days is a clinical psychologist. He was also probably my closest friend. He worked with us for years as an offender profiler. We dealt with the most serious offences you can imagine.’ She sighed and stopped.
‘You’re doing well,’ Melissa said. ‘I’m not seeking the details of what your work was like. All I’d like to know is what led you here.’
Carol knew she should tell Melissa more about the catastrophic day that had ended with Tony in jail and her in disgrace. But her shame silenced her. She wasn’t ready to expose herself so completely. Instead, she said, ‘He said he thought I had PTSD. I didn’t want to acknowledge it at the time, but I’ve come to accept it. I had a problem with alcohol. An addiction. He helped me get clear of it. I’m not drinking any more.’ Every sentence was like pushing against a closing door.
‘How long have you been clean?’
‘Coming up for sixteen months.’ Carol gave a wry smile. ‘I could tell you
