No Chance

By Katherine Cowan

Olive has just been released from a secure mental hospital. Middle aged and benign in appearance, she has a very dark background. She befriends a troubled girl, Chloe, as social services start to suspect abuse by the girl’s father. Suave neighbour Richard Trent helps to reinforce this possibility and evades attention himself; meanwhile a paedophile ring flourishes.
Olive’s street wisdom helps her see through Trent’s well-constructed façade. She wants to get involved but her paranoia makes it difficult. Her unlikely ally, a naïve solicitor helps more than he can know.
Alison Courtfield is a burnt-out senior social worker chosen to head an inquiry into the disastrous outcome of the inept handling of Chloe’s case. Set up to fail, her unlikely but tenacious team uncovers more than expected.
No Chance interweaves the two story lines through death and disaster as each flawed protagonist seeks a result that will redeem them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katherine Cowan
• Release date: Jul 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301922772

Katherine Cowan

Katherine Cowan was born and grew up in Belfast; after finishing school she lived in France before moving to London, where she qualified in Social Work; subsequent work centred on mental health and child abuse. Her experiences during this time prompted her to write and resulted in her first novel, 'Catch Yourself On'. Katherine has just finished her second novel, 'No Chance', which, like 'Catch Yourself On', draws on situations and experiences encountered in her working life. It should be available in early 2012.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Gospel Oak, North London

‘Skull fractured, extensive brain damage, unlikely to survive. Consistent with the infant being swung against a wall with force. Grip marks on ankles, legs broken, hips dislocated…’

Three days later the baby was dead, after a pathetic life of only six months.

It went through Alison Courtfield’s head like a litany of failures. She’d tried so hard to make people believe her, to get her superiors to let her act, but had lost.

The family was so respectable, father a friend of a social work team leader who vouched for him; abusers? Not them, never.

The case had no allocated worker, held instead on the overloaded Duty desk, receiving scant attention. That wasn't uncommon, but this time it had proved fatal.

She could still see the father, shoving his face into hers, shouting so hard that she had instinctively recoiled. Gone was the smooth middle class business man, this was threatening.

You think I did it, don’t you? – You think I would do that to my own child – me!

I know you did…..I just can’t prove it…

She woke sweating, mouth dry, hands clenched. It was always the same, even after all this time. Never sure whether she’d actually shouted out loud or only in her head. Getting up was the only answer, she’d rather work on something than try to lie there waiting for dawn. Anyway, she had to get ready for the visit, after all.

Are you sure this is the right place? Nicholas Bainford asked the cabbie as he slowed down on the busy street, a rat run close to Hampstead Heath; the long terrace of dull houses, wheelie bins in the front gardens, litter everywhere.

There you go, number l8… came the curt reply through the window as the cab door opened.

Alison watched him pay and turn, knowing what was going through his mind as he approached the front door.

‘Pathetic little snob, you haven’t changed a bit,’ she thought as she made him wait on the doorstep. He was looking over the neglected property, disbelieving that this was where she lived; his smile turned on as she opened the door.

Nicholas – come in, you’ve not been here before have you? her voice was confident, she’d been waiting for an hour, prepared.

Alison, so good to see you – no I haven’t actually. Wasn’t sure of how long it would take, so sorry if I’m a bit early. He made a show of wiping his feet on the worn out mat, giving her his earnest ‘little boy’ look. She ignored it, she’d known he’d be early, they always were. It was like a little game to catch you out.

Standing back to let him enter the narrow hallway, neither of them attempted to touch the other. Their previous contacts had never involved touching, and that had been in better times.

Just go on in, she prompted, as he paused by the sitting room door, joining him in time to hear his reaction.

Oh, very restful, yes….. and he nodded; this was more like the woman he had known.

In sharp contrast to the scruffy hall it was coolly white, dominated by a huge abstract oil painting. The furniture was a classy mix of battered and modern, with no evidence of personal clutter. Immaculate and sharp, down to the tray laid out on the glass coffee table. Alison poured, as Nicholas made himself comfortable.

So...how have you been keeping? he asked, taking his coffee, thinking that she sounded better than she looked.

Nicholas. We did the health check on the 'phone, when you set this up; you know my history already. Why don’t we move on to why you want me? Why I should have been approached after all this time? I mean, to be pursued by a junior Minister after being a leper for so long begs a question. Her face, more lined now, still had its dry smile.

He stopped his prepared spiel; the one they had all approved of as being suitable for her.

It’s a nasty; it’s one that hasn’t been handled well and the Department is anxious to avoid further awkwardness, was his starting point; she didn’t let him continue.

Sounds like a level up from my misdemeanour – I caused ‘embarrassment’ if I recall… her voice was edged with contempt. She had been hung out to dry by the Department, left holding the baby.

He didn’t want to comment on, or be drawn into, the past. His own career was flying; he would remain focused on his task, not on any slight guilt trip about how she had been treated. Social workers, no matter how high they climbed, were used to being dumped, or dumped on – it came with the job.

That’s part of the history I thought you didn’t want raised? he offered. She nodded, letting it pass; he was right.

I’ve come with a proposition which I’d like you to consider. Let me give you the basics.

She sat and listened, watching him speak, checking details in his little notebook. Alison didn’t take notes, she would remember it clearly. Indeed, there’d come a time when she would wish that she could forget it. The Trent family, and all the grubby facets of their lives.

Nicholas was concise: family structures clearly outlined, minor offences listed, lack of evidence apparent.

We’ve been ordered to set up an inquiry and would like to use your expertise to head it up. There'll be full back-up from the Department, a team of experienced social workers, and full co-operation from all previous workers on the case.

All information available? Every case file? Alison wasn’t daft. She’d learned so much in her dark years.

Absolutely. You would be given access to it all, and you would have the authority to match. Your team would be small, but…

How small?

Well, Nicholas paused, and then tried it anyway.

Not more than four, he came out with, reluctantly.

You mean three, and then I make it four?

Yes.

She showed nothing on her face. His initial phone call had come out of the blue, had disturbed her life’s quiet rhythm that she’d built up in the five years since they’d shafted her. He’d been one of her protégés when he’d started, she’d felt that he had so much to offer, was one of the good guys. Looking at him now, sleek in a good suit, one eye on his prospects and the other on his pension, she knew he had become one of ‘them’.

Where are the offices?

Marylebone High Street, they’re private, close enough to you and accessible by the rest of the team.

I’ll give you my answer by the weekend, she responded, standing up to face him.

She wanted him gone now, wanted to think and chew it over privately. He had expected as much, Alison Courtfield took time to consider issues. He didn’t push it, got ready to be shown out.

That’s fine, when you feel up to it, whatever. Just give me a call, either way, and thanks for listening.

And that was it. With the briefest of farewells he left her to it, heading off towards Belsize Park. ‘Which is where you hoped I’d lived!’ Alison muttered as she watched him go down the street. She knew where he lived, what he approved of – and it certainly wasn’t her little terrace.

Quickly tidying up the coffee tray, she was ready to leave within half an hour. She banged on the door to the flat upstairs. Bruce was in; breakfast for him was a curry down the road when they opened at noon. A computer buff, working on his thesis, he was the best tenant she’d ever had…once she’d sorted out his music levels.

Bruce! Bruce, listen, I’m off now, see you next week. Ring me, as usual. Bye.

Before he could get his reply out she’d gone, slamming the front door behind her, deadlocking quickly. It was always the same with her, she could take London for so long and then she’d flee to France.

Catch you later Alison, was his reply to the wall.

Chapter 2

Eighteen months earlier

Talk to the hand, came the answer.

What did you say? Rachel demanded.

You heard. Close the door on your way out, and the head turned away, back to the TV screen, the Simpsons blaring out.

She had heard, and she slammed the bloody door as well.

It was never meant to have been like this. When she’d met Richard she’d been so impressed by his two beautiful children, Oliver the active three year old and his big sister Sophia, all grown up at seven. Now she was twelve, and it was nothing short of a nightmare.

Richard Trent; smooth talking Richard, ex-army, successful now in his computer business, his officer training giving him that innate confidence. He always knew what was best; she loved his strength, his decisiveness. But his daughter was the pits. Sophia had done everything she could to undermine their relationship, and had so much influence in the home that at times Rachel felt more like the au-pair than the wife.

She went back downstairs, unable to say what she felt, giving in again. It had become like this because she couldn’t deal with Richard’s rejection of her if she challenged his precious daughter. Sophia won every time, and Rachel was powerless. The child’s knowing sneer said it all.

‘You’re pathetic. You let her walk all over you,’ she told herself as she went into the sitting room.

Part of her was checking that it was ready for Richard’s return from London. He was fussy in the way he liked everything ‘just so’, he’d even helped her organise a household routine so that there were no glitches. She checked herself in the ornate mirror over the mantelpiece; he’d be home within ten minutes.

Rachel Trent, nee Barstow, nearly 40, looked good. Richard helped her shop for her clothes, his taste for safe classics gradually weaning her off her own preferences.

‘Haven’t worn jeans in years now,’ she thought, smoothing down her Jaeger skirt. Slim and attractive, she knew that she could look a lot better with some make-up on, but Richard had persuaded her to leave off the eye make-up and just use a subtle lipstick.

I love you, not the mask, had been his line after they had married.

She'd believed him, but still remembered how he’d been attracted to her in the first place. Her blue eyes had been brilliantly made up, he’d raved on about them; she’d worn trendy clothes and her long blonde hair had been a delight to him. He had loved playing with it, letting it fall heavily between his fingers.

Now it was more convenient to have her boyish style trimmed fortnightly at Nico’s, in the village. As Richard pointed out, they could all go together…

Darling! I’m home, came the call, and Rachel moved swiftly into the hall.

It wasn’t for her, Sophia was already rushing down to greet him, jumping from the stairs into his arms. Spinning her round in a tight hug, her legs curled round his waist, they ignored Rachel.

Gone was the streetwise brat that Rachel dealt with; Sophia was a different person, smiling and cute in her school uniform. Rachel noticed that she’d put her dark hair up in little pigtails, making her look even younger – almost coy. She went to greet him, cheek offered and taken, coolly.

Gin and tonic? Rachel asked over Sophia’s head. He nodded, and started off for the sitting room

May I have something, Daddy, please...? Sophia asked in her most childish way.

Of course, Mummy will bring us both a drink while you see what I bought for you today...

Rachel could hear the artful squeals as Sophia opened another present. She couldn’t get Richard to see the unfairness of his spoiling one, and ignoring the other. Sophia had so much it was hard to think of something to buy her, but her daddy could always come up with the goods.

‘And poor bloody Oliver isn’t even welcome at home for half term!’ she thought as she cut the lemon for Richard’s drink. She missed her stepson, found it hard that he was boarding at seven, it seemed too young to her.

‘It’ll toughen him up, make him independent,’ had been Richard’s ruling and Oliver had been sent off, looking minute in his uniform, withdrawn and pale. Sophia had been triumphant at his departure, Rachel felt she’d let him down.

Now, taking the drinks in to them, she felt like an intruder; Sophia was sitting on her father’s lap stroking his hair and cheeks, whispering to him.

Off you get poppet, here come the drinks, he said, playfully slapping her bottom as she scrambled up. Rachel felt irritated by it, uncomfortable.

What have we got here Sophia? she asked, handing the child the glass of juice, and eyeing what was on the coffee table. It was expensive looking, with the Royal Warrant stamped on the lid.

A riding crop; Daddy says that I shall start riding lessons next week, and I’ll be getting my own pony. Isn’t it wonderful ‘Mummy’? Sophia’s emphasis on the word was hardly noticeable; Richard may have insisted that the children call Rachel ‘Mummy’, but Sophia only used it in his presence. She'd already dumped her real Mummy and wasn’t calling anyone else by that name, especially not Rachel.

Richard was enjoying his drink, admiring his women around him, just the way he liked it; missing the side game between them.

Cheers Daddy, Sophia piped up, smiling at him.

I did ten lengths in the pool today – didn’t I? she added, turning to look at Rachel for confirmation. It would go like this for a few minutes; Sophia’s bulletin for her father was carefully selected, always positive, and never long. He basked in it and was happy when she decided she’d done enough and wanted to leave.

It was always so neatly done. Drink sipped, permission to leave the room sought politely, Sophia had it down to a fine art, her timing impeccable. As the door closed behind her, Rachel drank quite deeply, getting ready for what was coming next.

She knew that he would question her, find out all that she had done that day, every detail. He had told her of his own insecurity as a child with an absent mother.

‘My mother spent too much time at the golf club, or playing bridge with her cronies. I need to hear where you’ve been, what you’ve done – it’s a kind of reassurance, humour me on this,’ he’d told her, stroking her long hair, and looking sad.

And she had, giving a briefing on her day, every day. After years, she’d buried the unease, gave him what he wanted, for the sake of peace.

Sophia had watched her father do it perfectly: networking on a grand scale. All those drinks parties, dinners – watching him switch persona to please his next audience, coming up with the right patter. It always paid off, and she felt the benefit all the time. Their lifestyle was not one of an unsuccessful ex-army officer, struggling to uphold standards – far from it. Richard Trent had used what little he had cleverly, and she had learned. Learned how to milk, bend and please, it was so easy when you tried. Now, curled up on her bed she dismissed any thought of what was going on downstairs, the grilling of the bloody bitch Rachel could take as long as he liked – it wasn’t her problem, was it?

Hi, how’s it going with you? she asked into her latest mobile. Her best friend Chloe Smith was on the other end.

Richard couldn’t stand the Smith family, regarding them as ‘common’, whereas Sophia found their simple warmth an amazing contrast to her home – it was completely over the top with its pool, sauna, hot-tub – and any other gadget they could buy. Chloe’s daddy, Dave, had made his money by being the best second-hand car dealer in the county – according to his daughter.

Alright, but mum’s been in a right strop all evening. Have you fixed it with your dad yet?

No, I’m going to catch him later when he’s having his brandy. I’ll ring you later tonight; he’ll agree, don’t worry. Got to go, bye.

Sophia could hear noises from the hall, she always made sure that she was ‘in’ on everything, it helped keep Rachel on her toes. She moved on to the landing; out of sight but able to hear the voices. Her father was annoyed and stepma was having to explain herself. She settled down to listen, it was always amusing to see him in action.

There’ll be tears before bedtime, she reckoned with a smile.

In Chloe’s house it was so different, it was a genuine home despite the ostentation, and affection didn’t come with a price tag.

Is she allowed to come then? Chloe’s dad asked as she came into the room.

He wanted his girl to have it all, even if it meant having to put up with that snobby git Trent.

Dunno yet, was the only answer as she curled up on the sofa next to her mum.

Rachel had retreated into the garden, Sophia could see her moving down the lawn, crying. She decided to go and see her father early; she knew exactly how to make him happy.

Chapter 3

Neil Guppy is chosen

So how did you think she was? Has she got over it, moved on?

Marilyn Jackson's piercing voice carried well, alerting those in the main office, negating the confidentiality that Alison should have been afforded.

There were few who didn’t know what was going on, despite the ‘restricted’ access to the info. Just go for a pee, or make a coffee, and you’d get it – the quiet warning about not getting involved in what was coming, that they’d dragged up some old deadbeat to deal with it and now would be a great time to tidy up the files.

Neil Guppy felt uncomfortable about what he knew already. New to the area team, his first job since his illness, he was being carried by them; on light duties as it were, and he knew it. It gave him a bad feeling of being in their debt, knowing some of them seriously didn’t like it. Consequently he couldn’t key in, wasn’t able to take up the offer of trips to the pub; he didn’t fit. More than that, he needed them all, but he couldn’t go along with what they were saying. He’d done bad things in his past that they'd not been told of, only the Team Leader knew; but what they were getting up to here was far worse.

‘Well if she thinks that she’s getting all my files she can dream on – I haven’t written up my notes for nine months!’ had been only one of the many comments he’d overheard, as he scrubbed mould out of the only remaining coffee mug.

He’d dug out what he could on the background to the case, asking the odd question with the one or two field workers who were relatively friendly. It was a mess, and the Department’s efforts to hide their employees’ malpractice had only made matters worse.

‘So who is she then?’ His gentle enquiry that morning had been enough to send them hurrying back to their desks without answering. He decided to ask his senior at their next supervision session – sometimes Stuart could be generous. Meanwhile he still had further induction packs to work through, part of the price for retaining his job. With the constant checking, testing by them, he felt like a novice – but without any of the illusions.

The meeting between Marilyn Jackson and her visitor from London lasted well over the hour which further increased the buzz of speculation. It also held up the start of the team meeting, which meant that as ever, Joe Public couldn’t reach anyone they needed and got more frustrated. Coming from a hospital social work background Neil had been protected from this level, had forgotten how much more dangerous a local area office could be in terms of chaos.

It was after lunch that he was sent for; he’d finished his sandwich at his desk and was heading off into town when Gloria the receptionist collared him.

‘Stuart’s on his way to see you, I think it’s important.’ It had made him take his coat off and wait. His senior came bustling in.

Sorry Neil, we’re going to have to cancel our session today – I could fit you in first thing in the morning, say 9.30. Will that be alright?

Neil had barely time to agree as the man hurried on up the stairs to the conference room. He looked over to the receptionist who knew everything that went on, and had been kind to him when he’d first arrived.

Big meeting; he’s just a junior compared to them, was all she would say.

He left the building, watched through the blinds on the first floor by Marilyn Jackson and Nicholas Bainford.

Come in Stuart, take a seat; help yourself to coffee, said Marilyn, turning as the door opened. If Stuart was surprised by the warmth of the welcome he didn’t show it, these were the ‘top-brass’, and he barely knew the woman running it, yet here she was turning on the charm.

This is Nicholas Bainford, from the Directorate; Nicholas this is Stuart King, currently supervising Neil Guppy.

The men shook hands quickly with Stuart feeling anxious, bemused by the high powered level. Bainford had a file in front of him, and Stuart ended up opposite, trying to read it upside down. Marilyn took the head of the table, and astonishingly announced that she would take any notes of the meeting. That was when Stuart realised that this was a very special meeting indeed, added to which was the total lack of any interruption, a rare experience.

When he left the room late in the afternoon he was still mentally unwrapping the message they had given him, couched so carefully in jargon that now even he found himself agreeing that Guppy would be the best man for the job. All he had to do was keep on believing it until after 9.30 the next morning.

Chapter 4

Olive meets Jack

Jack Solomon had groaned when he got the first call, knowing that this would be the start of something dodgy. It was all his father's fault, dead this past year and leaving him to finish off a 'special bit of business.' He'd made the promise, thinking that it was just the morphine talking, assuring the dying man that he needn't worry: rest easy – he would handle it.

Soon after the funeral Jack had gone through his father's belongings, and found the key. All of Dun's papers were kept in a safety deposit box, no record of her existed at his office and when Jack worked through them he understood why. He too kept them off his premises and made sure that his office knew nothing. Now he needed the time to get it all ready.

His father's legal practice in South London had been small fry, never handling anything underhand. How Tess Dunlop, had made the man agree was beyond him; but then Jack had never met her.

She’d stayed in the motel out in Wrensfield for over a week, loving its noise and anonymity. Bit by bit she’d put it all together, gradually building up the image she wanted. Now she would find her base, create a new life. Her appointment was later that morning, off the High Street. By the end of the day she'd have somewhere of her own, Jack had given his word. Spreading a newspaper on the carpet, she knelt, quickly running the electric razor over her head, leaving the sparse clippings where they fell. Later she’d take them out with her, putting them in a litter bin further down the road.

Having got the wigs, she now shaved twice weekly, loving the contrast between the feel of the bare scalp in private and the transforming wig: well-cut, real hair. Now as she changed into her outfit her mind was trying to make the switch as well.

Tess Dunlop, aka Dun, from Northern Ireland, a fallout from the Troubles, and a killer. She'd been off medication for weeks, and was out of Medium Secure Psychiatric Hospital now.

Her notes on the ward had given a history, not necessarily hers, but one that she was prepared to let them have. There was no way that the overstretched staff would have the time to dig into her past. Her record also stated that her release was conditional, that she had to stay at a halfway house in west London, with all its restrictions. She'd told the Board that she understood the rules and would keep them – inside her head that meant at arm's length.

When it came to manipulation she was in a class of her own. Abused throughout her life, mentally ill, violent and powerful she'd developed her survival skills – whatever it took, she'd do it– meticulously.

There was so much to remember these days. Not just how she looked but how she spoke, acted, appeared to people. So far she’d been pretty good at it, the motel staff would remember her, but with little detail, she’d given nothing away, other than the hint of an elderly relative in the expensive nursing home nearby, and her annual duty visit. They had known too that she’d come from London by coach and were so helpful getting her taxis when she went out. With a very subtle touch of make-up and tinted glasses, she looked every inch the rather plump matron.

She’d come a long way since her ‘respite’ care. Her clothes were a careful mix of new and old, but all classic; the big old camel-hair coat giving the hint of economy and better times, but also hiding her bulk. Her powerful hands were wrong for the part she played; she learned the art of wearing gloves, blaming it on poor circulation. A touch of martyrdom helped, she found; people-reading was one of her particular skills. It had gained her her freedom after all.

‘Right; handkerchief, hat, bag…check the face,’ she muttered as she moved to put on her coat. She left the room, having checked that nothing personal was lying around; safely locked away in her large suitcase. Let any staff pry in her absence, there was nothing on view.

In reception she waited minutes for her taxi, carefully thanking the receptionist as she left. In her head she could sense the comments.

‘She’s ever so polite, aaah, bless…’ It made her smile.

Solomon’s please, just off the High Street, I think, she answered the driver’s query, sounding slightly hesitant and gentle. She was definitely getting the hang of this ‘manners’ lark. Sitting back, she enjoyed the crawl of traffic, it gave her the extra minutes she needed to prepare for the meeting. In the end she needn’t have worried, Jack Solomon junior was as sharp as his late father had been. He too was a lawyer, but with a large residential property portfolio in the Draysford area. Her problem was small fry to him, but he would put himself out to help as his father had asked.

I’ve come to see Mr. Solomon – he’s expecting me, was as far as she got with the cool receptionist when he quickly came out from his office to greet her.

Come in, come in, good to finally meet you… my father will have told you all about me, I’m sure. Take a seat. Coffee, tea?

He did indeed, and was so proud of all that you’ve achieved; it’s a far cry from south London. Pleased to meet you Jack, and I’m only sorry that he’s no longer with us. I’ll have coffee please. She responded well to the young man’s busy manner, preferring it to the slow meander of her other ‘little helper’ in London.

Right, to business, Jack waited until the coffees were poured and the door closed. He opened the folder on the table, and laid the papers out in front of her.

Income; Investments; Cash available; new Passport and National Insurance number; Banker’s drafts; Bank Accounts; Accommodation; Auctions welcome to Draysford Mrs.Olive Lundy, widow; I don’t think I’ve missed a thing. He waited as she checked it out; he’d been warned that she was sharp and quick.

That’s excellent Jack, but there’s just one little thing that might cause problems. I want the apartment, but I want to be able to keep a pet someday, is that possible?

Damn. That makes it a little more difficult, let me check. I’ve got a feeling that there’s only one that does allow, and it’s smaller too. Jack was on his computer, and quickly showed her the alternative.

Perfect; can we view it now?

Absolutely, the finances are all taken care of, and your references are outstanding!

They stood and shook hands, understanding each other perfectly, he thought.

Chapter 5

Joan is dumped

What do you mean there’s no trace of her? We have a statutory duty to know where she is and that she’s taking her medication. When was she last seen?

There was no point trying to blag it: Joan Summers, mature social work student, hadn’t a leg to stand on. Her senior was annoyed, and yes, it was all her fault. "I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her for over two months; when she first got out