Lockdown

Janna Thompson

Description

Quiet, unassuming Meg Thorne is practically invisible. But this retired philosophy professor has plenty of opinions - like, why do people dismiss little old ladies as harmless?

Meg and her two friends, the tough-as-nails Dorothy Arden and the boisterous Lila Gatti, have decided to be a Force for Good with their Grey Ghosts Agency: because little old ladies can go undercover where other detectives can't.

Their new case is the infiltration of Sunnyvale Residential and Care Home to learn why their client's mother, Sara, is suddenly so afraid but won't talk. It's Meg's job to check into Sunnyvale for 'a short rest' and uncover the truth.

Meg will have to confront her own fears of ageing while also investigating why Sara's friend Jenny is being held in isolation, why an old enemy is popping up, what one of the other residents knows about the fate of Lila Gatti's disabled son, and whether the other residents are truly prepared for Meg's timely lecture on philosophy and responsibility.

Dangers lurk in Sunnyvale, but nobody counted on an unfolding global pandemic being one of them.

Will Meg be able to leave with the truth, or will she be trapped in a lockdown with those who mean her harm?

Sujets

• Women Sleuths
• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Clan Destine Press
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781922904218
• Langue: English

Extrait

First published by Clan Destine Press in 2022
Clan Destine Press PO Box 121, Bittern Victoria, 3918 Australia
Copyright © Janna Thompson 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including internet searchengines and retailers, electronic or mechanical, photocopying (except under the provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-In-Publication data: Thompson, Janna Lockdown
ISBN: 978-1-922904-20-1(paperback) ISBN: 978-1-922904-21-8 (eBook)
Cover Design by © Willsin Rowe Design & Typesetting by Clan Destine Press Digital distribution by Ebook Alchemy
www.clandestinepress.net

Chapter 1
Jenny
A dim light, a dull noise in the distance and there she is. But where? She is floating through a grey mist until her eyes focus on cracks in the wall. The plaster between them balloons outward, like a flower, reminding her of the lilies that once grew in her garden.
I’m Jenny. My name is Jennifer Mueller.
A trolley clanks and the door opens.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mueller. Did you sleep well?’
It is Nancy with breakfast. Nancy slides the tray onto a table in front of the bed. ‘It’s porridge and a nice glass of apple juice.’
Jenny looks at the grey mass on the plate.
‘Do you want me to help?’ Nancy doesn’t wait for an answer, bustling to the window to open the blinds. It is bright outside but only sky is visible.
Jenny remembers she is at Sunnyvale. But where is Sara? She urgently wants to talk to Sara but she does not dare call out, or try to get up. The man will come if she makes a fuss.
Nancy smiles. ‘Your son Colin is coming today. Won’t that be nice?’
Jenny eats most of the bland porridge. The tray is removed and Nancy leaves her looking out the window. A bird flits past – too quickly to see what type.
She closes her eyes and sees a familiar room furnished with a couch and two armchairs.
I am Jenny Mueller and this is where I live.
She drifts through the room; it’s tidy – just as she left it. There is a dictionary on the coffee table. Neil likes word games. Above the couch is a picture of the Hebrides. He says it reminds him of his childhood in Scotland. In a corner is a portrait of her aunt her face frozen in a condescending smile. How did that get here? The picture makes her uneasy and she drifts away.
A voice comes from the hallway. ‘Jenny, did you get pumpkin for the soup?’ Neil’s voice, but he can’t be here. He died two – no three – years ago.
She finds herself in the kitchen. All the food, dishes and utensils have been cleared, the bench wiped clean. A calendar hangs on the wall, but the dates are obscured. Something out of place catches her attention. The rubbish bin is overflowing with of old clothes.
Why didn’t I empty it?
She sees a grey sleeve hanging over the side. A button is missing and there is a red stain on the fabric.
She wants to scream, but no sound comes.
‘Breathe slowly. Take deep strong breaths,’ says Sara.
The house has gone, Sara is beside her on their favourite park bench.
‘Lean against me and breathe deeply.’
Jenny hugs her friend and closes her eyes. The advice works. Calmer, Jenny opens her eyes. The lake is not blood red as she feared, and the birds in the trees are not carrion crows.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Relax,’ says Sara. ‘We can stay here. We don’t have to move.’
Sara is wearing a light blue dress, which complements her dark brown hair. A large scarf is wrapped around her neck and shoulders, a red handbag beside her on the bench.
‘I was so frightened. I couldn’t help it.’
Sara holds her tighter.
‘I think about it all the time. I keep seeing her blood.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I must know.’
‘Yes?’ Sara leans back, their hands retaining the contact.
‘I need to know what happened to my mother.’
Jenny knows there is more to that desperation.
Did I kill her?
The silence on the bench drags until Sara releases Jenny’s hand.
‘I have an idea which might help.’
Jenny turns to Sara.
‘Write down everything that happened in the days before your mother was killed. What people said and did, including yourself. But don’t describe it from your viewpoint. Do it as if another person saw and heard everything. Does that make sense?’
Jenny nods. ‘It’s telling what happened from the outside.’
‘Yes. It puts distance between you and traumatic events, and helps you concentrate on what happened around you.’ Sara pauses. ‘Can you do this?’
Another nod.
‘Don’t do it if it causes pain.’
Jenny acknowledges the concern but already knows Sara’s suggestion might help her find the answers. She will buy note paper on the way home.
Footsteps echo in a corridor; Sara is gone and Jenny is back in her room at Sunnyvale. Nancy is talking to someone outside the door. A man replies and Jenny braces herself. It’s futile, she can’t stop what is going to happen.
The door opens and a large man dressed in white enters.
She pushes against the headboard as Harry approaches with the loaded syringe.. She considers striking the arm pinning her against the pillow. It’s useless to resist, they’ll tie her down if she kicks or screams.
Harry’s breath smells of peppermint. She used to like that smell but not anymore.
The needle slides into her arm.

Chapter 2
Meg
‘It’s not that she has bruises or any other sign of abuse. But she’s frightened. She has moments when she shakes with fear, and her eyes – they look like she’s seen something terrible. Or that something terrible has been done to her. But when we ask her what’s wrong she just shakes her head.’
A serviette delivered with the coffee was shredded as Mr Brighouse talked.
We were sitting in the back room of a café in the business end of the city. Dorothy had her notebook on the table. ‘Do you remember when you first noticed her fear?’
‘We visited the nursing home on her birthday a month ago, Mrs Arden. It was March 8. She was in such a state that she hardly noticed the presents we brought.’ He paused while Dorothy wrote. ‘We had dinner reservations, but she was too frightened to leave her room. She kept saying that she couldn’t talk to us.’
The son deeply concerned about his 85-year-old mother was himself elderly. Mr Brighouse was tall, his knees barely fitted under the table. He had once been handsome but jowls reflected the battle with age and gravity. A career of worrying about profit and loss had lined his face. A obvious source of pride was a thick head of stylish white hair.
Lila brushed crumbs off the table. ‘Did you question the staff?’
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Gatti.’
A self-satisfied smile. He was a businessman who loved showing his ability to remember new acquaintance’s names.
‘I questioned the nurses, the supervisor, even the cleaner. They don’t know anything..’ He crumpled the serviette and threw it on the table.
Mrs Brighouse patted his hand. She was at least a decade younger with a much better figure. Light brown hair, dyed, to be sure, framed a heavily made-up face that could still be described as pretty.
‘The manager told us her anxiety is one of the effects of dementia,’ Mrs Brighouse said. ‘They’re giving her some medication.’ She sounded impatient, indicating that further investigation was a waste of time.
Her expression had been dubious since entering the cafe with her husband. I could guess what she was thinking: why would anyone want help from three elderly women?
Mr Brighouse took his hand away. ‘It’s not just anxiety. It’s fear.’
‘Can she communicate?’ I asked. ‘Has she been able to tell you anything that might be helpful? ‘
Mr Brighouse looked at me with a puzzled expression, as if he hadn’t noticed my presence. I realised that his ability to remember names had failed him.
‘Meg Thorne.’
‘Of course, Mrs Thorne. The retired philosophy professor.’ He seemed to find the idea amusing. ‘Yes, Mrs Thorne, she’s able to talk. She’s not that far gone into dementia. Mostly she talks about her childhood in England. Until recently she was willing to tell us about her daily life, the people she meets for a cup of tea, and so on. Now, when we ask her questions about her activities, she just stares into space.’
I wanted to find out more about this woman who had become such a worry for her son. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Sara. Sara Brighouse. She and my father came to Australia after the War. They settled in Hampstead. We’re a Hampstead family.’
Lila nodded slowly, as if she agreed that this was a fine thing.
Dorothy raised her eyebrows at me. Then she tapped her notebook with her pencil. ‘How about the other residents? Did you notice anything disturbing in the way the staff treated them?’
She was expressing a shared suspicion. A government inquiry into the treatment of nursing homes residents revealed horrible cases of abuse. Witnesses described homes where dementia sufferers were strapped to their beds, left unattended for hours in their bodily wastes, or were over-medicated to make them docile. Patients were found with bruises from rough handling, and in some nursing homes, staff got away with sexual abuse and sadistic behaviour.
Mr Brighouse raised his hand to object to Dorothy’s suggestion. ‘No, she’s in the Sunnyvale Residential and Care Home in Hampstead. It’s got an excellent reputation. It was set up with money from Mrs Josephine Wakefield’s charitable foundation. Mrs Wakefield lives there herself and she’s not a woman to let things slide. We’ve never seen any reason to be concerned. The place is very well run.’
He took a brochure from a folder and handed it to me. I noted the cover featured a modern brick building next door to a park, t