Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(59)

The woman sat down again, obviously relieved.

“Poor, poor Justine,” she said. “We were all so shocked, when we heard the news that she’d taken her own life…and about…well, what she’d done to that police officer. We could hardly believe it, could we?”

There were murmured negatives, right on cue.

“Do you mind if we join you, for a few minutes?” Phillips asked.

“Please do,” another woman replied, whose name turned out to be Kim. “How can we help you?”

Phillips pulled up two more chairs for himself and MacKenzie, and they joined them around the table. There seemed to be a mix of carers and their loved ones who were unwell, as well as survivors. The group was run by a man called Fred who volunteered his time on a weekly basis to organise and facilitate the sessions. He was, himself, a cancer survivor and knew what it was to live with that fear hanging over his head.

“Just clouds every moment of your day,” he said, to nods of agreement around the table. “Hard to think of anything else, but the world keeps turning.”

“How did Justine find caring for her brother?” MacKenzie asked.

“I think, mostly, she felt guilty,” Kim remarked. “As most carers do, at some stage or another. It’s hard to be fit and healthy, while you’re caring for someone in the opposite situation. You feel guilty for being in good health, and often wish you could turn the tables.”

“I wouldn’t want that,” her husband said clearly, although his voice shook with the effort of enunciating his words. “I want you to go on living.”

“Oh, Mark…”

She pressed her lips to his temple, and reached over to hold his hand.

“I think she’d found God, or something of that kind,” the first woman said, and introduced herself as Martha. “She was talking a lot about it, those last few times she came along.”

“Justine stopped coming around February time,” Fred explained.

“Was that unusual?” Phillips asked.

“Not in general,” Fred said. “People do come and go; sometimes, they’ve taken what they need from the group and go away feeling stronger, which is exactly what we’d want for our friends.”

“In Justine’s case, I wonder whether she dropped out because she was spiralling a bit,” Martha said, and Kim nodded her agreement. “She’d had some bad news about Danny, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh? Do you remember what it was?” MacKenzie asked.

“I think he’d been trialling a new drug that was supposed to make a big difference but, as with all these things, so much comes down to chance and, unfortunately, it just didn’t work for Danny,” Martha said, and reached across to wipe her son’s chin with a gentle hand. “I think Justine had placed all her hopes on that drug working and, when it didn’t…”

MacKenzie knew the rest.

“I understand,” she said, softly. “Let me ask you another question. Did Justine ever talk about St. Cuthbert, or the idea of miracles?”

They looked amongst themselves.

“I’m sure, at some stage or another, all of us have wished for a miracle,” Fred said, with a smile. “Justine was no different, but I can’t say I recall her talking about miracles in any meaningful way.”

“Actually,” Martha said, and frowned, as if trying to remember. “I seem to remember her asking me whether I believed in miracles.”

“When was this?” Phillips asked, while he held the hand of the elderly man beside him, who smiled as he rubbed the papery skin gently between his calloused hands, warming the joints to ease the old man’s pain.

“Must’ve been around the time the drugs failed, this time last year.”

“Quite a long time ago,” Phillips said, and thought that made sense. If somebody had a mind to indoctrinate a vulnerable young woman, they’d have to lay the groundwork slowly and carefully, especially if she happened to be a police officer.

“Justine had been to see faith healers, clairvoyants…the lot,” Martha continued. “I think she’d have tried anything, if it might have helped.”

“I just can’t understand why she killed that poor woman,” Kim said, and her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry if the woman was your friend but, well, for a while, Justine was ours. All I remember about her was a sweet, kind girl who always tried her best. I can’t understand it at all.”

“We’re tryin’ to get to the bottom of it,” Phillips said, passing her a paper napkin so she could dab at her eyes. “We want to make sure this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.”

“Maybe we could have done more,” Martha said, half to herself. “She must have been struggling, so badly.”

“You did all you could,” MacKenzie said. “We are each responsible for the actions we take, although, in this case, we happen to think Justine had a little help along the way.”

“You mean, somebody might have encouraged her to…to do that?”

MacKenzie nodded. “Have any of you been approached by anybody who tried to convince you to start praying at St. Cuthbert’s Shrine, or who claimed to have performed miracles?”

They looked amongst themselves, and shook their heads, but then Kim’s husband, Mark, uttered a single, painful word.